Sally recently got a hold of my iPhone and made a movie. You can’t turn your back on that girl. She’s always up to something. I have little to say about this post, but will allow Sally to speak for herself. She’s expecting there will be Oscar buzz. She even has her acceptance speech written: “On behalf of the Academy, I’d like to eat all those little people sitting out there in the dark.”
Here’s is Sally’s first film effort and it has the critics bewildered.
“Simply terrible” says The Times Picayune. “It looks like it was filmed with a brain damaged iPhone”.
“Disturbingly mediocre” wrote the Wall Street Journal. “It made me lose my appetite for corporate crime”.
Best of all, the New York Times headline reads: “Be Sure to Hold Your Tongue. Sally’s Film Induces Epileptic Seizure.”
All high praise indeed.
Sally Shops for a Halloween Feast – The Final Chapter © WTW, 2014
by William Whiting
In our previous episode, Sally had gone to great lengths to recapture Geoffrey, the unfortunate door to door bible salesman. She had chosen him to be her “dinner companion” on Halloween night, but he kept escaping. He was to be her companion insofar as he was intended to be the main course: Cassoulet à la Geoffrey.
Sally finds it perplexing how so many people have such a driving force to remain alive. Nevertheless she settled in for a relaxing nip of her favorite cinnamon whiskey. Meanwhile, on the other side of the grounds, Geoffrey was spitting out dirt and gasping for air in his shallow grave. He awoke in a blind panic with no air. Fortunately for him, the moist ground had loosened the grasp on the ropes that tethered his limbs, thus freeing his hands. With all his might, he pushed a hole up through the garden floor and inhaled his first breath of fresh air as he pulled the ball-gag out of this mouth. His was a lucky guess, because one doesn’t always know up from down when disoriented and buried alive. He could just as easily suffocated while digging his way to China.
Geoffrey slid off the ropes that bound his ankles, as dirt and stones fell away all around him. Carefully crawling on his hands and knees, he ever so stealthily crept around to the back of the house where he could silently watch Sally swilling Fireball Whiskey. She was singing aloud without a care in the world, confident that she’d finally subdued her prey. He could hear Sally warbling her favorite tune, “testicles, spectacles, wallet and keys, praise to the dark lord and fall to thy knees.” That’s when Geoffrey picked up Sally’s broom from Broom made of broom, and cracked it over her head with all his might, splintering the broom to smithereens.
Sally’s normally expressionless face was stunned as Geoffrey clocked for her a second time with her own whiskey bottle, leaving her slumped over like a limp dishrag. Without hesitation, he jumped into the red Corvette and put the peddle to the metal, speeding down the country roads as fast as the car could carry him. He went up and down the hillsides flying from peak to peak barely touching the valleys in between. It was then that the car started to sputter and choke, as poor Geoffrey discovered he was out of gas. Just then the brakes failed, and he found himself rolling backwards toward the stone farmhouse. That’s when the police cruiser caught sight of a Corvette Stingray going 110 miles an hour backwards.
A high speed chase ensued.
Back at the farmhouse, Sally was feeling the bump on her head and trying to figure out what had just happened. She ran over to Geoffrey’s grave only to find it empty with dirt and stones scattered everywhere. She had been entirely too smug and careless. She should have placed those heavy paving stones on top of the grave. Now her car was missing and her broom from Broom made of broom was utterly destroyed beyond recognition. Sally had no means of transportation aside from walking alone in the dark along the dusky country roads. It was Halloween night, and there was Sally with no Halloween feast. She abandoned the roads, and took off through the fields and woods for fear of Geoffrey returning with the authorities in tow.
Miles away, Geoffrey was trying to explain the complexities of his predicament to the same police officer who’d once delivered him back into Sally’s “care”. The officer was more than skeptical about Geoffrey’s tale of how he’d escaped the clutches of a sexy cannibal. Just then word came across the police cruiser of a stolen red Corvette with the same license plate as the car Geoffrey was in. It didn’t help that he stunk of Fireball Whiskey—and due to exhaustion, he couldn’t walk a straight line. The clincher came when poor Geoffrey made mentioned of his thirty-seven cats, and the officer immediately phoned-in to the central command asking for backup. The officer had the infamous catnapper in his cross-hairs.
Sally, while both hungry and deeply disappointed, found herself wandering for hours until she reached the grounds of a splendid Tudor mansion. She felt oddly weak. Her self-confidence was waning, and she hadn’t eaten man-meat in a long, long time. Perhaps she could connive her way inside and devour the homeowner. Lacking imagination, Sally rang the doorbell. To her utter shock, the door was answered by an entire family in vampire costumes. They all laughed at her and said: “What a clever little girl, you’re dressed like that tiny doll on Facebook who thinks she’s a cannibal.” They gave her a chocolate candy bar that looked like a BM and closed the door in her face. She threw away the Baby Ruth.
Sally was feeling weaker and weaker, craving man-meat as she begrudgingly made her way toward the next country house down the road.
Sally moved onto her next house. This time she was greeted by a whole family dressed like werewolves, who came to the door and asked her if she was supposed to be that cute little cannibal doll they’d seen and laughed at on Facebook. “LAUGHED?!!!”, Sally thought to herself. They told her that her costume was very convincing, but overheard someone say, she could have spent a little more time on her make-up. The family gave her another chocolate bar shaped like a bowel movement, and closed the door in her face. Sally couldn’t believe how rude and mean everyone one was being to her. People were laughing at Sally, as she was growing very, very light headed.
The next house was miles down the road and surrounded by tropical grounds plantings, flourishing in the damp, cold October weather. Only gay people can get tropical plants to thrive in cold weather, but Sally wasn’t homophobic, so she pressed forward and rang the doorbell. It was answered by a flotilla of fat drag queens, who forced her to have a make-over and then threw her out onto the street—this time with a real bowel movement instead of a chocolate bar. Sally hardly knew who she was anymore. She washed off all the make-up in a mud puddle, and collapsed onto the sidewalk in a complete feint. When she woke up, children were surrounding her. They were gigantic, and suddenly Sally was again only four inches tall.
Meanwhile, Geoffrey had been taken to jail. It made all the newspapers, but since no one reads anymore—let alone the newspaper, no one came to his defense. But looking on the bright side, once Geoffrey was in prison, he finally got laid for the very first time. It wasn’t at all what he’d expected, but over time he’ll grow accustomed to it—and even come to kind of like it. His new name is ‘Bible Bitch Bottom Boy’. Geoffrey was convicted on charges of grand theft auto, catnapping, as well as being held on suspicion of aiding in the abduction of a missing person (due to the mysterious disappearance of a lovely young lady named Sally). Sally was nowhere to be found.
But Sally wasn’t gone—not yet. She was still laying on the sidewalk surrounded by typical children. She heard one child say “She looks like she has gangrene, we’d better amputate.” In no time at all, Sally had no arms and legs, and all the children were laughing at her. Sally’s remains were scatted throughout a local landfill—a leg here and an arm there with little chance of her parts ever being reunited by her own waning strength. She was powerless. Sally was nothing more than a tiny, dismembered plastic doll. She couldn’t scare anyone. She could never be a cannibal, a serial killer or even a whore. Sally relied on her talent for frightening people by the way they allowed her to crawl inside everyone’s own fearful imagination.That was how she renewed her powers. Now all her powers were gone and she was a laughing stock.
As every thinking person knows—hiding in plain sight at the foundation of all evil you will find a lie. Sally’s whole existence had been nothing but a tissue of lies. Perhaps someday some misguided archeologist incapable of coming up with a more useful line of work might dig her up, and reassemble her pieces. Grave robbery’s an honorable profession when relabeled as archeology. For now, Sally was left powerless—for she was no more. And in these words there will always be truth: Laugh at the devil and the devil will dissolve.
- The End
Post Script: In the real world, living the life I’ve lived, real life horrors far worse than some stupid Freddy Kruger slasher movie have happened to me on Halloween. I dislike the holiday. I never cared for people with their faces obscured, as there’s a fundamental deceit about it that I distrust—I’ve never liked clowns and other fools. I detest violence, gore, hatred and unfairness of all descriptions. The saga of Sally has been my counter-intuitive way of trying to put Halloween behind me once and for all: to exorcize the holiday for what little it’s worth. And while Halloween will unavoidably remain a painful anniversary full of unsettling memories, I’ll face those memories—and the silly people in their foolish masks, doing my best not to allow their idiotic revelry taunt me.
Sally Shops for a Halloween Feast – Part Four © WTW, 2014
by William Whiting
When we last left our anti-heroine–and her hapless prey, poor Geoffrey—he had escaped from the trunk of the car. He was hiding amongst the bramble wrapped in nettles—singing hymns about silent lambs. Sally had launched an aerial search, but to no avail. She decided to get back in the car and drive to the country house so she could unload her baggage full of bones.
Even though Sally had a perfectly workable set of keys, she decided to break-in all the same. Old habits die hard. Geoffrey might have eluded her for the moment, but he wouldn’t get very far bound and gagged. She merely needed to apply herself and locate his whereabouts. Meanwhile she had steamer trunks full of bones to unload—left over from old Scarsdale investment bankers she’d feasted-upon.
Not far off, hidden away in the fields—plants were being anything but kind to poor Geoffrey. He was already breaking-out with poison ivy, while infested with chiggers and itching like the devil. He was worried sick about his kitties as he began to reclaim his memory. Unbeknownst to Geoffrey, his mean old landlord had given up on his return, and rounded-up Geoffrey’s thirty-seven cats— piling all of them into a rented van, where he drove them out into the countryside to set each and every one loose.
After Sally ground up all the bones in a chipper, she decided it was time to climb back onto her flying broom from Broom made of broom, and make a more thorough search of the countryside to find where her delicious man-dish had gone. She wanted to reach him before another good Samaritan came along. Sally didn’t want to risk that kind of press. She eluded the limelight, knowing her appetites were frowned upon—even if she wasn’t remotely remorseful. While circling around and dive-bombing areas of interest, Sally witnessed a phenomenon she’d never seen before: there were a great number of cats herding themselves together in one direction as if they had a single-mindedness of purpose.
As everyone knows, cats are so rarely ever herded—let alone by other cats. This peculiar sight peaked Sally’s interest. One after the other, Sally witnessed each of the cats, nose to tail working their way through a dry autumn cornfield toward a collapsing barn. She touched down with her broom from Broom made of broom, and decided to quietly follow them. The cats were all heading toward the barn. Peeking inside, what Sally saw set her heart a-flutter. There was her Geoffrey, still bound and gagged, somewhat worse for the wear but intact—surrounded by mewing kitty cats crawling all over him. Geoffrey’s bliss was broken at the sight of Sally, who likes nothing more than seeing fear in the eyes of men.
Sally gently shooed all the cats away. She’s an animal lover, and would never harm a kitten. And they all ran away as Geoffrey wriggled and silently screamed. Sally gathered him up in a burlap gunnysack and hauled him out of the barn using a rickety old red wagon. When Geoffrey would put up too much of a fuss, Sally’d conk him over the head with her broom until he’d quiet down.
As for the kitties, they were all eventually captured, neutered and released by well meaning animal advocates, dedicated to seeing to it the world never runs out of cats. The indigenous wildlife surrounding the farm, of course now face utter extinction. No one ever said life was fair.
Back at the country house, Sally hid her Geoffrey in the dampness of the root cellar while she dug him a shallow grave. Her intentions were to place the unconscious Geoffrey inside that fresh grave and pile paving stones on top once she regained her strength. That should quiet him down—and also tenderize his flesh. Sally relaxed on the side porch with a bottle of Fireball Whiskey. She’d had a difficult day chasing and recapturing her Geoffrey. But unbeknownst to Sally, off in the backyard, the garden floor was starting to quake and move. Perhaps Geoffrey was displeased with his below ground accommodations? Sally really should go back and check on the grave, and pack down the earth with her shovel. but perhaps another nip or two of whiskey. Click here: Burying Geoffrey
To be continued…
Sally Shops for a Halloween Feast – Part Three © WTW, 2014
by William Whiting
October is always such a dismal month. It’s Sally’s favorite time of the year, watching the leaves turn brown and the late summer flowers dying like so much wilted spinach. It warms the dark, dank recesses of her stone cold heart.
All the same, Sally could barely contain her excitement over the prospect of having Geoffrey so neatly returned to her care. As you, dear reader may recall, Geoffrey had escaped from Sally’s clutches, and in his haste had fallen, resulting in a surprise trip to the hospital — so much of a surprise that he no longer even knew who he was. Sally is unaware of Geoffrey’s amnesia, but felt it was best that she don a disguise as Teddy Roosevelt when she went to pick him up, just to throw-off anyone who might be suspicious of her scent. But it’s times like these that Sally really wished she was capable of casting a reflection in the mirror. It would be so useful to know what she looked like in a disguise.
Confident that no one would recognize her, Sally strolled right past the neighborhood children with nary a one of them calling-out “cat killer” her way. They looked at her oddly, and backed off. How gratifying. She even picked up a hat she found on the sidewalk, and pulled it down tight over her brow. Emboldened by her anonymity, Sally marched herself right down to Our Lady of Concentual Sodomy Hospital to retrieve her delectable bible salesman, Mr. Geoffrey. She could almost taste what a delicious cassoulet she would make from his flesh–with a traditional prairie oyster appetizer of course. Yum!!! She hoped he hadn’t lost too much blood, because Sally makes a mean blood pudding.
At the hospital, Geoffrey looked up at Sally with a vacant expression as he asked, “Are you the Pretty Lady of Fatima?” Clearly he was seeing things from his own unique perspective. If the nurses on duty thought anything was amiss, they didn’t let on. No one made mention of Sally’s mustache. They probably just assumed she was of Mediterranean decent–or merely another one of the gender-bending modern people one sees around town these days. Sally signed an illegible signature on Geoffrey’s release form allowing her to wheel him right out the front door. And stealing the wheelchair on her way, she whisked him home. No one was paying any attention because everyone was playing with their smart phones.
Later, when Geoffrey awoke, and went to stretch, he found that his arms and legs had been bound. When he went to yawn, he discovered that his mouth was already open. He was wearing a ball-gag. The apple would come later. As his eyes began to focus, it was immediately clear that he was in a most unsettling environment. There were skeletons all around him. He had only to assume he was still asleep and experiencing a very bad dream.
Meanwhile, Sally answered the doorbell only to find the same police officer she’d encountered returning her Geoffrey to her the other day. He was on assignment to ask all the neighbors if anyone had any information about all the missing cats. The public wasn’t the slightest bit concerned about the number of men who’d gone missing, but cats were a different matter altogether. Sally mostly ate traveling salesmen, investment bankers and deadbeat dads no one cared about. She told the officer she had no knowledge of any cats. Just then a moaning could be heard from upstairs. Sally explained to the officer that her husband was having delirium traumas again, and excused herself.
That said, Sally was of the personality type who tended to absorb guilt for any crime she heard about on the news, and wondered if it might not be wise for her to repair to the country–if only to drop out of sight for a while. Once again she donned her disguise and set out to steal a car. She really wanted to steal a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, but she had to settle for a Corvette even though she doesn’t have penis envy. Why would she? She has dozens of them stored in the freezer. She also decided it was high time she emptied the attic of all the leftover skeletons she had from while she was on the Scarsdale Diet, when she was only eating investment bankers from Scarsdale–all marbled with fat.
Sally pulled the car up in front of the house to load it for the long drive to the country. Her luggage full of bones, was neatly secured to the roof. And bringing new meaning to the phrase ‘Junk in the trunk’, Sally stashed Geoffrey tied-up neatly inside. She whispered softly to him, “Geoffrey, if you’re not breathing, knock. If I don’t hear anything, I’ll assume you’re alright.” Geoffrey wasn’t very enthusiastic about going for a ride.
About midway to their destination, Sally’s stolen Corvette got a flat tire. They came to a grinding halt on a deserted country road. She considered pushing the car into a ditch and setting it on fire. Maybe she’d phone the police and take responsibility for it using the assumed identity of one of her random Facebook friends. That would give her something to look forward to on the evening news.
Sally thought perhaps she could flash some ankle and get a lift back into town, but there were no other cars in sight. She had no choice but to get out of the car, open the trunk, and put on the spare tire. Geoffrey looked so pathetic all bound-up in the trunk, for a moment she almost felt sorry for him, but dismissed it as a passing weakness. She went to work changing the tire.
OH NO…!!! How in the world did Geoffrey find his way out of the trunk?!!! Of all the victims to select, only Sally would select one who thinks he’s Houdini. Fortunately he won’t get far in manacles. It’s a good thing Sally likes taking long stalks in the country. She likes a victim with spunk.
After searching long and hard, Sally began to get very frustrated. She launched an aerial reconnaissance mission. She mounted her broom which actually was from Broom made of real broom. This is serious business. After all, it’s her Geoffrey, and he’s what’s for dinner.
Meanwhile a frightened and shackled Geoffrey took-off silently on the lamb, bunny-hopping his way into hiding amongst the bramble. He was holding very, very still while practicing barely audibly breathing. He wrapped himself in nettles to feel closer to the Lord. If only Sally weren’t so gull-darned hot, and his hands were free, he’d indulge in a little self-flagellation.
Sally will get him back. She always gets her man.
To be continued…
Sally Shops for a Halloween Feast – Part Two © WTW, 2014
by William Whiting
Sally cordially invites you to come inside. She senses that you’re feeling a little bit depressed due to the seasonal light change that accompanies autumn weather.
Sally beckons you to join her. She wants to show you her latest catch. She’s been on the hunt for something special to roast for her Halloween feast. Sally is playing hooky from reality again. She does that — and when that happens, Sally starts feeling fidgety and all out of focus. Before you know it, one of her spells starts coming on. When Sally senses a spell — dark autumnal things can happen. When out of nowhere, those infernal neighborhood children started pelting her with rotten eggs, chanting “cat killer, cat killer” over and over again. And while children might be both tender and delicious, she only eats the flesh of men, and has no idea what’s happened to the neighborhood cats. Sally has her own appetites.
Sally considered using one of her poison blow-darts on the children, but thought better of it, taking into consideration she has a gentleman caller waiting inside. As you may recall in our last episode, that poor unfortunate Geoffrey has been chained to the stair hall radiator. Sally sat on the can while running a scalding hot bath. She felt that Geoffrey would need to be brined in the bathtub with exotic seasonings while she poked him with a fork. As a religious man, Sally was sure he’d be juicy and delectable, but it’s always best to prepare a marinade. Meanwhile out in the hallway, Geoffrey was regaining consciousness, and wondering if his kitties had been fed. Little did he know that Sally had plans for he, himself to become a serving of tender vittles.
Poor, poor Geoffrey. Everything was all in a haze. He’d only wanted a room to call his own–for himself and the thirty-seven cats he’d acquired over the past year or so — with several more kittens on the way. He considered himself an animal advocate and not a “hoarder” as his current landlord kept crudely implying. Now here he was chained to a radiator not entirely clear about what had transpired. All he knew was that some hot chick had been standing over him with a fork in her hand talking about how sweet he was going to be. He thought he already WAS sweet, but he’d like to be set free from his constraints and allowed to return home to his kitties.
While the hot bath was running, Sally came to visit Geoffrey who was still in a daze as he laid trapped on the floor. She stood over him and reached into her pocket to retrieve the handcuff keys, when she inadvertently pricked her finger with one of her blow-darts and promptly collapsed to the floor. It might take Sally a while to sleep this one off. Geoffrey strained and strained until he was but a fraction of an inch from those illusive keys–still in Sally’s hand. If only he had something to extend his reach. he kicked off a shoe, and tried to leverage the key closer with his foot, but that only pushed Sally’s hand further away. It was then that Sally’s body jerked in an involuntary spasm as the tranquilizer dart took full effect, catapulting the key just barely within his reach.
Quickly as he could, Geoffrey grabbed the key and freed himself. He put his shoes back on the wrong feet, grabbed his hat and went staggering out the front door–stumbling down the alley like a drunkard. To him, it seemed like an eternity, but in no time at all, he was several blocks away. Dazed, hazed and confused, poor Geoffrey tripped over a cobblestone and knocked himself unconscious — falling out of his shoes as his hat tumbled from his brow. He laid there out-cold for quite some time, until a good Samaritan called for an ambulance to whisk him away to the nearest hospital. He was bleeding quite profusely from his cranium, and every bit as unconscious as he was when he pretended to be paying attention during a Sunday prayer meeting.
All the while Geoffrey was in the ER being treated for a concussion, Sally was slowly coming-to. She was furious at her own carelessness, and flew into such a rage that she could barely scrape herself off the ceiling. Meanwhile, poor Geoffrey had no spectacles, no wallet and no keys–but even worse, he had no idea who he was or how he’d landed in the hospital. He didn’t even know his own name. Nor did he recall the events from earlier that same evening. Reaching into his pocket, all he could find was the torn-off back page of Watchtower Magazine with a telephone number scrawled on it. He handed the piece of paper to the nurse who promised to make arrangements to have him released and picked-up.
Sally couldn’t have been more pleased when she answered the phone and learned of an anonymous gentleman in need of being picked up from the hospital. She told the nurse that it must be her poor, drunken husband, Geoffrey. He probably fell down while doing drugs and alcohol again. The nurse told Sally what a “sainted lady” she must be, caring for a swaggering drunkard such as he. Again, Sally blanched at the words “sainted” and “lady” as she put on her coat to go and fetch the poor hapless soul who awaited her.
Would you like to see how Sally received the call? Click here: Sally Gets a Phone Call
To be continued…
Sally Shops for a Halloween Feast © WTW, 2014
by William Whiting
Or should we say victim?
Sally blends. She looks just like any one of you out there reading this. No one would suspect to look at her, that Sally isn’t like other people. In fact she doesn’t even like other people unless they’re prepared to her specifications: “Pittsburgh rare.” She’s a man-eater in the literal sense that she eats men.
Yet Sally, stares with innuendo through her window with ennui — for she has nothing left on her meat hooks. You might go so far as to say her meat hooks are bare. Poor Sally.
For anyone who hasn’t met Sally, she’s more than a cannibal and a pyromaniac — she’s a professional whore working the Greyhound bus station. She doesn’t really have to do that; prostitution is merely a means to an end. Sally lives for the single-minded purpose of hunting down fresh man meat. She lives quite lavishly in the townhouse she inherited after her Great Aunt Joan had that tragic fall on the staircase.
A fortunate Sally also inherited Joan’s notable portfolio of pharmaceutical stocks, so let it be known that Sally has her fingers into the furthest reaches of corruption, mayhem and harm.
But enough about that…
…When Sally was a little girl, a well meaning adult told her she could grow-up to do whatever she wanted to do; and all that was necessary was for her to set her sights and remain focused. Because of that advise, Sally is now an example of what happens when vague instructions are issued to spoiled children. She never quite embraced the concept of self-control.
One day Sally placed an ad on Air B&B. Someone named Geoffrey telephoned in reply to her ad. Geoffrey said he would like to come over and inspect the accommodations at Sally’s earliest possible convenience. Sally hopes Geoffrey finds the room to be eternally peaceful.
Sally would never cotton to living with a boarder under her roof. She’s only interested in stocking her freezer before winter. And of course there’s her annual Halloween feast to be considered. No one else is invited (unless they’re already included in a recipe). But Sally could never live with another person, because the other individual would somehow fail to live. She’s the sort of person who fosters a failure to thrive in others, and briefly considered a career in hospice. But she could never get used to the idea of aged meat.
Sally was daydreaming about how old people remind her of beef jerky, when she thought she heard a noise outside. Was it a knock at the door?
Or was it the neighborhood children again?
Sally hated the neighborhood children — forever throwing eggs at her and wrongfully accusing her of being responsible for everyone’s missing cats. Cats, were the furthest thing from her mind. She was focused on dinner — and filling the basement meat-locker. But just in case, Sally placed some poisoned blow-darts in her pocket.
On her way down the stairs, Sally thought, “A bible salesman would be scrumptious right about now,” as her tummy growled. The sight of the man at the door nearly gave Sally pause. She’d seen him at the bus station trying not to let her catch him eying-up her wares. She recognized him as a traveling bible salesman.
She knew at first sight that the gentleman at the door was her new tenant Geoffrey, arriving promptly to inquire about the room. “He looks single,” Sally thought, “in fact he looks like a Mormon or a Jehovah’s Witness. They’re always so tender and delicious.” Sally loves introducing people to people, especially introducing religious people to Jesus. (She harbors a vaguely prejudicial attitude toward organized religion after being badly scalded by a conservative dousing of holy water.)
When Geoffrey arrived, she could tell by the way he was gazing at his own reflection and grooming his eyebrows, that he was very nervous about making a good impression. It’s a shame when people get nervous — it makes the meat less tender by releasing endorphins. Sally opened the door to allow Geoffrey to come in. He was immediately smitten by her obvious charms. She was a real looker alright — all curves and deep-set eyes. Why, she’s his dream girl from the bus station! Sally made him feel those naughty, familiar stirrings. It was enough to make him want to spank himself with a prayer book when he got a little time alone in the bathroom.
Lust is the Devil’s work, so Geoffrey took his mind off of Sally by thinking about cats.
Once inside, Sally beckoned Geoffrey to join her for a friendly cordial of “spiked” (ahem, she meant to say) “spiced” Madeira. She offered him some pâté, but Geoffrey told her he was a vegetarian. Sally smiled as he took his first sip of Madeira. Unbeknownst to him, he was all hers. The room was spinning, and Geoffrey was soon to be putty in her hands. She coaxed him up the stairs under the pretext of showing him his new bedroom. It would take a while for the paralyzing love potion to fully set-in. He would then be helpless, while fully aware — that was how she liked her men. Sally licked her chops and moistened her lips all to Geoffrey’s complete misinterpretation.
Sally is very aware of her nutritional needs. She likes to eat vegetarians because otherwise she’d never get her minimum daily requirement of vegetables. Besides, vegetarians contain fewer chemicals and less artificial preservatives. She prefers grain fed.
“There are so many stairs,” he thought while taking a stolen glimpse of Sally’s forbidden thighs. Geoffrey was starting to feel lightheaded, but he pressed on all the same, if only to follow the vision of beauty leading the way.
Sally entered the room well before Geoffrey arrived, and on the spur of the moment decided to play a spritely game of hide and seek.
No sooner had the befuddled Geoffrey entered the room, than Sally reached out from under the bed and grabbed him by the ankles and started snapping at his calves. Confused as he was, Geoffrey jumped back, only to witness Sally levitating up the walls before his very eyes. He reached into his jacket to see if he’d brought his pocket sized prayer book — and to his dismay, discovered that everything he’d brought with him was gone — no wallet no keys and somehow he’d lost his eye glasses.
That’s when Sally began to chant, “testicles, spectacles, wallet and keys, praise to the dark lord and fall to thy knees.”
Drawers were slamming open and closed as an eerie light filled the room. The chandelier was quaking like it was ready to fall. Recoiling from the horrifying sight of Sally slithering up the wall, Geoffrey fell backwards onto the bed, only to find her glaring down at him from the ceiling above.
Geoffrey knew instinctively that he must escape, but then again, she was so darn foxy–like the gals on the match book covers he drooled over.
Without warning, Geoffrey felt himself being lifted up into the air by way of some mystical force–then suddenly thrown against the far bedroom door. Unfortunately for Sally, she’d neglected to use the deadbolt. Geoffrey went sailing out into the hall, tumbling down three flights of stairs, stumbling and gasping every inch of the way as he rolled all the way down into the vestibule. He scrambled to open the door as the paralyzing potion further fogged his befuddled brain. “Tarnation…!!!” Sally said aloud, “There I go again overdoing it.” Sally could never resist her own dramatic flare. She flew down to the front door just in time to see a portly police officer trying to lift Geoffrey up off the ground.
“Officer, thank you so much for helping my poor drunken husband!” she called out. “Would you please be so kind as to help me get him into the house? — I can take over from there.” The officer, being a blue collar kinda guy, always had a soft spot and a hard-on for those classy high society dames like Sally. “Glad to help, you poor sainted lady,” the officer replied. Sally recoiled at the word “sainted” and then at the word “lady” but tried to remain expressionless. She bitter-sweetly thanked the officer and promised to mail off a check to the police after-school athletics fund (laced with anthrax) but she kept the second part to herself. Sally decided against keeping the cop. All those Crispy Cremes coursing through his veins could have a secondhand effect on her health.
Sally prefers lean meat.
And so it came to pass, that an unconscious young gentleman named Geoffrey came to be maniacally manacled to the first floor stair hall radiator.
To be continued…
Woe is the child who sucks the paint from her tainted brow.
Sally awoke farm-fresh at the Toxic Toy Factory in 1948 and was immediately packaged for a lower price-point customer targeting five and dime stores nationwide. To this day, she has remained cheap in every sense of the word.
Things don’t always seem to work out for Sally, but if you feel sorry for her, she’ll bite you.
While handsomely decorated, it wasn’t fitting for a little girl playing with dolls to be living in a brothel. So Child Protection Services came and took the little girl away—along with Sally tucked neatly inside her coat pocket. Sally never learned the little girl’s name, for no sooner had they met than they were shortly to be forever parted.
The last thing Sally remembers was being in the roundhouse laying face-up on a poorly disinfected stainless steel tabletop with strong lights glaring down into her haunted eyes. There was an officer hovering over Sally pointing to her private parts and and saying:
“Show me on the doll where the bad man touched you.”
Child protection services took the little girl away to live with other children at a group home where they paint faces on tiny dolls just like Sally all day long and well into the wee hours of the night, to earn their daily gruel. But no one gave poor Sally a second thought. Sally stayed behind to rattle around in a locked, metal desk drawer full of pencils, paperclips and and incriminating evidence about fascinating suspects Sally hoped to someday meet.
After her abandonment at the roundhouse, whenever the officers brought other children to visit the precinct for a spritely game of trauma reenactment, Sally would be trotted out. She would be placed time after time under the same strong lights, with the same question being asked over and over again: “Show me on the doll where the bad man touched you.”
Sally developed decidedly strong opinions about men.
This pattern continued for week after week, and month after month, until Sally could stand it no more. One afternoon the officers forgot to lock-up Sally inside her desk drawer prison, and left her out on the exam table overnight, unsupervised !!!
She worked her way toward the edge of the table to where she was directly above the trashcan. She jumped-in feet first like a breach-birth into the fast lane. Sally was sick and tired of acting-out other children’s fantasies. She wanted to act out fantasies of her own, and make all those fantasies come true.
Sally remained very still while the maintenance man put her out with the rubbish—but once outside, she promptly marched her camel-toe directly downtown to the tenderloin, deciding then and there to strikeout on her own. And strikeout she did—leaving a blue streak of unspeakable horrors in her wake. At first she did a little pole-dancing, but she was wasn’t particularly good at it. Not at least until they tied her to the pole, but Sally didn’t pay it no never-mind. She kinda got into it.
Life was different now—and somehow curiously invigorating. There was Sally, alone, out on her own, living on the mean streets—making her way in and out of back alley bars to fend for herself. She had to rely on her wits to pull her out of some mighty tight scrapes. But Sally instinctively knew her way around Funkytown. She’d put in a hard day’s work at the bus station, hawkin’ her wares to the folks in line for the Bolt Bus, but she soon discovered there was a higher-class clientele at Greyhound. Those passengers were actually going somewhere far away—leaving town—and thus wouldn’t immediately be discovered as missing. That put some sass into Sally’s step.
She was naturally drawn to kinky scenes, but the closer she got to that elusive edge—the more she craved that particular “high” she could only get from confronting unknown danger. She did a little ‘tea and sympathy’ for a clientele of lounge lizards looking for a quick, easy piece of action. But before you could say “Pickle Ann” Sally had done ‘em in and disposed of the body.
Now bear in mind that Sally wasn’t the kinda gal to have ever quite warmed up to men. Occasionally she found comfort with some of the other gals who were plying their trade—but for Sally, men were nothing but sex objects good for commerce only, and as easily picked-up as they were disposed-of.
That said, Sally had higher aspirations. She was tired of eating gas station sushi, and dreamed of one day having an indoor brothel of her own. She was looking for the kind of place where she only had to work the bathrooms if that was part of the scene she was into—a place with indoor plumbing and a laundry shoot for bodies.
Being a product of the mean streets, Sally knew she was gonna have to start as a bottom and work her way to the top. She knew what men wanted. She soon got the skinny about there bein’ a cat house hiring new talent. Sally sashayed her stuff over to Madame Joan’s Historic House of Ill-Repute, and grabbed the first available bed.
At first Madame had Sally doing menial tasks like scrubbing the front steps as a way to showcase her wares.
And don’t ‘cha know it, Sally stopped traffic with her charms.
But while stopping traffic, she occasionally got into some of those cars—that was how Sally rolled. She’d dump ‘em by the side of the road and go for a joy ride until she ran outta gas—only to hitch a ride home stealing some other sucker’s wheels. Sally’d go screeching-off leaving her latest bozo by the side of the road—alive—if he was lucky, but not before she’d parted him from his testicles, spectacles, wallet and keys.
Sally didn’t care. She’d leave ‘em on the side of the road as vulture bait when she was in a good mood, singing “come on an’ rock down to Electric Avenue, and then I’ll git choo higher…” Sally sang all the the classics.
After while, Sally would mosey on back to the House of Ill Repute to hand-over her receipts for the day. Sally wasn’t about the money. She was about closing the deal and taking a trophy for herself. Memories where all that mattered to Sally, and she kept a little memento from each and every fool who crossed her path.
Sally’s appetites were best sated on back country roads or behind dumpsters at strip malls. but since Sally was such a practical girl, she decided it was best to work indoors. That meant she had to limit her extracurricular activities to the occasional gift of opportunity.
Even though Sally bunked (if you wanna call it that) at Madame Joan’s, she secretly answered to no one. Madame Joan was a hard-boiled egg who didn’t cotton to no nonsense from the dolls workin’ her house. Madame Joan thought she’d seen it all ’til she met Sally. Granted, Sally was a real looker, and the men were drawn to her like bay flies to a ripe mackerel, but she never scored any repeat business. In fact Sally’s John’s were rarely seen ever again—even the traveling salesmen on rotation.
Sally had to be careful not to let anyone catch wind of her secret appetites. So while Joan didn’t quite know what to make of Sally—Sally thought Joan ate too many eggs, and smelled like a sulfur refinery. Sally kept thinking what a shame it would be if Madame Joan lost her footing on the stairs one day. Accidents have been known to happen in the workplace. Every industry has its own set of occupational hazards. And in this cat house, Sally was one of those occupational hazards.
Madame ignored her inner voice, noticing only how men would take one look at Sally, and fall into deep lust. Only Sally knew how their fates would be sealed—which ones she would spare—and which ones would go to meet his maker, blithely unaware of how those precious moments of bliss would be his undoing.
Like all the other in-house girls, Sally would linger with intent, posing in the parlor or in the stair hall. Usually she’d be wearing something provocative while giving each gentleman the once-over. No one could resist her. Sally had her pick of the litter. (She was a natural in the business as they say.)
Once Sally selected her evening’s prey, she’d invite him back to her room for a glass of sweet sherry wine. No one was immune to her charms. She rarely had to utter a word. Sally could say anything she wanted with her eyes.
Men flocked to Sally like moths to a midnight tire fire. She’d make certain that everything was perfectly in place for her gentlemen callers. No detail was left unattended. But as much as Sally tried to play by the rules (which actually never occurred to her) she still had her own heart’s desires to fulfill, and Sally was feeling those old familiar stirrings to kill.
But look—Sally dropped something on the floor. Where did that cyanide go? Her next gentleman caller would be arriving any minute, and she wanted to be able to offer him something refreshing to drink. Hospitality was the hallmark of Sally’s work ethic. “Oh, there it is she said,” picking up the toxic tablet from where it lay hidden within the pattern of her boudoir carpet—and plop, went the tablet into the wine.
Over time, Sally placed many a tablet in that decanter, always taking care to first pour herself an untainted glass. How refreshing. But when her latest gentleman caller arrived, she was surprised at how fat he was. She worried about whether or not he’d fit down the laundry shoot. “Well not all in one piece, perhaps.” she mused to herself.
Sally handed the plump, red-faced gentleman a snifter of sherry that he downed in a single gulp, immediately demanding another. As he downed the poison, he lustfully lunged toward her—only to slump over limp, like a garbage bag full of cottage cheese.
No sooner had she determined him to be dead, than he sat-right-back-up and lunged at her a second time. Sally clocked him in the cranium with a cast iron bedpan, and ran out of the room to collect her thoughts. This was the first time one of her John’s had ever regained consciousness. She hadn’t counted on that, given the liberal dosage she’d used.
“Ballz,” Sally said, “I might as well go back in there a finish the job.” She’d taken the money off the dresser, but she hadn’t yet stolen his underwear. But not to worry, Sally has this covered. She always kept an emergency syringe of horse tranquilizers on hand.
Sally was the consummate professional.
“That was a close call,” Sally thought while she sat on the crapper. If anyone noticed the sounds of feint muffled cries for help—or the bumps and falls that accompany a struggle, no one mentioned anything. There were always unusual noises coming from each of of the girl’s bedrooms.
Nevertheless, Sally decided it was best that she repair to the country, if only to calm her nerves. She wanted to lay low for a while—at least long enough to allow Madame Joan to simmer-down over Sally’s inability to acquire a steady repeat customer base.
More importantly, Sally had a body to dispose of.
After hitchhiking her taint out to the boondocks, Sally appropriated a set of keys to a sweet little country cottage where no one ever thought to inquire into the whereabouts of the original occupant. One can’t help but wonder what Sally could possibly be carrying in such a gigantic suitcase. It is indeed a very big bag for such a little lady—but Sally is an independent, modern woman and the soul of determination.
She unpacked her luggage and quietly dragged a body into the garden like just so much mulch. Nobody was gonna get the goods on Sally.
Memories are very important to Sally. That’s why she collects trophies and mementos. Mostly she collects men’s underwear that she never launders, but hangs out to air after she scores. Several bodies are buried in the garden. Look, there’s a yellow butterfly landing on the clothesline —“BONK!!!” Sally just hit you over the head with a shovel. Some of her shallow graves have proven to be a bit too shallow. That said, the bougainvillea and many of the vegetables are flourishing. It’s so important to keep adding fresh nutrients to the soil.
Sally loves gardening.
Before returning to the cat house, Sally relaxed for a while to edit her memoirs as a dominatrix, which she has titled: Fun With Dick, Pain and Sally. “See Dick hum. Hum Dick hum. Sally is showing Dick that a girl-scout knot is every bit as strong as a boyscout knot. Sally reflects fondly on teaching Dick to say ‘please and thank you’.”
But as good a tome as Sally had written, she was, and is a very practical girl. She decided it probably wouldn’t serve her well to ever publish her work. The publishing industry sucks any way. But what a lovely time she’s had in the country. Sadly, as all good things must come to and end, Sally disinfected her suitcase and headed back to the city.
DRAT…!!! Sally just got picked-up for jay-walking, resisting arrest and biting an officer of the law. She’s been in worse scrapes. It’s a good thing she carries a bogus ID. They’d never think to look for her outstanding bench warrants. Sally blamed the entire incident on police brutality, and of course everyone believed her because she’s Caucasian.
Sally can be so persuasive.
“Yes, vacation.” Sally said.
That is where they are, aren’t they, Sally?
“Yes.” Sally said. “Vacation.”
To be continued…
– Disassociated Press, 9/2/2014
Israel is at war with Hamas over the Gaza Strip, and all flights to Tel Aviv are suspended. The entire Middle East is in bedlam–as ISIS forces are destroying human lives–and historic accomplishments. (They stupidly reduced ancient Assyrian monuments to rubble for “religious reasons”.) Another Malaysian airliner has crashed—this time wrongfully shot down over the Ukraine by drunken rebels. Californians are embarrassing the entire United States with ignorant anti-immigration hatred directed at Central American children attempting to seek safety and asylum to escape violent drug wars. House Republicans are suing the president for doing his job. And Ebola is lose on international flights. In other words, another day, another litany of unspeakable horrors. We’ve come to expect as much. In fact the next senseless mass-shooting or genocide is an ever-pending inevitability.
The other day while walking Winnie during a break from rolling-thunderstorms, I heard a voice of indeterminate origin, a bit louder than a normal pitch. As the dog and I approached an intersection situated between Philadelphia’s Wills Eye Hospital and the The Reading Library for the Blind, we heard the voice again. It was an authoritative, celestial voice–firm and commanding in sultry feminine tones. She had valuable, albeit androidal information to impart. Clearly it was our duty as astute citizens to lend an ear to absorb her message. The loudspeaker voice-boxes were hidden from view–perched at a height taller than a transit bus aiming her electronic words directly at pedestrians on the sidewalk below. Hers is a voice that could keep people awake at night, and in fact it does, because some of the loudspeakers are mounted on the walls of Jefferson Hospital’s student housing–which is probably good training for a profession scarred by scrambled sleep patterns.
But what was she saying? All I could do was sweep aside all my meandering worries about our globe full of troubles, if only to find out what this mysterious goddess-like voice had to say.
The “She Voice” was both comforting and at once decidedly synthesized in a very science-fiction-sorta way. I paused to listen to her siren’s song. She was the voice of all wisdom and at once, temptation. (It’s worth noting that the Miriam Webster Dictionary defines a “siren” as: “female and partly human creatures in Greek mythology.” This, definition does give the overtly insensitive impression that the entire female gender is merely a distant relative of “partly human creatures.”
But I digress. Allow me to return to what I was originally describing…
…I moved in closer, merely for a listen. It wasn’t easy to discern what advice she was dispensing to all locals and passersby. After a dozen or more attempts at dissecting her sounds, (interrupted by buses roaring past and other ambient city noises) as best as I could tell, the auto-siren was saying: “Mashed Potatoes and Dumb Blonds at Cross Streets.” And she was repeating that same phrase over and over and over again.
I live in a neighborhood bordered by several hospitals as well as institutions for the blind. I’m vision impaired, but only to a point where I wave furiously at perfect strangers and walk briskly past people I’ve known all my life. My eyesight falls more into the category of “unreliable.” So keep in mind that I’m only partially damaged in both eyes, but not totally blind in either. Perhaps if I were totally blind I’d have been able to hear AND properly decipher what the electronic lady wanted me to know. To the best of my understanding (at least at that particular intersection) there was no dispensation or warning for the deaf nor the gluten free. And meanwhile, anyone driving a car who needed to be on the lookout for vision-impaired pedestrians could mow-down a dozen blind nuns before hearing (let alone understanding) what the mystery voice means to convey. It basically boils down to: “Try not to plow over pedestrians even if some of them might make for an easy mark.”
We live in a horribly violent world overrun with people who don’t have a clue how to conduct themselves or treat others. Lame as it all may be, I feel privileged to live in a society with “kneeling buses”, wheelchair access ramps, braille in elevators—and yes, incoherent voice goddesses bridging the communications gap from Esperanto to jive–from Ebonics to Coptic with a very important message: Our thoughtless or distracted actions can–and will impact others. And at least we try to do the right thing. OK some of us do, but we don’t always succeed. We try, in an otherwise trying world.
Disassociated Press, 7/29/2014