The Beverly Fictions

I. Overture

She has a yard long grocery list for him but he’s had a facial transplant so she’ll never recognize him. She buys him Chanukah presents that sit in the trunk of her car. She has flies living on her face and pretends they are him. At Amazing Entertainment she sees an amputee porn they once discussed and purchases the DVD to give him.?

Her depression is flawless and her condo is as barren as a woman with a shovelful of ovaries. There is fascism in her chewy center. Nothing else matters but this, neither talking nor stuff nor who might be giving him a blumpkin nor but. There are animals to be sacrificed and hookers to be strangled.?

She weighs sixty-two pounds. She throws up and shoots heroin five times a day for this man. What she does in the desert sun isn’t for fun but for extra credit. If he could see her now, this little act of hers. She’s eating fancy food and vomiting it out her third story window.?

She is a mother of a pickled punk that she rescued from the circus. It sits in a jar on her coffee table. She named it Julie and it writes for a sitcom on CBS. In the rumpus room hangs a Velvet Elvis but the rest of the wall space is covered with blood and fecal matter.?

She pokes her eyes out with a plastic fork. The shadows scare the bejesus out of her. She thinks it’s her neighbor making creepy rabbit and bear puppets with his hands but she can’t be sure. The Mello Yello can is neither mellow, nor very yellow. The cactus point at her and laugh.?

Today she is eaten by javelinas, Four mile jog, half mile run for her life. But they catch her, a whole family of them. Two college students – one wearing a Barack Obama T-shirt, the other with six pairs of sunglasses on his head – walk past, a sock puppet cavalry, swaying like shredded cheese, towing a bucket full of humus and a large medieval sword shish kebabbed with pita bread. Her pearl necklace makes a noose. Her broken skin smells gamey from javelina saliva. In her delicious core is one thought: these punks are going to rape me. I’m dying and chewed up and they’re going to have their way with my eaten body. And wherever that man is, she remembers him. He’s somewhere back east getting a vasectomy. She is still beautiful to these boys. Nothing is over yet.

II. Date Night at the Happy Dragon

“This isn’t right,” said my mistress after she kicked me in the testicles from under the table and grabbed my fortune. We were across the way from CVS, Papa Gino’s, and Middlesex Savings Bank at the Chinese take-out place. She said, “It should say, I jerked off in your Egg Foo Young.”

III. Sling Blade (1996)

It’s no small task to kill a man. Not like the absolute blading Doyle Hargraves took – a fine How do you do? They didn’t sling blade my uncle; they dressed him is clown clothes, tied cement blocks to his legs and threw him in the river. When I was twenty-two, I asked that he call me Frank Wheatley. A name better than Brian; he called me Frank for seven minutes straight before pulling an Oh Henry from his pants and saying “Queers don’t eat chocolate.” I did the ole, “I’m Brian,” bit like at the end of the Monty Python film. Now he’s a purple chicken like Hargraves and sits on the toilet at midnight. He reads High Society upside down. “The vages look better this way.” Dudes in my family always yank on the bowl.

IV. Temporary Stay

There were days when bacon was bacon, until it was bananas. Years later it died and became cheese, silhouettes of hatred like a kaleidoscope of baby fetuses. What remains is what is there. That is, what you see. What is visible, if you will. Won’t you?

It was not unlike Rufus T. Firefly. Does Gloria Teasdale? You bet she does. But maybe not. How do it know? Does the moon know & do the nightingales and coyotes sing of said knowing? But you knew. Oh, yes, you did. You knew. You, you, you. Not unlike you when you knew. You sat on the couch and it broke and you knew it would break. Well, your wife knew anyway. Did Pinky and Chicolini know? We’ll never knew.

You knew as soon as the poet’s half-brother with Down syndrome changed that lightbulb, screwing it into the accordionesque vagina of his uncle’s paramour. Oh, we all knew then. And we took turns at her, the dirty whore.

V. Pineapple

Sadie sits on the beanbag chair knitting her suicide note while I’m trying to watch a very hilarious program.

“What the fuck is this?” she says.

“It’s Big Bang Theory,” I say. “Isn’t it ripe with wonderful humor?”

“This show blows. Change the channel.”

“No. You’re only listening to the words, man. Watch how cleverly they move. I used to be in comedy. I know this stuff.”

“What are you, seven? This show is an abortion. Put on I Survived. It’s way funnier than this horseshit.”

Then she shoots me in the head.

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Michael Frissore has a chapbook called Poetry is Dead (Coatlism, 2009) and a blog called michaelfrissore.blogspot.com. His writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Dzanc Books’ “Best of the Web” anthology. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in over 70 publications in six countries, including most recently in Bartleby Snopes, Pyrta, Pulp Metal Magazine, Jersey Devil Press, and Houston Literary Review. Mike grew up in Massachusetts and lives in Oro Valley, Arizona with his wife and son.