Monday, October 3, 2011


I am gonna tell you what it is that's goin' on tonight. The job fell to me. That's what they say. So let me tell you a little bit about myself. They call me the Heebie-Geebie Man. I got that moniker during them 'No Drinkin'' days, what you all call Prohibition. Big shot racketeers used to pay me to sit on a street corner and watch things. They wanted to know who went by. I told 'em. They wanted to know which cop had a real strong addiction to money. I found out.

People used to say--Damn, Gus (whoops, I said me name) quit eye ballin' us like that. You givin' everybody the heebie-geebies. I just played like I was a drunk half wit or something, spittin' up on the sidewalk, beggin' for nickles. And they bought it. They, when it got dark, I'd slip into certain places, secret places. These were like the speak easies behind the speak easies. Gent'd be mushin' up wit some little boopsie, or playing five card draw. You  know, the big shots. The Capo de Tutti Capo. Give me like say a half grapefruit soused in gin, wit a lotta red cherries on top. Sit mme down at a table and get me to talkin'. I could remember everythin'. And they knew it. Spit it all out like a ticker-tape machine. Told 'em who needed shootin'. Who needed leg-breakin'. Oh, they 'specially enjoyed messin' wiff knee caps. Dat was sumpin' to see. Made fat fellas sing like canaries. Heh, heh, heh. I enjoyed that. Time I left, say like one or two in the morning, had like maybe fifteen, twenty dollahs in my pockets.

But then one day, some little, snot nosed, shit ass kid sneezed right in my face. Some flew right in my malf. Up my nose too. And eighteen hours later, I gave birth to the worst cold of my life. Eyes runnin'. Mucus escapin' from almost every orafice. Razor blades doin' tap dances up and down my throat. Clammy sweats runnin' down my fore head, my back, my groin. Hands shook so bad I couldn't even beg for no nickles. People said - Damn, Gus, what you doin' out here, fixin' to die? I just give 'em my half wit laugh, tremble a little... and they leave me alone. you see, I could not go in no wheres. I had responsibilities. I had a job to do. And wasn't no American Federation of Labor for me to run to if the boss got mad. Shit, boss get mad, he'd just shoot me....If I was lucky......Only that day... I wasn't lucky.

Greasy Faced Hopkins was tryin' to squeeze his fat ass into other people's business. And certain gents needed to be kept appraised as to his comin's and goin's.  I was supposed to be the fella doin' the appraisin'.  Promised me a new, slightly worn suit for it too. Maybe like an overcoat to go wiff it. One of the good ones wiff hardly no bullet holes, or crumbs in the pockets. Coulda used a warm coat. Coulda used a few snot rags too, 'cause that cold was killin' me (little did I know). Must a been like the gripe, or the flu, or the Saint Vitus Dance I had. God damn that bastid kid. Why he have to go and spray me like that? But then the sky did the same f**k*n' thing, 'cause it started drippin' ice cold water all over my  dirty head.. Maimie from the candy store ran out wiff a cup a coffee. Said she gonna have me carted off and locked up in the ha-ha hotel.  But when I give in to lettin' her throw some old rug on top a me, she lemme alone.

I don't know. Figured that coffee shoulda kept me awake. But that sickness dug in so hard, I couldn't help it. So when Greasy Face come by...Hell, he come by two or three times, I shamed to say. I never seen it, 'cause I was layin' senseless in a steamin' hot pool of my own vomit. That's how they found me. Man, when that happened, I got  totally cured real fast. Started cryin'. Started blubberin'. Didn't even mind bein' stripped naked and chained to some old, chipped chair from The White Castle. That what they wanted to do...howdy doody...that their business. Just let me live.... Am I right? .........Well, pains me to say, but them bastids didn't see it that way...... Shoulda knowed when they set me up in an empty, cement floored warehouse........ I mean, like who wants a lot a collateral damage? Am I right?

After I peed myself and evacuated my bowels  real good a few dozen times, they started scratchin' they heads and yawnin'. Looked a little bit bored too. What they expect me to do, sing songs, tell jokes? Shit, I ain't no professional.. Guy lights this torch. Made it outta some rolled up pages from the old Philadelphia Ledger. Starts pokin' it at me. In all the worst places too. Like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, 'cept he  a cheater, 'cause he ain't wearin' no blindfold. Made me shriek and scream so bad they had to shove an old pimple ball in my malf.... I don't know. Maybe they woulda let me live. Only some runty, little mug comes scramblin' in. Goes right up  to the Big Boss and  starts whisperin' sumpin in his least favorite ear. Big Boss gets a look on his face like they just pushed his best mama into some gen-you-wine, champion, Hawaiian volcano...... So that sorta put the kai-bosh on it for me, 'cause then he looks up and yells --- Give that shithead a baff!!!

Some assistant-knee cap-breaker-in-trainin', like what you would call an intern today,  goes into a back room and comes runnin' out wiff a big, square can a gasoline, which he proceeds to slosh all over my tremblin' body (not from the cold no more, but in anticipation of the antidote they was fixin' to give me). Couldn't even cry wiff that pimple ball shoved all the ways  passed  my teef. Just sat there, thrashin' back and forth till that old White Castle chair flipped over on its side and slammed me down on that cold, hard floor.  Shame I didn't break my neck, 'cause just like one a them square, little hamburgers, they commenced to fire grillin' me right there on the spot......And you know how long it takes to cook a hamburger, don't cha?

Look, sorry I wasted all your time wiff my story......But I just wanna get you ready for what's comin' up.....


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STOP! STOP! STOP! This just in--------- Want the link to a new, LEGAL, FREE, UNLIMITED, MUSIC SITE? An improved, updated, more facile 'Son of Napster'? Sure you do. Vampire cognoscenti are aurally oriented too. So here it is ---  ...... Also, we found the REAL BRIDGIT (spelled right?) JONES' DIARY...except she's happily married , but still a native London, urban neurotic in the most delightful, wittiest way... click on and tune into her humorous take on 21st century life................................   Is that it?...............Uh, that's it.

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