Friday, October 03, 2008


Marco was a prophet. He was a channel of wisdom located some strange place beyond human comprehension. In his hands, a lice comb became a divination tool. I can say now that I was the least surprised member of my family when he began dating my sister.

In our town, he was holier than Moses or the Ark, and my sister stole pumpkins from the church. Together, they were sexy but highly volatile, like a nazi war criminal and a slave owner caught in a game of Lazer Tag. She would called him "penis breath" and he never got the reference.

Riding in the back of a pickup truck out in the boonies, the three of us got drunk on Black Velvet. "We should shoot a horror movie out here!" Marco called to our driver, an out of work T.V. camera man. Later, the driver would become my bookie.

A year after the night in the pickup, we had a finished film: The Witches Corner. It played in three cities and made $800. On the eve of the last showing, Marco and the bookie sat in front of the theater's screen and played some sick, sick blues. I wish you could have heard them on the stage, howling at that old moon. "I'm a king bee...I'm buzzing around your hive."

Later, I began betting on all horses with "Slim" in their name. When I finally lost a race, and it wasn't a big race or a big pot, the bookie forced me to eat my height in Slim Jims.

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