Wednesday, April 30, 2014


                       I've had a strong reaction to some of
the stories I've been writing lately.
                 I'm told that the story I wrote about the
young woman on the bus, and the horrible beast
of a man behind her - that articles  like these
should not really be made   public.
                 The story was unpleasant.
                What is being suggested?  Am I being told
that I should not write such stories. Is this
some weird form of internal censorship?
                 My response is this. Of course the story
is unpleasant. I'm not concerned whether
my stories are pleasant. My concern is only this -
is the story true? Is it representative? Is it the
sort of thing that really happens?
                I can assure you the story is true,
because it is representative.And something like
the event described really happened.

                I got a call from a person I haven't talked to
in a long time. She said, "Look, that tale is about rape!"
                "Is it?" I asked.
                "Well, if it's not about rape, it's certainly about
some kind of sexual assault."
                "There's no question about that," I said,
"Not just sexual assault... but incest, too."
                "And yet your view of the story is
that it was amusing."
                 "Whoa, there, Brenda, don't go so
fast! And don't put words into my mouth! The
event wasn't amusing, but my story had better be."
                 "You've always been impossible to
talk to...You've always been  a bit of a prick!"
she said.                                           
                  "Well, there's no question about that,
either,"I said.
                   She hung up the phone.

                   What maybe is not understood, is this.
I was pleased by this lady's reaction
to the story.  She wasn't happy, but she thought
about it.
                    I'd mention names, but I don't have
her permission. 
                   And she's not answering my
             Regarding whether my attempt to make the story
amusing is in bad taste or not... Well, yes,  perhaps it
 is in bad taste.
               From my point of view, this is the thing -
I've come across a large number of unpleasant
incidents in my life, and I was the cause of some
of them.
               I've seen plenty of blood-simple stupid
violence -  usually alcohol was involved, but not
always. I've met quite a few bikers, and I've liked most
of them. The attitudes of the guys I met
were very much like my own attitude. These
guys had not lost their 'joi de vivre', their joy
in life, adventure, and their undying love
of riding a hog at high speeds, of howling
along the Edge at 110 miles per hour, with
your teeth chattering from vibration and wind 
in your face, and  almost achieving levitation with the
howl of  wind in your ears.
        But a motorcycle is not an enclosed space.

         A bus with passengers in it  is an enclosed space.
A cabin in the woods deep in wind and snow
is an enclosed space. And many of the small communities 
deep in the bush are enclosed spaces, more than six months
of the year.
        In my WAIT-A-BIT! stories, I'm always talking
about various forms of cabin fever, and what people
do when they're half mad, partly crazed and
only partly sane.
         In WAIT-A-BIT! there are few women. And the
few women that live there are as dangerous as
the men.
         The teenaged woman on the bus was a stripper.
She has rights, too, but she knew how to handle herself, 
and if she had really wanted to get rid of the "Old Fuck On A Bus"
she could have done it in about 15 seconds.
           You have to suspend judgement somewhat
when you're talking about cabin fever, the inhaling
of solvents, drunkenness, and sexual assault 
in small enclosed spaces and isolated communities. 
I'm not saying these factors make sexual assault O.K. -  
I'm saying that these factors make assaults of any kind
more understandable.
            As most people know, I used to be a
lawyer. People used to consult with me about
various unpleasant happenings. As a result,
I have recently  heard about several rapes in 
small enclosed isolated communities.
           Sometimes the rape involves murder,
and often the person who dies is the rapist.
I've heard stories told to me by victims of such
rapes. This is confidential information, so I won't
say much about it, but in the last two horrible
gestalts I am familiar with - the rapist was killed
by the daughter of the family. The victims were the
mothers and they survived. The persons guilty of
the rapes were also family members and they did
not  survive. Two of them were shot  dead,
 in two separate incidents.
           In these situations I guess you could say 
that everybody is the victim,
but especially the children of the enclosed
                 Why do I write about such unpleasantness?
                 I write about nasty, ugly things, because 
these things happen, and I' ve seen them.  I write to shine 
a light upon them, so that we may
understand the ugliness. Maybe through
understanding these events we can
ameliorate the factors involved, help ease the tension 
in the circumstances that cause these events.

           My old man, my father was always very practical
about situations. He'd always say, "What's the alternative?"
          He meant, you've identified the problem - but what's
your solution? What would you do in practice  to make things
           Well, it might be better if the Courts that  judge
such happenings, if the Courts were rooted in
the local community in which the events happened.
            I guess better communications with the
outside world might help also, and better literacy.
            The truth is, the judges or at least the
Court workers  really have to live
in the community where the events happened -
if we want to get the kind of solutions
that make sense.
         Work has been done on Community-based
justice systems. For example, the Three Fires Community 
Justice system in the Niagara Region.
          A lot of people  throughout the  community
would have to commit themselves to such a system,
and work  at it, to make a community based
justice system viable; and funding would have
to be found.
            There's nothing easy about it.

                 As a singer and musician, I've played in a
whole lot of bars. There are  fights in bars,
and I've had occasion, on both sides of the law,
to visit quite a few jails.      
                Jails are enclosed spaces, and many horrible
unspeakable events happen there also. I'll write
about some of these events, too.

              If a story is not somewhat amusing,
no one's going to want to read it.
               If a story's not amusing, I'm not going
to write it.
                I have to admit that I write for the sheer
joy of writing, and for the fun of it - of sharing how
I see the world.
              So, yes,  when I write about these 
unpleasant happenings, when I write about them
 in retrospect ,  I'll try to make those stories
amusing also.
          And there's nothing wrong with that.



((Note. I've learned that the Comment System in this Blogger blog is 
not working. That's why people are phoning me, rather than making comments. I'm attempting to find out how to correct this situation,
because I certainly want to hear your comments and I want to
respond to them.))


Sunday, April 27, 2014


                                                                      (she was  over 18)

           I sat in the seat across the aisle
from her. Then I noticed her legs -
long legs, muscular and curvy. No,
first of all I noticed her high heel
boot nodding over the aisle.
       I'd been writing in a notebook,
so I wasn't paying attention to the
sights. I didn't see her come back on
the bus after the rest stop.
       I got on the bus at North Bay.
A crowd left the bus. I especially
noticed this older fella. He was crawling
across the parking lot, dragging
his duffel bag with a rope he held in
his teeth. He finally got to the bench,
sat down and threw two mickeys of brandy
into the trash can next to him.
        He looked like a biker, one of the
older guys, but still dangerous.
         I got on the bus before the rest of
the passengers came back with sandwhiches
and cokes from the restaurant.
          I looked up when I sensed movement
over my right shoulder. This gal was lying
back over two seats, relaxing.  And as I
say, the first thing I noticed about her
 was this boot gently bobbing in the aisle.
          Now I have foot fetish issues, but
I had a grip on myself that afternoon...
 I was trying to finish what was going
to be this article. But this article's 
          I stopped writing and started
staring at the boot. The gal wearing the
boot said:

          "Did you see that old fucker
who just got off the bus?"
          "Ah... what did he look like?"
          "He's hard to miss. He's
huge with a big stomache, and he kept
breathing heavy," she said.
          "Oh, yeah! Sure, I saw him.
He was hard to miss, yeah, because he wasn't
walking like most people. He was crawling
on all fours, dragging a duffel bag by a rope.
 He had the rope in his teeth!"
              "That would be him," she said.
"He was sitting right behind me. And he
was starting to really piss me off. I
was going to stab him with this!"
               All of a sudden a large,
vicious-looking hunting knife
appeared in her right hand.
               "Like this!" she said
as she made a fast stabbing motion
in my direction.
                "I see you're a writer,"
she said. She noticed that I was
looking up between her legs,
but it didn't worry her. She just
smiled at me as if to say, "Of course,
you're looking up my skirt. You're a
guy. What else are you going to do?"
        Then she tilted back a mickey
of brandy and poured a healthy
triple-shot down her throat.
         "Ya want a drink?" she asked.
          "Sure!" I said. "Where I come from
it's bad luck to turn down good booze.
It's almost sacreligious!"
           " Where d'ya come from?"
           " I come from North Bay."
            "Ha! Ha!" she laughed.
            I took a good slug from the
mickey, which was almost full. I guess
I drank about half of it.
            "Sorry," I said.
            "Don't worry about it!" she said.
"The old fucker had at least six mickeys
in his bag. He gave me two of them.
Have another drink!"
              "Twist my rubber arm!"I said and 
raised the bottle towards her, said, "Cheers!"
             "Thanks a lot ," I said, handing the
bottle back. And I meant it.

              " The reason I asked if you was
a writer, is because I write a bit, too.
If you're interested. I just wrote a sort
of stream of consciousness short story,
right here on the bus... I figured if I didn't
distract my mind from that annoying
prick in the seat right behind me, I was going to
stick him for sure!  And with his big stomach,
I wasn't going to miss."
             "Just as well you didn't" I said, "He looked
like an interesting fella."
              "Interesting my ass!" she shouted.
               The driver looked back at us.
               "What a co-incidence! I was just
thinking about you ass!" I said.
                "Ha! Ha!" she said, "Do you want
to read it?"
                 I had lost the thread of the conversation.
I'm getting forgetful these days and I can only
focus on one thing at a time.
                 "Hey," she said. She snapped her
fingers and said: "I'm up here!"
                  "What d'ya say?"
                  "The story I told you about, do you
want to read it?"
                 "Hell, yah!" I said, I was feeling the brandy.
I was feeling no pain."
                  "Do you mind a little sex?" she asked
                  " I don't mind one bit," I said, turning
to look at her.
                  "In the story!" she asked, "Do you mind
a little sex in the story?"
                   "Not at all. I prefer it!  Hand it over!"

                  She had the papers in her hand.
Her hand was up in the air above her head.
She said: "Before you read it, I'll bet you fifty
bucks you don't have the balls to publish it!"
                "That's a bet!" I said, and we shook
hands on it. I could smell her perfume,
as we shook hands. I also made the mistake
of looking down at her legs.
                 "God, you're a good looking woman!"
I guess I shouted it out, too! Not just the bus driver
but about ten passengers looked back
at us.
                  "You just noticing that now, are ya?"
                   I  stared at her. I didn't say a word.
Anything I could say would likely be a lie.  And If 
I told the truth, I'd probably get tossed off the bus!
                I'd have to be quiet about it. We were attracting
too much attention.
                   I took the papers and turned
to look at the seat in front of me. I stared at
the seat back for a while.
                   "Tell me if you like it," she said.

                    I've got the papers right in front of
me now. I'm not going to change a word.
After all, a bet's a bet!   And the story's pretty
          I think the title is:  OLD FUCK ON THE BUS

The story begins:

           "O gawd! Now the old
            fuck is chewing potato chips!
            Cracking them between his
             snapping teeth!"

            "and often every five
             chips, he cracks a
               bottle of brandy
               has a  snort and
              goes, "AAAAAHH!"
              Then he farts and chews
               some more!"

              "I want to stab
               him ( he's sitting right
               behind me) and breathing
               down my neck!
               But if I did, I think ... OOoooo!
                he'd do something  really
               nasty to me!"

                "Like  reach up under my
                chair close up behind 
                me  in the bus
                and feel...   my ass!"
                "Now he's pretending he's
                 dropped his big bag
                 of salt and vinegar
                 potato chips...
                 (I can smell them
                  from here!)
                   And  he's really pressing
                  up under the seat
                  of my chair...

                   "He's cracked the bottle
                   and he gasps and his
                   throat rasps
                    & he feels me thru
                    the cushion..."
                    "Oh, I'm really going 
                    to have to stab him
                     ( he keeps sniffing and
                       snorting and I
                       know there's no
                       way the nasty old
                       fucker can
                       afford cocaine)

                        or can he?"

                        "He's breathing right now
                        right into my ear.
                        He's tickling my middle
                         ear with his breath!"
                          (I'm afraid to look behind
                           If he keeps pressing the
                           seat cushion up under my ass...
                           If he keeps pushing the cushion
                           up under me...
                           If he keeps on pushing up that
                             seat cushion, pretty soon
                             he'll be tickling my fancy!"
                           "Oh, I hope he get's caught!
                            I'm really going to have to
                            stab him now.... ....  ....
                             stab him, yes?....or no?
                             (that feels so damn good)
                              ... .... ... stab him?
                              ...... ..... .... ... maybe not.

                                      *   *   *   *   *

( That's all she wrote)           


            "That's hot!" I say to her.
           "I thought you'd like it!" she says
            "It sure kept my attention!
              Through the entire story!"
              " I thought it would," she said
               She smiled at me.
               She crossed  her legs...
                 Then a bell rang up front!
                  She sat up fast, 
                 "Oh God! I gotta go! This is my stop!"
                  she said.

                  "You've lost the bet!" I said to her.
                 She stood up in the aisle, said:
                 "I'll believe it when I see it!"
                 "You're gonna see it tomorrow!" I said.
                   "What's tomorrow? Oh yeah, Sunday.
                    You're gonna see your story Sunday morning!
                    on my Roving Reporter site."
                     " I know your site, she said."
                       She was walking towards the
                       front  of the bus. She stopped,
                        turned around to look at me.
                       " I guess I'll owe you some drinks
                         then, won't I?"
                         "Yes, you will. You want my address?"
                          " I know where you live!" she said.
                  "Everybody knows where you live.  I
                   read your site already."

                     "You ever catch the old fucker's
                      name?" I asked.
                      " Oh, I know his name! He lives right
                        next door to me!" she said.
                        "What's his name?" I asked, 
       calling to her as she moved up the aisle.
                      Over her shoulder, she called back:                         
                       "He's my uncle!"

                         She walked to the front of
        the bus and stepped outside.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

MAN RAPED FROM BEHIND BY 150 POUND WEASEL...............................................................REFUSES TO TAKE A STEP OUTSIDE









      ""Artie's new mindset is convenient for the rest of us,"
Now we have a bar that's always open, a bartender  who never leaves his bar!" 
         When asked if he believed the bartender's
story to be true, Mayor Frank Wilcox said, 
"Who cares?"
      Then the mayor added, "Who knows? Up
here anything's possible."  
      Quoted from the WAIT-A-BIT! newspaper, 'The Evil Screed,' Issue 3, Page 1, as quoted in the Vancouver Sun.

     In the twilight morning,     Frank climbs up out of the bunker and through about 5 1/2 feet of deep snow, covered with freezing ice...Takes a sniff at the air,stretches, beats his chest and shouts, "SMELLS LIKE SPRING!"
     In reality,there's a pathetic path through the mountains of
snow, deeply encased with ice.
       "You ever build a snow fort when you were young?
Remember packing snow then taking a hose or
twenty pails of water and covering the fort with
ice?  That way the fort was half-way safe to crawl
        Well, that's what it was like outside the
round bunker door belonging to Hank and FRank
in the undiscovered  village of WAIT-A-BIT!

         Frank crawled up to a flat stump still
peeking out of the snow. The wind had cleared the
stump repeatedly... the more or less constant wind
from the West...But lower down, where the wind
didn't often reach - the snow was deep.
        There was a ringing in Frank's ears almost
constantly now. Same sort of ringing you get
if you fire off a large caliber gun in a small space...
or if you'd listened to your favourite hip hop band with
your head too close to the speakers.... or you and
your girlfriend were dancing by the speakers for two hours...
or had sex in front of the speakers and then fell asleep
       Well, if the two of you grow old together...
neither of you will be able to hear a damn thing
the other is saying.
        This is not a bad thing. Many people have 
spouses who cannot or will not stop
talking. So if you can't hear too well,
it can be a blessing...
        But not always...
        "What if someone's creeping up behind
you, wants to steal your poncho, or
your rifle... what then?" Hank asks from
down below, leaning out  the bunker hole.
         "Yeah, well then you want to be able to
hear... But that's what the 6th sense is for -
to know when some fucker's trying to kill
you,"Frank shouts back down.
          They both agreed. Hank pulled
his head back inside.
          "But this constant buzzing in my head -
can't be a good thing..."

           Frank went outside in the first place
because he thought he heard a bird call,.
OK, he heard a crow... but they count too.
           For three months nothing had
made a sound outside..."Well, you can
hear the weasels laughing... but could be
that's just in my head... I'm so used to the
         "Wonder what they're laughing at?"
Frank's thinking...
         There's no answer to such questions.

          For example, one guy says:   "I might be projecting laughter onto them human characteristics
they don't really have."
         " Yeah, sure..." Frank answers, not interested in
such horseshit interpretations.

     "But all these stories of men raped by weasels...
Over the past few years...Are those stories true?" Frank
now is wondering, "Or are they just something I made up in the bar, when it was late, just to shut some drunken asshole up? Maybe it was one, or the other, or both.
      The problem was, Frank couldn't remember
if he made it up or not... Did it matter?  
       Maybe it did.

           Frank remembered the look
in Artie's eyes when he climbed back up
the hill. When Artie first got to WAIT-A-BIT!
he believed in protecting the wildlife.
        He came back that first night
 with a look of surprise on his face. 
He was a changed man...Wide-eyed...
and trembling. And he had a
very different opinion about protecting the
wildlife then.
        "One thing I won't ever forget..."
 Artie was talking in his brand new bar, when he
first arrived.
        " Jesus, it hurts!" he said to me, clutching
his ass.
        "Hmmm. I had to at least pretend to be
interested... What, won't you forget, Artie?"
Frank asks in a quiet  voice.
         Before he answered Artie had a huge
slug of Shine .        (Remember - one ounce of
                             shine is about equal to 3 shots of vodka) 
         "I won't forget!" he said,  "The weasel had me.
I couldn't move... my ass in the air and
my face in the snow... It was his hot
breath on the back of my neck. Every
time I tried to move,he bit me... the hot breath
on the back of my neck, I'll never forget that!"
         Frank read in his notes: "I smoked my pipe. I looked
across the room at Artie -wild-eyed with his pants
down and dancing from one leg to the other,
trying to apply Vaseline to his anus. 
          It was pretty clear Artie at least believed 
something had happened."
         "I'm the mayor, after all, and I suppose I'm
the police, also". It's my duty to investigate."
         So I say to the man, "I thought animals were quick about having sex.. If a dog humps your leg...
It don't take long...He knows he doesn't have much time."
       " Same thing with wild animals - they know they don't
have much time, either... before somethin' bites em
in the arse or in what hangs below it,"Frank says 
       "This sex seemed to go on forever!"
Artie said.   
         "Artie's got that same look on his
face right now." Frank is thinking, "A mix of
horror, shock and surprise. He's re-living
the initial experience."

         Frank wants to change the subject.He
feels lazy. He really doesn't want to think
about this.
        "First drink of the day..Taste's
great!"" Frank nods at Artie.  
         They clink  tin cups together.

         But the amazed look on Artie's
face never leaves him.
          "He had that weird look on his face - like
maybe he's in shock.. like he had been standing,
couldn't move - with a truck coming at night,
frozen  in the headlights."
          "And at that last instant the truck is past
It can shake you up... especially if you've been half asleep
at the time, and the first sound you hear in the midst
of your pleasant dreams, is the blaring horn of an
eighteen wheeler. 
         (Frank has been considering the
situation for a long time.) 
          The shine is finding a place in him...
          Frank chuckles. He knows he shouldn't say
this, but he can't resist. After all, he has to investigate.

        Frank asks, "He had you down... face planted
in the snow and bare assed.... Why were your
          "I was taking a piss," says Artie. "First
I had to drop my pants!"
           " Oh boy, you have a few things to learn
about the Arctic!" Frank laughs, "When you take a
piss, your piss almost freezes before it hits the
ground.  No one takes their pants down up here before
taking a piss - not men or women! You might get
frostbite in a place you can't  scratch." 
          "You were afraid to move?" Frank asks.
          Artie nods his head, yes.
          "Well, this is kinda personal," Frank says, trying not
to laugh.  "But I have to ask it..."
          "OK," Artie says.

TURNS ON YOU?"  Frank asks.

            Artie had looked alarmed already. Now he looks 
            'WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" Artie shouts.
            "Well, this is a sensitive point. But they
had you face down. You couldn't move...
Weasels are usually pretty quick about 
the sex act... so... if it went on for a long time...
maybe.... did you ever stop to think..."
            "What!" Artie shouts.
            "Did you ever stop to think...  
 maybe more than one weasel raped you?
 Maybe every male weasel in the area took you from
behind..."  Frank smiles in an understanding fashion,
"That's why it took so long?"

           Artie is silent for a long time. He leaves
the bar and goes into the back...
           "Is that sobbing, I hear?" Frank
is wondering. No Artie's back too
quick. Now he's standing right beside me..
Oh, Christ! he's got a gun!"
        Artie has the gun pointed at Frank's
temple... His eyes look even bigger than before.
They're bulging. His pants are off and his knees
are shaking...
          Frank nods his head
          "Yes?" Frank says.
           "NEVER Talk to me about  WEASELS again!"
           "Yes, sure!  Of course, Artie! Whatever
you say!"
           Artie goes into the back and puts the large revolver
down. He stumbles back up to the front of the bar.            He sits down. He has a another big drink.
 He downs half the cup in one gulp. 
          "That's about the equivalent of 8 shots
of vodka " Frank says.."It's
one hell of an eye-opener!"
         Finally Artie speaks up, his voice
slurring a bit now: "Thanks so much for that
        "  I could have lived the rest of my
life, without ever thinking...  that!"
          Frank doesn't say a word. It's a good time
to be quiet.

you planted in my head. I just relived the
entire experience!"Artie shouts.
           "I thought I heard you doing something
out back..."
           "Yes, I was on my hands and knees
again...trying to drink the snow..." Artie says,
"Just like that night!  Trying to remember
           "Wait a minute!" Frank jumps up off his
            "You were on your hands and knees?"
             "Yes, I just told you..."
             "On your hands and knees, taking
a piss weasel country,in weasel territory?  Right down near their LAIR?"Frank asks,
not believing what he was hearing.

            "Yeah sure,I told you" Artie says. "I had to take a piss! I was drunk...  all of a sudden, I got really thirsty. 
I put my face in the snow and started drinking it.
             They both sat in the dark bar, thinking
and drinking lots more of the hooch. Frank, the mayor,
doesn't say a thing. He's trying to digest these facts.

              "You see..." Frank is shaking his head,
starting to understand. "They probably thought you were a female in heat!"
               "_________________" says Artie.
               "They smelled your piss.. and by
the time they had scrambled half-way up the hill,
they were probably horny and
they didn't care who you were!"
              "He ripped out the seat of my pants
 right away! In a second he was on me!"
              "Jesus..." Frank says. "That explains
it... That's how it got started! Wow!"

              "I guess that explains the first
man-rape... But what about the next four or
five rapes... the ones reported after mine?"
Artie asks.
              "The only thing I can figure,"
Franks says, "They got a taste for human ass,
and they liked it. You were warm, you were
open and you were easy...Looks like you started
a trend."
                "What a horrible thought," Artie says.
                "So they jumped some other
human males,too, and raped them.They found those men were easy, too...'
                " Female wolverines are not always  in heat...
But male humans are easily accessible & available all the time up here... There are  no women here... in the territories..."
                "Weasels probably thought you were a woman... or the weasels didn't care..."Frank says. He is puzzling this out,  preparing a report in his head that he knows will never be written.
              "So the weasels got a taste
for human males..." Franks is thinking."Just a theory!"
              " But if we're not careful.this might become a trait! Part of the psyche of the clever beast... in no time at all it'll
be part of the weasel DNA!   We don't want that!"

                 "It would be terrible for tourism," 
                 They both laugh hard at that.

                "How many guys have the weasels
 surprised?" Frank asks.
                "Four admitted it, but  I suspect
they got Dexter, too. He doesn't want to talk
about it.  Men don't usually want to talk
about getting it up the ass. At least, up not here.
They might feel different about it at Church and Bloor."
                "Dexter hasn't said a word in ninety days.
He just keeps on staring off into the distance,
like he knows something no one else knows...
He's got that faraway look in his eyes..." Artie
            "Staring off into the Great Beyond!"

              "I know the feeling well."               "Me too. I had an aunt with eyes like that.          
You looked into her eyes, you saw the Great Beyond!"


Sunday, March 9, 2014


                         Hank finds a small book with Chinese
designs on the outside. It's a diary. It has a little
lock on it...   it's a pink colour. The kind of 
l;ittle diary book school girls use, when they are
keeping a diary.
              Then at the end of the school night,
they turn the key in the little lock to lock the
pages shut, the lock that keeps her secrets
from mommy and daddy and both her nasty
              Hank turns the key in the lock. He
sniffs the pages. They're a little bit
perfumed, just as a schoolgirl would like.
Hank turns to the first page and starts
to read accounts of his former life...


             I had a big fight at work. Then I quit.
I might have to travel up to Wait-A-Bit and take that
job. At least I'll have some peace and quiet.
            It has to be a quiet little newspaper: 

             "THE RAVEN SCREED!"

            What kind of a name is that? Sounds odd,
worse than odd, it sounds weird. But how weird
can it get in the heart of the country?
            Ah, peace! That's what I need. Put my
feet up and watch the river flow. A little
bucolic beauty, quiet and peace. Peace and
quiet. Might go out at lunch time and
pick some wildflowers... Maybe even
take up photography... get a second floor
window with a view.
           Sit in a cafe after work. Maybe fall in
love with the waitress. I mean, how bad can it


        Hank snorts when he reads this. 

        Frank hears him from across the bunker.

         "Is he laughing?" Franks wonders, "What 
at?" Frank thinks to himself. He hasn't been
laughing much lately. In fact, Hank has been
on the verge of dementia the whole last two weeks...

        Frank watches Hank: "He's not laughing,he's crying!"

             "What are you laughing at?" Frank calls
across the room. Hank's bed is now ten
feet down the tunnel he's been furiously digging
on and off for at least a month now.

           "Oh, nothing. Just a journal I was keeping
in the city..."

             Frank is quiet. He knows he'll get
to see the "Journal" sooner or later. He's
happy to WAIT-A-BIT! Har! Har!
             A storm's been blowing the better
part of five days now.The snow's four feet
high over their porthole... half a foot
of ice on top of that.
             "He'll tell me all he knows in five
more days." Then Frank laughs, thinking about
Uncle Henry - the hanging judge - Wilcox. He
had some dandy expressions!
              For example: "A man can say all he
knows in ten minutes. If he talks any longer,
he's exaggerating!'
              And this: 


              The look of glee he used to have on his
face as he said this! Henry had to laugh. "I never 
thought I'd miss that son-of-a-bitch!"
               "I don't really miss much about him...
the thing I miss is his laugh!" Frank thinks and
stares at the rods of rebar showing through the mud

               Hank looks up watches Frank. Frank
is staring at the wall... reminiscing.
               "He looks like a camel when he does
that!" Hank thinks but says nothing, "A camel
gazing off into the distance across the desert

             DIARY (continued)
             "I'll sit on the porch, smoke a pipe
and watch the sunset. I'll hear the sound of silence...
Silence is golden.
              "Sit out there as the sky slowly darkens,
and the majesty of the stars come out to play...
I'll relax and breath the sweet air. Maybe have a sip
of sweet water... and listen to the call of the loon..."
               Hank is starting to panic. "Saying,'
Things can't get worse than this!' this is a 
very unlucky thing to say. I did't really
mean it. Oh God! I take it back... That's
not what I meant. I meant something else...
I just couldn't express myself
                Hank has learned a thing or
two about the Trickster God from his
native neighbours.
                 At Artie's bar, sitting together,
they tell stories of what the Trickster
has done... Horrible stories about house burnings,
cars sinking in the muskeg... a serious man,
a Presbeterian (sp?) who burns his ass on the fire.
             The men are laughing when they
tell Trickster stories. They're laughing, but not
that hard. There's clearly a respect, even
a fear of the Trickster God.
             At first he thought the Trickster stories
were silly.  "There is no God!" he laughed,
"There's no such thing as the Trickster!
Everybody knows this! Where'd you guys
get your education?"
             That remark did not go over well.
Hank was sober enough to see this. The
native men smiled along with him, but their
eyes had grown hard.
               A lot of these guys had been taken
away from their families when they were children,
taken away to Regional Schools. They were
taught their whole way of life was wrong
and evil. And  a lot of these men had been interfered
with sexually... by priests who should have been
looking in the mirror when they spoke about
        . No the 'where'd you get your education?'
remark had not gone over well. But that wasn't
the real problem - it wasn't the reason everybody
had left within ten minutes of Hank's
        The men had left because only a fool
makes fun of the Trickster God. And only
an idiot would drink with such a man.

         Hank noticed that for the next couple
of months, these men kept their distance.

          Frank heard the story afterwards.
And he understood completely what the problem
was. After all, he was the mayor of the town.
Everybody talked to him.
          Frank didn't tell Hank had bad his
faux pas was. He'd explain it to him later,
          "Hank has enough problems already."
Frank thought.
        Frank had seen it all before - various tourists
going through descending moments of horror
and terror. Already he sometimes heard Hank 
whimpering at night. 
         Hank was having difficulty accepting
the reality of his situation. As the John Rock
song, "In this Hotel"goes:

                  And there were no buses here
                   And the train had slipped a gear
                    And the highway is not near!

           No, Hank was already having the night terrors.
Frank could already hear Hank weeping and whining
and praying in a whisper late at night. He didn't
need to hear anything more about the Trickster
God just now... ...
           And he didn't even know about the weasels yet!




Tuesday, March 4, 2014


        jOSIE KELLY dropped in with a Cessna 180 seaplane.
You should have seen Hank run! Soon as he heard the
engine, he peeled out of here... leaving everything
except a notebook, a red shirt and his pants. 

(He'd had some of those fearsome winter psychological diseases. Certainly: The Autumn Sorrow and Cabin Fever, at least those two.
      So the winter was a bit of a trail for Hank in that
he wasn't used to twenty hours of silence with heavy
winds and blowing snow, snowdrifts that move
up and down the Main Lane, over rooftops
and  into drifts 12 feet high elsewhere  
just like the sands of the  Sahara are said to do.
             Hell, the river hasn't even frozen over,
 and he's jumping ship, running for the hills...!
Ha! Ha!  Good luck with that! It's not that
easy to get out of here. To make your escape most
people have to scheme and plot for years,
rather like planning for a jailbreak.  Nothing easy
about it...
               For that matter it's like breaking into the
music business. You'd best plot and scheme,
and plan years ahead.
               I didn't do this (well, maybe a little) But
I thought it was a big party and it was my job
to cheer people at night. You play the Blues to 
make yourself feel better. (You don't play the
blues because it's sad music. It's not sad
music... It's bloody well, "Let's have a drink
and talk a bit and forget about the horror of
our personal lives... Slowly, very slowly
as the whiskey and amphetamines  ( or whatever)
sink into your psyche, your heart and brain...
          After a while you feel like whooping it
up, singing along, and shouting comments to
the band...
          Some places start throwing beer-bottles
at you - when they like you! 
            There's some tough bars, really tough
bars... bars where you lose everything.
You have to play in those bars to really get
the facts of life.  Some people will rob you blind right
after cheering for your songs... Most people won't.
Most people are better and kinder than I ever knew.
            It cheered me up when I finally
figured this out.

        It costs five grand to just to fly down to Edmonton.
And Edmonton ain't exactly in a warm climate.

          You can't trust the landscape up
here for a sense of direction, because each day
hills and valleys change completely. 
         After a heavy snowstorm, if you can
look outside, you wouldn't see any sign
of WAIT-A-BIT!    This town of burrows, foxholes,
and Matilda's trailer all covered over.
        The drifts blow over everything... and
silence fills the air. It looks like a million years BC
if you manage to get a glimpse outside

         The Autumn Terror didn't really hit Hank that bad. 
He didn't get a full dose of the mad panic 
that winter was coming.
       Why? Because Hank had no idea 
what the winters are like up here in the NWT,
and he had absolutely no clue how long they
       That first month of howling winds and deep
blowing snows really put the boots to Hank's psyche.
        He hadn't as yet learned any tricks
to pass the time. Me, I count the number of threads
in my Harris Tweed jacket, if I have to...
          And I hum tunes to myself. I'm told It's 
quite irritating.

         At first Hank was digging his tunnel,
like an insane man who's spent too much time out on the heath digging for moles and roots... and eating them
without even wiping his mouth.
         Occasionally Hank would have a
screaming fit and try to run out
the large porthole we have for a door. 
For over an hour he'd be howling and screaming and 
then pound his head against the mud wall 
of industrial fill and waste we
dragged up the hill soon after the bombs hit 
the town...

         ((( Powder, rocks and pebbles
that's all that was left of the town.
         The blast was so hot I guess it incinerated
the brick at temperatures hotter than you would
find in a kiln.... The biggest rock I found
was about the size of a softball.
         The cement, also, was like large beach 
sand. Out of this and the many twisted rods of loose
re-bar, we made our foxhole,
 our burrow.
        The funny thing about the whole
situation. The fly boy didn't even hit
Artie.  Artie was at my uncle's funeral, the Judge
Henry Wilcox, that  prick! Died running off naked
into endless miles of muskeg.
        Most of the town was at Henry's
funeral that day, so the casualties were light
from the bomb blast. 
         But the attack out of no where, out of
the sky, with no warning, well, it made a lot
of people very nervous.  Next day
the  migration began...
 most of the other residents left  the town 
the very next day.
           Only 16 of us remained in these
wild lands overlooking the river. We all
dug fast together, fearing another weasel
           That night we all slept in the
same foxhole...And those of us
who were left - we weren't necessarily
the best and the brightest.
           I still remember the conversation
we all had that night. We were in shock
and so you don't expect intelligent conversation
but the mad and stupid things that were
said... reminded me of a song Irwin used
to sing:

           "Dickity die, 
                Dickity doe.
                  Fell in love with a crazy arsehole!" )       

        The pilot who had dropped Hank off
promised he'd be back in 90 days, at the most!
          Not true. 
         Hank lived in hope all through those 
long ninety days. I saw his eyes get crazier and wilder
as each day passed, he'd make a mark
in the mud wall.
             There's a big difference between 90
days and 390 days.
            The winter here is about 9 or 10 months
long. And the dark is all-consuming. Not
a place for a crazy person.  
             And Hank hasn't been
quite right ever since the ninety days passed  
slowly by...  and  no aeroplane came calling.

          He asked me what he should do. He was
getting a nervous tic on the left side of his lips...
and when he was upset his right eyebrow would take
to leaping around like a Mexican jumping bean.
          It was comical, I can tell you. Occasionally
I'd have to turn around and give out a few snorts
of laughter, pretending not to laugh... Then I'd turn back around and look at Hank's crazy face... 
         I couldn't look too
closely at him. I'd have to pretend a crow
or a tree had caught my interest. Like I hadn't seen
the same crow and tree before... every day for the past five
            If I looked at his mouth twitching and
his jumping eyebrow, I'd have to fall to
the earth on my hands and knees and howl.

IiiiI mean I felt sorry fro the man...but...
           Maybe in time I'll learn Hank's
high-pitched laugh - the one that makes him
sound like a hyena receiving a sudden
enema. ( Clapped like thunder from behind ,
something cold running down the back of his legs...))
            Luckily, Matilda used to
ask us into her trailer... if she saw us strolling 
up the Main Lane towards a gazillion miles of 
muskeg, looking east. There's no way out that way, 
that's for sure!
          Unless you see your true love waiting for you
naked, standing between the pines with the
snow just about up to her ass...
            Best we don't talk about that phase
of madness that hits you all of a sudden, up
here in the land of the midnight sun. And the
land of unending abysmal darkness... 
          When you start running off between
the trees... towards you first true love
whom you haven't seen in twenty-five years...
         All of a sudden she's waiting for you
 naked... at 30 degrees below zero...Farenheit.
What's wrong with this picture?
Way out here beyond  the beyond,
in this place they call 'the barrens'
your true love is standing naked in the freezing
wind... If you had ttime to think, you wouldn't
take off your clothese and run to meet her.

         bUT if you're taken by The Delight,
you don't have time to think. You see
a joyful end to all your problems!
Finally a solution that will last forever.
          Too bad it isn't real.

           But the Delight is a solution forever,
that's true. It's the final solution.

No one really wants to talk about
"The Delight" up here We're all afraid
of it.
            Before you make up your mind 
that you know what's real and what's not real...
 spend three months in the silence  here,
  ...     I guarantee that you will discover wonders
you never imagined  possible.... 

         So much so,  who knows? You might start to be convinced about the presence of the Trickster.
           After a few really horrible things
happen to you after midnight - things that are
too strange to be co-incidental.. and after you
hear the God laughing through the howling
of the wolves...well, I'd say you might
change your mind about a few things
that you thought were self evident before.
          Once Josey Kelly's plane landed... Right
away Hank was sprinting away down towards the river.
He called back over his shoulder: "It's been good knowing you!"          
          "See you around the block sometime!"He disappeared
leaping down the hill towards the wharf and the plane.

           But Josey isn't taking any passengers.
I can tell right away. Usually we take a day and drink
a few bottles of whiskey, and tell stories, laugh a bit,
shout a bit... and when we're truly loaded. We have
target practice.
             Once again he's on the run.  He rips a
bottle of rye out of the bag and tosses the bag to me
with  three  more bottles in it.
               We sit down, and have a smoke.
Then  he heads back down the Lane.
             He tosses me a  small pack sack when
he's leaving and asks me to hide. There's a hole
he's dug under a flat rock about a year ago.
               I put the small pack in the hole
and shovel some sand and grass over
it... I pack down the earth with my
             I'm sitting in an armchair
outside the burrow and I have a good slug
of CC Canadian Rye Whiskey - about
a quarter of the  26er with one swallow.
Just for taste.
              It burns going down but nothing
like the moonshine - the moonshine,
you have to take steps before you swallow that.
Best to coat your throat and stomach somehow,

              Joesy's a very persuasive fellow.
He's  physically strong, with a winning smile,

          He just managed to persuade his way
out of the district  jail. I'm told it was
with the help of one of the guards.
       Matilda heard it on the radio. He carved 
a block of soap into a very realistic gun shape, then
put boot polish all over it.... Then he bluffed his way
out of the maximum security lock-up.
            I won't tell you what
jail it was - I have enough people pissed off
at me already.
           I haven't asked Josey yet about the plane.          
And     I won't ask him... Maybe a friend lent it to him.
Right, sure pal, sure. Ho! Ho!

            One thing I knew. I knew that Hank wasn't
going to get a seaplane ride out of WAIT-A-BIT! That
day. When Josie's running from the law he doesn't
want any company! He goes far and
fast, until no one can find him. He doesn't want any 
            (I knew I'd be seeing Hank  very soon again, despite
his delighted farewell.)

       No plane's landed here in Wait-A-Bit! For
over five months. 
        I guess something happened to thr
pilot who dropped off Hank...

         Maybe he got bored or divorced. Or in
a mad manic moment he bought a sailboat...
         Or he turned to crack and now is totally
irresponsible - living in the "Country of the Now"
But gone, gone, gone.

Sunday, January 12, 2014



         I got the Fear today.  Most of the time I don't
know it, but I got it with both barrels today. And
it was a very unpleasant feeling.
       Hunter Thompson wrote about the fear. No, Hunter
Thompson S. Thompson wrote about The Fear.
        The Fear = normal terror +  blanket
paranoia + no blood sugar +  psychosis + toxicity.
 This, of course, includes toxic-psychosis
which Frank is fast becoming an expert in. Madness
resulting from being stoned out of your tree.
       Frank has learned lots about the subject,
primarily from experience with the insanity
of his neighbours, Frank tells himself.
Many of Frank's neighbours would say that
the situation is reversed: that they've learned
a lot about toxic-psychosis because of visits
from Frank.
         Santa, the  ex-jailbird and 
criminal attorney, he's even written a book on the subject - about surviving all manner of weirdness including, toxic-psychosis...he now lives just 100 yards up the Main Lane from Frank and Hank's bunker. He arrived by dogsled team in the middle of last week in the middle of a blizzard.
        In the weirdness of some evil drug grasping your brain in its talons...all of a sudden you are in the
grip of THE FEAR.
        Gentle self-talk is useless, and logic has no effect!
on the brain.
         Couple this with a healthy dose of cabin fever...
and you'll know intellectual solutions are useless.
It's time to get right down to the ground of your being,
sit on the earth itself. Sit with your spine
straight and watch the river of your own being
slowly clean itself... and while you're at it,
you might as well start loading your rifle.
Dangers lurk in unseen places. And no place
is more dangerous than the human brain,
when it's on TILT!
           If you've been through at least one
episode of primordial weirdness; if you've
survived your own special blend of toxic-
           For example, if the turkey you're
cooking sits up in the pan... turns that little
light on in the oven... and starts peering at
you through that clear window in the oven
door - you know you're getting toxic-psychosis.
          And then you go back to reading your
book and you hear a whispering. And you look
up and now the turkey's standing in the window
and gives you the finger, then you know you're
gettin' it...And then when you hear the turkey say:
"I WEEL KIEELL YOU!" And he's beckoning for
you to come over across the room, to come, closer than that!
         You know you've got the TOX-PSYCH and
you'd better see an expert to get the cure!

         Then you'll know how Hank has to  deal with most mornings! He's been nutty as a fruit-bat for the last
two weeks. Clocks no longer can be trusted. And the endless bush to the East is calling him again... and the caves of
the people of the Cave-Bear.
Hank writes: "This is a very unpleasant subject at the moment.
I bettor go in search of some major tranks...
or I might fall off the flat of the world...
ooooOOOoooOO! Did someone put something
ugly in my food? Some depraved hallucinogen that gives
a guy the sensation of sitting alone, hot sweaty and
naked...with the spiders coming... and More
Spiders crawling all over my naked skin....hahahahuhuh!
            More spiders crawling in my gut.... and more
scuttling up the road rut, coming, coming, coming
my way....I wonder how they'll taste.
       And me - mortal, mortal, mortal...hee! hee!
and me cats have worms... eeeep! And I been
walkin barefoot in dah kitchun.... ooop! And I going
down like last week's discards at the butcher's...

 Frank thinks, "Oh, oh!"  
He doesn't breath a sound

Hank keeps writing down his secrets :  "See? Whiff of the fear... for you, not me.
More than a whiff for me... For me a real
low blood sugar chemically induced mind-fuck...
Can't talk yer way out of DIS one, Bruno!
        Time for dressing down - like the butcher dresses
(FRANK has snuck up behind HANK and he's reading this
over Hank's left shoulder. He's very careful about
making no sudden noises. Hank might not be able
to shoot, but he's gotten very accurate with an ice
pick... of late.  And he's getting stronger with
 this incessant digging....)

         Oh, the North will make a man out of you...!
And if you already were a man, it'll make you into the
beast you always subconsciously knew yourself
to be....!

         Frank crawls back across the bunker floor....
 Dark thoughts for impenetrable times... Screw it!
I'm going to light one of those horrid yellow candles.
Frank snaps a match alight.

There's a scream from twenty feet down the tunnel!

It's getting bad - any noise, any movement, any
surprise and he comes unhinged - a full-throated
blood curdling scream, like a woman in a swamp
creature horror movie - "Return of the Swamp Thing"...
When the woman first sees the Swamp Thing...The scream! emerging from the murk and the dark...  The scream!
Response to a horrible surprise...

"That's what Hank sounds like when I light a match... what's
he going to do when I shoot something?"

       Frank sits silently back down at the wide shelf which serves as his desk. He drips some wax on the wood. Sets his candle in the hot wax where it stands and burns in
the silence.

"This "dressing down like the butcher,"I don't like that
thought," Frank says

"I don't like that thought, either." Hank replies.

They're both astounded that they've spoken out loud.
If they gave it any thought, they'd be more astounded
that they both are talking about EXACTLY the same thing.

  They don't know they're having a conversation.

Place is much more spacious now that Hank has
entered into his committed digging project.... always
EASTWARD to the east he goes... eastward ho!
eastward, YO! 
He's cleared about twenty feet of tunnel to the east...
What wuz a cozy bunker now looks like some mad
mining project...

FRANK is thinking about some of the thing's he's
read off Hank's notepad... 
"Mortal, mortal, mortal hee hee hee!
 And my cats have worms, are wormy...eep!"

"OK, that's creepy, but it doesn't bother me
too much," Frank thinks, but what was that other
phrase? Oh, yeah...

That's a phrase that'll make you think,
Frank whispers to himself.