Jim Meirose
Prankster the Jokey Joke’s Seasonal Store
Prankster the Jokey Joke’s Seasonal Store; and so, we do recommend that every o, said “Horse”’s big cab-dash hot radio.
Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman hugged the cab door beginning to nod thinking—
<static>
—that he can’t nod no can’t he will not tell “Horse” to stop and—
—visit one of these—
It cannot be no.
<static>
<static>
That he does not tell driver “Horse” to stop the track-trailer because.
—when next—hssssssss—
Because.
Hssssssssssssssssssssssbecause he needed to but it’s
<static>
<sta
Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman stretched his lids gripped for his bag between his legs and told “Horse”:
<s
Hey, there, pull over here. I’ll walk the rest of my way.
You sure?
Yah yes, I’m.
<static static sta
<st
I’m sure. Here is good. My place is just a walk over that hill.
Okay. Take it easy.
Yah thanks for the lift.
<st no problem static static sta mistakenly thinking the innerdoor handylatch real but but, no issue. The door closed after discharging Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman leaving Horse alone-a singlyinstant, so:
The passenger seat became empty and:
Thus, low pressure—as out the cab teemed as usual with potential passenger seat occupants—and—thus high pressure. So; it’s now as it’s every time simply a matter of escape velocity, class. Feel free to look it up. Yes amen—the next available free occupant out the cab escaped instantly right into the outdoor—sucked in, in a sense, though that vernacular’s not quite accurate—also mistakenly thinking the outerdoor handylatch real but but but, no issue—into and onto the low pressure passenger seat not cooled a degree by the departure of Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman and the arrival of Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Kevin and again the cab became non-empty space and the universe became once more happy. All passenger seats abhor prolonged emptiness. Ah, truckworld do diddly indeedy abhor all empty passenger seats. So, Kevin, having seamlessly poured into the mold of nothing seeded by Flaxman—began and began and took over actually, the careful listening into the cold dashboard radio provided, which was wakening again from its last periodic cross-country station n out of range release and station n+1 in range acquisition blip-staticky-storm cycle.
“Horse” had already greeted Kevin all happily with, Hey, here we go. Get comfortable.
Thanks!
So. Where you headed? Great day for a drive, eh—or, actually, in your case—great day for a ride. Anyway. Where you off to?
The radio spoke on plainly roundabout Kevin and “Horse” as they calmly worked to fathom this entirely new context, saying, Hey you bullheads out there. WakeUp. Got to talk fast out this country at this hour, ‘cause you all be zoomin’ through from someplace there to someplace else and are just. Fat and passing through. My, hippos. Voinegovtsi Wrong Fest. The job here’s to keep you awake and so. Here’s something you can’t never had heard nothing about. It’s almost time for the July Morning Festival. Yes, get that. There is such a thing as simply put yah just as simply as what just got put to you already. Artmospheric? No. The July Morning festival, and guess. Where it started. The Great Desert of Rila Uzana Fest? No. Eh, here’s. Out Bulgaria. Get it bop? Dat bulandaria-boppfest. Dat’s up Bulgaria. Now, think inside yourself a split—but not a long split. That’ll fling a crash at you from the dark out front where you’re moving. Dark out front where you’re moving’s never a thing. Not even for the International Festival of Kites—
Kevin’s butt shifted in the seat in search of the most comfortable distance from each edge of the cushion, and the most comfortable left right side tilt back front centertilt left right left push or or—what way to sit the same time, answering, saying, I need to know the date today—I’ve lost track. Probably off a day or two. Off the top do you know?
—no. Not even. Gone too blank into dark out front well to be even; since a fall off such stairs may take you down. Tumbling all down and around flinging up from inside white sparkling flashers—means the end brushed quite near you face. Yo. Since you must be into danger then this night danger is the thing. This might be how this July Morning thing started. This might have all got going from this guy walking the beach five to midnight.
Yes. To the right’s all black, the Black Sea you see and. My years are many. But here we are again, walking four or five to midnight, still. In all my years. But.
His dog strained different so, he looked. His dog saw a dim similar one coming but. His difference was to his left’s all black, the Black sea you see and. He walked musing as, Other Bulgarians have gone up, leaving themselves behind, but in other forms. Like that one—that one, having determined into existence the Cyrillic alphabet, here in Bulgaria. Hip and.
Kevin continued the l-r-s-b-f centertiltback legpush up down as “Horse” went, Oh, yah. Uh. It’s June seventh. On the dash there—say, have we met before?
At last at last comfort, but now where to Oh. Yah. Damn this—great big God damned bag —stash this damned bag in my—to know there’s still time—lap shit shove down—to get there by July. Need to be—there just fuck push it down—there by July, you know? The very—in the dark between—start too. The very first day in July—my legs. Uh.
On his beach there he could not have known the other just seeing him, had spent the whole miles of miles back towardening toward him, musing too, ‘bout other Bulgarians who’ve gone up leaving themselves behind but in other forms. Like that one birthing the Suggestopedia method of language learning and this one conceiving the photoelectric state essential to photocopying. Hip hip and—
Closer they stroll on, the other now gone-gone yet further in with, Yah, like that one making up the kinetic theory of crystal growth research and somewhat earlier another hup-hupping the Ivanov Reaction and just some years prior, the discovery of Lactobacillus bulgaricus was achieved by random-Bulgarian ut. Hip hip hip and—hip the sixth heart sound the Refetoff syndrome an anti-tuberculosis vaccine Nivalin OGLE-TR-56b the Jordaphone, ut ut. Hip hip hip hip hip and—
Eh distance come overing the midnight sand’s shrinkening.
—the world’s first purpose-built air-to-surface bomb a revolutionary continuously variable transmission the airbag for aircraft pilots that is nowadays used in automobiles—
“Horse” was fine up to the needed to know part and through the procession of twenty-eight words to July part but nonetheless his suspicion that this seemingly needlessly uncomfortable hitchhacker had been here before grew, knocked home tight with the third July, and made him say, I know I’ve given you a ride before. I just do.
There’s a festival, stated Kevin calmly, at last at ease stowed comfortably down. It’s called July Morning. Lots of us go. The tradition’s to hitchhike. So, there you go.
—fictional writings marked by a broad outlook, a wealth of ideas and artistic power ut ut ut ut. Hip hip hip hip hip hip and and—as ehhhh, distance down overing shortening down the sand-between’s shrink shrank shrunk.
The world-famous frescos in the Boyana church DUAL cognitive architecture hip hip hip hi—the dog!
Ut, the dog snarls up down slavering to beat the ban break the muse lock their looks pull the dog back and yell nice.
Oh gosh I’m sorry!
Oh!
God, hell, so sorry did my dog get you did he—oh, bad dog, scaring him like that!
No, don’t yell at him. He’s a dog. He was scared. Probably protecting you.
Okay. But.
So, stop at this point, as the two face off. The dog’s peeing in the sand at the place where it’s not quite lit up and not quite darkened down; soup—espresso—soup—hut—so, given all these masterfully conceived developments as, as, ash hippos; the effort required to conceive a July Morning festival appears close to none.
The wheelcurve pushed into “Horse”’s palms causing pain even though wrapped in heavy black felt last year or before—not too often had driving caused him pain—Hey by God it’s total that I’ve picked you up somewhiles back, said “Horse”—thinking the problem of palmpain was solved when he wrapped the felt up all round a round a fat wheel’s better a skinny’s not—what’s your name—no wait, let me guess—as a boy walking Pop’s dog within drivingdown rainsheets he gripped the umbrellashaft by the skinny until pain said shift shift position and he found—maybe from way back he knew it’d be there but more than likely that’s not and it’s by accident—that the fathandle down the bottom was made for the very reason it provided a natural easy grip, but—the tip of my tongue. Your name eh—eh yat you name es Kevin. Right?
—in this instance where, rang on the radio, thus led to this point, there they were at dead midnight July first of which there have been many. Humour Carnival. There have been manymany. Festival of Roses. There have been by mass calculation sixteen quadrillion four hundred twenty-five trillion midnights since the creation of the earth. Fire Dancing Festival. Yas my buppos, the mythically rumored happy-primordial calendrasaurius pranced prettily-bopp out history’s extended faultline sez there’s been plenty more than sixteen quadrillion four hundred twenty-five trillion unless you’re atop the highest hut in Bulgaria in which wise then it’s merely fifteen or less sixteen quadrillion four hundred twenty-five trillion minisculias all hopped up into their faces this very day into the leftsided beachview plus the rightsided beachview brought together by dogpull together making the firstwise Bulgaria-bopp’d all-dark fat beachglobe of which such is quite-more excitedly special such that—let us do this every day Rennie yah let us do this every day Lennie yah yan and not.
What? Oh— Kevin looked down the line from his nose to his crotch, and lower the bag he shoved ‘tween his legs had caused pressurepain down that area so—
Uh, sure, yes—I. What’s your name anyway?
I—my name’s “Horse”. You run this route before. Ain’t that a coincidence?
Kevin’s legs pumped up down around seeking comfort, so with his eyes down what came from him, inappropriate and meaningless as it was, was just Don’t you mean shall not will?
—just ‘til the doggo dies but then there be more one after the other how magical. Cherry Festival. That the minute we calc it the result’s totally wrong. Wake Up Open Air Festival. The moment the minute the precisely atom-small fragcapped off a moment sharding out wild like some flintyold Indiana-thing Jonesy said so. Wrong Fest. We will meet her every year and every year we’ll bring more to wit; we will meet every year over year and every which year we’ll bring what? Rozhen National Folklore Festival. Why, more of course. International Bagpipe Contest.
What more of pop? Meadows in the Mountains.
More of dogs—at the dead moment the black globe’s complete. Holi Festival of Colours.
Oh, so.
It exists just a bit of a bit and then doesn’t so we got to make it all over again but; then exists just bit of bit again then doesn’t so we got to make it all over again but; exists just bit of bit again doesn’t so we got to make it all over again but—
“Horse” switched attention to the throb of the truck in his pedal and floor feet and squeezed hard the wheel—what the hell is wrong—knowing that pressure applied to common pain will sometimes—with this guy don’t he hear me—cancel the effects of both out producing a—he’s just muttering into some world of his own he carries along with him and—though “Horse asked nothing, Kevin suddenly produced the following; This other guy out here asked me, No. What did she say always? And “Horse”.
—exists just bit of bit doesn’t so we got to make it all over but; just bit of bit doesn’t so we got to make it all over but; bit of bit doesn’t so we got to make it all over but; bit of bit don’t so we got to make it all over but; bit bit don’t so we got to make it all over but; b b don’t we got to make all over but; b b don’t we got to make all over but; b b don’t we got to make all over bt; b b don we got to make all over b; b b dn we gt t make all over b; b b dn w gt t mak all ovr b; dn w gt t mak all ovr; dn w g mak all ovr; dn w g mk all vr; dnwgmkallvr; dnwgmklvr—my God, my God! Suddenly we’re gone. Where are we gone to? We’re gone where are we gone? Gone where are we? Where are? Are? Are—
Yas the best way to put is simply, “Horse”. Ut—hey, up there students, yah you up there in the topmost row, worn with all-denying eyerolls clearly wanting to say. Don’t say it let me guess. Just one proper noun all alone makes a shitty sentence, but but but, Here’s your answer in advance, maybe shitty maybe yes but improper no; because, note my hoary wordplay as; the sentence “Horse” is not improper because it is a proper noun; and even
if it were not so then is may be the answer to a question—
—who?
Damn you answer the question!
ARE?
Divulge; that there is no such tradition in other parts of the world which seems wise. There are few in Bulgaria. Few what? You may ask. At least I know if I were trapped in a truck with nothing around but this line of pap, I would ask, Few what? Well the answer is uncertain. Few people possibly. That’s one answer, but—few sources of danger’s another. In Bulgaria? Do not know ‘nuff, bitte. Mon—murder rates in Bulgaria, my pre-show research revealed, were, for example, two years ago just one point eight, per each hundred thousand of population. There were a total of one hundred and fifty-five murders in Bulgaria in two thousand and sixteen. Contract killings by organized crime were a problem, but mostly decreased following the arrest of five notorious gang members starting in two thousand and ten. But; Monaco had no murders at all in the same time frame.
Okay opp bunchface, now now now, would those rude youngsters in the back stop grimacing so—like this one. What large four-legged animule all shiny runs big money derby races and had unnatural steel objects forcibly nailed to its feet as forcibly as the savior’s hands were nailed to the cross for our sins, but; the animal is not brutally nailed for anyone’s sins; and I was named for that animal. Can you guess it?
No, but—
Plus; the animal is not brutally nailed to fulfill some ancient prophecy; the animal is not brutally nailed for anything, but to help the beast to not have the beast suffer when the natural hooves grown out its feet wear to the quick clog with pus bleed themselves raw infect with sores shoot bolts of pain up the elegant legs worthy of praise to be given to the creator of the beast so fine—and I was named for that animal. Now, can you guess it?
Uh, no, but, I—
There you go! I mean God, damn! Yes yes yes I mean I do the mf’n horse! That you kind devil of a truckman swearing on swearing that sooner or later, if you keep taking in hitchhackers all loopeadee-screw like this here gentlybutted hiney-brained specimen which, because of the gently rolled truth back-lying everybutt which says everywhere is the same place, as some think, and that all July firsts are the same one repeated, as pumped black and bold into the very mortal document cast earthward long ago by the venerably long-gone Pullers From Space, saying immediately after the loosing of the book down here—
I’m sorry. I think I was daydreaming—what do you mean, Who—I am Kevin. I mean that’s my name. It is Kevin —why do you ask me over and over eh wh d yo as m ove an ove eh w y a ov a ov eh o o eh—and so forth and so on get this—
And, for that he got kicked completely off’n his building.
—so; if I were in charge of July Morning, dear listener, I would move the get together to Monaco. As a matter of fact, perhaps everything of any kind involving mass gatherings of people for any purpose, should be held in Monaco. Even though Bulgaria is capable of fantastic things, including carrying out Antarctic research through the St. Kliment Ohridski Base on Livingston Island in Western Antarctica, that cannot compare to the difficulty and danger involved in yearly gatherings of random people from all points of the compass to attend loosely managed beer, pot, vodka-whiskey and et cetera thissie and thatwise other hilarity-drenched gatherings of otherwise well-behaved seemingly harmless people a la any car any color nineteen ninety-five that Earl Scheib guy.
But we do daddy do we ever digress—beating the band-oh.
The truck banged over that stretch out back Iowa “Horse” always said Shit when the gonna fix that clip? The perfect diversion for the clotted-down state of his discourse with the oddly addled-up Kevin, who. Who.
Who?
So:
—radio now is to next show documentary about Muhammad Ali Jinnah inaugurating Pakistan's central bank, the State Bank of Pakistan—
<s>
<static>
—that he can’t nod no can’t he will not tell “Horse” to stop in time and—
—followed by a group critique of Yarwheel Yad-Molutnobee’s new third draft novella—
<st>
It cannot be no.
—what does Kevin the well-washed from birth I was named after mean?
<sta>
<stat>
That he does not tell driver “Horse” to stop the track-trailer because.
—hot chickie what a titty-le—hssssssss—
Because.
Hssssssssssssssssssssssbecause now where these hot fucks all bled away to anywipe?
<stati>
Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Kevin the All-Calm-Now stretched his lids gripped for his bag between his legs and told “Horse”:
<static>
Hey, there, pull over here. I’ll walk the rest of my way.
You sure?
Yah yes, I’m.
<static static sta
<st
I’m sure. Here is good. My place is just a walkout up-over that hill.
Okay. Take it easy.
Yah. Thanks for the lift.
<st no problem static static sta mistakenly thinking the innerdoor handylatch real but, no issue. The door closed after discharge—
<static>
End Prankster the Jokey Joke’s Seasonal Store.
Jim Meirose's work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Calliope, Offbeat/Quirky (Journal of Exp. Fiction pub,), Permafrost, North Atlantic Review, Blueline, Witness, and Xavier Review, and has been nominated for several awards. Published books include: Understanding Franklin Thompson (Exp. novel - JEF pubs), Sunday Dinner With Father Dwyer (Exp. Novel - Optional Books), Inferno (E-Chap - Underground Voices), Mount Everest and Eli the Rat (Lit. Novels - Montag). Visit www.jimmeirose.com to know more.
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Prankster the Jokey Joke’s Seasonal Store
Prankster the Jokey Joke’s Seasonal Store; and so, we do recommend that every o, said “Horse”’s big cab-dash hot radio.
Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman hugged the cab door beginning to nod thinking—
<static>
—that he can’t nod no can’t he will not tell “Horse” to stop and—
—visit one of these—
It cannot be no.
<static>
<static>
That he does not tell driver “Horse” to stop the track-trailer because.
—when next—hssssssss—
Because.
Hssssssssssssssssssssssbecause he needed to but it’s
<static>
<sta
Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman stretched his lids gripped for his bag between his legs and told “Horse”:
<s
Hey, there, pull over here. I’ll walk the rest of my way.
You sure?
Yah yes, I’m.
<static static sta
<st
I’m sure. Here is good. My place is just a walk over that hill.
Okay. Take it easy.
Yah thanks for the lift.
<st no problem static static sta mistakenly thinking the innerdoor handylatch real but but, no issue. The door closed after discharging Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman leaving Horse alone-a singlyinstant, so:
The passenger seat became empty and:
Thus, low pressure—as out the cab teemed as usual with potential passenger seat occupants—and—thus high pressure. So; it’s now as it’s every time simply a matter of escape velocity, class. Feel free to look it up. Yes amen—the next available free occupant out the cab escaped instantly right into the outdoor—sucked in, in a sense, though that vernacular’s not quite accurate—also mistakenly thinking the outerdoor handylatch real but but but, no issue—into and onto the low pressure passenger seat not cooled a degree by the departure of Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Flaxman and the arrival of Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Kevin and again the cab became non-empty space and the universe became once more happy. All passenger seats abhor prolonged emptiness. Ah, truckworld do diddly indeedy abhor all empty passenger seats. So, Kevin, having seamlessly poured into the mold of nothing seeded by Flaxman—began and began and took over actually, the careful listening into the cold dashboard radio provided, which was wakening again from its last periodic cross-country station n out of range release and station n+1 in range acquisition blip-staticky-storm cycle.
“Horse” had already greeted Kevin all happily with, Hey, here we go. Get comfortable.
Thanks!
So. Where you headed? Great day for a drive, eh—or, actually, in your case—great day for a ride. Anyway. Where you off to?
The radio spoke on plainly roundabout Kevin and “Horse” as they calmly worked to fathom this entirely new context, saying, Hey you bullheads out there. WakeUp. Got to talk fast out this country at this hour, ‘cause you all be zoomin’ through from someplace there to someplace else and are just. Fat and passing through. My, hippos. Voinegovtsi Wrong Fest. The job here’s to keep you awake and so. Here’s something you can’t never had heard nothing about. It’s almost time for the July Morning Festival. Yes, get that. There is such a thing as simply put yah just as simply as what just got put to you already. Artmospheric? No. The July Morning festival, and guess. Where it started. The Great Desert of Rila Uzana Fest? No. Eh, here’s. Out Bulgaria. Get it bop? Dat bulandaria-boppfest. Dat’s up Bulgaria. Now, think inside yourself a split—but not a long split. That’ll fling a crash at you from the dark out front where you’re moving. Dark out front where you’re moving’s never a thing. Not even for the International Festival of Kites—
Kevin’s butt shifted in the seat in search of the most comfortable distance from each edge of the cushion, and the most comfortable left right side tilt back front centertilt left right left push or or—what way to sit the same time, answering, saying, I need to know the date today—I’ve lost track. Probably off a day or two. Off the top do you know?
—no. Not even. Gone too blank into dark out front well to be even; since a fall off such stairs may take you down. Tumbling all down and around flinging up from inside white sparkling flashers—means the end brushed quite near you face. Yo. Since you must be into danger then this night danger is the thing. This might be how this July Morning thing started. This might have all got going from this guy walking the beach five to midnight.
Yes. To the right’s all black, the Black Sea you see and. My years are many. But here we are again, walking four or five to midnight, still. In all my years. But.
His dog strained different so, he looked. His dog saw a dim similar one coming but. His difference was to his left’s all black, the Black sea you see and. He walked musing as, Other Bulgarians have gone up, leaving themselves behind, but in other forms. Like that one—that one, having determined into existence the Cyrillic alphabet, here in Bulgaria. Hip and.
Kevin continued the l-r-s-b-f centertiltback legpush up down as “Horse” went, Oh, yah. Uh. It’s June seventh. On the dash there—say, have we met before?
At last at last comfort, but now where to Oh. Yah. Damn this—great big God damned bag —stash this damned bag in my—to know there’s still time—lap shit shove down—to get there by July. Need to be—there just fuck push it down—there by July, you know? The very—in the dark between—start too. The very first day in July—my legs. Uh.
On his beach there he could not have known the other just seeing him, had spent the whole miles of miles back towardening toward him, musing too, ‘bout other Bulgarians who’ve gone up leaving themselves behind but in other forms. Like that one birthing the Suggestopedia method of language learning and this one conceiving the photoelectric state essential to photocopying. Hip hip and—
Closer they stroll on, the other now gone-gone yet further in with, Yah, like that one making up the kinetic theory of crystal growth research and somewhat earlier another hup-hupping the Ivanov Reaction and just some years prior, the discovery of Lactobacillus bulgaricus was achieved by random-Bulgarian ut. Hip hip hip and—hip the sixth heart sound the Refetoff syndrome an anti-tuberculosis vaccine Nivalin OGLE-TR-56b the Jordaphone, ut ut. Hip hip hip hip hip and—
Eh distance come overing the midnight sand’s shrinkening.
—the world’s first purpose-built air-to-surface bomb a revolutionary continuously variable transmission the airbag for aircraft pilots that is nowadays used in automobiles—
“Horse” was fine up to the needed to know part and through the procession of twenty-eight words to July part but nonetheless his suspicion that this seemingly needlessly uncomfortable hitchhacker had been here before grew, knocked home tight with the third July, and made him say, I know I’ve given you a ride before. I just do.
There’s a festival, stated Kevin calmly, at last at ease stowed comfortably down. It’s called July Morning. Lots of us go. The tradition’s to hitchhike. So, there you go.
—fictional writings marked by a broad outlook, a wealth of ideas and artistic power ut ut ut ut. Hip hip hip hip hip hip and and—as ehhhh, distance down overing shortening down the sand-between’s shrink shrank shrunk.
The world-famous frescos in the Boyana church DUAL cognitive architecture hip hip hip hi—the dog!
Ut, the dog snarls up down slavering to beat the ban break the muse lock their looks pull the dog back and yell nice.
Oh gosh I’m sorry!
Oh!
God, hell, so sorry did my dog get you did he—oh, bad dog, scaring him like that!
No, don’t yell at him. He’s a dog. He was scared. Probably protecting you.
Okay. But.
So, stop at this point, as the two face off. The dog’s peeing in the sand at the place where it’s not quite lit up and not quite darkened down; soup—espresso—soup—hut—so, given all these masterfully conceived developments as, as, ash hippos; the effort required to conceive a July Morning festival appears close to none.
The wheelcurve pushed into “Horse”’s palms causing pain even though wrapped in heavy black felt last year or before—not too often had driving caused him pain—Hey by God it’s total that I’ve picked you up somewhiles back, said “Horse”—thinking the problem of palmpain was solved when he wrapped the felt up all round a round a fat wheel’s better a skinny’s not—what’s your name—no wait, let me guess—as a boy walking Pop’s dog within drivingdown rainsheets he gripped the umbrellashaft by the skinny until pain said shift shift position and he found—maybe from way back he knew it’d be there but more than likely that’s not and it’s by accident—that the fathandle down the bottom was made for the very reason it provided a natural easy grip, but—the tip of my tongue. Your name eh—eh yat you name es Kevin. Right?
—in this instance where, rang on the radio, thus led to this point, there they were at dead midnight July first of which there have been many. Humour Carnival. There have been manymany. Festival of Roses. There have been by mass calculation sixteen quadrillion four hundred twenty-five trillion midnights since the creation of the earth. Fire Dancing Festival. Yas my buppos, the mythically rumored happy-primordial calendrasaurius pranced prettily-bopp out history’s extended faultline sez there’s been plenty more than sixteen quadrillion four hundred twenty-five trillion unless you’re atop the highest hut in Bulgaria in which wise then it’s merely fifteen or less sixteen quadrillion four hundred twenty-five trillion minisculias all hopped up into their faces this very day into the leftsided beachview plus the rightsided beachview brought together by dogpull together making the firstwise Bulgaria-bopp’d all-dark fat beachglobe of which such is quite-more excitedly special such that—let us do this every day Rennie yah let us do this every day Lennie yah yan and not.
What? Oh— Kevin looked down the line from his nose to his crotch, and lower the bag he shoved ‘tween his legs had caused pressurepain down that area so—
Uh, sure, yes—I. What’s your name anyway?
I—my name’s “Horse”. You run this route before. Ain’t that a coincidence?
Kevin’s legs pumped up down around seeking comfort, so with his eyes down what came from him, inappropriate and meaningless as it was, was just Don’t you mean shall not will?
—just ‘til the doggo dies but then there be more one after the other how magical. Cherry Festival. That the minute we calc it the result’s totally wrong. Wake Up Open Air Festival. The moment the minute the precisely atom-small fragcapped off a moment sharding out wild like some flintyold Indiana-thing Jonesy said so. Wrong Fest. We will meet her every year and every year we’ll bring more to wit; we will meet every year over year and every which year we’ll bring what? Rozhen National Folklore Festival. Why, more of course. International Bagpipe Contest.
What more of pop? Meadows in the Mountains.
More of dogs—at the dead moment the black globe’s complete. Holi Festival of Colours.
Oh, so.
It exists just a bit of a bit and then doesn’t so we got to make it all over again but; then exists just bit of bit again then doesn’t so we got to make it all over again but; exists just bit of bit again doesn’t so we got to make it all over again but—
“Horse” switched attention to the throb of the truck in his pedal and floor feet and squeezed hard the wheel—what the hell is wrong—knowing that pressure applied to common pain will sometimes—with this guy don’t he hear me—cancel the effects of both out producing a—he’s just muttering into some world of his own he carries along with him and—though “Horse asked nothing, Kevin suddenly produced the following; This other guy out here asked me, No. What did she say always? And “Horse”.
—exists just bit of bit doesn’t so we got to make it all over but; just bit of bit doesn’t so we got to make it all over but; bit of bit doesn’t so we got to make it all over but; bit of bit don’t so we got to make it all over but; bit bit don’t so we got to make it all over but; b b don’t we got to make all over but; b b don’t we got to make all over but; b b don’t we got to make all over bt; b b don we got to make all over b; b b dn we gt t make all over b; b b dn w gt t mak all ovr b; dn w gt t mak all ovr; dn w g mak all ovr; dn w g mk all vr; dnwgmkallvr; dnwgmklvr—my God, my God! Suddenly we’re gone. Where are we gone to? We’re gone where are we gone? Gone where are we? Where are? Are? Are—
Yas the best way to put is simply, “Horse”. Ut—hey, up there students, yah you up there in the topmost row, worn with all-denying eyerolls clearly wanting to say. Don’t say it let me guess. Just one proper noun all alone makes a shitty sentence, but but but, Here’s your answer in advance, maybe shitty maybe yes but improper no; because, note my hoary wordplay as; the sentence “Horse” is not improper because it is a proper noun; and even
if it were not so then is may be the answer to a question—
—who?
Damn you answer the question!
ARE?
Divulge; that there is no such tradition in other parts of the world which seems wise. There are few in Bulgaria. Few what? You may ask. At least I know if I were trapped in a truck with nothing around but this line of pap, I would ask, Few what? Well the answer is uncertain. Few people possibly. That’s one answer, but—few sources of danger’s another. In Bulgaria? Do not know ‘nuff, bitte. Mon—murder rates in Bulgaria, my pre-show research revealed, were, for example, two years ago just one point eight, per each hundred thousand of population. There were a total of one hundred and fifty-five murders in Bulgaria in two thousand and sixteen. Contract killings by organized crime were a problem, but mostly decreased following the arrest of five notorious gang members starting in two thousand and ten. But; Monaco had no murders at all in the same time frame.
Okay opp bunchface, now now now, would those rude youngsters in the back stop grimacing so—like this one. What large four-legged animule all shiny runs big money derby races and had unnatural steel objects forcibly nailed to its feet as forcibly as the savior’s hands were nailed to the cross for our sins, but; the animal is not brutally nailed for anyone’s sins; and I was named for that animal. Can you guess it?
No, but—
Plus; the animal is not brutally nailed to fulfill some ancient prophecy; the animal is not brutally nailed for anything, but to help the beast to not have the beast suffer when the natural hooves grown out its feet wear to the quick clog with pus bleed themselves raw infect with sores shoot bolts of pain up the elegant legs worthy of praise to be given to the creator of the beast so fine—and I was named for that animal. Now, can you guess it?
Uh, no, but, I—
There you go! I mean God, damn! Yes yes yes I mean I do the mf’n horse! That you kind devil of a truckman swearing on swearing that sooner or later, if you keep taking in hitchhackers all loopeadee-screw like this here gentlybutted hiney-brained specimen which, because of the gently rolled truth back-lying everybutt which says everywhere is the same place, as some think, and that all July firsts are the same one repeated, as pumped black and bold into the very mortal document cast earthward long ago by the venerably long-gone Pullers From Space, saying immediately after the loosing of the book down here—
I’m sorry. I think I was daydreaming—what do you mean, Who—I am Kevin. I mean that’s my name. It is Kevin —why do you ask me over and over eh wh d yo as m ove an ove eh w y a ov a ov eh o o eh—and so forth and so on get this—
And, for that he got kicked completely off’n his building.
—so; if I were in charge of July Morning, dear listener, I would move the get together to Monaco. As a matter of fact, perhaps everything of any kind involving mass gatherings of people for any purpose, should be held in Monaco. Even though Bulgaria is capable of fantastic things, including carrying out Antarctic research through the St. Kliment Ohridski Base on Livingston Island in Western Antarctica, that cannot compare to the difficulty and danger involved in yearly gatherings of random people from all points of the compass to attend loosely managed beer, pot, vodka-whiskey and et cetera thissie and thatwise other hilarity-drenched gatherings of otherwise well-behaved seemingly harmless people a la any car any color nineteen ninety-five that Earl Scheib guy.
But we do daddy do we ever digress—beating the band-oh.
The truck banged over that stretch out back Iowa “Horse” always said Shit when the gonna fix that clip? The perfect diversion for the clotted-down state of his discourse with the oddly addled-up Kevin, who. Who.
Who?
So:
—radio now is to next show documentary about Muhammad Ali Jinnah inaugurating Pakistan's central bank, the State Bank of Pakistan—
<s>
<static>
—that he can’t nod no can’t he will not tell “Horse” to stop in time and—
—followed by a group critique of Yarwheel Yad-Molutnobee’s new third draft novella—
<st>
It cannot be no.
—what does Kevin the well-washed from birth I was named after mean?
<sta>
<stat>
That he does not tell driver “Horse” to stop the track-trailer because.
—hot chickie what a titty-le—hssssssss—
Because.
Hssssssssssssssssssssssbecause now where these hot fucks all bled away to anywipe?
<stati>
Driver “Horse”’s hitchhacker Kevin the All-Calm-Now stretched his lids gripped for his bag between his legs and told “Horse”:
<static>
Hey, there, pull over here. I’ll walk the rest of my way.
You sure?
Yah yes, I’m.
<static static sta
<st
I’m sure. Here is good. My place is just a walkout up-over that hill.
Okay. Take it easy.
Yah. Thanks for the lift.
<st no problem static static sta mistakenly thinking the innerdoor handylatch real but, no issue. The door closed after discharge—
<static>
End Prankster the Jokey Joke’s Seasonal Store.
Jim Meirose's work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Calliope, Offbeat/Quirky (Journal of Exp. Fiction pub,), Permafrost, North Atlantic Review, Blueline, Witness, and Xavier Review, and has been nominated for several awards. Published books include: Understanding Franklin Thompson (Exp. novel - JEF pubs), Sunday Dinner With Father Dwyer (Exp. Novel - Optional Books), Inferno (E-Chap - Underground Voices), Mount Everest and Eli the Rat (Lit. Novels - Montag). Visit www.jimmeirose.com to know more.
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