Thursday, November 1, 2012

POST 1 of a NaNoWriMo FIRST DRAFT for the month of NOVEMBER 2012

BINGO BOY ----- post 1

     This is how we do it. This is how we live life under the el tracks in a grimy river ward of Philadelphia. Cops call it the 'vampire wonderland,' 'cause everybody jonesin' a suck somethin' outta somebody else. Could be money. Could be life. Could be crack. Could be love. Folks come here to drink. Got plenty a bars. And if you like greasy, burnt up food, they can feed you too. But it not all bars. Got a 'Five Dollah Buy you Anything' lady store and a Geisha Girl-Body rub-Tickle Palace. 

     Place in between got no name, jus' a sign. Jus' a big, old, faded red neon sign. And all it say is 'BINGO.' Got three big plate glass windows, some bee-bee gun holes, dirt and a few dead bugs. I do not know what kind of bugs they are, 'cause I am not no God damn bug-ologist. Them what lives 'round here know me. Them what got bad dreams knows me real good. I Mister Never-You-Mind. Took a whole body acid bath in nineteen eighty nine at the invitation of Big Zeke. He a gangster. He a killer. He a, what they call, sadist. So they take me down to the cellar a what used to be an old tannery, strip me, like for skinny dippin'. An' they do dip me, but not in no water. Ole Mister get hisself dipped in a big, zinc vat a hydrochloric acid. Man!!! That take off the pimples real fast. Flesh start steamin'. I start shriekin'. Shit in the vat too, if you wanna know the truth... All my most expensive special parts get burned off and I die. Never did get to heaven, or purgatory, or hell, or How-Are-things-In GlochaMora, or Brigadoon, or none a them places. Mister Never-You-Mind get smacked down right back here. I a ghost. I THEE ghost... captain a all the neighborhood spirits (you meet them later). Guess that almost like bein' a knight. But all you gotta know is I the one tellin' this story. I the narrator. In life, Mister was a bad, ole Cajun-Creole ramma-jamma. Yeah, I know that ain't no bad-ass word no more, but I like it. And I am the captain. And I am tellin this story. So get youself used to it. 

Now, what flavor bull-shit was I givin' you? Oh yeah... the bingo parlor. If it do have a name, it'd be Viragoes and Harridans Bingo Hall. Like a flea bitten stock yard for tobacco stained, gravel-voiced, snaggle-toothed granny wimmen. Sea hags in nylon wife beaters, tight black bike shorts (gets 'em in Five Dollahs Buy You anything place) and flip-flops. Toenails ain't nothin' a write home 'bout either. Twenty five cent a game buy you three boards (two cards on a board) and chance for ten dollar. Some a the fancy wimmen what got big grandkid-feedin' welfare checks or dead husband (pension) checks plays gold cards. That cost a dollah. Prize only twenty five dollah. Should be forty, but they too dumb a know. Not 'spossed a smoke in a place either. But ain't nobody give no never mind. Only pansies and Jew-girls don't smoke 'round here. 'Sides, in the 'vampire wonderland' thirty five the new sixty.

Lemme take you inside. I go fsst! right through the glass. But you gotta use a door. It crowded. It always like that. Three long 'tables'.... thirty to a side...sixty to a table. One hundred eighty bovine, curbstone beauties when the place all fill. Drinkin' coffee. Suckin' stink weed. Coughin'. Cacklin' and survivin'. Life is tough here. No Name Bingo all they got. An' when it close at ten thirty, they got mostly nothin'.

Back room at the far end. But first they got a 'podium.' That where Uncle Patsy sit. He the caller. Got a real deep, slow, cold voice. He old. He skinny. He sick. Think it got a do wit' his lungs. But he been sick real long time. Not 'spossed a breath no stink weed smoke. But he do. Marty, he the owner, give him orange juice, 'cause lady on a radio show say it cut out all the nicotine. Uncle Patsy drown hisself in it. Marty call  numbers when Patsy on a piss run, but them moldy, old bitches in the seats don't like it. So Patsy pee real fast. Too bad they not got fast peein' in Olympics, or he win a big prize for it, like a 'frigerator, or a shotgun, or a moped or somethin'.

Peek-a-boo mirror back a Uncle Patsy. Outside the mirror. Inside a window. That the back room. It got ripped up, ole, dark green vinyl sofas, dirty wood floor, ole desk what got itself boosted from a school. Whole bunch a cartons. Few mouse turds... and money. It got lot a money. Everybody always countin' money back there. Not foldin' money, bitin' money, as we used a say. Quarters mostly. This where they get rolled up and stashed away. 'Muscles' help. He a 'tired cop. You know cop get 'tired real young. And he ain't got hisself no modern muscles. He got like ninteen seventy five muscles. He got like Joanie Love Chachi muscles. Ain't no big thing. But he do got a gun. He got two gun. Wear 'em like a cowboy. They 'spossed a keep everybody safe.  'Cept if somebody pop him in a head from 'cross a street. Marty wanna have two 'tired cops. But he not get 'round to it yet.

Some bingo kids back there too. They grab quarters an'make change when they out front. They count change when they back here. Two carnie lookin' bitches back there two. Marty lookin' out the mirror. He watchin' 'the house'. He talkin'. He sayin - OK, Mary, OK Dianne, you gonna be my two 'bingo slatterns' tonight........ Them two bitches keep crackin' they gum. But they do show a little interest....... Marty say - Here the routine. Here what you do. Sit down by the toilet. None a them cows like a sit by that spot. An' every time Patsy call out 'leven number an' we still ain't got no winner, I want one a you to yell out with a bingo on the next call. That alone will lower the pay out by like six game a hour (then he look at Ricky) An' you over there, Shit-For-Brains, what your name?..................... Ricky go - Ricky, my name Ricky............. Marty go - You their 'bingo boy.' You grab the money on their row. You the one check they bingo's. Pay 'tension. They gonna take turns. When Dianne win, you check it with Mary. When Mary win, you check wit' Dianne. Just show 'em the God damned card and call out any four or five possible bingo numbers from the light board. That's all you gotta do. That's it. you got it?.......... Ricky go - Yeah, I got it............ Marty say - I fuckin' hope so, shit-for-Brains. An' how 'bout my two 'slatterns'over there? What about you? You got it?.........Dianne go - Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah we got it. We got it. We got it.................... Mary go - Christ, how fuckin' dumb you think we are anyway?............ Marty say - I ain't got that much friggin' time............. Dianne go - Screw you, you hairy Jew bastid. It the same we did when we 'bingo slatterned' for Mickey in Wilmington........ Mary go - Yeah, we professional. We KNOW this shit. 

Guess they got like a diploma, or somethin'? What your daughter do for a livin'?..... Oh, she a professional 'bingo slattern'....... My, oh my, ain't that nice. ....... Now you gotta 'scuse Mister Never-You-Mind. I wanna go have a conversation wit' them gals on a corner.

They dead, but they still hoes........



I thought I'd be doing NaNoWriMo by now. Have a story all planned out and everything. Spent HOURS trying to sign up and complete start-up chores. The vampires I blog for even agreed to let me do it. (it's me, wilkravitz, in case you don't know) But it's almost impossible for a tech challenged soul like me to get it all right. And THEN, when I ask for help, I apparently did that the wrong way too. Plus, our server VIRGINBroadband2GO, made sure they did their part via slow responses plus many other sundry varieties of punishing, little tortures. So.... attempting proved futile. I'm STILL not 100% hooked up the right way. Nor have they answered any questions. Will I go back tomorrow? I'd like to. It'll be a day late. But that's OK, because I suffer from word hemorrhage of the brain. So until then, let me continue to fill you in on what's going on 'round here. 

Luna pretends like she doesn't know us. She's a vampire and a physician and an Anti-Enchantment bureau operative. Started as a mortal. But she had a 'thing' with Tomas and Papa and now it's 'fangs' for the memories. Truth is, our guys really don't care. Papa still occupies some ethereal (finally figured out how to spell that one) Shangri-La or Brigadoon, so he's completely useless. Sure he steps in and 'does something' when HE wants to, like some uncaring, lethargic chef stirring the pot. 

Oh, I need a vacation from all these 'miraculous' creeps for a while. Let 'em go bother Anne Rice for a few weeks. She'd dress 'em up in leather and lace, prance 'em around and have a great time. Tomas would get on swimmingly with her. He'd rediscover that Castilian lisp (which was never his regional accent) and sip those old, thick, Spanish wines. Jerez, I think they call them. Annie would pout and stick out her lower lip and kick her feet. I'm telling you; I'd love to push that rotten bastid out a window, but the little bitch can fly.

Doctor Franklin could help me, but he won't. And I really can't complain about him, 'cause he's got other problems. Seems his 'remedies' don't work anymore and he's starting to age fast ..... which can get real inconvenient when you're already three hundred and six years old. What, he's 'only' got the body of an eighty four year old? How the hell is that supposed to help him now?

Wants Tomas to do something for him. Wants him to test drive the Great Armonica.... And the one they got out here is really big. In a sense, what the old reprobate wants to do is get into heaven, or someplace like it, without ever dying.  Like a divine 'wetback' if you will. The machine's supposed to do it for him. It's gonna rev him up and spin him 'round real fast, all the while bombarding his flaccid, drooping, flabby flesh with carefully orchestrated harmonic frequencies designed to instantaneously shuck off the mortal coil and deposit him securely in The Bosom of Abraham. Sarah says - Why doesn't he just die?..... Why, indeed? A scientist to the end. What can I tell you. 

Did you know he had a son? A 'baby boomer,' named Merrill. Think he's about fifty seven years old. Got an antique shop on Pine Street. Don't see the old man much. But they get together once in a while. And ,boy, does he stand to inherit a lot. We don't think about it today, but Franklin was rich even in Revolutionary times. Imagine how much he's got now. You know, that big contact lens cleanin', eye care company is part his. And he owns West-of-Broad-Street real estate comin' out the wazoo. Think he's got a big chunk of Sandals, or one a them other resorts, but I'm not sure. I know he's had Bill Gates and Warren Buffet down to the complex under the navy yard. Bill and Hillary Clinton were there once too. But I'm not supposed to tell you that. I'm not supposed to tell you anything. They think all I do is shuffle up the real stuff and hide everything. But I don't. And if you've followed us since the beginning you KNOW how many times I've said - Please understand we just pretend that what comes next is fiction.

You think those bastids read this? No. Not one. Not ever.  Oh, they like havin' their names out there. You know how vain they are. Think it's all like a dumb blog-opera for stupid human consumption.... Let'em go to hell. what do I care? Oh, they're SO good. Not like all them other life-eaters. Yeah? When's the last time they bought me a decent new pair a sneakers?... the cheap, bastids. 

You know, a group a guys from L.A. wanna catch 'em. They wanna grab 'em. They want a study 'em. Sorta like when they had Papa under The Vatican in Rome. I know, 'cause I took the call. Last week, I think it was. Told the 'familiar' I'd be sure an' pass it along. Made like I was writing it down and everything. But I didn't. And three days later that brown nosed 'familiar' got himself run over by a car. Not from side to side. Not across the waist. No, not like that. This dumb bastid managed to get hisself  flattened from crotch to head. You know... the scenic route.  Ever see one a them rubber dolls where you squeeze it and the eyes, the ears and the tongue pop out? Oh, it was wonderful. Don't look at me like that. Shut up. Don't look at me. 

God, I wanna do NaNoWriMo. Wanna grab myself an agent and get away from those sons a bitches.

Listen, if any of you know somebody at NaNoWriMo, or Amazon or anyplace over there, PLEASE ask them to help me do all the start-up crap the right way...... I have been among the 'dead' too long. 


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