The Gringo

“Them shrimp burritos, man, they sure as hell just melt in your mouth.”   The Gringo stood in the hallway, peering into the kitchen.   The chef, a whistling muscleman, plopped a spoonful of guacamole into a stuffed taco.   He then meandered over to the deep fryer, yanking out the plantains.

“You must have had the shrimp burritos before, haven’t you?”  The Gringo continued.  The chef nodded then pushed passed his chatty voyeur.  “Ah to Follow the Chef,” sang the Gringo.   Had the bathroom door stayed shut, he would have continued on with the song.   A hunchbacked woman stumbled past the Gringo, her breath reeking of fecal matter.  Once inside the tiled bathroom, rose fragrance permeated the air.

There upon the warm porcelain seat, the Gringo closed his eyes, humming the tune “Ah to Follow The Chef.”   Minutes later, nothing had found its way out of his rectum.   He was awoken by a pounding on the door.   The Gringo leapt up, his genitals flailing about, yanked the door open.  There stood the chef.   The two uttered their apologizes with cheeks aflame in embarrassment.

Boy Killer

Oh kiss me, Gertrude. It’s been so long since we’ve held one another. How about you yank the bed cover off and we spend time rolling around? We can make smoothies and then share with one another horror stories. You’ll love that, I know.

Here’s my latest horror story–

A nine-year old boy prone toward wearing striped shirts shot his parents in the head. His father kept guns around the house. One of those types that feared everything from intruders to those using the driveway as a turn-around station. When the cops arrived, the boy said nothing.   At the station, he just cried.   When I got to him, the boy had clearly lost his mind.   He licked his lips. Spoke in tongues. Maniacal laughter echoed throughout the interrogation room.   The boy needed sedation.  Whatever was prescribed to him had no effect.   He stared at me, called me his mother yet I’m a man. A new psychologist was assigned to the case.

Months later, the boy visits me in my dreams.    He tells me that one day he’ll find me.   Gertrude, please hold me.   Please assure me that I’m safe from this boy.

Marching Out West

My fellow readers:

Know that I’m at the beginning of a journey.   In exactly 29 days, a U-Haul truck will be parked in front of my cabin.  All my loved possessions from the past four plus years will be emptied out into that U-Haul truck.   Several days later, I’ll be marching out west to Northern California.

In this timeframe, my postings might be scarce.  Once settled in, expect to hear more from me.   It’s my pleasure to entertain you.   More so, it’s a great joy to express myself in whatever ways I can.  Time to freshen up and prepare for the day’s adventures.