I met a happy man once... he was an idiot!
His tongue looked as though it went to sleep
long ago, and left the faucet running.
On his chin there were three hairs
long and distinguished, basking in the glow of the razor's neglect.
"Damn you, fear! Damn you, restraint! You shout your curses into the wind and the wind blows
them back into your face," (said the idiot to me, and I smashed him with an eight ball right
between his nose and upper lip--he slobbered and began to weep, happily, blood and tears mingling
sweetly onto his upturned teeth)
It is riotous May. A million disappear from NYC. (people)
At 4:06 AM they are replaced by equal volumes of nothing.
A momentary breeze bursts across the city as air scrambles to replace the places where
intestines once gurgled. Bedsheets implode onto matresses; clothes crumple in on themselves and
flop softly back to earth. That's it, it seems: the breeze, dying, for a few moments, and nothing
more.
And then.
And then the crashing noise of cars begins. Echoing down the empty streetlit asphalt, the sound
of driverless metal in motion halted.
Six taxicabs blossom into streetlit glitters of sparks and safety glass. First one, then the
next, every two seconds like firecrackers, each crash thirty city blocks from everywhere, on ninth
and sixty fourth avenues and streets. Behind one, a newly tipless hydrant begins coming in
orgasmic defiance.
A million gone! Restless lovers stir on restless beds. Some open their eyes, see the dent beside
them unfilled, and return to slumber (what else is new). The others begin calling in weak voices,
slowly mounting anxious voices, to the missing. Across New York in their brick windowed boxes
they whisper names, they call names, and some began now to shout in fright...
Phones are starting to ring. You notice the dogs barking... they started right up at 4:06. Dogs
always know something is up in their doggish sort of way.
This new noise, this new silence... the city is beginning to awake for some unknown reason.
Sleepy eyes blink, stomachs wash in tides of vague unease.
People are slipping out of bed; people are heading for their windows.
A million gone! And where have they got to? They are plopped clotheless and dazed into Rwanda,
distributed evenly over the countryside. The sun shines on their naked bodies. Some are lying in
the filthy streets in the market. Most are in farmers fields. A few pop up high on volcanic
soil.
And now in New York the pandemonium is begining. The short order cook at the 24 hour gyros joint
is nowhere to be found and things are getting smokey. A newborn fire curls its shy fingers over
the grill; the alarm goes off. The firefighters manning station six are still trying to figure
out where the hell Sam got to. (Sam, the driver) The kid in the sodium light picks it up and
starts going "Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
This story is about sodium kid, and how he happened to be up and about at 4:11 am.
First things first: sodium kid is a bona fide superhero. They think his name is Joey but he is
really sodium kid the junior wonder.
He lives in Alanta during his spare time. When he wants to become sodium kid, he drinks a bottle
of Mylanta. He gets this at the drugstore. When he wants to fool people into thinking he is
plain old Joey, he eats three chilli dogs with extra chopped onion on top. He gets this at the 24
hour gyros joint in NY.
Here the plot thickens, like gravy with a fat cranky housewife stirring in starch. Joey is
really a 27 year old retarded manic depressive midget who is being hospitalized for ulcerative
colitis and medicated to the point of unconciousness. The hospital staff nickname him sodium kid
because he had such a taste for salty, spicy, acidic food.
However, using his wonderous powers of shapeshifting and astral travel he can go anywhere he
wants in the shape of a perfectly normal looking six year old giraffe.
Actually, this story is not about Joey the sodium kid. He was trying to take over the plot like
a demented, coked-up South American desperado dictator wannabe. He failed; gunned down in a
blazing glory of lead slugs.
There was an old man in Broklyn who used to sell lead slugs as garden decorations. He melted the
lead himself and hand cast each slug, tenderly drawing the correct smidgen of molten metal into
the mold of the fragile stalks emerging from the head. He never once fouled up those delicate
stalks, and his customers always appreciated the extra effort he put in, and told him constantly
on the street that his slugs were charming. They went for $23 for the 1 incher and $53 for the 3
incher. They sold well, since they didn't corrode, and since lead had the perfect semi-lustrous
texture for the depiction of slugskin. However, because of the tendency of little kids to chew on
the slugs they were withdrawn from the market in '83 and the old man died soon thereafter of
unrequited grief.
Joey, sodium kid the junior wonder, had been among those unfortunate children, those chewers of
the lead garden slugs. His retardation, already severe, was exacerbated by the regrettable habit.
His parents, sadly, were not aware of this fact and consistently failed to remove the tattered
slug from Joey's grasp. This may have been related to the fact that both died a year before Joey
was born.
Joey was the first of five children who owed their lives to the government experimentation on
recovering unconcieved children from deceased mothers and bringing them to life. After maiming
several million Afghanistanis (and successfully attributing it to the USSR) they finally
discovered that the secret to success was placing the unconcieved infant in a bath of pure Jack
Daniel's for six weeks. When Joey, the first unconcieved infant, emerged from the vat and began
crying, the government researchers held an office party, even going so far as to purchase a six
pack of non alcoholic beer.
After two years of education in home economics, young Joey was placed in a pleasant little
appartement with a pleasant little garden. The abilty of the two year old to operate as a well
adjusted member of society--this was the question that the goverment researchers set out to
answer. If it were possible for Joey to achieve self-sufficiency at that age, the US could
manufacture hundreds of millions of unconcieved babies, thus beating out those damned Chink
bastards. Osvald, the chief researcher, purchased a one inch lead slug as decoration for the
garden, in commemeration of the wonderful occation.
Joey, however, drooled about like the average two year old, and allowed the garden to be infested
with weeds. Left to his own devices by the gov't, he lived off the nourishment of the garden slug
for six years, then left the burbs for the big city, Atlanta. He tried to get a job with a
traveling circus, but discovered that no one was interested in eight year old midgits. "Come back
in a coupla yeahz, kihd", bawked the fat cigar smoka.
That's when Joey the sodium kid decided to become a superhero. The first step, he decided, was
to always be happy.
Several years later I ran into him at a bar. He was shooting pool with this bleached bar slut
who was actually kind of hot. And he was goddamned happy.
"I gotta do something about this situation", I thought to myself in a rage. (At that time I
couldn't stand happy people) I began cursing in his direction: "Fuck you, you mongoloid midget!",
I screamed.
And the fucker just looked at me, and went, like some sort of super-hero: "Damn you, fear! Damn
you, restraint! You shout your curses into the wind and the wind blows them back into your face"
So I ran after him (his stubby little legs kicking the air as he hobbled off quickly), caught up
to him near the firestation, and clocked him one with the eightball (and saw, simultaneously, on
my flying fist, the digital watch go from 4:05 to 4:06 am. As the shiny black ball lacerates
his lip this whoosh of air kicks up. And we just look at each-other, him with his shiny eyes and
his happy bleeding mouth, and me, for maybe five minutes, just that way. Something is in the air,
and then we hear noises from inside the firestation, and the midget starts singing.
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
the end
His tongue looked as though it went to sleep
long ago, and left the faucet running.
On his chin there were three hairs
long and distinguished, basking in the glow of the razor's neglect.
"Damn you, fear! Damn you, restraint! You shout your curses into the wind and the wind blows
them back into your face," (said the idiot to me, and I smashed him with an eight ball right
between his nose and upper lip--he slobbered and began to weep, happily, blood and tears mingling
sweetly onto his upturned teeth)
It is riotous May. A million disappear from NYC. (people)
At 4:06 AM they are replaced by equal volumes of nothing.
A momentary breeze bursts across the city as air scrambles to replace the places where
intestines once gurgled. Bedsheets implode onto matresses; clothes crumple in on themselves and
flop softly back to earth. That's it, it seems: the breeze, dying, for a few moments, and nothing
more.
And then.
And then the crashing noise of cars begins. Echoing down the empty streetlit asphalt, the sound
of driverless metal in motion halted.
Six taxicabs blossom into streetlit glitters of sparks and safety glass. First one, then the
next, every two seconds like firecrackers, each crash thirty city blocks from everywhere, on ninth
and sixty fourth avenues and streets. Behind one, a newly tipless hydrant begins coming in
orgasmic defiance.
A million gone! Restless lovers stir on restless beds. Some open their eyes, see the dent beside
them unfilled, and return to slumber (what else is new). The others begin calling in weak voices,
slowly mounting anxious voices, to the missing. Across New York in their brick windowed boxes
they whisper names, they call names, and some began now to shout in fright...
Phones are starting to ring. You notice the dogs barking... they started right up at 4:06. Dogs
always know something is up in their doggish sort of way.
This new noise, this new silence... the city is beginning to awake for some unknown reason.
Sleepy eyes blink, stomachs wash in tides of vague unease.
People are slipping out of bed; people are heading for their windows.
A million gone! And where have they got to? They are plopped clotheless and dazed into Rwanda,
distributed evenly over the countryside. The sun shines on their naked bodies. Some are lying in
the filthy streets in the market. Most are in farmers fields. A few pop up high on volcanic
soil.
And now in New York the pandemonium is begining. The short order cook at the 24 hour gyros joint
is nowhere to be found and things are getting smokey. A newborn fire curls its shy fingers over
the grill; the alarm goes off. The firefighters manning station six are still trying to figure
out where the hell Sam got to. (Sam, the driver) The kid in the sodium light picks it up and
starts going "Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
This story is about sodium kid, and how he happened to be up and about at 4:11 am.
First things first: sodium kid is a bona fide superhero. They think his name is Joey but he is
really sodium kid the junior wonder.
He lives in Alanta during his spare time. When he wants to become sodium kid, he drinks a bottle
of Mylanta. He gets this at the drugstore. When he wants to fool people into thinking he is
plain old Joey, he eats three chilli dogs with extra chopped onion on top. He gets this at the 24
hour gyros joint in NY.
Here the plot thickens, like gravy with a fat cranky housewife stirring in starch. Joey is
really a 27 year old retarded manic depressive midget who is being hospitalized for ulcerative
colitis and medicated to the point of unconciousness. The hospital staff nickname him sodium kid
because he had such a taste for salty, spicy, acidic food.
However, using his wonderous powers of shapeshifting and astral travel he can go anywhere he
wants in the shape of a perfectly normal looking six year old giraffe.
Actually, this story is not about Joey the sodium kid. He was trying to take over the plot like
a demented, coked-up South American desperado dictator wannabe. He failed; gunned down in a
blazing glory of lead slugs.
There was an old man in Broklyn who used to sell lead slugs as garden decorations. He melted the
lead himself and hand cast each slug, tenderly drawing the correct smidgen of molten metal into
the mold of the fragile stalks emerging from the head. He never once fouled up those delicate
stalks, and his customers always appreciated the extra effort he put in, and told him constantly
on the street that his slugs were charming. They went for $23 for the 1 incher and $53 for the 3
incher. They sold well, since they didn't corrode, and since lead had the perfect semi-lustrous
texture for the depiction of slugskin. However, because of the tendency of little kids to chew on
the slugs they were withdrawn from the market in '83 and the old man died soon thereafter of
unrequited grief.
Joey, sodium kid the junior wonder, had been among those unfortunate children, those chewers of
the lead garden slugs. His retardation, already severe, was exacerbated by the regrettable habit.
His parents, sadly, were not aware of this fact and consistently failed to remove the tattered
slug from Joey's grasp. This may have been related to the fact that both died a year before Joey
was born.
Joey was the first of five children who owed their lives to the government experimentation on
recovering unconcieved children from deceased mothers and bringing them to life. After maiming
several million Afghanistanis (and successfully attributing it to the USSR) they finally
discovered that the secret to success was placing the unconcieved infant in a bath of pure Jack
Daniel's for six weeks. When Joey, the first unconcieved infant, emerged from the vat and began
crying, the government researchers held an office party, even going so far as to purchase a six
pack of non alcoholic beer.
After two years of education in home economics, young Joey was placed in a pleasant little
appartement with a pleasant little garden. The abilty of the two year old to operate as a well
adjusted member of society--this was the question that the goverment researchers set out to
answer. If it were possible for Joey to achieve self-sufficiency at that age, the US could
manufacture hundreds of millions of unconcieved babies, thus beating out those damned Chink
bastards. Osvald, the chief researcher, purchased a one inch lead slug as decoration for the
garden, in commemeration of the wonderful occation.
Joey, however, drooled about like the average two year old, and allowed the garden to be infested
with weeds. Left to his own devices by the gov't, he lived off the nourishment of the garden slug
for six years, then left the burbs for the big city, Atlanta. He tried to get a job with a
traveling circus, but discovered that no one was interested in eight year old midgits. "Come back
in a coupla yeahz, kihd", bawked the fat cigar smoka.
That's when Joey the sodium kid decided to become a superhero. The first step, he decided, was
to always be happy.
Several years later I ran into him at a bar. He was shooting pool with this bleached bar slut
who was actually kind of hot. And he was goddamned happy.
"I gotta do something about this situation", I thought to myself in a rage. (At that time I
couldn't stand happy people) I began cursing in his direction: "Fuck you, you mongoloid midget!",
I screamed.
And the fucker just looked at me, and went, like some sort of super-hero: "Damn you, fear! Damn
you, restraint! You shout your curses into the wind and the wind blows them back into your face"
So I ran after him (his stubby little legs kicking the air as he hobbled off quickly), caught up
to him near the firestation, and clocked him one with the eightball (and saw, simultaneously, on
my flying fist, the digital watch go from 4:05 to 4:06 am. As the shiny black ball lacerates
his lip this whoosh of air kicks up. And we just look at each-other, him with his shiny eyes and
his happy bleeding mouth, and me, for maybe five minutes, just that way. Something is in the air,
and then we hear noises from inside the firestation, and the midget starts singing.
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
"Who da fuck, Who da fuck, gonna drive da truck?"
the end