Tonight’s Entertainment

Jacky Juggler, bangled balls banging, clanging noisily and unnecessarily all night long, went straight for the jugular.

Rival Ricky Rambler literally lying lucidly through laboured loose lips, which, my friends, I’m sorry to say this, sinks so many of these sacrificial, suspiciously abundant ships. Vicious vernacular, vividly vilifying this embattled entertainer and his perceived sanctified sables spheres.

Jacky jumped off, jaded at the jabs, sending several steel shots swerving Ricky’s way.

Clang Clang clanged the clown.

Rumble Rumble rumbled the rumbler, who then ducked, dipping downwards, displaying a dazzling deployment of dodging dangerous dogged dangers.

I do not lie when I describe what occurred next. A mystifying miracle miraculously materialized if I do say so myself. And I goddamn do.

With nothing to juggle, Jacky was left with only his words to ramble.

As such, Ricky now had the means to juggle.

The silence now dominates as these two titans stare each other down.



So begins a chorus worth chronicling, taking to the oh so high not so heavenly heavens.

Ramblin’ Jacky and Jugglin’ Ricky toured their terrific yet terrifying, suspect yet possibly stupendous, not all that appealing and honestly horrendous sideshow around the world.

Sadly, we all know what happens next, as all success stories go…Oh? You question their accolades? Have you seen what constitutes as “genius” around this way? Ah, I digress.

Rivalry soon reigned, a quack quarrel quietly blooming to an overtly over the top overture, for who really was eating all the goddamn food? Witness this, riveting, rising higher over who was swindling who. The glorious glorified climax that clearly occurred before the bloody brawl, screams demanding who was diddling the bodacious Missus Boo.


Simplified, they shot each other dead, .45 slugs each effortlessly exploding from an individual piece of the pair, entering both entertainer’s head.

Missus Boo kept all the proverbial bread. You can catch her show debuting this Sunday night, seven o’clock.

The W

Switching it up today to a flash fiction piece I did. This was written to an old Wu-Tang song. Grats if you know which one it is.

This hero smashed down the wooden barricade. The crash of the door was muted, far away, overwrote by the thrumming in his body. This hero entered the room, unabashed, his serrated knife drawn.

That villain, the one who had stolen the Cure, the only thing in the world that could bring him peace, that could remove his pain, rose from where she sat, drawing her weapon, lunging forward.

That villain’s pistol went click click.

This hero’s blade went snick snick.

Another injustice aborted. Yet, still, this hero’s vision wasn’t clear. Violet hues still dominated this hero’s horizons. This hero’s nostrils still burned with the damage wrought upon him by the Disease. The constant humming consumed this hero. This hero’s God communed through this hero’s mind.

Clack Clack.

Suddenly, this hero spun to catch the newest rival’s vindictive swing of the baseball bat. This hero’s forearm veins disgustingly bulged.

“Who are you?”

This hero lashed out. Bang bang. The latest challenge fell. Clang clang.

This hero knelt down, crying out in ecstasy, seeing what had fallen from that villain’s pocket.

The Cure.

Snick snick. This hero conjured a flame.

Hiss hiss. This hero’s vision was sure to now clear.


They had finally responded to a report about a break and enter, weeks too late. No one ever responded too quickly to events happening in these parts of town. Three corpses lay upon the floor in various states of death. The stench of putrefying bodies and old blood dominated the ghetto apartment.

The oddest body they found was a male, a bloodied, serrated switchblade lying upon his lap, and a dirty syringe in his arm, tied off with a shoe lace. He lay there with his face masked, accented by purple-tinted goggles over his eyes. Beside him, a pair of headphones, buzzing with bass.

Somethin’ in the slum went rum-pum-pum-pum.