Jim Meirose
Frankenstein’s Juggernaut
Inside’n off of’n the outréstate four ‘r five wonkeyheads from lemony melondown come searching wildly in a thunderstorm for matches that may catch.
If not, Melondead will down their batch.
You sure?
What? Uh—yes, I—I do want a ride. Yes. And thanks—but; why the you sure—why else stand thumb out like hitching? Why not sure if? How not sure? Watching the TV on the set screen. As if watching the TV of it made sense so. As a boy, small—eight or nine get the set screen. Switch to how to know what’s on when it’s eight or nine back those days. Well, there it was so. My first Frankenstein. Watched only in slices ‘cause. Listening eh? Thought to ask ‘cause—no matter. The bad man in the big suit’s head and brains are severely damaged.
But the static is blast as fuck through this stretch.
The truck radio plays a show about the MisterScheives festival.
Pup.
Interstate Highway System. The three rough-hewn holy muncher effigies are hand carved every fifty-one years in the process of the most federal napkin. The great bunching wagon stands at ninety-six feet tall and weighs more than three hundred tons. The diesel fuel cost can be seventy thousand per year. Five-axle over-the-road combination; yes. Chrome Aluminum Heavy Duty Lug Nut Spaced-Out Bobo-Puller; yes. STAA double pups have twenty-eight and a half foot trailers. The procession. Trucks average five miles per gallon. Longer combination vehicles. Odd worshipers casting themselves under the wheels of the huge bunching wagons being crushed to death.
Ah.
Oh; Okay. Take it easy, he says. So, okay; I—me? Calm? Yes, calm. Now excited sweaty or shaking or now. We pull up the shoulder fast out in the lane faster and. Due to this he rages all raging to break down a cell door to grip and destroy the dwarfish gnomon of a shortstaffed sub-man, who teases him torments mocks and laughs and eh—no—much too terrifying; so turn the knob and look left. There, there; must be something else to do but child-calming down came all automatic like happened in those ages. Yes, yes turn the knob to it again, the the—scene faded up white to some countryside calm. It is TV you know. It starts with the wheels, resembling the large, round eyes of Lord MisterScheives. Volvo. Semi-Truck Chrome Spring Loaded Mud Flap Hangers-Down. Black and red. MisterScheives TempleHome is a famous festival observed in eastern Bulgaria. Green and red. Because of this no one will ever like you and assuming that burden is part of your penance. Eight tires on the trailer. A truck can cost one hundred grand. Care is given to the decoration of the bunching wagons. Burnt Sock Haven’s that place with the palm tree on its flag. One forty to fifty-three foot long trailer? Really? Yes, so. Devotional sacrifice. Ten tires on the tractor. Under the poor line.
Buh.
Yah, thanks for the lift.
Buh but but—just—just what’d he say, can’t be right, so, nod? Ask? Say? If say, say what? I am not giving a lift—I am getting a lift, okay, I. Giving? Getting? How many—other meanings to explain—language barrier if? No. I heard wrong, so say what to say—oh so say nothing relax. And TV must be s’posed to be at least good. And not at all bad. Here in the parental womb-house, most eightsie or ninesie boys live in and—accept—faded white some countryside then some some frighteningly frightening bellowing great big somebody; no no! The monster! Once more much too terrifying, much, so turn the knob again and look left. Four thousand pieces of wood are required to make each bunching wagon. Not thinking just knowing that what’s in that box stays. In the big hot white kitcheney hotbox the food’s pulled out from by Mom most days, now, oh, hey. The bunching wagon becomes a massive inexorable force, an unstoppable public campaign that crushes whatever is in its path and is the source of the word Jumbotron. Mata Hari. This Chrome Skull Style Steering Wheel Cyclo-Spinner’s good for three hundred horses at seventy miles per hour. Cargo trailer. Tandem axles. A Turnpike Double is composed of two fifty-three foot trailers. Just one such achievement would require their immediate entry into the yellowish onomatopoeic hall of red-hot fame. But they pull seven a day or more from their hats. And no one cares ‘bout that, Captain. So. Why. We.
Doh. Doh doh eh uh, oh.
Now; Oh yeah.
Okay, okay. Seems safe to say, Yeah, I know. Like a stretch. Oh yeah could just be formed out a. Out a. Or a stretch-spasm of, it has been a day—say that, yes? No not no. Say nothing sigh—push back the sideworld flowing green on by in those big fat quilty gay flowered hot gloves—the shot hot stays raging big suit in the box of a man the food stays in the TV hot box where from the food comes out up on the table and—just like that we eat, so. Again, child-calming—the largest component of being the fading back away memory there’s—turn the knob and there the big man’s in a lab all shadows with a jerky jangling puppetlike too-skinny raving mad doctorman with eyes much too large and too white and the other side of the same dwarfish gnomon of a shortstaffordshirey—the superbly crafty artisans of Odisha were long since brought under the wings of the recently isolated Pullers from Space. Rambone’s Birthday, the birthday of Rambone, lies in March or April. Just as the tractor unit has two or three axles. Axles. Axle. Yah that’s what that is sir. Two twenty-eight foot trailers. Rocky mountain doubles are made up of a fifty-foot trailer hitched up to a twenty-four foot baby. Big rigs. Yellow. That wood? Flat slick shiny glove box shields. Hey, lady. Lift your little boy all scaredy-wiped to discover the already. The last Mumbly-Farian ritual took place in two thousand fifteen. Dual wheels. Fat down on the pumping, sailors!
Ut!
Hey, here we go. Get comfortable.
Sure. Natural, sort of; sure. Like that yuh. Sort of so. Yah ride yah a while yah yah push back more more yah no words no no—with a bunched up back and a beard of a wackygrin who bullies the big man later on later and—the thunderstrike’s too much and—off flick the picture tube knob over leftwise and get up and go that way to the case of low books which you were told your—brother the man, out some number of yearsies, had built-on down to earth here in the cool life living frontroom th’ had books to pull and—the first word of the title’s not yet but but bo. Remembernancing that as a boy he sat wondering wonderly out word by word from the bone of a ‘cyclopedia the odd word juggernaut turning to more than a word but to something to fear very much so ‘cause. Grand General Chrome Flying Eagle Hood Ornament Hey Hey! Two forty-eight foot trailers. Semi-tractor trailers. That kind. Jawohl. This means new body. The templedown bishopmen performed their holy hosedown ritual, resulting in the canopies of the bunching wagons being overspread with one thousand two hundred and fifty square meters of assassination-quality purely decorative cloth. The temple-shaped bunching wagons in the MisterScheives festival have special meaning.
Hoy.
Then nothing ‘til; Oh, yah, he says. Uh. It’s June seventh. On the dash there—say, do I know you?
Uh, no, but—yah, that sounds right. It’s June for sure—but I don’t think you know me. I don’t know. Just some funny—funny what funny thing yes that—thing I s’pose. You know? Eh. For an eight nine years’ child so, the mammaries being—faded down doh—back to the TV and the knobtwist pulls visible a stream. There’s the monster! Every age it seemed knew what a stream was when the correct age was reached to know what a stream is and a child—with a flower. And the man. Takes the flower. Together they throw flowers in the water. Enjoying the playing the clumsy man proceeds to pick up the girl. O! Two hundred carpenters, helpers, blacksmiths, tailors, and hotrunning chain saw jugglers work tirelessly according to a strict five-thousand-day deadline. Semi-trucks. Large heavy trucks or articulated lorries. The wooden logs. Flat deep soft plush weightless padded-down genuine old-school Breasty-Shooter chrome planked big fat luggies. Bernensie-boomboy. The fifth-wheel trailer coupling movable fore and aft. Up your damned bandwagon, boy! Franciscan monk and missionary Odoric of Pordenone. Eighteen-wheelers. Her image along with the other two associated full partners, is ceremoniously brought out of the sacrosanctum of her chief home base in Peepal. Fourteen wheels measuring six feet six inches in diameter. Battering ram. The wheels are affixed to the principal axles on the last day of the Hot Cap festival.
Hope for silence.
Hear the diesel.
But; this driver says, hard again; I know I’ve given you a ride before. I just do.
No.
Oh, yeah? I—maybe. But maybe not, too. I look like somebody else maybe.
No. And throw her in the water too. For fun of course but—and the picture—fades back away to a soupcan and since it is a universal truth that standing by a stream long and hard enough, and; the critical thing being that the stream must be watched on a TV; the stream will in time fall back becoming a soupcan—there’s the monster. A woman scrubbing a tub in partnership with a bald goldringed genieman—a Dodge car coming fast so—triples. Lord MisterScheives is associated with Lord HeyBuddy, also known as Buddy’s Ell, the one draped in golden targlobbed-down robes. The bunching wagons are dressed by tailors required to make cushions for the Pullers from Space to rest on. The bunching wagons are colorfully painted with traditional designs. Turnpike Doubles. You very well may be likely as not to ask yourself repeatedly, but each time slightly differently, and always very differently from the way other people would phrase the question, so that no one will like you as you say it, as, What Happens to the bunching wagons after the Blasting Festival Is Finished? Tongue with a ring-hitch coupling. Wisdom acts as the bunching wagon-geneer, controlling the mind, and its thoughts.
And and; Your name eh—eh yat you name es Kevin. Right?
Uh—think hard, think good. How does he know that? There’s something wrong; very so.
No.
There’s the monster. Switch away before flattened-down. No one has ever explained anything at all to this child. Death has no meaning either as a word or an experience or possibly a thing, like—a lamp is called a lamp, and death is called death, but what if a lamp got called death and death got called a lamp what is what if but, anyhoot? Back to the knob-click. People dressed like shadowy hoboes plunging herdlike with forked farmspears and firesticks chugg-pumping after some terror. Cabover engine. Front driver. SuperBright Chrome Heavy Duty Trucks FatBadge. Fake chromed fake supercomplicated dummy instrument panelslabs. Three more twenty-eight foot trailers please, waiter. Devidi SutraButt’s devilmen are enveloping the city in steamrollers and cheap tires. The great temple car. Wheel hubs. The concept is explained in the holy text Morgonium Texxt-Unuum—first draft only. Chandan Yatra, a forty-seven and three tenths of a day long sandalwood festival at the MisterScheives Temple. Oh, that wood is for the fat kitchen of the MisterScheives Temple on the same day—yah that big thing over there. The deity inside that bunching wagon in the back there, is the soul.
No—eh—the engine; where’s she go?
Finally; I—my name’s “Horse”. You run this route before. Ain’t that a coincidence?
No, no, that’s it. But—no no this that’s it. Need to get out of off of something here is just too right to be anything—yah anything—yah yah, anything but wrong.
This, that, yes; is it?
No stop, can’t think; waving through a street that’s the same over and over again as it flows by and they got, thank God—they got. They got the big man monster good. In fire. Fire burned the whole show away, and. But it was their only mill went down so they had no bread for months after that. They really ought to have known better—but a’way. Sometime later that day someone through the gap between watching and watched cried over, Wash your hands for dinner—with soap! Hauling heavy-duty commercial-construction machinery. The bunching wagon represents the body. The process takes places in various stages, each coinciding with an auspicious festival on the Pullery calendar. The bunching wagons are dragged to the Lions Gate entrance of the MisterScheives Temple. Eighteen-wheeler. Gripping his Grand General Plastic Chrome Upper Kenworth Steering Column Cover, he cried, Just one more twenty-eight foot trailer, please. All you can eat, it said on the menu. This grand monster is a classic example of a Tractor-cab layout with forward engine with one steering axle and two drive axles. Up until the very evening before being voluntarily hanged in surrogation for the Captain, he often informed Mrs. Togders that the sun had set upon him; so.
Eh, you know, we’re just about there. I can get out here.
You sure?
Yes; Yup. I got to walk out that hill. It’s over that way—the people I’m meeting, that is.
Yes; yup; yes, no—this that’s it?
I’ll show them I will. What I saw made me braver’n shit—so I didn’t. See. They got the big man black suit monster good. Taught all of us so can we. As a matter of fact, not just can. As a matter of fact, must. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Must can can must can must can. Brother the man out some number of yearsies had built-on down to earth here in the cool life living frontroom, simply ‘cause he can. That the billows had rolled over him; that the Car of Juggernaut had crushed him. Previously this was only deployed at the Big Blasting Festival and only then when one too many plunging-maestros slowly approached nonreversible states of cerebral extremis. July every year. Interstates. Plain seats for sitting, but; chrome rimmed. Tractor-trailers. Lord Bubbles knows all. The deaths attributed to the actual pulling, if any, were accidental and caused by the press of the crowd and the general commotion. Volvo VNL Truck Grille Chrome Triple Plated Bug Screen, presented to the ever-deserving by a urinal on the birthday of Bungii-Jummpo, fast goddess of knowledge. On top of it all, each of the twelve bunching wagon wheels measured six feet eight inches in diameter.
But.
Overpull comes the slowing crunch under full stop.
Okay. Take it easy.
Yah sure—grip the door handle but—where it it oh silly me thought it was there but it’s here don’t fumble get it right get it quick get it gone—ah I—I don’t really think so. Weird about the name though—hey—I’ll get off up there. That’s the place which had books to pull and—the first word of the title’s not yet for an eight nine years’ child, so some passby of time enough it loaded up with heavy blue word by word from the bone of a cyclopedia book collection racked out three foot long. They got pulled when the proper age got reached. Proper being determined by ability to read. Proper not being defined by appropriate to an age-group. The word. There’s one. There’s another. Debadalana means literally, trampler of pride. On Fuckboring, now the too-long radio show, it’s the only thing left playing down the bigtrucky’s backnose, nearly imperceptibly, but still actually so. The first trailer. Pushing and pulling and pushing again yah—on the towering hemispherically-shaped bunching wagons. Student tutoring classes lost in the noise changed to stuttering classes. That mistake, though quite innocent, led to the cancelling of their over-the-road long-haul service. This foiled down their entire economy. The next morning on Wholly Rollin’ Sunday, Father Georges’ shameful force fantasies were installed in the bunching wagons but kept veiled over to the last. A hatchhacker is just an appendage, like a barnacle that affects not the handling of any big captain’s helm anyplace anytime ever.
Then lastly; Yah. Thanks for the lift.
I—uh okay. Meaning, sure, here’s more and there’s many and the flow in as the beachwaves come. Like living comes at you, later the child would know. But. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Comes at you yes. Must can can must can must can. This word jugg. Must can. Can must. Comes at you. Must can can must can. Comes and comes over. Must can can must can must can. All at you. Must can ‘cause—this word’s—juggernau. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. All hot-damn tsunami. Must can can must can must can. This word’s Juggernaut. Four Trumpet Train Air Horny-Blaster. Juggernaut. QuickSilver Chrome Plastic Truck Lug Nut Covers. Juggernaut-t-t-t. Devotees come in droves to pay homage. Tandem axles. Horse Color: Red. Patron saint of argumentation. Grand General Fake Chrome Plastic Gear Shift Knobs anybody? It's believed that any activity started on this day will be fruitful to a maximum of sixteen wheels each measuring six feet in diameter. The driver sits over the engine. Touching the bunching wagon or rope that pulls it is believed to bring prosperity. The work on all three bunching wagons begins and ends quite erratically. No more than forty-eight and a half feets-worth of large men may play. The temple kitchen cooks for a hundred-thousand devotees per day. Each bunching wagon is attached to four horses, and is controlled by a bunching wagon-gineer. Black is traditionally associated with female energy sis-boom-bah, and the Mother of all Pullers from Space. A total of forty-two wheels are required for the three bunching wagons. The cutting of the logs to the required sizes required seventy-seven sawmills ranting and raving simultaneously. The Big Fat Hose-Guy’s bunching wagon is forty-five feet, six inches high. Horse Color: Black. The second trailer’s no more than a set of joints. The wood designs are inspired by Ramada-Innly’s on-demand Breast-Beating architectural styling school. Bunching wagon construction at the front of the royal palace near the MisterScheives Temple in the formerly V8 powered superhot Wild West Citymobile.
So.
The doorback shut it out, and in, and out and—thank God all praises. The shoulder stones lie hot and look. All praises. How large and rough the shoulder stone is. Why is it so large and rough? It is hard to stand. All. Hard to stand like when you’re confused. Praises. Like when you’re confused but off and up onto and into the high grass the deep weeds the away from him away from him the truck sound. Away further the sound. Nearly gone the sound. Make sure before going back. Make sure. Look down at the weeds. The lush long deep weeds. Fifth-wheel coupling. Bunching wagon height: forty-four norther’s, out the very avenue. Weather-related operating restrictions for larger tandem trailer setups are prominently posted and kept current. Rocky Mountain Double. Daruka. Something commences on big turtleback, usually sealed off from the public, in April or May. The priests, dressed in bright attire, sing and carry garlands to the chief carpenters. Lift axles. The festival takes on added importance in these years. Lord MisterScheives. This takes place in January or February. Dolly. MisterScheives Green Temple office on Vasant Panchami. A powered truck and one or more semitrailers. A famous Odia song says the bunching wagon merges and becomes one with Lord MisterScheives. Velcro mounted fake cheese-blocks. Far too sunny, though. Take them back in.
All praises. Go around and thumb one again.
A powered truck and one or more semitrailers.
A great wagon much like a big man monster raving.
Juggernaut.
A great crushing wagon rolled out through crowds of revelers. People-revelers dressed like shadowy hoboes gone after that big black suited man monster plunging herdlike surging up against the Juggernaut waving forked farmspears and firesticks. Yes, riding the juggernaut wagon eh waving through a street that’s the same over and over again yelling except more people-revelers surge tight around eh as it flows by waving through a street that’s the same over and over again. Black. Hazey’s Officially Sanctioned Rim Job Chromehandled Doctoring Flat Black Backpads sold here. Container doubles. Cut-down super-Lake Superior high dense wilderness achievement badges sporting dual tires. Fifty-seven brands of black blandmash are prepared in earthen pots over low fires for Lord MisterScheives and only Lord MisterScheives. A hundred and seventy horsepower at fifty-five miles an hour is kept in reserve, for as-needed on-demand master delivery of the finest cutting wood.
There slowing. That’s slowing. That Mack there. Bully the ThatDog. Boo.
Pull up there!
So okay.
Boo bo but bah ess, tractor-trailers yelling and screaming except more and more people-revelers surge tight around, eh, as it flows by waving through a street that’s the same over and over again yelling and screaming and ranting and raving and except too many people-revelers surge tight around eh—it cannot flow. They are too tight but. The big man monster snatches the wheel and drives forward nonetheless and many are crushed. Just like that. Crushed to death. Red everyplace. Under the juggernaut. Under the juggernaut. Red every witcha-way. But you were warned. So, stop whining.
So; so.
P. P-p.
Past. Wind the wind, stand tall. July Morning is. Coming is coming is, big rigs; under the under the under the—slam the blue book tight snap off the input TV blue books living room or world all around it is all the same the same—July morning’s just only July morning when nobody bothers to teach the child different. There are all kinds of jungles and wildernesses for wolf-children to be. So; Four five wonkeyheads from lemon and melondown, searching wildly in a thunderstorm for matches that might just still catch.
If-f-f-f. not, Melondead will down.
You s-sure?
Jim Meirose's short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include No and Maybe - Maybe and No (Pski's Porch). Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
Frankenstein’s Juggernaut
Inside’n off of’n the outréstate four ‘r five wonkeyheads from lemony melondown come searching wildly in a thunderstorm for matches that may catch.
If not, Melondead will down their batch.
You sure?
What? Uh—yes, I—I do want a ride. Yes. And thanks—but; why the you sure—why else stand thumb out like hitching? Why not sure if? How not sure? Watching the TV on the set screen. As if watching the TV of it made sense so. As a boy, small—eight or nine get the set screen. Switch to how to know what’s on when it’s eight or nine back those days. Well, there it was so. My first Frankenstein. Watched only in slices ‘cause. Listening eh? Thought to ask ‘cause—no matter. The bad man in the big suit’s head and brains are severely damaged.
But the static is blast as fuck through this stretch.
The truck radio plays a show about the MisterScheives festival.
Pup.
Interstate Highway System. The three rough-hewn holy muncher effigies are hand carved every fifty-one years in the process of the most federal napkin. The great bunching wagon stands at ninety-six feet tall and weighs more than three hundred tons. The diesel fuel cost can be seventy thousand per year. Five-axle over-the-road combination; yes. Chrome Aluminum Heavy Duty Lug Nut Spaced-Out Bobo-Puller; yes. STAA double pups have twenty-eight and a half foot trailers. The procession. Trucks average five miles per gallon. Longer combination vehicles. Odd worshipers casting themselves under the wheels of the huge bunching wagons being crushed to death.
Ah.
Oh; Okay. Take it easy, he says. So, okay; I—me? Calm? Yes, calm. Now excited sweaty or shaking or now. We pull up the shoulder fast out in the lane faster and. Due to this he rages all raging to break down a cell door to grip and destroy the dwarfish gnomon of a shortstaffed sub-man, who teases him torments mocks and laughs and eh—no—much too terrifying; so turn the knob and look left. There, there; must be something else to do but child-calming down came all automatic like happened in those ages. Yes, yes turn the knob to it again, the the—scene faded up white to some countryside calm. It is TV you know. It starts with the wheels, resembling the large, round eyes of Lord MisterScheives. Volvo. Semi-Truck Chrome Spring Loaded Mud Flap Hangers-Down. Black and red. MisterScheives TempleHome is a famous festival observed in eastern Bulgaria. Green and red. Because of this no one will ever like you and assuming that burden is part of your penance. Eight tires on the trailer. A truck can cost one hundred grand. Care is given to the decoration of the bunching wagons. Burnt Sock Haven’s that place with the palm tree on its flag. One forty to fifty-three foot long trailer? Really? Yes, so. Devotional sacrifice. Ten tires on the tractor. Under the poor line.
Buh.
Yah, thanks for the lift.
Buh but but—just—just what’d he say, can’t be right, so, nod? Ask? Say? If say, say what? I am not giving a lift—I am getting a lift, okay, I. Giving? Getting? How many—other meanings to explain—language barrier if? No. I heard wrong, so say what to say—oh so say nothing relax. And TV must be s’posed to be at least good. And not at all bad. Here in the parental womb-house, most eightsie or ninesie boys live in and—accept—faded white some countryside then some some frighteningly frightening bellowing great big somebody; no no! The monster! Once more much too terrifying, much, so turn the knob again and look left. Four thousand pieces of wood are required to make each bunching wagon. Not thinking just knowing that what’s in that box stays. In the big hot white kitcheney hotbox the food’s pulled out from by Mom most days, now, oh, hey. The bunching wagon becomes a massive inexorable force, an unstoppable public campaign that crushes whatever is in its path and is the source of the word Jumbotron. Mata Hari. This Chrome Skull Style Steering Wheel Cyclo-Spinner’s good for three hundred horses at seventy miles per hour. Cargo trailer. Tandem axles. A Turnpike Double is composed of two fifty-three foot trailers. Just one such achievement would require their immediate entry into the yellowish onomatopoeic hall of red-hot fame. But they pull seven a day or more from their hats. And no one cares ‘bout that, Captain. So. Why. We.
Doh. Doh doh eh uh, oh.
Now; Oh yeah.
Okay, okay. Seems safe to say, Yeah, I know. Like a stretch. Oh yeah could just be formed out a. Out a. Or a stretch-spasm of, it has been a day—say that, yes? No not no. Say nothing sigh—push back the sideworld flowing green on by in those big fat quilty gay flowered hot gloves—the shot hot stays raging big suit in the box of a man the food stays in the TV hot box where from the food comes out up on the table and—just like that we eat, so. Again, child-calming—the largest component of being the fading back away memory there’s—turn the knob and there the big man’s in a lab all shadows with a jerky jangling puppetlike too-skinny raving mad doctorman with eyes much too large and too white and the other side of the same dwarfish gnomon of a shortstaffordshirey—the superbly crafty artisans of Odisha were long since brought under the wings of the recently isolated Pullers from Space. Rambone’s Birthday, the birthday of Rambone, lies in March or April. Just as the tractor unit has two or three axles. Axles. Axle. Yah that’s what that is sir. Two twenty-eight foot trailers. Rocky mountain doubles are made up of a fifty-foot trailer hitched up to a twenty-four foot baby. Big rigs. Yellow. That wood? Flat slick shiny glove box shields. Hey, lady. Lift your little boy all scaredy-wiped to discover the already. The last Mumbly-Farian ritual took place in two thousand fifteen. Dual wheels. Fat down on the pumping, sailors!
Ut!
Hey, here we go. Get comfortable.
Sure. Natural, sort of; sure. Like that yuh. Sort of so. Yah ride yah a while yah yah push back more more yah no words no no—with a bunched up back and a beard of a wackygrin who bullies the big man later on later and—the thunderstrike’s too much and—off flick the picture tube knob over leftwise and get up and go that way to the case of low books which you were told your—brother the man, out some number of yearsies, had built-on down to earth here in the cool life living frontroom th’ had books to pull and—the first word of the title’s not yet but but bo. Remembernancing that as a boy he sat wondering wonderly out word by word from the bone of a ‘cyclopedia the odd word juggernaut turning to more than a word but to something to fear very much so ‘cause. Grand General Chrome Flying Eagle Hood Ornament Hey Hey! Two forty-eight foot trailers. Semi-tractor trailers. That kind. Jawohl. This means new body. The templedown bishopmen performed their holy hosedown ritual, resulting in the canopies of the bunching wagons being overspread with one thousand two hundred and fifty square meters of assassination-quality purely decorative cloth. The temple-shaped bunching wagons in the MisterScheives festival have special meaning.
Hoy.
Then nothing ‘til; Oh, yah, he says. Uh. It’s June seventh. On the dash there—say, do I know you?
Uh, no, but—yah, that sounds right. It’s June for sure—but I don’t think you know me. I don’t know. Just some funny—funny what funny thing yes that—thing I s’pose. You know? Eh. For an eight nine years’ child so, the mammaries being—faded down doh—back to the TV and the knobtwist pulls visible a stream. There’s the monster! Every age it seemed knew what a stream was when the correct age was reached to know what a stream is and a child—with a flower. And the man. Takes the flower. Together they throw flowers in the water. Enjoying the playing the clumsy man proceeds to pick up the girl. O! Two hundred carpenters, helpers, blacksmiths, tailors, and hotrunning chain saw jugglers work tirelessly according to a strict five-thousand-day deadline. Semi-trucks. Large heavy trucks or articulated lorries. The wooden logs. Flat deep soft plush weightless padded-down genuine old-school Breasty-Shooter chrome planked big fat luggies. Bernensie-boomboy. The fifth-wheel trailer coupling movable fore and aft. Up your damned bandwagon, boy! Franciscan monk and missionary Odoric of Pordenone. Eighteen-wheelers. Her image along with the other two associated full partners, is ceremoniously brought out of the sacrosanctum of her chief home base in Peepal. Fourteen wheels measuring six feet six inches in diameter. Battering ram. The wheels are affixed to the principal axles on the last day of the Hot Cap festival.
Hope for silence.
Hear the diesel.
But; this driver says, hard again; I know I’ve given you a ride before. I just do.
No.
Oh, yeah? I—maybe. But maybe not, too. I look like somebody else maybe.
No. And throw her in the water too. For fun of course but—and the picture—fades back away to a soupcan and since it is a universal truth that standing by a stream long and hard enough, and; the critical thing being that the stream must be watched on a TV; the stream will in time fall back becoming a soupcan—there’s the monster. A woman scrubbing a tub in partnership with a bald goldringed genieman—a Dodge car coming fast so—triples. Lord MisterScheives is associated with Lord HeyBuddy, also known as Buddy’s Ell, the one draped in golden targlobbed-down robes. The bunching wagons are dressed by tailors required to make cushions for the Pullers from Space to rest on. The bunching wagons are colorfully painted with traditional designs. Turnpike Doubles. You very well may be likely as not to ask yourself repeatedly, but each time slightly differently, and always very differently from the way other people would phrase the question, so that no one will like you as you say it, as, What Happens to the bunching wagons after the Blasting Festival Is Finished? Tongue with a ring-hitch coupling. Wisdom acts as the bunching wagon-geneer, controlling the mind, and its thoughts.
And and; Your name eh—eh yat you name es Kevin. Right?
Uh—think hard, think good. How does he know that? There’s something wrong; very so.
No.
There’s the monster. Switch away before flattened-down. No one has ever explained anything at all to this child. Death has no meaning either as a word or an experience or possibly a thing, like—a lamp is called a lamp, and death is called death, but what if a lamp got called death and death got called a lamp what is what if but, anyhoot? Back to the knob-click. People dressed like shadowy hoboes plunging herdlike with forked farmspears and firesticks chugg-pumping after some terror. Cabover engine. Front driver. SuperBright Chrome Heavy Duty Trucks FatBadge. Fake chromed fake supercomplicated dummy instrument panelslabs. Three more twenty-eight foot trailers please, waiter. Devidi SutraButt’s devilmen are enveloping the city in steamrollers and cheap tires. The great temple car. Wheel hubs. The concept is explained in the holy text Morgonium Texxt-Unuum—first draft only. Chandan Yatra, a forty-seven and three tenths of a day long sandalwood festival at the MisterScheives Temple. Oh, that wood is for the fat kitchen of the MisterScheives Temple on the same day—yah that big thing over there. The deity inside that bunching wagon in the back there, is the soul.
No—eh—the engine; where’s she go?
Finally; I—my name’s “Horse”. You run this route before. Ain’t that a coincidence?
No, no, that’s it. But—no no this that’s it. Need to get out of off of something here is just too right to be anything—yah anything—yah yah, anything but wrong.
This, that, yes; is it?
No stop, can’t think; waving through a street that’s the same over and over again as it flows by and they got, thank God—they got. They got the big man monster good. In fire. Fire burned the whole show away, and. But it was their only mill went down so they had no bread for months after that. They really ought to have known better—but a’way. Sometime later that day someone through the gap between watching and watched cried over, Wash your hands for dinner—with soap! Hauling heavy-duty commercial-construction machinery. The bunching wagon represents the body. The process takes places in various stages, each coinciding with an auspicious festival on the Pullery calendar. The bunching wagons are dragged to the Lions Gate entrance of the MisterScheives Temple. Eighteen-wheeler. Gripping his Grand General Plastic Chrome Upper Kenworth Steering Column Cover, he cried, Just one more twenty-eight foot trailer, please. All you can eat, it said on the menu. This grand monster is a classic example of a Tractor-cab layout with forward engine with one steering axle and two drive axles. Up until the very evening before being voluntarily hanged in surrogation for the Captain, he often informed Mrs. Togders that the sun had set upon him; so.
Eh, you know, we’re just about there. I can get out here.
You sure?
Yes; Yup. I got to walk out that hill. It’s over that way—the people I’m meeting, that is.
Yes; yup; yes, no—this that’s it?
I’ll show them I will. What I saw made me braver’n shit—so I didn’t. See. They got the big man black suit monster good. Taught all of us so can we. As a matter of fact, not just can. As a matter of fact, must. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Must can can must can must can. Brother the man out some number of yearsies had built-on down to earth here in the cool life living frontroom, simply ‘cause he can. That the billows had rolled over him; that the Car of Juggernaut had crushed him. Previously this was only deployed at the Big Blasting Festival and only then when one too many plunging-maestros slowly approached nonreversible states of cerebral extremis. July every year. Interstates. Plain seats for sitting, but; chrome rimmed. Tractor-trailers. Lord Bubbles knows all. The deaths attributed to the actual pulling, if any, were accidental and caused by the press of the crowd and the general commotion. Volvo VNL Truck Grille Chrome Triple Plated Bug Screen, presented to the ever-deserving by a urinal on the birthday of Bungii-Jummpo, fast goddess of knowledge. On top of it all, each of the twelve bunching wagon wheels measured six feet eight inches in diameter.
But.
Overpull comes the slowing crunch under full stop.
Okay. Take it easy.
Yah sure—grip the door handle but—where it it oh silly me thought it was there but it’s here don’t fumble get it right get it quick get it gone—ah I—I don’t really think so. Weird about the name though—hey—I’ll get off up there. That’s the place which had books to pull and—the first word of the title’s not yet for an eight nine years’ child, so some passby of time enough it loaded up with heavy blue word by word from the bone of a cyclopedia book collection racked out three foot long. They got pulled when the proper age got reached. Proper being determined by ability to read. Proper not being defined by appropriate to an age-group. The word. There’s one. There’s another. Debadalana means literally, trampler of pride. On Fuckboring, now the too-long radio show, it’s the only thing left playing down the bigtrucky’s backnose, nearly imperceptibly, but still actually so. The first trailer. Pushing and pulling and pushing again yah—on the towering hemispherically-shaped bunching wagons. Student tutoring classes lost in the noise changed to stuttering classes. That mistake, though quite innocent, led to the cancelling of their over-the-road long-haul service. This foiled down their entire economy. The next morning on Wholly Rollin’ Sunday, Father Georges’ shameful force fantasies were installed in the bunching wagons but kept veiled over to the last. A hatchhacker is just an appendage, like a barnacle that affects not the handling of any big captain’s helm anyplace anytime ever.
Then lastly; Yah. Thanks for the lift.
I—uh okay. Meaning, sure, here’s more and there’s many and the flow in as the beachwaves come. Like living comes at you, later the child would know. But. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Comes at you yes. Must can can must can must can. This word jugg. Must can. Can must. Comes at you. Must can can must can. Comes and comes over. Must can can must can must can. All at you. Must can ‘cause—this word’s—juggernau. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. All hot-damn tsunami. Must can can must can must can. This word’s Juggernaut. Four Trumpet Train Air Horny-Blaster. Juggernaut. QuickSilver Chrome Plastic Truck Lug Nut Covers. Juggernaut-t-t-t. Devotees come in droves to pay homage. Tandem axles. Horse Color: Red. Patron saint of argumentation. Grand General Fake Chrome Plastic Gear Shift Knobs anybody? It's believed that any activity started on this day will be fruitful to a maximum of sixteen wheels each measuring six feet in diameter. The driver sits over the engine. Touching the bunching wagon or rope that pulls it is believed to bring prosperity. The work on all three bunching wagons begins and ends quite erratically. No more than forty-eight and a half feets-worth of large men may play. The temple kitchen cooks for a hundred-thousand devotees per day. Each bunching wagon is attached to four horses, and is controlled by a bunching wagon-gineer. Black is traditionally associated with female energy sis-boom-bah, and the Mother of all Pullers from Space. A total of forty-two wheels are required for the three bunching wagons. The cutting of the logs to the required sizes required seventy-seven sawmills ranting and raving simultaneously. The Big Fat Hose-Guy’s bunching wagon is forty-five feet, six inches high. Horse Color: Black. The second trailer’s no more than a set of joints. The wood designs are inspired by Ramada-Innly’s on-demand Breast-Beating architectural styling school. Bunching wagon construction at the front of the royal palace near the MisterScheives Temple in the formerly V8 powered superhot Wild West Citymobile.
So.
The doorback shut it out, and in, and out and—thank God all praises. The shoulder stones lie hot and look. All praises. How large and rough the shoulder stone is. Why is it so large and rough? It is hard to stand. All. Hard to stand like when you’re confused. Praises. Like when you’re confused but off and up onto and into the high grass the deep weeds the away from him away from him the truck sound. Away further the sound. Nearly gone the sound. Make sure before going back. Make sure. Look down at the weeds. The lush long deep weeds. Fifth-wheel coupling. Bunching wagon height: forty-four norther’s, out the very avenue. Weather-related operating restrictions for larger tandem trailer setups are prominently posted and kept current. Rocky Mountain Double. Daruka. Something commences on big turtleback, usually sealed off from the public, in April or May. The priests, dressed in bright attire, sing and carry garlands to the chief carpenters. Lift axles. The festival takes on added importance in these years. Lord MisterScheives. This takes place in January or February. Dolly. MisterScheives Green Temple office on Vasant Panchami. A powered truck and one or more semitrailers. A famous Odia song says the bunching wagon merges and becomes one with Lord MisterScheives. Velcro mounted fake cheese-blocks. Far too sunny, though. Take them back in.
All praises. Go around and thumb one again.
A powered truck and one or more semitrailers.
A great wagon much like a big man monster raving.
Juggernaut.
A great crushing wagon rolled out through crowds of revelers. People-revelers dressed like shadowy hoboes gone after that big black suited man monster plunging herdlike surging up against the Juggernaut waving forked farmspears and firesticks. Yes, riding the juggernaut wagon eh waving through a street that’s the same over and over again yelling except more people-revelers surge tight around eh as it flows by waving through a street that’s the same over and over again. Black. Hazey’s Officially Sanctioned Rim Job Chromehandled Doctoring Flat Black Backpads sold here. Container doubles. Cut-down super-Lake Superior high dense wilderness achievement badges sporting dual tires. Fifty-seven brands of black blandmash are prepared in earthen pots over low fires for Lord MisterScheives and only Lord MisterScheives. A hundred and seventy horsepower at fifty-five miles an hour is kept in reserve, for as-needed on-demand master delivery of the finest cutting wood.
There slowing. That’s slowing. That Mack there. Bully the ThatDog. Boo.
Pull up there!
So okay.
Boo bo but bah ess, tractor-trailers yelling and screaming except more and more people-revelers surge tight around, eh, as it flows by waving through a street that’s the same over and over again yelling and screaming and ranting and raving and except too many people-revelers surge tight around eh—it cannot flow. They are too tight but. The big man monster snatches the wheel and drives forward nonetheless and many are crushed. Just like that. Crushed to death. Red everyplace. Under the juggernaut. Under the juggernaut. Red every witcha-way. But you were warned. So, stop whining.
So; so.
P. P-p.
Past. Wind the wind, stand tall. July Morning is. Coming is coming is, big rigs; under the under the under the—slam the blue book tight snap off the input TV blue books living room or world all around it is all the same the same—July morning’s just only July morning when nobody bothers to teach the child different. There are all kinds of jungles and wildernesses for wolf-children to be. So; Four five wonkeyheads from lemon and melondown, searching wildly in a thunderstorm for matches that might just still catch.
If-f-f-f. not, Melondead will down.
You s-sure?
Jim Meirose's short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include No and Maybe - Maybe and No (Pski's Porch). Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
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