These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Taking chances

Bart knew what would be. Johnny, his holographic daddy told him. Earth ain't gonna help. They got they own problems. And how you gonna stop them Chinese goomers when there so damn many? Communiss bastids is tearin' up the streets. King's Club got all smashed up. No where to get a good steak no more. Ain't nobody seed Larry, the owner. 'Puter say he all dug in wit his wife-for-right-now's folks over in Nimoy. 


Can't go to Earth. Well, you could try. But eighty five percent what lift off go 'gook' (rhymes with cook), what wit all them bee-bops flyin' 'round. They say folks (and I'm talkin' 'bout folks from old Trooper families too) is holin' up wit Kit-Kats. I know. I lnow. Ain't supposed a talk that way no more. Tuva-Tuva, I mean. Them what still hates says - Better dead than orange..........They wanted a word that rhymed with orange but there wern't none. Maybe in Kit-Kat talk they got one. I don't know. 


Bart did consider makin' a break. But how far he gonna get with this crew? I mean, come on. You see Miss Sissie, or Miz India or Miss Monica squeezin' off spuds from a 'red hot,' or like an old lead shooter? Buster an' Zeke might make it. But don't forget, they got kids in there with 'em too. An' that bunker ain't gone last forever. They thought it would. But Chinese goomers funnelin' in shit to the M.I.R. (Mars Is Red). I doan know if it's acid, or plasma or what it is. Dissolves bird shit off tanks real good. So I guess it jus' a matter a time fore it eats it's way down here.


All Miss Sissie do is stand over that stove fryin' matzoh meal latkes. She gone have her Passover, one way or the other. Lord gone come and set her free. Blessed assurance, Redemption is hers. She tell 'em all - Doan you worry. God gone lead us all out a here. Her daughter-in-law (although somewhat emotionally estranged from her philandering husband, Zeb) mostly agrees, bein' a Christian and all. Rest of 'em mostly heathens. Decent enough. I doan know if God plannin' a juice 'em all up on Resurrection Day, but who knows?


Kids is all in the holodome. They playin' Pork Chop Hill. That a 'puter simulation a some ole Earth war. Bart standin' in the doorway. He watchin' em. Look like they truly on a rain swept hill in Korea. Got rags tied 'round they heads and everythin'. 'Puters does wonders these days...even toy ones, like in the holodome.


That set Bart thinkin' 'bout the life his digitalized daddy got on the web. Mus' be like heaven. Everybody safe. Nobody go gook. Sun always shinin'. 'Skeeters is all dead. Chupicabras all friendly like. An' even if them Chinese goomers smash up all the 'puters on Mars, that world still out there. That world is everywheres. 


So he go back down to the 'sanctuary,' slip inside and close the door.


Who knows? Maybe Miss Sissie gonna get herself redeemed after all. Maybe they all will.....


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                 the Eyes of The Lord is upon you


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The Martian Cowboys Will Be Back, but Jonathon ben Macabi speaks now

I find nights such as this to be excruciatingly beautiful. The air has a certain fresh, damp chill. And the earth smells moist and fecund. I walk for hours on end, looking and smelling and touching and smiling. Tonight is not a 'feeding' night. Oh, you will know when that happens. The moon is new. The sky is dark. And the aroma of human flesh intoxicates me as the hookah's of Old al Andaluz never did.


We left the house in Chestnut Hill, Sarah and I, for more fitting digs deep within the rabbit warrens of Queen Village. A 'trinity house' they call it. Google it, if you  do not know it...a Philadelphia trinity house, classic to this venerable place since Franklin was a boy. I love the multi-pane windows and the cellar made from stone. The perfect nest for a vampirino and his vampirina to find repose. 


Have you seen me on the streets? Perhaps you have? If you did, you'd remember. Some say I favor a young Antonio Banderas. The Spanish quality, I suppose. Yet others claim I mirror the one known as Adam Levine. Perhaps it is the sharp, finely drawn features. Oh, I am vain. It is an old Iberian affectation..... the matador in us all. My trim, black jeans are custom made, as are the fine, leather bootkins and everything else I place against my body. Even Sarah... for I 'created' her.....


Right now I prowl the perimeter of Rittenhouse Square, a sophisticated, urban park worthy of  Edwardian London, or belle epoch Paris. I love the way my sharp leather heels spark against the pavement...... My 'calling card,' so to speak. 


And I see them, two young things back from a visit to some warm, dark coffee bar. How delicately they skitter along the sidewalk. Hurry-hurry-hurry-hurry. Must get home and lock the door. Steam rises up from an old round, iron vent, a still working vestige of an ancient heat source. Ah, the all knowing grace of this special town. I love it so. 


One of the maidens sees me. I nod. She smiles. Her roommate laughs. But her laughter turns to heartbeats as I glide across the cobbles, arms outstretched to hug them both.


How wondrous they smell, like new-born kittens. I nuzzle she-of-the-lovely-smile, whispering secrets in her ear. To bad my ancient Spanish words elude her. Then the breath turns to a kiss...and the kiss to something more. Oh, fear not. She will not die. This is just a taste to warm my bones. Her friend snuggles closer, awaiting her turn. I part from the first one to savor the second. Then put them in a cab and send them home. Moments later, I proceed on my way...a discreet wanderer in the dark.


Will they remember me? What do you think?


The 'cowboys' will be back. The Martian tale will end. But then my time will come. Tomas de Macabea (Jonathon ben Macabi is my 'Bible name - for this one still believes) walks among you.


Please forgive me if I leave you now  to explore other thoroughfares........ Ah, the mellow byways of Philadelphia after dark.....a veritable vampire wonderland.....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... The Situation

Big Daddy told 'em lots a stuff. He shimmy-shamed his electronic particles all up and down the internet, kissin' up to other programs and squeezin' the shit out a them. He know how them Chinese goomers make them bee-bops. He know what them M.I.R. (Mars Is Red) bastids want a do. He know how much help The United States and Provinces of North America really gonna give. He even know the secret 'gredient in Coca-Cola. He also know they growin' a new edition a his grandson Alec. But he doan wanna talk 'bout that. Why jinx it? An' he 'specially liked talkin' a Little Davey. He liked that part best of all. 


So after...when Bart switch him off... he drift back to his carefully programmed simulation of Mars, circa 2075, right after the first big Change. Things was rough. Air still scratchy-like. Even so, chupicabras woke up real fast. Folks gettin' chomped up left and right. Sky-ponies still not hundred percent. Few look all right. Rest got crappy lookin' wings. Tuva-Tuva startin' a re-constitute. Like Lazarus stumblin' out from the tomb, that what they was like. Earth folk (new ones, I mean) used a give 'em soup. Didn't know they long lost cousins back then. Now they do know and it still doan make no difference.


But Johnny got a real nice spread. You seen it...The Polvarosa (that mean red dust in Spanish). Big house all brand new. Barn right spruce lookin'. Stables all first rate. Mostly all Arabians back in those days. He ain't married to Loretta yet. But she do come out with her mama for visits from time to time. She not from Barsoom. That always a wild kind a place. Her folks from Rodenberry. They more churchy-like. Still had the Cafe at The Crossroads. You know. Where the Walgreen was? An' a right nice General Merchandise Emporium. Think there used a be a little library and community social hall too........ (wait, lemme look) Yeah, they did. They must a, 'cause it still in the program. 


So Johnny settin' out on the big, ole, wide veranda, squintin' into the sun and sippin' on a ice cold glass a whiskey.  Got his best digitally programmed canine companion, Caleb (that mean dog in Hebrew).  Brand new, re-constituted Tuva-Tuva woman out in the kitchen tryin' a fry up some eggs. Gus and Isaac comin' over to play cards. Maybe sheriff gonna join 'em. who knows? 


Sometime that Arianna Huffington (she immortalized as a hologram, jus' like him) get jealous a all this phony shit. She glad when Loretta not here. And what he got ain't the REAL Loretta. The real Loretta never did have herself 'lectrified. No, she jus' die regular-like. She ain't in no universal web. She in Heaven and that another kind a place entirely.


Johnny gonna ask Gus to help him. Gus a hologram, 'lectrified, immortal, semi-dead guy too. They gonna shimmy-sham theyselves all over the web. They gonna learn even more stuff. 'Cause Bart gonna need it when he bust his family out a there. Gotta bust out, less he want that bunker be a tomb.


M.I.R. goomers fixin' somethin'.  They fixin' somethin' big. Ever hear tell a folks what went 'gook' from Ebola? Liquified liver runnin' out they eyes and nose.  Itchin' like a bed bug  campground. Shit hole worse than the Mighty Mississipp.  Well then, you know what the first stage gone be like....


Second stage gone be like spontaneous human combustion... only not near as nice.


Hells-a-poppin'...Yes siree.....


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... what the cowboy said

So Bart knew things. His semi-dead, digitalized daddy told him plenty when he came back. Only this time, the second time, somebody else come wit him. Little Davey seen him settin' up in one a the settin' rooms, lookin' out a window. It not a real window. Ain't got no glass. It jus' a screen, but a real good screen. What it show look positively genuine. Most time they got it set on Europe, Venice mostly. Look like you spyin' out through a window on The Grand Canal. Folks says it the view from Palazzo Barbero , one a them curlyqued-up, white marble, old timey, rich folk joints. Bart jus' set there watchin' them gondolas float by. And look...Peggy Guggenheim jus' wave to him. He doan wave back though. He jus' look. Bart got brains. He know what's real. Zeb come in wantin' a talk politics. But Bart say - Boy, you talk like a man wit' a paper asshole. What for you talkin' politics? We doan know what kind a world gone be out there. Why you think they gone need you?........ Zeb jus' breathe out real fast. Kind a like a sigh, but heavier. Then he go in a kitchen for a little peanut butter sandwich. Set there lookin' out a 'window' at Old New Orleans. He like them real fancy, jazz funerals they got there. He like the purdy, octaroon, Creole society matron live across the way. Look at her settin' up on her 'balcon' sippin' that cold, sweet tea. She mighty finne for jus' a computer simulation.


And when Bart go back down to that sanctuary he bring Davey wit him.... Excuse me. Did I already tell you that? I think I did. You will have to forgive me. Ain't no lonesome pines down here for me to pass through. It kind a difficult bein' a quasi-mythological figure in such a concrete, cold hard place. I The Voice a the Lonesome Pines....as  you most likely know.


Davey go all wide eye when he see his legally dead great grand daddy. Back in Johnny's day ain't nobody called pop-pop. You a Big Daddy (grandfather) or you a Little Daddy (plain old regular father). And Johnny Texaco definitely a Big Daddy. He go all misty eye when he see the boy. So I know he more than jus' a hologram. He ain't no artificial simulation, like that Peggy Guggenheim in her gondola, or that octaroon society lady, Madam Casanove ( though they both did actually suck air at one time).


Johnny say - Put her there, boy....... And Davey, real careful like, stick out a  finger. Johnny reach up an' touch it. Davey smile. Johnny smile back. Then Bart heft him up on his lap and they set there, listenin' to what Big Daddy  got a say......


(if you are not able to clearly comprehend this episode, scrollin' down to the previous posting should set things straight for you)


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Johnny Texaco Speaks

Hobart (Bart) quietly closed the door to the sacred chamber and sat down. It wasn't a large place, no more than five by seven feet. Contractors thought it gonna be a toilet. Family did not want 'em to know. So it ain't got no commode or nothin. Just a plain, old polished concrete floor, grey, flecked, granite walls and  a white ceiling that radiates a soft white light. Only furnishings are one square, black leather, tufted ottoman and a three foot high, rectangular polished concrete plant stand. But it ain't got no plant on it. That's where the little titanium box what got Bart's daddy in it sets. Miss Sissie say it look like a cheap, bargain basement, above ground mausoleum. 'Cept instead of a titanium box there'd be like a little bronze urn with a dull, brushed finish. But seein' as she don't spend much time in there, her opinion ain't worth chicken shit. That what Bart think. He don't say it, but he think it. 


So he set hisself down on the black, squishy seat, scootch it forward to face the box, clear his throat and prepare to talk. Whole thing work on voice recognition. It really is a very ingenious, sublime contraption. 


Bart say - Daddy, I wanna talk to you........ Voice-in-the-box say - That you, boy?.......... Bart say - Yep, it me....... Then a little electronic hum commences vibrating out from that Rubik's Cube sized sanctuary. And next thing you know we got a itty-bitty, six inch tall, ever-so-slightly potbellied, but still trim, silver haired rodeo dude stompin' around and smokin' a ceegar. But nobody gotta worry 'bout no smoke none, 'cause he jus' a hologram. Ever once in a while he flicker. That how you know. 


Bart say - Daddy, we got problems............. Daddy say - No, shit, Sherlock. Don't you think I know!? I waft through thirty two on-line, hinky-dink, newspaper crappiolas every day.............. Bart say - Then you know 'bout Alec?.............Daddy jus' swallow and nod.......... Bart don't dwell on that subject, 'cause he can tell it pain his holographic daddy jus' as much as it do him......... So Bart say - You still tradin' sparks wit' that little Arianna Huffington hologram?............ And Johnny (that his daddy's name) say - Ain't no business a yours, boy. My Loretta up in Heaven, but I  down here, so I gotta do sumpin' a keep 'busy,' don't I? Now shet up and spit it all out. What you done wrong now?


So Bart snort back a bit a snot, square his shoulders and start talking. Worse the story get, more that little 'lectronic goomer start grinnin'. That jus' how Johnny be. He gotta be the big rooster, don't you know. He gotta be the top dog. But still, you do gotta give him credit. I mean since he been 'dead' (technically) that goomer learn a lot. Finally did learn hisself a little Tuva-Tuva, how to play pinochle, how to cook a mean batch a bahklava. (them semi-immortal holograms claim they eats stuff. can't figure what it taste like to 'em, but I don't know.) He can wriggle his digital ass into and out of all kinda programs. Life jus' one big holodeck (if you remembers Star Trek) to John Paul Texaco.  An' he wanna get this meetin' over real fas', 'cause he got The Calgary Stampede waitin'. Y'all gotta see them smart little boots Arianna Huffington got on.


Tells his sonny-boy to come back tomorrow (he don't know it night). Then he jus' give out a not so itty-bitty rebel yell and BAM, he disappears. 


Bart do try to call him back, but all he get is a little, old lady eatin' a hot-dog..... an' she jus' tell him a go to hell and drop dead.....'cause like, I guess, she really do like that hot-dog.........


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... THE DEAD WALK AMONG US

There are ways to preserve a 'presence.' And it is not known if this is truly the original, singular essence of creation, or merely an exceedingly exact copy. But it sees. And it hears and it speaks. Not everyone is so preserved. Many view it as an imprisonment of the soul. Some see it as torture. 


What happens it this.  A group of scientists and technicians send tachyons and other sub atomic particles streaming through a human brain just before the actual instant of death. Each particle melds with an equal measure of cerebral 'charge.' For what passes as memory is really only a complex series of electrical impulses. And these tiny bits of past experience dance off into a long conga line, only to be captured and sequenced in an intricate, binary program. Fleshly life ceases, but silicon existence endures.


Few have achieved it. Those of a deep and profound faith reject it. Others , of modest means, cannot afford the hefty freight. Yet among the families of the rich there are 'ancestors'........forebears who have never left. Not many. Each clan has perhaps one or two. The Texacos have one. He? She? It? abides within a small, titanium box. And this special relic rests within a chamber beneath the bunker. Bart has the key. He wears it 'round his neck, upon a leather thong. It gives voice to his father. 


And  tonight (or what passes for night beneath the surface of the Martian capital of Barsoom), the father speaks again.. Such mutual communications are rare, for technical as well as emotional reasons. They can be very dangerous. 'Souls' can be lost. 


But Bart has a request to make. He wants his father to swim through the vast, eternal, conscious 'net' and find things. He needs secrets. The family needs secrets. 


And tonight he means to know......


So he waits until the others all drift off, or at least retreat to the comfort and privacy of their chambers. Then he opens the passageway to the 'special room' and steps down. 


Five heartbeats later the portal closes. None can see the seam. It's time for the 'magic' to take place......


Ghost riders 'neath the sky........


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vampire wonderland: THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. And...

vampire wonderland: THE LITTLE MATCH BOY ~~~~ a re-telling of H.C. And...: It was quiet in the tram car. The air was still. Tiny pellets of sleet peppered the roof. The new boy ran to the back and struggled to force...