This was her fault – that bitch. Rage burned in his gut. She did this to him. And he let her.
Gerald Blount sat on a cold steel bench kicking himself. He gritted his teeth behind the butt of the cigarette in his lips. Tendrils of cigarette smoke, like the wilted ivy guarding the walls outside, tangled around his graying head.
This was all her fault – those fried-egg tits, that innocent smile – that fucking tease. Gerald grinned an evil smirk at the thought of her name. What parent names their kid Chastity? She had no choice but to grow up swinging half-naked around a chrome pole.
Gerald filled his lungs with smoke and paced through his new home. Four steps from one end to the other, but it was still bigger than his last room. The sting of pine disinfectant in the cool air made his eyes water. A stainless steel bowl and basin sparkled in the far corner. He turned and unrolled a fresh mattress across the shining slab of steel that was his bed. Inmates had scrubbed the concrete bricks inside and splashed a fresh coat of paint on the bars.
Angola’s death house was nothing at all like death row.
He stooped to look at his fuzzy reflection in the polished steel above the basin. Big purple bags puffed under his dark eyes. An atlas of wrinkles drooped across his sallow cheeks and forehead. Gerald set his Marlboro on the edge of the toilet bowl and cupped his hands under the faucet. There was a time when his hands were strong enough to choke the life out of a man. Eighteen years on death row, where the most strenuous activity was turning a page in his prison-issue Bible, had withered his hands and the rest of his once-rugged physique. His prison-issue blue jeans and denim shirt hung loosely on his scarecrow frame. She did this to him.
Gerald sneered at the tired face in the cold steel. He loathed the man he had become. And it wasn’t his fault.
Gerald’s reflection scowled back at him. Chastity wasn’t the only one to blame. Jennifer and Lisa were just as guilty. The thought of Lisa’s name tugged the corners of his mouth toward a half-hearted grin. Even though she had a part in this, he couldn’t hate her. Not like he hated the others. She was already dead; hating her served no purpose.
Brass keys clanged at the entrance to the death house rattling Gerald from his day dream. Electric motors rumbled their familiar, quiet call as they slid the heavy steel doors open. Through his cell bars and across the visitation room, Gerald watched Warden Johnson limp in and thank the guard. The guard twisted his big brass keys again; the electric motors hummed the doors closed.
“You got a sick sense of humor, Warden.” Gerald rasped as he hung one skeletal arm through the bars.
“What do you mean?” Warden Walton Johnson answered in his trademark drawl, equal parts good ole boy and televangelist.
“The way you leave the cell door open, like a convic’ got freedom to come and go as he please. Where I’m gonna go? Ain’t got but three rooms, my cell, the death chamber, and the visitation room. Ain’t nobody comin’ see me. Then, if I do sit in there, the Cajun Injector starin’ me in the face.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way Gerald,” the squat warden stepped through the open cell door. “We try to make an inmate’s last hours as comfortable as we can.” The warden checked his watch. 12:09. “We’ve got a little housekeeping to take care of, Gerald.” Gerald nodded and the warden continued with his standard death day litany. “The guards will come for you at 11:30. You know the drill: wrist and leg restraints.”
Gerald nodded again, “Last time I’ll be wearin’ those.”
“There will be three guards in case we have to carry you. It’ll be easier if you walk yourself.” He waited for Gerald to nod, but Gerald just stood there, his blank eyes fixed on the warden. “When you enter the death chamber, you’ll lie on the table, and the guards will remove your chains. They’ll put the straps around your arms, legs, and chest. Again, it’ll be easier if you don’t fight it.”
“Ain’t gonna fight. Only a guilty man scared of dyin’. I ain't done nothin’ she didn’t want me to.”
The warden just shook his head. “One of the guards will start an i.v. in your arm and another in your foot. You’ll have a chance to make a last statement. I suggest you apologize and ask forgiveness. Then, at midnight, we’ll start the procedure.”
Warden Johnson didn’t mince words. He described the process of killing a man like he was reading a procedure manual. “The first drug will put you to sleep. The next one will paralyze your entire muscular system. The last will stop your heart.” He waited for a reaction but got none. “Your spiritual advisor will be here later. He’ll sit with you till the end.”
“Don’t need no advisor, ’less he got a stay in his back pocket.” Gerald forced a grin.
“There’s comfort in the Lord, Gerald. Maybe the chaplain can help you find the strength to admit your sins and seek forgiveness.”
Gerald shook his head. “This ain’t my fault. That bitch did it. Ain’t nothin’ in that Bible you give me ’bout admittin’ somethin’ you ain’t done. I oughta know. I read it enough times.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Gerald. I’ll be praying for you.”
Gerald watched the Warden waddle out of sight, then lay back on his mattress. He thought of the last time he saw Chastity, and smiled a half-smile. She was a fine young thing: hair pulled in a big, blonde ponytail, short-shorts showing off the bottom of her tight, tanned ass, and a pink crop-top with “Tease” written across it in bubble letters – like anyone who saw her would have doubted it. She was standing in the dirt yard outside her trailer, her sandaled foot propped on the tire of a dead Cutlass 88. He could see her like it was yesterday.
Gerald traced the curve of her calf in his mind. Her skin was soft and smooth. He reached to hide the swelling in his crotch, just like he did on that day. She had a way of doing that to him. . .That bitch.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
CH-CH-CH-CHANGES
Surprise! Not the shitty screen you're used to around here, I know.
I've been tinkering and made a few changes. First off, the look. It's still growing on me. . . kinda like a fungus. But I needed something to signal a break from the past. Ya see, apparently work is like Vegas. They tell me what happens there is supposed to stay there -- but have no fear. I ain't gonna disappear.
That's the second big change you'll notice. No more daily diatribes from street-level grunts eking out a living with electronic lumps on their shoulders, now it's all fiction all the time.
Call it Turd-Fiction. I've been writing the stuff for about three years now. Apparently it ain't worth the cost of the ink a big-time publisher might spend printing it, so I'll just foist it on you guys here, where the most you've got to lose is a couple minutes and a few brain cells.
Look for the first one soon.
I've been tinkering and made a few changes. First off, the look. It's still growing on me. . . kinda like a fungus. But I needed something to signal a break from the past. Ya see, apparently work is like Vegas. They tell me what happens there is supposed to stay there -- but have no fear. I ain't gonna disappear.
That's the second big change you'll notice. No more daily diatribes from street-level grunts eking out a living with electronic lumps on their shoulders, now it's all fiction all the time.
Call it Turd-Fiction. I've been writing the stuff for about three years now. Apparently it ain't worth the cost of the ink a big-time publisher might spend printing it, so I'll just foist it on you guys here, where the most you've got to lose is a couple minutes and a few brain cells.
Look for the first one soon.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
NEVER TOO OLD TO ROCK AND ROLL . . .
. . . or too young for that matter.
Back in May when I took Krusty to the Bludgeon Your Head With Someone Else's Fist Fest, I told the Littlest Loaf Pincher I'd take him to see any group he wanted to see. I knew full well that the kid's an old schooler and he'd never pick anybody who was still young enough to strut it on stage.
He didn't disappoint. He picked his favorite band. No way on earth those guys would climb out of their iron lungs long enough to rock a sold-out arena full of thinning mullets and rock-show virgins.
Boy was I wrong.
AC/DC can still bring it. And I aint talking some pansy-ass watered down, unplugged version of once-great stadium anthems. I'm talking two-plus hours of gut-wrenching, ball-busting, face-melting, throat-shredding rock and roll.
Sure, Brian Johnson sounds like Burgess Merideth filtered through a quart of rot-gut whiskey. But that's the beauty of the band from down under. You ain't gotta be able to sing to sing along. All you need is a throat and some wind. Lots of wind.
Their hair is thinner, and their bodies aren't quite as tight as they used to be, but the music never missed a beat. From the first lick of Angus' Gibson to the last cannon blasts of "For Those About to Rock," The sixty-something rockers danced, cavorted, and sweat -- lots of sweat -- their way through all their classics.
This may be showing my age a bit, but one of the best things -- aside from everything else -- was the fact that from the first notes of The Answer's opening set, to the trip out to the parking lot after AC/DC brought the house down, not one single four-letter syllable was uttered on stage. And that's refreshing in a world where posers think they have to be foul to be offensive. (What I muttered in the traffic jam leaving the show is another story.) Kids, take note. Lace you lyrics with thinly-veiled sexual innuendo and benign threats of violence if you wanna be a real rocker.
I'll be deaf for days, but it was worth it. Not only for the first-class rock show, but for the look on the LLP's face as he banged his head old-school. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go gargle with old razor blades. It's the only way I can think of that Brian Johnson recuperates between shows.
Back in May when I took Krusty to the Bludgeon Your Head With Someone Else's Fist Fest, I told the Littlest Loaf Pincher I'd take him to see any group he wanted to see. I knew full well that the kid's an old schooler and he'd never pick anybody who was still young enough to strut it on stage.
He didn't disappoint. He picked his favorite band. No way on earth those guys would climb out of their iron lungs long enough to rock a sold-out arena full of thinning mullets and rock-show virgins.
Boy was I wrong.AC/DC can still bring it. And I aint talking some pansy-ass watered down, unplugged version of once-great stadium anthems. I'm talking two-plus hours of gut-wrenching, ball-busting, face-melting, throat-shredding rock and roll.
Sure, Brian Johnson sounds like Burgess Merideth filtered through a quart of rot-gut whiskey. But that's the beauty of the band from down under. You ain't gotta be able to sing to sing along. All you need is a throat and some wind. Lots of wind.
Their hair is thinner, and their bodies aren't quite as tight as they used to be, but the music never missed a beat. From the first lick of Angus' Gibson to the last cannon blasts of "For Those About to Rock," The sixty-something rockers danced, cavorted, and sweat -- lots of sweat -- their way through all their classics.
This may be showing my age a bit, but one of the best things -- aside from everything else -- was the fact that from the first notes of The Answer's opening set, to the trip out to the parking lot after AC/DC brought the house down, not one single four-letter syllable was uttered on stage. And that's refreshing in a world where posers think they have to be foul to be offensive. (What I muttered in the traffic jam leaving the show is another story.) Kids, take note. Lace you lyrics with thinly-veiled sexual innuendo and benign threats of violence if you wanna be a real rocker.
I'll be deaf for days, but it was worth it. Not only for the first-class rock show, but for the look on the LLP's face as he banged his head old-school. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go gargle with old razor blades. It's the only way I can think of that Brian Johnson recuperates between shows.
Monday, October 19, 2009
WAR PIGLETS
Anyone who knows me, knows I gotta rock. The iPod is full of stuff from AC/DC to Zeppelin, B.B. King to van Zant, Marvin Gaye to . . . he's in a class by himself. If I'm awake, there's a tune floating around my big, empty nugget, and I'm on-stage in a sold-out arena somewhere rocking the mic and melting faces with my axe.
But with me, air guitar and off-key warbling is as far as it goes. Just ask any of my daily groupies.
The LLP has inherited my penchant for performance, but he's doing something about it. He's been whacking the skins since he was eight.
This weekend, he and 60 other like-minded future head-bangers rocked the stage at the St. George Church Fair. As venues go, it ain't Madison Square Garden, but the competing noise from the Tilt-O-Whirl aside, it's a great start.
All these aspiring musicians owe their start to Baton Rouge Music Studios. A local music school that's thinking out of the box. Lessons just weren't enough for director Doug Gay. He wanted to find a way to give kids a chance to shine and his Young Band Development Program does just that.
I'm gonna shut up now.
If you like that. Check out all the bands on my Youtube Channel.
But with me, air guitar and off-key warbling is as far as it goes. Just ask any of my daily groupies.
The LLP has inherited my penchant for performance, but he's doing something about it. He's been whacking the skins since he was eight.
This weekend, he and 60 other like-minded future head-bangers rocked the stage at the St. George Church Fair. As venues go, it ain't Madison Square Garden, but the competing noise from the Tilt-O-Whirl aside, it's a great start.
All these aspiring musicians owe their start to Baton Rouge Music Studios. A local music school that's thinking out of the box. Lessons just weren't enough for director Doug Gay. He wanted to find a way to give kids a chance to shine and his Young Band Development Program does just that.I'm gonna shut up now.
If you like that. Check out all the bands on my Youtube Channel.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
LAUNDRY SEASON
Back in May when I penned my opus on the seasons, I left one out. It wasn't intentional, and technically, it's not a season most photogs mark. I'm talking, of course, about Laundry Season.
At Camp Polisher, Laundry Season begins in early October and lasts all the way through mid February. It is characterized by the sudden onslaught of piles of sweaty, smelly clothes in the overflowing baskets in the laundry room.
Living in a house with three dudes, Mrs. Polisher is very acquainted with our various fragrances. But Laundry Season has an air all it's own. Ya see, it coincides with the onset of wrestling season.
It's a time when normally smelly teens kick it up a notch. Krusty can sweat through five sets of clothes a day, not counting the cute little spandex number his mom calls a onesie.
It's a season of blood, sweat, and tears -- usually just beyond the laundry room door. But in Laundry Season you do what ya gotta do for the pin. Krusty is headed into the season in the best shape of his life -- 138 pounds and about 9% body fat. He's hoping to be the spoiler at the city and state tournaments this year.
The road to the top goes right through his arch rival, Cade Leblanc of Zachary. To watch these two go at it, you'd swear they were fighting for the hand of a fair maiden or a king's ransom. And whatever they do to each other on the mat, there's always a hug and a handshake when it's over.
That's probably my favorite part of Laundry Season, the sportsmanship. No trash talk. No endzone dance. Just six minutes of two sweaty guys manhandling each other, and a little mutual respect when the final bell rings.
That, and an assload of smelly sweats.
At Camp Polisher, Laundry Season begins in early October and lasts all the way through mid February. It is characterized by the sudden onslaught of piles of sweaty, smelly clothes in the overflowing baskets in the laundry room.
Living in a house with three dudes, Mrs. Polisher is very acquainted with our various fragrances. But Laundry Season has an air all it's own. Ya see, it coincides with the onset of wrestling season.
It's a time when normally smelly teens kick it up a notch. Krusty can sweat through five sets of clothes a day, not counting the cute little spandex number his mom calls a onesie.
It's a season of blood, sweat, and tears -- usually just beyond the laundry room door. But in Laundry Season you do what ya gotta do for the pin. Krusty is headed into the season in the best shape of his life -- 138 pounds and about 9% body fat. He's hoping to be the spoiler at the city and state tournaments this year.
The road to the top goes right through his arch rival, Cade Leblanc of Zachary. To watch these two go at it, you'd swear they were fighting for the hand of a fair maiden or a king's ransom. And whatever they do to each other on the mat, there's always a hug and a handshake when it's over.
That's probably my favorite part of Laundry Season, the sportsmanship. No trash talk. No endzone dance. Just six minutes of two sweaty guys manhandling each other, and a little mutual respect when the final bell rings.That, and an assload of smelly sweats.
Monday, September 14, 2009
KICKOFF WEEKEND
It was a big weekend at the Turdpolisher ranch. Sunday, the kick-off to the NFL season found me planted in front of the tube to watch Drew Brees and the New Orleans Saints dismantle the Detroit Lions. Saturday, LSU slapped down the Commodores of Vanderbilt. I watched that one firmly ensconced in my beer-chair. Friday night brpught another round of high school football highlights to shoot.
But team turd kicked off the football season Thursday night. It was the season opener for the St. Jean Vianney 8th grade Gators, and the first game of the Littlest Loaf Pincher's senior season.
He's taken the DNA I've given him (which ain't much) and worked his way into a starting position on the defensive team -- outside linebacker at that.
The Gators took on some big-ole boys from the land of milk and hayseeds. Hell, their cheerleaders outweighed our offensive line. But that didn't stop the black and red from spilling a little Bear blood on the turf.
Gators lost the first half, but the offense took control in the third, and kept the ball for the full eight minutes, and forced the Bears into two 3-and-outs in the fourth. All-in-all, a decent outing against a team way out of our league. Final 32-6.
LLP? He had a decent game. Three tackles, a couple assists, and made a touchdown saving tackle.
Actually, the big guy steam-rolled him, but LLP held on until he brought him down.
I gotta start feeding that boy, or give him some rocks to carry in his pants.
But team turd kicked off the football season Thursday night. It was the season opener for the St. Jean Vianney 8th grade Gators, and the first game of the Littlest Loaf Pincher's senior season.
He's taken the DNA I've given him (which ain't much) and worked his way into a starting position on the defensive team -- outside linebacker at that.The Gators took on some big-ole boys from the land of milk and hayseeds. Hell, their cheerleaders outweighed our offensive line. But that didn't stop the black and red from spilling a little Bear blood on the turf.
Gators lost the first half, but the offense took control in the third, and kept the ball for the full eight minutes, and forced the Bears into two 3-and-outs in the fourth. All-in-all, a decent outing against a team way out of our league. Final 32-6.
LLP? He had a decent game. Three tackles, a couple assists, and made a touchdown saving tackle.
Actually, the big guy steam-rolled him, but LLP held on until he brought him down.I gotta start feeding that boy, or give him some rocks to carry in his pants.
IT'S A CRAPPY JOB . . .
X-Ray Ted threatened to do it. But somebody beat him to it.
From Newsblues.
From Newsblues.
There's an all-points manhunt underway at Raycom's WXIX-19-Fox in Cincinnati (Market #33), where staffers are on the lookout for a mystery dumpster who struck under cover of darkness.
According to an internal memo from Assistant News Director Marita Matray: "Last night, someone took a dump on the floor of the men’s room. Yep, you understand correctly. Someone took a big ole’ number two smack dab in the middle of the floor of the men’s restroom. No one on the 10pm crew seems to know who did it. The cleaning crew cleaned it up."
A furious General Manager Bill Lanesey has vowed to flush out the mad crapper: "With God as my witness, if I find out who did this, I will fire you. With prejudice!"
Not surprisingly, neither Lanesey nor News Director Steve Ackermann responded to our email inquiries. The culprit, we assume, remains on the loose, perhaps plotting a follow-up attack on Lanesey's desk.
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