Welcome To WRONG WAY BOULEVARD
I’d previously held up plates of my own excrement, expecting applause. Only once they clapped, wild clapping that went on for hours, disproportionate to the stink actually siting on the plate, baking in the trained spot lights of the theater. On that occasion, the applauders began foaming at the mouth, and I watched in horror as the a black foam cascaded over their chins and down their throats, choking them in front of my very eyes. The lights went up, and I lowered my arm, sore from supporting the weight of the plate with its shit. Horrible, horrible, they said and called it a medical emergency. I never returned upstairs after that, let alone to the theater, remaining in my room on one side of the basement corridor on a near continual basis, the only window at eye level with the asphalt surface of the parking lot outside. In green florescent lighting, I used the black and white tiled public rest rooms at night, washing the stench from my underarms by scooping water out from under the tap and tossing it onto my chest then scrubbing with balled up wads of toilet paper. Afterward I scrawled on the lavatory walls with magic marker, as I had long ago, when the transformations were beginning.
The rooster shaped weather vane was bent. Fredericks recognized Satan’s finger had extended into the farmer’s order to mark the house like a three headed dog might piss against a lamp post; the actual bending caused by a buzzard blown sideways during one of the violent thunderstorms passing through in late summer, years prior. Fredericks studied the mark, there always was one, a message for him alone, his signal to proceed with the sales call. Reassured, he went on to figure the farmer must have himself a time keeping up with repairs, storm water being such a big issue in that part of the country. Cold Sale, J. Jupes
The egg yolk broke when he cracked it on the side of the frying pan. Little piece of shell landed in the white. Whole thing sizzled. Cook flipped it with his spatula, shoveled it onto the toast and tapped the bell.
Woman looked down and yelled, Need more goddamn home fries over here, George. Short changed me, you asshole.
No, she yelled it. They knew her, I guess.
Then she had a hard time with the ketchup bottle. Turned the bottle over, pounded the base. Ended up raking around inside with a knife until it all fell out at once, like after birth. Swirled her potatoes through it all then closed her mouth around the sandwich. Orange yolk ran down her chin, in and around her whiskers, onto her green Packers jersey right when the waitress slid the second plate of home fries all cozy beside the first.
Hidden in the Mountains of East Tennessee, eleven-year-old Rodney goes about the business of being a boy during the summer of 1970. In the playground of his grandmother’s overgrown garden, he bears silent witness to the relentless cruelty of a teenage psychopath.
WRITING AS J. JUPES
It's 1982. Rodney Pepper, a socially inept college drop-out, heads to New Orleans seeking to engulf himself in despair and abject misery in the belief this will lead him to Wisdom. . . As he looks for work and moves between dilapidated downtown rooming houses, he is preyed upon by agents of the city’s underworld and bears witness to ancient buccaneering atrocity.
Stories of Mayhem
HEKATE GOLD CLASSICS
Bringing to the public annotated editions of the most brilliant books of the past.