Skoal! Chapter One: The Funeral "We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of Skoal Lassiter, a self-taught scholar of the written word, a veteran of the industry as Betty Lou Retin was to gymnastics, and a man who broke through many barriers and inspired the respect of all around him." All bullshit. First of all, some "mourners" blinked in surpise when they discovered he had a last name. Here, was a man who successfully dabbled in every genre of the book industry without ever revealing his surname. He was the Prince of the book world. In fact, he was the very beginning of the industry for Prussian-Nordic-Americans. The "mourners" were actually avid fans who didn't read much and family members of Skoal's victims, which included anyone who had ever spoken out against him. They mysteriously disappeared and were never spoken of again. It was that simple and no one knew why. In the beginning of his career, he volunteered to take a polygraph test the one time he was questioned about missing critics. But, his attorney convinced him it wasn't necessary since he was still a minor. Maybe Skoal was confident he'd pass it, maybe he'd set it up for his attorney to intervene, maybe he really had no more knowledge about the disappearances than anyone else. He really was a terrible writer. His books ended up as padding for a too short table leg or a handy roach killer. It pains me to read his "masterpieces" to the point where I want to gouge my own eyes out with a paper cup to relieve the agony of reading Skoal. Homocidal tendencies sometimes overtakes my person when he's mentioned in the same sentence as Shakespeare or Borges. I propose that as the last descendent of Stolja the Lasjathor, the Prussian-Nordic slave turned king of the seventh century, Skoal had a private Mafia who devoted generations of their bloodline protecting and promoting the interests and life of their last Zion. So, he rode through every wave of the book industry like King Midas, turning bestiality erotica, a trio of documentaries about the San Francisco gay pride parade, and words like "chum" into household items. Whether he led, was aware of, or was completely clueless of the stealthy Lasjathor Mafia is beyond anyone's knowledge because they were that damned stealthy. Prussian-Nordic Ninjas may be a better title than Mafia. Quite truthfully, the Lasjathor Mafia may be a figment of my imagination. This is all individual investigation you understand. But to further substantiate what I believe is the truth, I've come face-to-face with death twice since I've attempted to prove the existence of the Lasjathor Mafia. Before this, nothing. I could very much expect to live every day. Ok, not all lies. He was self-taught. Born into a wealthy royal family of a small province, he later emigrated to America against his family's and country's wishes at the age of nine and while delivering newspapers to keep himself from starving, wrote his first book by age ten in broken English entitled, "Arbok Vhonchentze Etzmielhierizagha Russonja." Although the title was unpronouncable to anyone other than a Prussian-Nordic of the Lasjathor province, contained only one and two syllable words, and was about as interesting as "Clifford the Big Red Dog," book dealers and and readers of all types snatched it off the shelves like it was made of gold. No, this phenomenon has not been explained to this day about any of his books, which were all versions of "Arbok Vhonchentze Etzmielhierizagha Russonja." Basically, the same plot or no plot at all with different characters. By 1920, at the age of thirteen, he had managed to make today's equivalent of $6 million and brought the entire royal population of Lasjathor to America. I have to say, the preacher was dead-on in analogizing him to Betty Lou Retin. In his youth, they resembled each other to a tee. Back then, he stood a full four foot eleven. Now, dead at the age of ninety-seven he laid in a child-sized coffin. Though, he didn't much resemble a Viking, his Prussian Nordic comrades considered him a national treasure. The Prussian-Nordic royals consists now of eight families who lead traditional Lasjathorian lives in Boca Raton, Florida. Also, he actually broke through the racial barriers by inspiring not respect, but a mysterious and unspoken fear. No one disrespected him, out loud that is. Sure, anyone was free to criticize and never be heard of again, but instead we all chose to kiss his ass because we valued our lives. "An excerpt of In Makes Love Now will now be read by Skogkun, Skoal's youngest and closest half-brother." This piece was published yesterday. His first posthumous piece. And I thought we could all rejoice together now that he isn't producing more "literature." Ill never have to write a falsely glowing review for him anymore. There is a Skoal Review Template icon on my desktop, which contains a form much like Mad Libs, where I simply fill in the name of the book, characters' names, and random positive adjectives where the blanks appear. Call it a trade secret. Call it time management strategy. Also, I don't suffer from a desire to bore and cry myself to death, so didn't read his newest book. Nor did any other critic, I'm sure. But, as always, stellar reviews. Skoal has somehow managed to stuff the First Amendment in a crack and the public loves him for it because we, the experts, proclaim him a genius and they believe us. A wiry copper-bearded man with thick glasses who must be seventy going by the cobweb of wrinkles under the brim of his hat, which branched out to his ears, but otherwise resembles Chuck Norris in his hey day approaches the podium beside the coffin. Tightly surrounding the coffin in a semi-circle is the family, adorned in swaths of blue fur, the Prussian Nordic sign of mourning. I was invited as a "family friend" for twenty years of exuberant praise. I'm sandwiched between a third cousin and someone who resembles Grandpa Simpson, seated in a wheelchair and snoring at the sky. It's impossible to leave inconspicuously, so I cringe and stay for the reading. Behind me, I hear the loud collective grind and click of lighters. The masses who mourn for their literary leader equal around 55,000, and consist of mood-swing prone teenagers discovering his work for the first time, philosophy majors with blue velvet berets like he used to wear, Geritol chugging gray haired women who thought he had a cute butt and a dreamy accent, avant garde writers of all sorts, his Saturday night bowling buddies who cheered even for a gutterball, and pre-teen girls with mascara-streaked faces from crying all day. Many of them raised posters or wore buttons that proclaimed, "Skoal Rocks!" Fran Drescher's voice ejected from Skoal's Chuck Norris look-alike half-brother to leave us with a new and final piece of Skoal: "In makes love now liking doing and running feeds when the street continuously very little undertakes the line operation, way respect. It said woman "Italian" obscenely does not have, perhaps is not less compared to the person and meaning, obscenely follows the masturbation is lonely, nochtans after woman overseas 5,,900 examinations discovery, obscenely means 69%. vele above female. The obscene woman meant the psychologist commended, has the creative health is, has the nature to move the initiative, the gelukkige female, natural bloeiendere desire geslachtsleven, the more possible sexual ship of wall scene obscenely adopts, the canned food Italy imagination is leaves in party supermarktparkeren it they processes person's kleren, then separates in the automobile mobile rear seat, but also will harpoon the oneself evening and dearly to be able to be these day before yesterday brilliant questions dryings, when his might is adopted and they to love the sign, their binne." This is a typical Skoal piece.  It likely nonsensically continues for approximately 1200 - 1600 pages.  Rampant applause breaks out among Skoal's sheep. Lighters, banners, buttons This concert, I mean, funeral is quite significant to a broad array of individuals. CHAPTER TWO: LASJATHOR MOURNING "You must drink, Eppy," A blond man who looks like he's eaten a sumo wrestler roars into my ear, "In my country there is a saying: Drink to forget the death of a king or a pauper. We like drink!" ~ To be continued. ~
Fiortuna      Fioritura Mugnaio was engaged to Leonardo di Inverno, a promising young tailor whose father's shop was across the street from her home.  Next Spring, when the flowers bloomed again, they would marry above the cobblestone bridge canopied by wisping willows.  In the ravaging dark cell of winter, he was summoned and left suddenly as he could not bear to witness Fioritura's sorrow when his own conjured images of her.  That night, he left with the rest of the 78th infantry to fight the Americans and after the war ended, never returned.  A year, then seven went by and Fioritura knew she would never love anyone again.      Every Spring, dressed in a gale of black garments as the flowers celebrated life, she approached the priest-alderman of her town and asked that he allow her to be the wife of her war-vanished fiancé.  Time and time again, he explained that such a thing was impossible.  She begged him to understand that in her heart, and in his, they were already married.  But, Fioritura, he cannot say those words we need to make this an official union, he would gently tell her, his own heart breaking at the sound of his voice.  On the third Spring, she fell into an eerie, lamentful weeping before the priest-alderman upon his refusal and asked if mutes were forbidden to profess their love because they were unable.  The priest-alderman shook his head with utmost compassion and said nothing.       On the seventh Spring, the women of the town were so moved, they drafted a petition with the assistance of Gino, who was studying to be a lawyer.  The petition read:                           For eighteen years, the effianced Fioritura Mugnaio, of our town, Alto Terreno   della Francia del Sud Rurale, has awaited the return of her fiancé, Leonardo di    Inverno, from the War Against American Empire.  The union of their souls is born    of their love and devotion to each other.  Fioritura Mugnaio simply asks that this beautiful union be recognized in the eyes of God and the law.   Four thousand and eighty seven signatures were appended to the following pages.  The priest-alderman read the petition and immediately postponed the business of his day to visit Fioritura.       The day for which she had waited nearly two decades had finally arrived.  The effianced woman signed the marriage license as herself and as Leonardo's proxy and three hours later, a simple ceremony took place on the cobblestone bridge with a sky of wisping willow.  She said, "I do," as herself and as his proxy and they were wed.  Only the bride's and groom's family were officially invited for the simple ceremony, but the entire town converged to show their support and a spontaneous celebration of song, dance, and high spirits took place.      Fioritura di Inverno, of the high terrain of rural Southern France, felicitously became a newlywed and a widow in the same night as the laws of language were broken when she professed their love.
Art Sale "Ander, what’s taken you so long? You should have been here an hour ago." The sponsor hissed. "I guess I overslept," I replied a bit sheepishly. "It’s nine o’clock at night!" Was his exasperated response. "Oh. Well, then that explains it. I had night and day reversed. I hate it when that happens." He reached up to stroke his mustache as if pondering my mental well being or just didn’t believe my excuse. I was tempted to see if I could lift the man up by his handlebar mustache. So cliche. We walked hurriedly down the echoing stone halls of the castle-like museum, listening to the sound of our alternating footsteps. Like the standard beat of a sacrificial drum. "Now which painting am I showing again?" I asked. Fernando, the sponsor, looked about ready to explode. His ruddy cheeks became more inflamed and his two eyebrows knit into one. "How long have you known about this? Two, three weeks? How the hell can you not know anything about the work you’re about to introduce? You’ll make a fool of me!" "Don’t worry, it’ll be a fine presentation. Just point me in its general vicinity and I’ll make you proud. I sold that piece of crap from Venice last week, didn’t I?" Fernando the sponsor threw his hands up in the air and cursed vehemently in Spanish, then said, "That was a masterpiece. MY masterpiece! And button your pants, for Christ’s sake. The whole world doesn’t need knowledge of your virility!" Sarcasm? Envy? Gay? You can never tell with these artist types. "Oh. Sorry. Now which one is it?" The frustrated man seemed on the verge of bashing my head in and returning to his dark room to paint the remains of my skull. These artist types are so moody. I mounted the stage and felt the burning glare of a thousand angry eyes picturing my death. All so moody and unstable. I bowed grandly and introduced the veiled painting with a sweep of my arm. "It is a pleasure to have you here tonight as patrons of geniuses. First of all, allow me to sincerely apologize for the extended delay..." Yada, yada, yada. I continued for another ten minutes or so explaining to them the situation of my dying seven year old daughter and her refusal to let her father leave her side for fear that she would never see him again. How just this morning, the doctor took her off of solid foods since she could no longer digest properly. Described her gaunt yet cherub-like face and how violent coughs would interrupt her scarce laughter. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when I had completed my story. And family, I told them, is the foundation of future legends. And some more emotional crap. They forgave me of course after I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. Acting, you see, is also an art. I delicately seized the two bottom corners of the midnight blue velvet and revealed the long awaited treasure. What the hell... This is it? The canvas had been coated in a common white paint that seemed a little dusty and smeared with a tiny bit of dirt in certain areas. Art? Fernando, you moron, how do you expect me to sell this? The damn thing doesn’t even exist. It’s a dirty canvas for God’s sake. Where does the man find all this garbage? I gave the painting a cursory glance to see if there was a title anywhere to give me a clue as to what it was. Nothing. "This magnificent piece of work was excavated in the ancient ruins of Camaduro-Habu." Confused murmurs in the crowd. Probably because the place doesn’t exist. Just like the goddamn painting. Fernando looked about ready to cry. "You can see by the precisely deliberate strokes of the various brushes the intent of the artist. Through this Camaduro-Habuese painting we are given a rare glimpse of the ritual sexual practices of this little known African tribe. The wave of whiteness here symbolizes the purity of the experience, yet contrasting lines and grains here disrupt the innocence perhaps prematurely. Further evidence of the corruption of youth are the two distinct tracings of light gray that appear to spread from the center in an ovular pattern that gleams as it takes on a more intense shade. In other well-known paintings of this restitute nature, what is gray here is often symbolized by dark clouds or inscription-like creases. It is very probable that the artist was genetically and socially more Habuese than Camaduran because of the openly flamboyant intonations of possible rape throughout the work." My audience of fools nodded knowledgably and took notes on my lecture. "This was completed sometime in the early fourteenth century after nearly two decades of contemplation and interrupted inspiration. As we can all see, ladies and gentlemen, genius lies in simplicity." Applause broke out among my sheep. Fernando was smiling now at my sensational bullshit. "Unfortunately, we have little present knowledge about our dead artist except that he was an aging field hand at the time of the culmination of this, his greatest work, which he titled, Transcendental Ejaculate." Ooh... Ahh... How profound...goes the crowd. Fernando doesn’t know whether to jump for joy at our apparent success or crumble to pieces due to embarrassment. This has got to be the greatest job.
Edalpo (excerpt) It was all coming back to him now.  It was the beginning of the genetics craze a dozen years ago.  That damned sheep started it all.  1997 to be exact.  Absolutely nothing was certain yet, but in a sudden flash of pure genius, the madman had attempted to ameliorate his family’s genetic make up by altering their DNA.  The world’s first perfect family.  What a brilliant idea.  He could see them on the cover of Times and on the front page of every newspaper in the world.  An entire chapter in all history books would be devoted to them.  Movie deals would be presented to them left and right, documentaries on Discovery, National Geographics, and The Learning Channel.  He would stand among the greatest scientists ever to grace the earth with their prescence.  He could see it now, the NOBEL PEACE PRIZE.  Never again would they have to worry about making ends meet.  They’d move to Paris or wherever his family wanted to live.  They’d buy a small country, dedicate it to all the struggling geniuses of the world, and name it Hopeland.  It would be a contribution to science as well as society and his family.  The plan was to kill them, then bring them back to life with the new genes in place.  They went kicking and screaming when he dragged them to the laboratory.  Why couldn’t they understand he was doing this for them?  For their own good.  Fools, how could they not trust him?  He loved them more than anything.  However, it all took a turn for the unthinkable when he failed to restore their lives.  Corpses lay before him that had once been his blood and breath.  He remembered this all now as he sat at the notched and marred table with his family in his hands, their images dissolving in his tears.  He heard distant sirens and found himself in the exact same spot as a dozen years ago.  But this time, he had not even their corpses to hold, only a blurred photograph.