The Adventures of Sammo: Monster Fighter

He could see her fighting with the monster. Without hesitation, Sammo attacked, but the monster refused to loosen its grip as she screamed.

Then the stringy-haired beast unexpectedly broke free from Sammo’s jaws and without warning struck him several times. Attempting to escape the counter attack, he struggled to gain traction on the wet floor.

As he slipped and slid across the floor, he realize that it was her hitting him. “Let go of the mop!” she shouted.

Sammo finally made it through the doggie door, only to poke his head back inside and watch as she and the mop swayed back and forth. “How was I to know they were dancing?” he wondered.

Natures True Grotesques

We awoke to the sounds of one of our dogs getting sick. Not a pleasant way to begin the day for either the dog or us.

The dog, Roxy, a pit-bull terrier, quickly rushed outside and threw-up some more. She eventually came in and laid down on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor.

The other two dogs, being curious, started to head outside. I stopped them, knowing they’d probably gobble up what Roxy had left behind.

After feeding the two dogs and seeing my wife off to work, I set about getting ready to clean up Roxy’s ‘mess.’ Since it’s still close to freezing, my wife suggested filling a bucket with hot water and not use the garden hose.

“Good call,” I told her, as turning on an outside spigot in frigid temperatures can cause a water pipe to burst. That’s a problem worse than cleaning up dog vomit.

So grabbing a bucket and filling it, I headed out the back door of the garage. The sight that confronted me shocked the Hell out of my sensibilities.

Gathered around the ‘mess’ were five or six gray rabbits, eating what was there. Worse yet, rather than scattering like they would under normal conditions, they refused to abandon their ‘meal.’

Finally, to get their attention, I splashed the group with the water. This sent them scurrying towards the back of the yard – but unnaturally they lingered and drew closer as if planning to challenge me.

Needless to say the experience has changed my opinion about what I once believed were mostly ‘docile’ creatures. Not only was the situation unsettling – I found it to be somewhat terrifying and stuff that make up nightmares.

And now, as I sit at our dinner table looking out the sliding glass door, watching the myriad of Red Breasted Robin’s filling our yard, I must wonder — are they too, as they seem?

Bryan Carroll, 1961-2019

Bryan Carroll was born September 20, 1961. He passed away March 28, 2019 in Crescent City, California, following a lengthy battle with congestive heart failure.

An incredibly private person, I won’t share very much about my brother Marine. In fact he’d be embarrassed, not for himself, but for me, knowing that I am crying as I write this.

Further, Bryan would chastise me, reminding me that he knew and loved Jesus and that he was in a better place now. Suffice it to say, Bryan did not have the easiest life.

Anyone who knew Bryan, knew he adored the comic strip ‘Peanuts,’ and he loved to tell about the time he went to Charles Schulz’ home with his dad as a kid. In one of our last conversations, he told me that he couldn’t decide if he were more like ‘Charlie Brown’ or ‘Snoopy.’

I still say ‘Snoopy,’ because of his love for dogs.

He grew up in Gasquet, California, attending school there. Bryan graduated from Del Norte High School in 1979, joining the U.S. Marine Corps shortly afterwards.

Following his Honorable Discharge in 1982, Bryan settled in Occoquan, Virginia. Aside from working as an electronic technician and computer repairman, Bryan was an avid kayaker from an early age, enjoyed photography, was a train enthusiast and an amateur historian.

Bryan was actively volunteering at a local homeless shelter in Crescent City. He was 57-years-old.

Living the Mandela Effect

A few years ago the local weatherman came on the TV and stated that it has never snowed on the Fourth of July in the Reno/Sparks area of Northern Nevada. I remember thinking, “Oh, yes it has! 1986, in fact.”

However, a check of meteorological records bears out that the forecaster was correct and I — like so many others were wrong. I recall the event like it were yesterday – but it never happened.

Recently, I learned that this is the ‘Mandela Effect,’ named so after Nelson Mandela, when researchers discovered that a great many people had the false memory of his death in the 1991, when he actually passed away in 2013. So why do so many people believe that they watched, read or heard of his earlier funeral, when it never happened?

Granted, I’m no expert on this subject and I’m certain there is more to it than this simple, but brief overview I’m going to attempt: according to some researchers, there is more than one time-line and they move closely, side-by-side through space, and every once in a while they touch or cross and the lines become distorted and mixed up. This is how, according to these same researchers, memories become confused.

While reading an online article about an upcoming movie release called, ‘Shazam,’ I learned that actor and comedian Sinbad had been battling the Internet over reports that he had made a movie about a Genie that befriends to kids, a brother and sister, helping them find a love interest for their father.

Much to my surprise — and my misremembering – Sinbad never played the part of a Genie in any such movie. I was so gobsmacked that I even posted the question on Facebook: “Am I the only person on Earth that recalls Sinbad playing a genie in a 1990’s movie?”

That’s how I learned of the ‘Mandela Effect.’

Stranger still is that earlier in the evening, my wife and I were discussing singer/songwriter Harry Chapin (Cats in the Cradle, Taxi, W-O-L-D.) Neither of us could remember exactly what year he had died, but we were both certain that it was (also) in 1991.

Separately, we looked his bio up online and found we were both seriously wrong about his year of death. We were dumbstruck to realize he died as far back as 1981.

What in the hell? Did we simply misremember or were we subjected to the ‘Mandela Effect,’ whereby Harry Chapin lives and we each, independent of the other, recalled his passing different from the actual historical timeline we are living?

And are we the only ones to have made this mistake? I know — a lot of unanswered questions.

The idea of time lines crossing or touching is a very interesting subject and one I find worth investigating further. Have you ever misremembered something you were certain happened only to discover you were wrong?

I’d love to hear your stories!

Death Chant

He knew the direction the so-called posse was pushing him. It had been obvious from the start.

Their idea of justice was to corner and capture Medicine Joe, then after a few minutes of mock trial proceedings, string him up in the nearby tree. But Joe refused to let that happen – at least not without a fight.

After two-days of rugged chasing, he was finally in position to put them off his trail for good. He had the high ground and they were unwittingly entering a box canyon – all Joe needed to do was lay and wait.

As he waited, he reviewed the reason this was happening.

Joe had no idea that the man he’d slapped and eventually shot, killing in the darkened corner of the saloon was the sheriff. He took a disliking to Joe the instant he saw the smaller man.

“We don’t cotton to free-grazers, drifters or ‘breeds’ in these parts,” he’d sneered.

It didn’t matter that Joe had a roll of paper money and some jingle in his pocket, the bigger man refused to allow him even a sip of water before he started threatening him. Joe tried to ignore him, but then he pushed Joe to the floor, kicked him and smashed a chair across his back as he tried to get up.

With Joe cornered, his back literally against the wall, the sheriff, who had a four-inch longer reach and a good six inches in height and at least 30 pound more weight than Joe, began pounding him without mercy. Having had enough, Joe  stuck him with the back of his opened hand.

The blow caught the sheriff off-guard and he tumbled backward, falling to the floor. Someone laughed in the small crowd that had gathered to watch Joe’s beating, and the sound set the sheriff off as he jumped to his feet and reached for his cannon.

Medicine Joe was slightly faster and watched as the surprised look on the sheriff’s face faded into a mask of death as he toppled forward, face first to the floor. It was both the deathly silence and the look of the spectators eye’s that told Joe that he needed to shake the dust of that little town off his boots – and he’d best be quick about it.

The first three of fifteen riders, who’ve been trailing Joe ever since, entered the narrow slot of the canyon’s mouth and soon they’ll either be dead or Joe would be. As for the hanging tree, no one will ever swing from it again as Joe chopped it down and it’s now a part of his defense, holding a few dozen large rocks that, with a single and well-placed shot, will cascade into the narrowed slot, block all escape by horse.

This would put these riders on the ground with Joe, who as a half-breed was comfortable fighting while on foot. And soon, Medicine Joe’s death-chant would echo along the rocky walls announcing his deadly intent and every man’s coming fate.

Sierra Pete and the Beast

It stood up and the cattle separated in fear as cow punchers ran for their lives. Only Sierra Pete remained in the pen with the ungodly beast.

Soon another cowboy joined him, carrying a rifle and preparing to use it. But he paused, noting Pete’s calmness.

“Whatch’ya plannin’ to do?” the cowboy asked.

“Boss says if its got horns, brand it, carve up the ears and if its got balls, caponera’em — and I’m gonna do jus’ that,” Pete answered as he shook loose the loop of his throwing rope.

The Minotaur had no idea the Hell it was in for.

The Franklin Camp Massacre

“I know Sheriff,” the deputy said, “The kid’s story doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

They were talking about the 14-year-old Franklin boy, found wandering a back road in snow up to his thighs. He was in emergency surgery as doctors worked feverishly to save his feet from a case of severe frostbite.

“Well,” the sheriff responded, “Do we have any idea where this camp’s located?”

“No, sir,” the deputy answered, “But I’m on my way over to the kid’s parents to see if they might have an idea.”

When discovered in the early morning hours  Jimmy Franklin, Jr. was delirious from the freezing cold and the blinding snowfall. He did his best to tell his rescuers, an older couple out on snowmobiles checking their livestock, what happened.

“Uncle Buddy…set up the tent…I got the fire…then they appeared…out of nowhere…I ran…but Buddy…” the boy kept saying.

“Who appeared?” the woman asked.

“Indians…horses…like ‘Dances with…’” Jimmy mumbled as he faded into unconsciousness.

They took the boy back to their home and called for help. The old man told his wife that he’d seen this before in grown men and that he feared that the child wasn’t going to make it.

“Yeah,” said James Franklin, Sr., “I know where Jimmy and my brother’s camp’s set up. But what’s this about an Indian attack?”

“Honestly, we don’t know, Mr. Franklin,” the deputy said. “Like I said, he wasn’t making very much sense.”

As the deputy drove away, she could see in her rearview mirror the Franklin’s truck racing down the snow laden highway towards town and the hospital. She drew the microphone close to her mouth and radioed for the sheriff.

Soon the pair were on their way to the campsite with members of local volunteer Search and Rescue team, who had the necessary snowmobiles to get to the isolate spot on the map. Eleven miles later, they were on foot searching for the exact spot.

“I still don’t get the whole ‘Indians rode into our camp,’ thing,” the sheriff complained.

It didn’t take more than 15 minutes for word to come back that the camp was found. Quickly, everyone moved towards the site.

“Holy shit,” the deputy uncharacteristically exclaimed, “He’s been…”

She looked down at the body of Buddy Franklin, Jimmy’s uncle, and noted the three handmade arrow shafts jutting out of his back from between his shoulder blades. But what really got her, was the wound to the top of his head and the lack of hair and skin that came with it.

“What in the hell happened here?” the sheriff wondered aloud, “We need to talk to that Franklin kid again. I’m starting to think he came up with this cock-and-bull story to put us off the scent of his killing his uncle. We’ll need to back-track his movements to see if we can find that missing scalp of…”

Suddenly, the sheriff’s voice fell away, having noticed the color of his deputy’s cheeks gone pale. He turned to look at whatever it was she was staring at.

“What the…” his voice broke and a sudden chill vibrated down his spine. Etched into the snow-drifted red clay embankment, overlooking the campsite-turned-homicide-scene, appeared twenty well-mounted Native Americans, in traditional garb, carrying shields, lances and bows, looking as if they might at any moment ride down into camp.

Matthew 14:22-31, Reimagined

Jesus sent his disciples across the Sea of Galilee in a boat. But soon the wind and waves began battering the craft.

A short time later, Jesus, walking on the water went out to their vessel. The sight scared them.

“It’s a ghost,” they agreed.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s me,”Jesus responded.

“If it’s you,” Peter challenged, “tell me to come to you!”

“Come,” Jesus said.

Peter got out of the boat, but after a few steps began to sink.

“Save me!” Peter cried.

Jesus reached out and caught Peter’s hand, “How many times have I told you not to run?”

No Shit

Burning Man near Gerlach, Nevada was underway. One afternoon, in a local bar, a Burner struck up conversation over a beer with a long-time cowboy about religion.

“There’s no God,” the Burner stated.

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve been around the world and I’ve seen some shit. We’re jus’ accidents of nature.”

After a brief pause the cowboy replied, “Lemme ask you a question.”


“The horse, the cow, and deer all eat grass, right?”


“But the deer craps pellets, the cow — patties, and the horse — clumps. Why’s that?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“That’s what I thought – you really don’t know shit.”

In Country, 1982

These sketches were done in 1982 while I was in the service. The top one is ‘Guideon,’ and the bottom is ‘Exhausted.’ Both were drawn on discarded ‘onion’ typing paper which is used when orders and such are to be completed in duplicate or triplicate. In many cases paper is in short supply in forward areas, so any scrap, (including toilet paper) whether tossed out or ‘abandoned,’ is at a premium and rarely goes to waste.

Writing V Artwork

This morning, instead of writing like I should be and normally do, I decided to pick up my paints and exercised my ability to watercolor. I say ‘exercise,’ because my work (at least to me) feels less than pedestrian and aims only at making me feel more than one-dimensional (a writer.)

Anyway, as I finished my latest project, I asked myself: “So, now what do you do with it?”

My first thought was to post it to my blog, but I’ve been told that if I want to maintain a strong writing blog, I shouldn’t post extracurricular items like paintings or selfies on it. The selfies, I get — but my ego screams out about the watercoloring.

AAAaaaaahhhhh!!! ( Did you hear that?)

What to do — do I or don’t I post them and what would you do?

The Adventures of Sammo: Castle Keep

He stood on the deck, outside his dog door and looked over his vast domain. There, near the farthest corner, under the bare tree, stood a dangerous horde of leaves, gathered into a singular mound and planning their attack.

“They are preparing to over run us,” Sammo howled wildly.

Leaping from the wooden platform and leading from the front, he fell upon the pile of leaves, disrupting their war-counsel. He turned and zoomed from one corner of the yard to the next, covering ground in rapid time, before again hurling his body into the path of danger, crashing through the pile of leaves.

Needing to see the entire field of battle, Sammo quickly raced to his dog house, which doubled as his look-out to see how the fight was progressing. Much to his pleasure, it appeared it would be a smashing success.

He barked loudly to his imagine warriors, “I am Ragnar Ruff Ruff! Follow me.”

Once more, this time with thousands following, he bore through the pile, making certain none remained capable of attacking the wooden deck – or the Castle Keep as he loved to think of it. By the end of this day, he will have earned his dinner.

Antithetical Me

Let me be upfront – I’m pissed-off and I’m tire of explaining the how’s and why’s of my life simply because I did not do it the way you, you and you think it should’ve been done, especially since you, you, and you claim it’s never been done that way before. So let’s be finished with it:

First off, I’ve never existed. I wasn’t born in France and I never lived in Sacramento on Mather Air Force Base, nor had a brother named Adam, born there.

No, I didn’t move to Klamath and I wasn’t raised there. Neither of my sisters were born in Crescent City at Seaside Hospital. I didn’t go to Margaret Keating or St. Joe schools. And never have I attended a day at Del Norte High. Hell, I didn’t even graduate. Nor did I deliver newspapers, work at the Trees of Mystery or participate in track and field.

Again, I was never in the U.S. Air Force, the U.S. Marine Corps and had I been — I certainly would’ve never received an honorable discharge from either branch of service. And I’ve never worked in radio broadcasting, print media or written a story. I’ve never been married and I don’t have a grown son.

So, since you, you and you are always questioning me about this, that or the other thing, I hope I’ve answered your demands about how, in a satisfactory fashion. Finally, if this doesn’t meet your standards – if I don’t meet your standards – you, you and you can each kiss my fucking ass – because I don’t care what you think about how something in my life should’ve been done.

Hopefully, I’ve made myself somewhat transparent or at least as clear as the muddy water, you, you and you keep stirring up.

Original Skin

“There are two schools of thought, about the flaying of a human for sexual gratification,” the retired medical examiner lectured, “But rather than bore you to death with definitions and such, I’d prefer to explain in simple terms how the criminal mind interacts with their victim.”

He paused for sip of water.

“In one case, the simpler case, the criminal mind sees the victim as nothing more than prey. Therefore, that mind will see the required ‘skinning’ as a task, generally done from the front of the human, much like one would begin with say a buck, cow or pig, completely removing the skin from the back of the animal”

He picked up a scalpel that lay on his desk.

“In the more profound case, the criminal mind views the human body as a piece of art and will begin from behind, removing the skin, in toto, from the front. The reasoning being that the front of the human body – especially the female body — at least for me,” he snickered, “is a masterpiece, a thing of beauty.”

He walked calmly across the room, smiling, “Can you guess of which criminal mind I am?”

She squirmed violently against the leather straps that bound her naked body face down on the dissection table as he drew the blade across her paling skin.

Trouble with Toddlers

Mom screamed and Dad held her as they watched the UFO blink out-of-sight. Both were in shock realizing nothing could be done.

Soon, sirens began to shriek across the Air Force Base; a notification of the otherworldly intruder, alerting personnel of the coming lockdown. By this time neighbors began to fill their backyards, some looking towards the darkening sky, others trying to comfort the distressed parents.

Talk was sparse — and what words could be heard — were so quietly whispered that they were nearly inaudible. Unaware of any trouble, Tommy crawled from Tippy’s doghouse and joined everyone examining the nighttime stars.

Trouble with Aliens

Dusk settled across the Air Force Base and soon it would be dark.

Tommy played outside with his brand new tricycle. Mom washed up the evening dishes, while Dad read the sport section of that day’s Bee.

Suddenly, a child’s scream echoed through the house and each parent was quick to respond, recognizing it as that of their only child. Both raced to find the child before it was too late.

But they were too late. They only had time enough to witness Tommy’s trike lift and disappear into the belly of the alien spacecraft, before the UFO sped away.

Kansas Flies By

feeling so loved
that he’s certain
should he fall
off the edge
of the earth,
no one would
note his absence.
they might search
for rabbit’s hole

kansas flies by
and toto howls.
but alas nobody
listened to his
words, his voice
when he claimed
it would one-day
be his undoing.
what a shame,
never missed by
those he thought
loved him and
them he loved.

but no, not
so, finding out
much too late,
as the realities
edge raced up
and dumped him
into outer space.
major tom from
space control: stop!

that rabbit hole
turns out is
a deadly black-hole
silent, lonely, cold,
where by design
death is certain.

what a long
and solitary drop
to a place
with no bottom.
where is hell?
what is toto?
who is tin-man
or why rabbit?
inside of him.
he is his
oz of alice-land.
time to go.

Am Not — Are Too!

For weeks the two bickered back and forth with one claiming ‘I don’t talk too much,’ while the other claimed, ‘oh yes, you do.’ It was becoming disruptive to the work environment and a supervisor finally had to put a stop to it.

“Both of you need to knock it off now,” she said, “This is an office, not a playground. You quit being so verbose and you quit complaining. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” both said in a sheepish tone.

“See there,” said the talkative one to the complainer, “I don’t talk too much. I’m jus’ verbose!”


“Can I pull you away to come look at what the boys found?” the Segundo asked.

“Certainly,” answered the concerned boss.

They got in the Gator and headed for the corrals, where the counting of cattle from the recent Fall round-up and separation for shipment was happening. As the pair pulled up, they could hear a general tumult and the excitement in the cowhand’s voices.

He climbed the railing, only to see an eighteen-pointer milling about with the rest of the cattle in the pen.

“Now, that ain’t something you see everyday,” the boss laughed, “An elk – self-identifying as beeves.”


“I found this assignment impossible to complete,” she told the teacher.

“Why, it was a simple assignment – used the word ‘protagonist’ in a short story,” replied the instructor.

“But I don’t speak that way,” she said. “I’d say, ‘the leader,’ or something like that.”

The instructor smiled, “I know, that’s why the assignment – to move you outside your comfort zone, causing you to rethink how you write.”

She sighed, knowing that her argument was sunk, “Well, is there anyway I can make up the assignment?”

“Sure,” smiled the teacher, “Write me a short story using the word you were assigned.”


“Whoa,” Ellis complained, “I certainly tied one on last night.”

“Yeah, we know,” stated Perkins, “Saw you in all of your glory, too and I know I speak for all the other fellas when I say ‘we’re glad you got some clothes on this morning.’”

The other six men in the bunk house laughed, as Perkins added, “And we seen two worms last night – yours and the bottles.”

An embarrassed Ellis replied, “Sorry guys. Glad we weren’t in town ‘cause Tequila leaves me feeling amorous.”

“That ain’t what we call it ‘round here,” Perkins chuckled, “We call that getting nekked.”

Breeding Season

The three men stood in the doorway, watching Jodi return on foot, looking like he’d been in a fight.

“What happened to you?”

“Where’s your horse?”

“It was the bull, wasn’t it?”

“Harmless and docile, my ass! If I’d of had my pistol, I’d of shot that maniacal son-of-a-bitch!” Jodi stated, “It came charging out of nowhere, knocked me outta my saddle, chased off my mount to god-knows-where, rolled me in the dirt three times, before treeing me for several hours.”

“He’s usually peaceable,” the cook chuckled, “but it’s breeding season.”

“Now you say!” Jodi responded while glaring at him.

Store Bought

He’d pulled the short-straw this morning. Instead of resupplying the elk camp on the other side of the peak, he had to play tour-guide to a bunch of city-folk dandies looking to experience the ‘western life-style,’ or whatever the hell the working-ranches’ brochure said.

Johnson looked at the group of strangers as they gathered near the front of the corral. Only three out of the dozen had jeans and closed toed shoes on. He sighed as he led the string of trail-broke horses out of the barn, towards them.

“Wonder which one’s the rodeo champ,” he smiled to himself.

After 15-years of working as a guide, he thought he’d seen it all, but today brought a surprise; she was clad in bright yellow short-shorts, high heels and a tight white, with black polka-dots, bikini top. He knew he’d have to explain to her that she needed to wear a cover of some sort to protect herself from the random branches of the trail.

“Ma’am, while I can appreciate your sartorial elegance,” he stated, “Do you have a blouse, a tee-shirt or somethin’ to cover yourself? Don’t want ya to get all scratched up.”

The woman’s husband overheard what Johnson said and took offense, “I don’t know exactly what that all means, but my wife’s a lady and you’ll treat her as such!”

“Yes, sir,” John politely answered, attempting to diffuse the man’s anger, “All I want to know is if the lady had something more than her bikini top to wear.”

“Oh,” the husband said, as he removed his ‘Members Only’ jacket, handing it to her to put on.

“Thank you, sir,” Johnson responded as he began helping riders onto their mounts, all the while thinking, “They simply don’t pay me enough to help protect women with store-bought boobs.”

Sold His Saddle

“So what does the word apocryphal mean, Grandpa?” she asked.

“That’s a mighty big word for 12-year-old to be chewin’ on.”

“It’s one of my spellin’ words that I didn’t get a chance to look up ‘cuz Tommy was hoggin’ the only dictionary.”

Grandpa paused to think.

“Well, young lady, to answer your question and if I recall my book learnin’ correctly, it means ‘a story with a questionable origin.’”

After some pondering, the granddaughter smiled, “So it’s kinda like how you say you’re sorry you sold your saddle and Grandma says you never owned one in the first place.”

A Simple Hearing Test

A husband was following 20 feet behind his wife in a department store when he decided to check how well she could hear his voice.

“Honey, can you hear me?”


He got closer and asked again, “Honey, can you hear me?”

Again, nothing.

This time he moved up right behind her and asked the same question, “Honey, can you hear me?”

This time she turned and looked him directly in the eyes and said, “For the third time, yes! Now — what do you want, dear?”

Ten Odd Drawings

With family coming for a visit, Nil’s wife decided that they should clean their guest room. That’s where Nils found some drawings he’d made years ago.

“Poor ‘Joe the Cat,'” he sighed.

“Must’ve been warning myself.”

“Yeah, WTF is right!”

“What the hell?”

“Okay –this is frightening.”

Nils chuckled, “Mirrors still aren’t my friend.”

“I’d forgotten how much I enjoy watching planes flying overhead?”

Nils simply shook his head.

“Wonder what condition my tent and sleeping bag are in.”

“I finally got myself checked out at the VA hospital.”

Wadding the pictures up, Nils tossed the pictures in the trash.

Spooking Cattle

Having had enough of his grandson’s sitting around the house playing videos, the old man sent the boy to his son-in-law’s cow ranch to work for the summer. Evan thought of it as ‘forced labor.’

Slightly before midnight Evan was awaken and told he had to pull a two-hour shift, watching the cattle. Quickly dressing and downing a cup off strong coffee, Evan grudgingly rode out to relieve the current night guard.

Twenty-minutes later all hell broke loose. Evan’s cellphone dinged, spooking the cattle, stampeding them.

Come sunrise, he could feel the glower of each man seated around the campfire.

Big Sally’s

All the whores called the town bully, ‘Big Al.’ Not because of the 44-caliber hog-leg he wore on his hip, but because of the ‘turkey neck’ that dangled between those hips.

His ‘turkey neck,’ as he loved to call it, was nearly a foot-long and almost as thick as a mason jar. When fully erect, it took on the characteristics of a turkey’s neck, his ball-sack, the angry red waddle and caruncles of a tom-gobbler and with a purplish head estimated to be the size of a 12-powder cannon ball.

It got so that none of the women would have sex with him, no matter how much he offered to pay. They all claimed that he was simply to big to comfortably, if not safely fuck because he was also much too rough once hard.

Angered by this, the known misogynist, decided while on a weekend bender, he’d simply take what they wouldn’t sell. He targeted Sally – a petite redhead with the largest tit’s he’d ever seen.

Big Al watched as she headed up the stairs, then quietly followed. He saw her enter her crib and that’s where he decided he’d jump her and stuff his meat in her hole.

Before she knew what was happening, she was face down on the cot, forced into an over-stuffed down pillow and unable to scream. She felt the sudden burning sensation as he shoved his dick into her unprepared twat and began to viciously bang away trying to ‘hilt’ his monster.

It had been a long time since Big Al had fucked and so it didn’t take long for him to blow a wad of jism deep inside her bloodied vagina. Satisfied, he climbed off her back and began to pull up and button his jeans.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Sally squealed, “You’ve ruined my money-maker!”

Big Al laughed and turned to leave the room. As he reached for the door knob, Sally cocked the pistol she’d removed from under the mattress and shot a fist-sized hole in her attackers back.

He turned slowly, surprised by the pain and the onset of death, than collapsed against the wall, sliding down into a seated position. Unaware that he was already dead, she fired five more rounds into his crotch.

After the initial shock of what had happened had time to pass, the town’s Marshal declared it was a justified shooting, adding, “The asshole won’t be fucking anything again in this world and from the mince she made of his meat, perhaps the next.”

Sally survived her injuries, but never took on another client for pay. Instead, she became the madam of a new establishment, called ‘Big Sally’s’ up on the hill above the town. Every man-jack who visited the whorehouse, knew to treat her ‘girls’ with the utmost respect, lest they find their nuts shot off some night.

Shadow on the Wall

He sits quietly in his empty bedroom, awaiting the mid-sun and his soul’s darker twin. Life has been rough; fire nearly destroyed his home, rain, snow, flooding cut his roadway access and finally the loss of his meager job.

No support beyond her private world, he faces a blank and newly white-washed wall, once filled with photographs and colorful paintings. They’d become grim reminders, like the added gray to hair and deep-set wrinkle-lines that now fill his now inscrutable countenance.

But he knows a terrible secret. And he’ll share it with himself, once that casting orb reveals his shadow, reincarnated.

Missing Reno Teen Sought

UPDATE: Reno police report that Brandon has been found safe and is back with his family.

Reno police are asking for your help in locating a missing and endangered teen. Fourteen-year-old Brandon Shealy Jr. was last seen on March 1 around 4:30pm on Lone Desert Drive in the Stead area.

Brandon is 5’ 11” tall, 210 lbs, with brown hair and eyes. He was last seen wearing a black hoodie, black pants, white Vans shoes and carrying a maroon colored backpack.

His mother, Marti Klingler said Brandon recently suffered a head injury and the trauma has altered his ability to think clearly. She adds that he might be with his friend, Travis Robertson, who goes to Cold Springs Middle School.

If you’ve seen Brandon or Travis, or know where either boy might be, you’re asked to call the Reno Police at (775) 334-2677.

Beyond Talking Turkey

Speaking Crow came easy. He’d been doing it since a fledgling.

And early on, he taught himself how to talk Turkey. Now he wants to learn the language of the Raven.

He loves the idea of the challenge – keeping his neuropath-ways sharp. “Besides,” Corvus caw-cawed loudly, “It’ll throw those humans, who study birds, ornithologists, they call themselves, off their frigging game. I’ll blow their pea-sized brains”

And once he succeeds at conversing with his Raven friends in their native tongue, he’ll move on to the human language. He simply has to select but one and that’s a real bird-brain’s puzzle.

Of Intrinsic Value


It stood against time for a century,
But then, got in progresses way.
Before the first board razed,
Hereford cattle shipped to market.
Then – they came at noon —
Bulldozers tearing down the ancient barn.
Soon grassy field’s plowed under,
Gone, the sight of a gloried past.

Men of profit claimed it had to go,
Making room for what is new.
But now an open, empty, unused lot
Sits blankly vacant in foundation’s print.
No more landmark to judge distance by.
No more hallmark, hard work, history.
An open scar – and simple proof of loss —
Of those things of intrinsic value.