Chapter 2

"You got the brains of a fucking sweat sock I swear," she said. Helen Handfuls was a mean-spirited lady. Helen wasn't a pretty woman, but she wasn't ugly either. She was about equal parts hobo lady and Cindy Crawford, and she had a smile that looked like Brad Pitt's that she rarely used except to invite salespeople or Jehovah's Witnesses into the house. She had big hands for a woman, too. Man hands, and they made hard fists. Just ask Harry. If anyone could run Harry down it was his wife Helen. She was strong-willed and intolerable to most people including her loved ones, but for some reason that I will reveal later in the story, Harry put up with it.

"You been drinking again," she said, "and by the looks of your hands fightin' too. What the hell's wrong with you, huh?"

Harry sat down on the couch. It was an old couch and had lots of stains on it, like from popcorn butter and chocolate and probably ejaculate too after Harry's nephew spent that week with them last summer and slept on the couch.

"Dear, you know I need to unwind after a hard day's work," he said.

"Hard day's work my fucking ass," she retorted. "What work? You're a fucking butcher for Christ's sake! Kiss my ass, work. Ha."

Harry shook his head. "I don't mean to be difficult dear, but you should try to cut hunk after hunk of meat day after day. All the blood and the meat and the fat and the cuts. It takes its toll on a person."

"Let me get the fucking baby a goddamn diaper," she screamed. "You pissbag. That's you, Harry, you're a stinkin' pissbag. You want to know what a real job is? I got a stack of fucking essays in there on the goddamned bed, and they're sure as shit not going to read themselves. By the time I get through with that shit, I'll be ready for a cyanide capsule and a shovel over the goddamn head. Got it?

"And another thing, I gotta stand up in front of a bunch of wisecracking eighth graders all goddamn day long and take their shit. You think that's fun, Harry? You think that's fun ballsack? Why don't you eat the scabby boogers in my fucking nose if you think that sounds like your cup of motherfucking tea you bastard? You gotta sit there and listen to your fucking easy fucking listening radio station while you slice goddamn filet off of a goddamn beef loin. Whoopty doo, ass scab!"

"You're right, dear," he said. They'd been through this hundreds of times before. Being an English teacher, in her eyes was simultaneously the most unrewarding job in the whole universe while also allowing her the ability to save the world from the plague of evils that were fighting for control. She saw herself as a cross between Mother Theresa and Rodney Dangerfield: doing good works, but getting no respect.

So, it's me again, the narrator. I should probably tell you that Harry Handfuls is not just a butcher. Oh yes, that's his front, but you have a lot more to learn about the life and times of this hardass. Harry's career is difficult to explain, and I will probably try to do it a little later in the story because I'm feeling kind of lazy right now, and I'm sure as hell not going to come back and revise this stuff. So, let's just say for now that Harry considers himself a freelancer. Now, you probably think that I mean assassin or hitman or some other cliche like that. Well, think again motherfucker! You're wrong. That ain't it at all. You'll just have to wait for the next chapter I guess.

Basically, Harry spent the night sitting in front of the television watching some bullshit reality shows or something and thinking about his taxes and who he might vote for in the upcoming election. Helen had goddamn essays to grade so she basically just emerged from the bedroom every hour or so to remind him that he was a worthless piece of scum and to refill her glass of Arbor Mist.

Just as Harry was about to doze off in his easy chair, the phone rang. He had a boner. He answered the phone. A man's voice was on the line. His voice was smooth and intelligent. Like a well-read stick of butter or a William Faulkner description of warm cream.

"Is this Harry Handfuls?" the man asked.

"Yes, it is," Harry said. His eyes probably like sharpened, and if you don't mind, try to imagine that Harry has some kind of like wrinkles or something around his eyes to help depict his age.

"I need to place an order," the man said. He was hell of serious.

"How did you get my number?" Harry asked. It was a standard question. A script. He asked it of all his customers, if they were first timers or old regulars.

"A friend," the man answered.

"And what's the code?" Harry asked.

"Vortex," the man answered.

"Okay," Harry said. "What can I do for you?"

Terrible Poet? Nah, Now I'm a Terrible Novelist

I have decided to expand my horizons as a writer. I will still write the same terrible poetry which you all seem to hate so much. Starting today, however, I will paint the walls of this blog with a different kind of poop. I will a terrible novel, serialized right here. Here's the first part of my terrible novel.

Chapter One

So, there was this guy. He was a pretty handsome guy, in a rugged construction worker or infantryman sort of way. A lot of people thought they'd like to sleep with him just based on his appearance. And he was hell of tough. He had really big muscles and his skin was rough like sandpaper. Not like the little grit sandpaper, like the 400 grit or whatever, but more like the 40 or 60 grit. You know the kind of stuff that feels like it has chunks of goddamn glass in it and shit. That's what this guy's skin felt like. And one way I knew he was tough was that he could sit through an entire episode of Access Hollywood and not even crack a goddamn smile. It was crazy.

Anyway, he was coming out of this bar, when all of a sudden a truckful of good-for-nothing dipshits pulled up in front of the bar. They were like these twentysomething nimrods who like ride around town on skateboards and listen to Skinny Puppy and Cradle of Filth. And so anyway, this guy, um, let's call him Harry Handfuls, he was pretty drunk okay? And he said something like, "What's up, scumbags?"

And so these young guys had taken a lot of speed or PCP or crack or maybe just a bunch of Monster brand energy drink or whatever, and they were out of their mind raging for a fight. The leader of this band of merry pranksters said something really original like, "Fuck you buddy," or something like that. And another one sort of laughed and flipped him the bird as hopped out of the truck.

Well Harry Handfuls--let's just get one thing straight here, as narrator to reader: Harry Handfuls is a badass. He doesn't take shit from anybody, except his loving wife, who is a schoolteacher and probably like the lady at the bank drivethrough because she's sweet and reminds him of his grandma--didn't take kindly to these puckerlovers taunting him or talking back to him. Hell, they had probably not even paid their taxes last year and that made him really pissed off, being the responsible taxpayer that he was.

So, 3/4 drunk on Jack Daniels whiskey, and 1/4 drunk on some sort of Jagermeister concoction that Dick Kinisky kept ordering for him at the bar, Harry Handfuls started tearing these boys apart. The first one, their leader, looked a lot like that fucking Dauber guy from that show Coach who also does the voice for that stupid starfish on SpongeBob SquarePants--kind of a big galoof with thin blonde hair and just about awkward as hell. Harry punched this goofy motherfucker about three times before the guy could even flip the silly hair out of his eyes. He went down screaming and blood squirting out of his eyes and nose and probably his ear, too, but since I'm not totally omniscient I can't really tell or couldn't remember or something. Give me a break, I'm trying to remember. It all happened pretty fast.

Right about this time, one of the other guys, a wiry fellow who looked a lot like how a person would look if a demon made Abraham Lincoln knock up Carrot Top and they had a baby together. This dude was a huge turd. So, he grabbed his skateboard and swung it at Harry Handfuls from behind him. Harry knew it was coming, and he spun around and threw his arm up to shield the blow. The skateboard shattered on Harry's massive forearm, which looked like flesh colored granite or some other kind of strong rock. As the boy started to weep, he said, "My skateboard, it's shattered."

And Harry said, "Your face, it's shattered." And he punched that kid right between the eyes, and tears came squirting out in all directions. And blood too. Copious amounts of blood. It was funny. The kid kind of went weak-kneed and just collapsed like a tree that had been cut down or something even more pathetic than that.

Then Harry grabbed one of the parking meters and ripped it out of the sidewalk. I told you he was tough. And I think he must have had some super powers or something, too, because some of the shit this guy gets into later is really messed up, let me tell you. So, he grabbed this meter and started swinging it like a baseball bat. The rest of the guys started backing up, and saying things like, "Whoa mister we don't want any more trouble," and that kind of stuff all clicking away their switchblades and setting the safety back on their pistols.

Harry had so much DNA on his fist from the two guys he punched out that he could have made a frigging clone army. He wiped his hand on his jeans and said, "I hope you boys have learned a valuable lesson today: Don't fuck with Harry Handfuls." They were all like "Yessir," and "Mm-hmm," and just scrambling to get back in the bed of the pickup truck which probably like belonged to one of their dads or something. Idiots.

Harry walked to his Nissan Sentra and unlocked the door. He was pretty responsible, and he knew he shouldn't drive home since he was so drunk. Even though he could probably drive hell of better than most of the people on the road anyway. But he thought, Well, fuck it, I'm in the mood for a run. So, he put his car keys back in his pocket and took off running down the street. His muscles flexed and jiggled with his running pace or something.

Um let's see for the setting. Oh yeah, there were like some cars driving on the street. And lots of trees. I don't really know or care to know much about different types of trees, but they were probably some maple trees and a few oak trees. And of course people had yards with grass and flowers in them. It was a nice day outside. But there were dark clouds looming somewhere up there . . .

A Little Ditty for the Lovestruck Monkey Inside Your Soul Who Longs for an Invitation to a Dinner Party He's Never Even Heard of Before

If you like apples,
you'll love bananas,
but if you love pineapples,
then you won't love anything else at all.