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Friday, January 25, 2013
Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: MUGGS ROLLIN' OUT. JIMMY ROLLIN' IN
Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: MUGGS ROLLIN' OUT. JIMMY ROLLIN' IN: Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in damages. They said we were lucky. I don't know who the day crew thought we were. A few of them k...This is from almost two years ago...when Mister Muggs, the accidentally created vampire chimp, was tearing up the exhibits at THE PHILADELPHIA ACADEMY OF NATURAL SCIENCES and humpin' all the stuffed cavemen in the diaramas. (hope we get it in a movie someday)... More VAMPIRE REVELS later tonight..... Please click onto this one. It's worth it... Thanks and as always, we take special delight in your COMMENTS...
THE CROWS FLY IN~~ The Vampire Revels 1/25/13
No one talks to 'King' Rafe, or addresses him in any way. They sublimate into the castle and are taken to suitable quarters by the night wraiths, the haunting beings spun from ashes and moonbeams. Most imagine them to be etherial extensions of the 'king,' but he doesn't say and they never do, so the whole thing is moot. Best not to look too closely during The Revels. That's not what they're all here for.
They gave us quarters in the North Tower, the darkest spot. You see, the castle is shaped like a huge diamond, each corner occupying a different compass point. Best part is, no real windows. Just small, narrow slits originally constructed to accommodate archers. Smoked glass seals them now. And the beds...oh, you have to see the beds. Huge medieval fortresses brought over by the Normans. One slept in by The Conqueror, himself. All dark wood. 'Ebonized' I think they call it. With gargoyles and allegorical allusions carved into the thick, lofty bedposts. Silk, quilted canopies, sent from a Chinese, court vampire seven hundred years ago, span the heights above firm, hand-stuffed, horse hair mattresses. I can't tell how old they are. Still look pretty good. I know. I peeked under the sheets. No vampire sent them. They came from Williams-Sonoma.
An animated, preserved, headless corpse (female, I think) sat on a small slipper chair in the shadows, dressed in a dark, velvet gown. She was a harp player and regaled us with madrigals and mass songs plucked from the genuine, cat-gut strings of a large, free standing Celtic harp. Tomas remembered her from the old days... the really, really, really, really old days. I think she had her head back then. Fortunately, someone had seen fit to close the wound with coarse, black stitches. And I must say, the needle work was of a very high order. A large, walk-in fireplace held down the northernmost position. Jamb statues, filched from a Gothic cathedral, support a black, granite slab of a mantle, topped by the complete, articulated skeleton of a snarling wolf. Annie thought it beautiful. And I must say, her child-like, awe-struck face did reflect a certain predatory charm when viewed in the orange glow from the hearth.
Naturally, Tomas and Sarah slept there. The rest of us made do with smaller cells one floor below, each like a pie wedge sliced from the whole. The furnishings were similar, though. A bit scaled down, but still impressive. None had a headless musician. That part, I did not miss.
Edith went around blessing the rooms. Pineys believe in that sort of thing. And if I'm going to be honest, I do too. So we said our good nights (dawn comes late this far north) and settled in for a deep, winter's nap, snug in our dark, and strangely commodious cocoons. There was a warm, glowing coal fire in a small, simple hearth across from the foot of my bed. That part I liked. So I burrowed under the luxurious tester (pulled up around my head) and drifted off.
Was I frightened? A bit, though no one disturbed me but the ghosts....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
thank you for visiting. if you like, please help. please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD. Just tweet this- I nominate #BLOGGER @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD based on his narratives and stories......... Also, more links to intriguing writers tomorrow. PLEASE COMMENT......Good night...
They gave us quarters in the North Tower, the darkest spot. You see, the castle is shaped like a huge diamond, each corner occupying a different compass point. Best part is, no real windows. Just small, narrow slits originally constructed to accommodate archers. Smoked glass seals them now. And the beds...oh, you have to see the beds. Huge medieval fortresses brought over by the Normans. One slept in by The Conqueror, himself. All dark wood. 'Ebonized' I think they call it. With gargoyles and allegorical allusions carved into the thick, lofty bedposts. Silk, quilted canopies, sent from a Chinese, court vampire seven hundred years ago, span the heights above firm, hand-stuffed, horse hair mattresses. I can't tell how old they are. Still look pretty good. I know. I peeked under the sheets. No vampire sent them. They came from Williams-Sonoma.
An animated, preserved, headless corpse (female, I think) sat on a small slipper chair in the shadows, dressed in a dark, velvet gown. She was a harp player and regaled us with madrigals and mass songs plucked from the genuine, cat-gut strings of a large, free standing Celtic harp. Tomas remembered her from the old days... the really, really, really, really old days. I think she had her head back then. Fortunately, someone had seen fit to close the wound with coarse, black stitches. And I must say, the needle work was of a very high order. A large, walk-in fireplace held down the northernmost position. Jamb statues, filched from a Gothic cathedral, support a black, granite slab of a mantle, topped by the complete, articulated skeleton of a snarling wolf. Annie thought it beautiful. And I must say, her child-like, awe-struck face did reflect a certain predatory charm when viewed in the orange glow from the hearth.
Naturally, Tomas and Sarah slept there. The rest of us made do with smaller cells one floor below, each like a pie wedge sliced from the whole. The furnishings were similar, though. A bit scaled down, but still impressive. None had a headless musician. That part, I did not miss.
Edith went around blessing the rooms. Pineys believe in that sort of thing. And if I'm going to be honest, I do too. So we said our good nights (dawn comes late this far north) and settled in for a deep, winter's nap, snug in our dark, and strangely commodious cocoons. There was a warm, glowing coal fire in a small, simple hearth across from the foot of my bed. That part I liked. So I burrowed under the luxurious tester (pulled up around my head) and drifted off.
Was I frightened? A bit, though no one disturbed me but the ghosts....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
thank you for visiting. if you like, please help. please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD. Just tweet this- I nominate #BLOGGER @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD based on his narratives and stories......... Also, more links to intriguing writers tomorrow. PLEASE COMMENT......Good night...
Thursday, January 24, 2013
SOME WRITERS TO PERUSE ON A COLD WINTER NIGHT ~~ 1/24/13
This jus' a short subject between acts, but the subject matter is very major, indeed. What we got here are links to four really good web sites overseen by four entertaining and stimulating writers. Some, household names, but the others are certainly comin' up the walk.
So why don't y'all open the door and let 'em in?
Erin Morgenstern ....... Neil Gaiman ...... Joe Hill ...... Andrew Harding
Click on them names and say - howdy do~~~
Might put up some more later. But what we got now are real paranormal and just right.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
So why don't y'all open the door and let 'em in?
Erin Morgenstern ....... Neil Gaiman ...... Joe Hill ...... Andrew Harding
Click on them names and say - howdy do~~~
Might put up some more later. But what we got now are real paranormal and just right.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
THEY CAME IN THE HUNDREDS.. The Vampire Revels 1/24/13
We traveled together, Tomas, Sarah, Baylah, Annie, Edith and I. Four vampires and two mortals. The others, the lesser night-folk backed out, intimidated by the arcane splendor of it all. They stayed home with the elferinos. I know not what Blackie and Minnie will do. We don't control them. They've always been independent.
Some friend or relation of the still missing Grigori Usipov put a plane at our disposal, a sleek, tailored, high gloss jet. We embarked at Atlantic City. Atlantic City International Airport,I mean, Philadelphia's second major aerodrome. Actually, not to far from where The Hindenburg came down. The Muscovite oligarch knew we, or most of us, were vampires and the plane was fitted out accordingly with opaque windows, sealed sleeping quarters and the like. Feeding occurred prior to take off, so that won't pose any problems. Doctor Franklin arranged for the culling of four deserving criminals, via his connections on the police force. Not the usual way these things are done. Not through 'the visions' and all, but time prevented that.
Now Marianne and Albion, the two most worldly elferinos, may cross over later. Yet that is not at all definite. The waif-like, juvenile night-folk are extremely fickle. They dance. They play. They cavort with cherubs and hob-nob with assorted sundry ghosties. She's French, or started out that way, you know. He is too. Different cultures... different norms.
You should have seen Tomas assembling his raiment. Fine, black, bootkins... three pair..... Handmade demin pants, dark as winter midnight... more than enough.... Deluxe, cotton, white, bespoke shirts... by the armful. Hose, doublet and jerkin, for the Grand Procession. The medieval look, you know, complete with codpiece. Yes, he thinks it a conceit, but he does go with the flow. Sarah, originally more conservative, assembled niceties of her own. gleaned from private, midnight showings in the best Rittenhouse Square district boutiques. Baylah, our Beyonce look-alike, always had the best. I'll tell you about the others later.
Some vampires are traveling the traditional way, in union with the whales. They've done so since ... forever. Wait on a moonlit beach. Listen for the song. Shed all clothing. Walk through the surf. Swim toward the depths and meet the leviathan host. The vampire makes contact... a chaste, small bite, locking on to the grand cetacean like a lamprey to a fish. Then an inky, gel-like substance seals them to the rubbery hide, blocking out the light. And away they go, tearing through the sea in the age-old symbiotic embrace. Tomas has done so. Sarah too, young as she is. But time was different (mortals in the mix, you know) so they made other plans.
And in his hidden 'castle', far away in the English Northlands, 'King' Rafe feels them approach. Not just our group, but each and every one. The air around him quickens. He slowly smiles, as he drifts through the heights, up amongst the huge, oaken beams of the old and vast Great Hall.
Then he mumbles things. Songs, or chants, I cannot tell. Edith, our mortal 'seer,' plants the visions in my mind with her powers. But they must be spells, for ever so slowly 'things' begin to condense out of the gloom. Tapestries grace the walls. And so many chairs, more like tall, straight thrones line the perimeter. The 'king' prepares for guests.
Vampire culture is so special...so rich...so rare... so enticing, even for a mortal guest, like me...
wilkravitz says good night, from his berth in a sleek, fast jet, high above the silvery waves of the cold Atlantic Sea...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
we'd very much appreciate it if you'd be willing to tweet the following--- I nominate @wilkravitz for a #blogger SHORTY AWARD based on his magical stories and narratives..... thank you and good night...
Some friend or relation of the still missing Grigori Usipov put a plane at our disposal, a sleek, tailored, high gloss jet. We embarked at Atlantic City. Atlantic City International Airport,I mean, Philadelphia's second major aerodrome. Actually, not to far from where The Hindenburg came down. The Muscovite oligarch knew we, or most of us, were vampires and the plane was fitted out accordingly with opaque windows, sealed sleeping quarters and the like. Feeding occurred prior to take off, so that won't pose any problems. Doctor Franklin arranged for the culling of four deserving criminals, via his connections on the police force. Not the usual way these things are done. Not through 'the visions' and all, but time prevented that.
Now Marianne and Albion, the two most worldly elferinos, may cross over later. Yet that is not at all definite. The waif-like, juvenile night-folk are extremely fickle. They dance. They play. They cavort with cherubs and hob-nob with assorted sundry ghosties. She's French, or started out that way, you know. He is too. Different cultures... different norms.
You should have seen Tomas assembling his raiment. Fine, black, bootkins... three pair..... Handmade demin pants, dark as winter midnight... more than enough.... Deluxe, cotton, white, bespoke shirts... by the armful. Hose, doublet and jerkin, for the Grand Procession. The medieval look, you know, complete with codpiece. Yes, he thinks it a conceit, but he does go with the flow. Sarah, originally more conservative, assembled niceties of her own. gleaned from private, midnight showings in the best Rittenhouse Square district boutiques. Baylah, our Beyonce look-alike, always had the best. I'll tell you about the others later.
Some vampires are traveling the traditional way, in union with the whales. They've done so since ... forever. Wait on a moonlit beach. Listen for the song. Shed all clothing. Walk through the surf. Swim toward the depths and meet the leviathan host. The vampire makes contact... a chaste, small bite, locking on to the grand cetacean like a lamprey to a fish. Then an inky, gel-like substance seals them to the rubbery hide, blocking out the light. And away they go, tearing through the sea in the age-old symbiotic embrace. Tomas has done so. Sarah too, young as she is. But time was different (mortals in the mix, you know) so they made other plans.
And in his hidden 'castle', far away in the English Northlands, 'King' Rafe feels them approach. Not just our group, but each and every one. The air around him quickens. He slowly smiles, as he drifts through the heights, up amongst the huge, oaken beams of the old and vast Great Hall.
Then he mumbles things. Songs, or chants, I cannot tell. Edith, our mortal 'seer,' plants the visions in my mind with her powers. But they must be spells, for ever so slowly 'things' begin to condense out of the gloom. Tapestries grace the walls. And so many chairs, more like tall, straight thrones line the perimeter. The 'king' prepares for guests.
Vampire culture is so special...so rich...so rare... so enticing, even for a mortal guest, like me...
wilkravitz says good night, from his berth in a sleek, fast jet, high above the silvery waves of the cold Atlantic Sea...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
we'd very much appreciate it if you'd be willing to tweet the following--- I nominate @wilkravitz for a #blogger SHORTY AWARD based on his magical stories and narratives..... thank you and good night...
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
A Venue for The Vampire Revels 1/22/13
England is a green land, set in the cool, North Sea, yet warmed by the last kiss of The Gulf Stream. Some say the warmth turns toward France, but night-folk necromancers employ their razor sharp skills to draw it on toward Albion's shores. And their kind have been in residence since the ice sheets disappeared. At first it was a refuge, clean and pure. Caribou grazed here. Hunters came after. And then the night grew bright, quickened by those-who-see, even in the dark.
They slept in barrows, long, earthen tombs, snug beneath the grass. Some called them Oberon. Indeed, Oberahni grew to be the name of their tribe. The first night-lord was Rafe. And he is still among us. Ancients knew him as 'Sandman.' A bringer of dreams. Perhaps you've seen him, tall and slim, white as the moon, with hair like spider silk? For he is an albino..... the 'ghost' who lusts for blood.
And he haunts a noble house, surrounded by hills, up toward the land of the fabled Picts. Night-songs (spells) sung by manic witches serve to keep the curious away. Vast stone halls, warmed by mammoth hearths, echo in the dark, for none but Rafe abides there. Is he lonely? At times. But he goes out to 'dine.' This one knows no vows. This one has no creed. He resembles the 'nobles' (moral vampires) but he is not one of them. Rafe hungers and he eats..... dowagers and doormen..... ballerinas and boors.
Oh, he is not cruel, not purposely. A torturer? No, at least not in any premeditated manner. Though some might hold another view.
Minions, conjured up from ashes and moonbeams, make ready for 'the dance.' They rub iron filings into the flagstones in preparation for the 'Grand Promenade.' You may have heard Tomas refer to it as 'The Stampanada.' Flinty heels strike orange sparks from off the iron floor. Step-step-step-STOMP. Step-STOMP-step-STOMP... Quite hypnotic and stately in its own cold, regal way. And they dine on plane-loads of plump, sleek mortals, flown in by soulless crime lords from the cities to the east. At least those who are not 'nobles.'
Protected mortals serve other functions. They are magicians, or waiters, circulating through the crowd with icy draughts of vodka, or tiny aroma candles. Some are jugglers, others subjects for real magic... donkey-boys, or feather girls. Sadly, a few die in these displays. But what can I tell you? It's only a hobby.
And our Philadelphia night-folk draw near, most like wide-eyed farmers at the fair.
Oh, the sights you will see. Come back. Bring your friends. Expect to be tickled and amazed.
Could be you hold a little magic too?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
if you're willing to help, please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD by tweeting this~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a #BLOGGER SHORTY AWARD based on his narratives and stories........Thank you very much.
They slept in barrows, long, earthen tombs, snug beneath the grass. Some called them Oberon. Indeed, Oberahni grew to be the name of their tribe. The first night-lord was Rafe. And he is still among us. Ancients knew him as 'Sandman.' A bringer of dreams. Perhaps you've seen him, tall and slim, white as the moon, with hair like spider silk? For he is an albino..... the 'ghost' who lusts for blood.
And he haunts a noble house, surrounded by hills, up toward the land of the fabled Picts. Night-songs (spells) sung by manic witches serve to keep the curious away. Vast stone halls, warmed by mammoth hearths, echo in the dark, for none but Rafe abides there. Is he lonely? At times. But he goes out to 'dine.' This one knows no vows. This one has no creed. He resembles the 'nobles' (moral vampires) but he is not one of them. Rafe hungers and he eats..... dowagers and doormen..... ballerinas and boors.
Oh, he is not cruel, not purposely. A torturer? No, at least not in any premeditated manner. Though some might hold another view.
Minions, conjured up from ashes and moonbeams, make ready for 'the dance.' They rub iron filings into the flagstones in preparation for the 'Grand Promenade.' You may have heard Tomas refer to it as 'The Stampanada.' Flinty heels strike orange sparks from off the iron floor. Step-step-step-STOMP. Step-STOMP-step-STOMP... Quite hypnotic and stately in its own cold, regal way. And they dine on plane-loads of plump, sleek mortals, flown in by soulless crime lords from the cities to the east. At least those who are not 'nobles.'
Protected mortals serve other functions. They are magicians, or waiters, circulating through the crowd with icy draughts of vodka, or tiny aroma candles. Some are jugglers, others subjects for real magic... donkey-boys, or feather girls. Sadly, a few die in these displays. But what can I tell you? It's only a hobby.
And our Philadelphia night-folk draw near, most like wide-eyed farmers at the fair.
Oh, the sights you will see. Come back. Bring your friends. Expect to be tickled and amazed.
Could be you hold a little magic too?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
if you're willing to help, please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD by tweeting this~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a #BLOGGER SHORTY AWARD based on his narratives and stories........Thank you very much.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Shhh, THE GRAND PROCESSION STARTS TOMORROW NIGHT... PREPARE YOURSELVES FOR THE VAMPIRE REVELS!
Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: AN UPDATE ON VAMPIRE SOCIETY~~: THE VAMPIRE REVELS! a convocation of miraculous beings versed in necromancy of a most astonishing sort.... experience this teaser from a month ago, meant to sustain the midnight minions during BINGO BOY'S illustrious run (a good read for the 'somewhat' less magical romantics among you)... But now the time has come. The GREAT CLOCK, high atop the ancient tower of Philadelphia's City Hall strikes twelve... and the resonant tones reverberate through the icy bones of the winter-sick municipality........... We may reveal a little more tonight, or in the wee hours actually.....But tomorrow night, THE GRAND PROCESSION begins.
Bienvenido al nuesto mundo, chicas y chicos. Bienvenido al MUNDO VAMPIRISMO!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bienvenido al nuesto mundo, chicas y chicos. Bienvenido al MUNDO VAMPIRISMO!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monday, January 21, 2013
65TH BINGO BOY episode (like a film treatment) 1/21/13
BINGO BOY - post 65
So the new house at the shore was all filled up that night. Marge and Jimmy in their room. Ricky and Little Chrissie in theirs. And Marty and Big Chrissie in the den. They put the two babies together in the big one's room. He babbled to the newborn for a while. Think the little one liked it. Probably never dawned on him that babies can vocalize like that. Must a learned something, right?
Everybody got along. Jimmy was contrite. Not that he was gonna give any of the money back right away, but he was contrite. Marty apologized like fifteen thousand times for tryin' to have Jimmy killed. But seein' as the would-be killer (Ricky) and the almost victim were now practically in-laws or something, I don't think all that crap mattered any more.
The house was all warm and cozy. You know, shore houses can be real quiet. They all got them double pane windows. You don't hear nothin'. Puppy slept by the babies. You know they got a puppy? Ain't one a the 'ghost' narrators told you that already? Curls up on the rug under the crib. Little one's in his porta-crib. Every once in a while the puppy pads over to see it he's all right too.
I can hear Marty snorin'. I can hear Ricky snorin'. Jimmy snores. Girls snore too. Marge makes these little wee-wee-wee-wee-wee noises like The Three Stooges. Ricky snores like a sick, giant whale, or something. I could never share a room with him. It's a wonder he don't have sleep apnea.
Jimmy's gonna buy a nice little bar and grill on Atlantic Avenue. Little place. Real snug. Gets all the local trade. Good steaks. Good burgers. Big sandwiches. Great drinks. Got these old, knotty pine walls and little, black vinyl booths. Seats maybe fifty people tops, not counting the bar, but a gold mine... a real gold mine. I can't tell you the name, 'cause it ain't a done deal yet. But if you want a get an idea, Google Robert's Place, which is also in Margate, New Jersey, 'cause they're really very much alike.
Marty's gonna take Jimmy up on that hot dog cart offer. Gonna talk to a guy 'bout settin' 'em up outside PARX CASINO in Bucks County. That could be a little gold mine too, even if he does give the house a cut. Probably see a lot a the old ladies from the bingo hall. You know, people gotta get their gamblin' fix..... Everybody likes a little jolt.
Now this story could a been a whole lot different. Ricky might a pulled the trigger, or slapped on another piece a duct tape. Jimmy would a kicked the bucket. Bingo hall might a stayed open. And Little Chrissie's grandma, Marge, might never a found love with a 'prisoner' down the basement. In case you come late to this, that's where they stashed him, Jimmy, I mean, when they didn't have guts enough to kill him.
But you know somethin'? Guts had nothing to do with it. We did. We did it all. It was us, the 'ghost' narrators. Some people call us 'guardian angels,'..... but me, I'm not that pretentious....
So you're gonna have to excuse me now. I wanna pass through the wall and drift 'round the town for a while. Winter nights are special 'round here... all chill and still and quiet. You can even hear the traffic lights click 'stop' and 'go.' You can even hear the surf.
And nobody heard me leave except the dog....
THE END... Bingo Boy.... a film treatment that reads like a novel. First installment on either the 2nd or 3rd of November. Sixty five episodes...and now it's done. Thank you.
______________________________________________________________________
if you're willing to help, please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD. Just tweet this ~~~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD as #BLOGGER for his stories and tales.
Nighty-Night
So the new house at the shore was all filled up that night. Marge and Jimmy in their room. Ricky and Little Chrissie in theirs. And Marty and Big Chrissie in the den. They put the two babies together in the big one's room. He babbled to the newborn for a while. Think the little one liked it. Probably never dawned on him that babies can vocalize like that. Must a learned something, right?
Everybody got along. Jimmy was contrite. Not that he was gonna give any of the money back right away, but he was contrite. Marty apologized like fifteen thousand times for tryin' to have Jimmy killed. But seein' as the would-be killer (Ricky) and the almost victim were now practically in-laws or something, I don't think all that crap mattered any more.
The house was all warm and cozy. You know, shore houses can be real quiet. They all got them double pane windows. You don't hear nothin'. Puppy slept by the babies. You know they got a puppy? Ain't one a the 'ghost' narrators told you that already? Curls up on the rug under the crib. Little one's in his porta-crib. Every once in a while the puppy pads over to see it he's all right too.
I can hear Marty snorin'. I can hear Ricky snorin'. Jimmy snores. Girls snore too. Marge makes these little wee-wee-wee-wee-wee noises like The Three Stooges. Ricky snores like a sick, giant whale, or something. I could never share a room with him. It's a wonder he don't have sleep apnea.
Jimmy's gonna buy a nice little bar and grill on Atlantic Avenue. Little place. Real snug. Gets all the local trade. Good steaks. Good burgers. Big sandwiches. Great drinks. Got these old, knotty pine walls and little, black vinyl booths. Seats maybe fifty people tops, not counting the bar, but a gold mine... a real gold mine. I can't tell you the name, 'cause it ain't a done deal yet. But if you want a get an idea, Google Robert's Place, which is also in Margate, New Jersey, 'cause they're really very much alike.
Marty's gonna take Jimmy up on that hot dog cart offer. Gonna talk to a guy 'bout settin' 'em up outside PARX CASINO in Bucks County. That could be a little gold mine too, even if he does give the house a cut. Probably see a lot a the old ladies from the bingo hall. You know, people gotta get their gamblin' fix..... Everybody likes a little jolt.
Now this story could a been a whole lot different. Ricky might a pulled the trigger, or slapped on another piece a duct tape. Jimmy would a kicked the bucket. Bingo hall might a stayed open. And Little Chrissie's grandma, Marge, might never a found love with a 'prisoner' down the basement. In case you come late to this, that's where they stashed him, Jimmy, I mean, when they didn't have guts enough to kill him.
But you know somethin'? Guts had nothing to do with it. We did. We did it all. It was us, the 'ghost' narrators. Some people call us 'guardian angels,'..... but me, I'm not that pretentious....
So you're gonna have to excuse me now. I wanna pass through the wall and drift 'round the town for a while. Winter nights are special 'round here... all chill and still and quiet. You can even hear the traffic lights click 'stop' and 'go.' You can even hear the surf.
And nobody heard me leave except the dog....
THE END... Bingo Boy.... a film treatment that reads like a novel. First installment on either the 2nd or 3rd of November. Sixty five episodes...and now it's done. Thank you.
______________________________________________________________________
if you're willing to help, please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD. Just tweet this ~~~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD as #BLOGGER for his stories and tales.
Nighty-Night
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