"Broken Hearts R 4 Assholes"

Let’s talk about makeovers….

“Look at it this way…” Cannes said to Stella. “You’re a free bitch now!”

Cannes had her big ole box of eyeshadow colors, eyeliners, mascara, cheek and lip stains, glosses, eyelash curlers, brushes, bronzers, tweezers, waxing strips, nail polish, body glitter…I mean, pfft! Seriously, her makeup kit is hilarious right now.

Stella beheld the assortment peeking out from that kit. “You don’t ever get tired of giving people makeovers, do you?” Stella was still depressed about Jarvis, and she wasn’t particularly in the mood for a makeover. But on the other hand she’d been subjected to far too much drama already, and she was in no mood to bring any more upon herself by fighting Cannes on this issue. Cannes would always insist and she always wins.

“Why can’t I ever be the strong one?” She silently thought to herself as Cannes answered her statement with a “Nope.”

All Stella could do is surrender. “I mean, what the fuck, anyway…If my sister wants to pamper me, so be it.”

That was Cannes’ thing; she loves to style people’s hair, she loves to do makeovers. Manicures, waxing, facials, weaves, you name it, she’s into it. After all, Cannes spent the better part of the previous night turning grown men into fabulous women while Jarvis behaved like a mean, selfish child. You’d think Cannes would want a break from it for one night after all that, but clearly she’s enjoying every second.

The only thing Cannes loves more is sex…which at the moment seems to be lacking for her lately. “Does she even miss Clay, I wonder?” Stella thought. “No matter, she’ll open up about that in her own good time sooner or later.”

For now let’s talk about some badly needed pampering for Stella. Cannes began by massaging some moisturizer into her sister’s face. Satisfied that her sister was adequately relaxed and into the moment, she wiped the excess off with a dry cloth and proceeded to apply some bronzer powder all over her face and neck. And just for the fun of it, Cannes topped that off with some glitter powder.

Then she began work on the eyes. Only a minimal amount of eyebrow hairs needed to be plucked. Then some plum colored eyeliner on the upper and lower lids of Stella’s eyes was followed by some eyeshadow of the same color on the upper lid only. Soon a golden streak was arched over that deep purple patch and under the eye. And to top it all off, Cannes applied a shimmery, iridescent white with pale blue undertones. A thin, even coat of black mascara was painted on to Stella’s lashes. Pale pink powder was next applied to her cheeks already made sparkly by the glitter. Last but not least came a plum-colored lip gloss. And for a finishing touch, a drop of Jasmine essential oil was rubbed behind each ear and at the base of Stella’s throat…for aromatherapy purposes.

Stella felt her depression ease gradually throughout the entire process. When she was offered the mirror to see the results of her sister’s handiwork, not only was she pleased with what she saw staring back at her, not only that mind you, but she had to admit that she felt as good as she looked.

How could she not when she looked just like Egyptian royalty, after all?

Stella remembered the last time she’d gotten such a makeover. It was shortly before Clay’s biological father Henry Burke remarried. At that point Stella had a sense of something about to blow. Cannes was applying a turquoise powder to Stella’s eyes when she asked, “D’ya ever get the feeling that the bottom is going to drop out on us?”

“Something tells me you didn’t ingest enough carbohydrates.” Cannes replied as she set down her brush.

“Cannes, Cannes, Cannes…if only that had anything to do with it.” Stella’s glucose levels were actually fine; a very safe and healthy 116 at that point, much to her relief. But that wouldn’t help shake this persistent suspicion something very huge was about to happen.

Cannes sighed. “How can I put your mind at ease?”

“I don’t think my mind is supposed to be at ease, to tell ya the truth.”



The wedding ceremony and reception were held at St. Luke’s Seaside Episcopal Church. Clay’s biological father Henry Burke had just exchanged vows with a woman named Patrice. Also in attendance was Punk Mother, who had been Henry’s first wife before she left the commune and hooked up with Milo. Milo was there also, as were the entire Yossarian family, Clay, Jarvis, Kent, Clay’s cousin Pearl, and his Uncle Tom.

The reception took place in the parish hall. Tom as usual was eating and drinking too much. He had been warned repeatedly by both his doctor and his daughter Pearl to change his lifestyle. The doctor tried to get him on insulin therapy and 5 blood pressure medications. But Tom was having none of it.

Many’s the time that Uncle Tom and his daughter had sparred over this issue. Pearl insisted on staying with Tom after he and his wife divorced, in the hopes of talking some sense into him one day.

This occasion was no exception. The two of them were really going at it, with Tom holding a huge plate full of wedding cake well out of Pearl’s reach so that she couldn’t take it away from him.

(The irony of that is when Pearl was a kid, her mom would refuse to let her have more than a small piece of cake out of concern for Pearl’s allergies.)

“You can’t have it either! You’re allergic!” Tom bellowed.

“Look, I’m not taking it for myself! Let someone else have it! And you shouldn’t have it anyway! You’re diabetic!!!”

“Stop raising your voice like that, young lady!! It’s not your place to tell me what to do!!”

“You’ve had 5 pieces of cake already, and you’re drunk besides!!”

“I’ll take my belt to you in front of all these people if you don’t back off right now!!!”

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack!!!”

This battle wasn’t helping his blood pressure levels at all, which were rapidly climbing as the row continued.

The Groom began to intervene. “Tom, put the cake away and calm down! You’re making a spectacle of yourself!!”

“Stay out of it, Henry, I mean it!! I’m sick of people always telling me what I can and cannot do!! I’m doing what I want, and ---!”

Had Tom been able to finish the sentence, the battle would’ve only escalated. But as it happened, it was exactly as Pearl had feared. Yes, Uncle Tom promptly suffered a massive and fatal heart attack right then and there. He gasped, dropped the plate, and fell face down on the parish hall floor. It took about 4 people to turn Tom over on his back and when they did – he must’ve weight at least 350 lbs, and that’s a conservative estimate! – Henry and Patrice performed CPR on him as Pearl called 911, terrified and weeping.



Clay was freaked out badly by the incident, and I suspect also by the fact that he’s been surrounded by family and friends who have all, at one point or another, had severe glucose emergencies of their own impose themselves on him. In any case, he just couldn’t deal with it anymore, or so he thought.

“I’m sorry, Clay…” Cannes shouted, “…that Tom was a stubborn asshole! Why are you buggin’ out?”

“Look, I’m sick of it, y’know!!! I mean, what does that say about my Mom? About you? About your sister, too??? All these goddamn hospital dramas…I mean, Fucking Hell, Candace Yossarian!! I’m sorry, but I cannot take this, watching my family and friends all scaring me to death with this persistent threat hanging over my head…all you sick bastards about to drop dead like goddamn flies!!!”

Cannes burst into tears, but somehow managed to shout, “You think this is my idea of a jolly good time, do you? I hate bearing this goddamn cross!! I’m sick of poking myself in the fucking finger, and I’m sick of all the insulin attacks!! And that’s to say NOTHING about these Jeckyll and little miss Hypo trips that’s become a fucking normality around here!! Boy, now That’s fucking entertainment, isn’t it!!!

“What are you gonna do about that? You gonna run away, like some fucking headless chickenshit?? Go panic in the street like the sky’s gonna fall???”

He was outta there, heading for home.

“YEAH, GO AHEAD RUN JUST COZ YOU THINK YOU CAN!!! YOU CANNOT SWING A CAT IN THIS GODDAMN TOWN WITHOUT HITTING SOMEONE WHO IS AT LEAST PRE-DIABETIC!!! MARK MY WORDS!!”

Clay had nothing more to say. He just had to get away…just had to. He felt like a coward but so fucking what. He was only human, after all, and could only take so much.

Cannes couldn’t care less. She stormed back into the house, tears streaming down her face as she snarled, “Fucking chickenshit!”

Jarvis and Stella somehow managed to get to the house before Clay and Candace had the fight. As soon as Clay left, Stella poked her head out of the door of the attic where her bedroom was and called, “Cannes?!?”

“Forgeet dem, chiquita! Come back to bed and let me fuck you, por favor!” Jarvis said as he dragged her back into the room.



So…Shall we cut to the chase??

Stella had the night off from The Bauhaus Café. She didn’t expect to, and fully expected to put in a full night shift. However the nighttime traffic was slower than a right wing pundit’s bowel movement and Punk Mother wasn’t really up for keeping the café open for the remainder of the night for nothing. So she gave Stella and Kent the rest of the night off.

There was also an open invitation to go to Punk Mother’s home, as Milo wanted to throw a going away party for Pearl. Kent had been very, very close to Pearl to say the least. So he would be there just so he can be with her one last time before she made the move to Los Osos to start a new life in what most of the Magmaville residents jokingly referred to as “Bear Country.” The reference being only because Los Osos is the spanish term for “The Bears” and there was a tv show called “Bear Country,” which featured a lot of big, hairy, gay men as part of the cast.

Stella had wanted to go to the party, too. However, Jarvis happened to meet her in the parking lot beside the café. He was drunk, and clearly he had other ideas. So, Stella figured, what the hell? We’ll screw and then we’ll go to the party…and everyone will be at least not too bummed out about anything.

Back at the house there was nobody home. Cannes had the opportunity to do some work backstage at The Stud, helping with hair and makeup for – what – the umpteenth-hundred-and-somethingth annual Queen of Magmaville Pageant that was taking place over there. Both Janet and Richard would attend also, in part to lend support to their darling daughter and also because they were both in the mood to get shitfaced and hang out with a gaggle of some freaky-arsed freaks, I tell you what, boy!

Now Stella, she knew she should’ve tested her blood sugar levels, and knew she should’ve made sure she had a decent snack before hopping in the sack with Jarvis. But Jarvis was far too randy to give her such a prudent opportunity. Again, Stella was like, “Whatever, y’know. At least I’m having sex, and it wasn’t that long ago that I had at least a little something to eat before I clocked out anyway.” Thinking it’d be like a nice change of pace to take a break from dealing with this pain in the arse disease she’s been saddled with since age 12, she naturally went with the flow, acquiescing to Jarvis’ insistence and letting him have his way with her.

So the two of them made their libidinous way to the attic, and they fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked….

Eventually Stella had to stop…just had to. She was really feeling low, sweating and feeling weak and trembly. She had to get out of bed and get herself something to eat, and then she’d be good again. But try telling that to Jarvis. He held her back and wouldn’t let her go, kept trying to kiss her and fondle her breasts. So she panicked and began to fight him off, smacking him pretty hard a couple of times.

That really pissed Jarvis off. A streak of Spanish expletives rolled off his drunken tongue as he rose up and pushed her out of the bed. And without so much as a chance for her to get any clothes on, He bounded out of bed, grabbed Stella by the arm, pushed her downstairs. And the next thing Stella knew, he had thrown her out of the house, stark naked and sick.

Fortunately, Punk Mother didn’t live very far from the Yossarians. Somehow Stella managed to stumble over there before any police cars began their nightly patrol in the neighborhood.

The going away party was pretty much in full swing, with Pearl, Clay, Kent, Milo and Punk Mother sitting around smoking joints, drinking Guinness, and listening to some very early Bauhaus, Caberet Voltaire, Birthday Party, The Fall, Grinderman…

And while I’m on the subject of Grinderman…

“Has anyone noticed that Nick Cave looks an awful lot like the way Cheech Marin used to lately?” Clay asked out loud. He sounded pretty funny trying to talk while holding in a coupla lungfuls of ganja.

Then Kent started prattling on about how all those YouTube videos, where Clay got this great information about Nick Cave’s appearance, hogged all the bandwidth from the computers, and a pie-eyed discussion ensued.

Until…

“Oi, missus!” Milo called everyone’s attention to the window. “ ‘Ere’s a naykid loydee stooblin’ abayt in th’ street oot dere!”

Well, Punk Mother went to investigate, thinking Milo’s probably so pissed out of his brain that he’d either think he’s actually seeing something resembling that or else he’s just pulling everyone’s leg. One look out the window told her that he wasn’t joking around about something like that!

“Oh my God! That’s Stella!!!” She exclaimed. She grabbed her favorite black trenchcoat and rushed out the door of her home to rescue Stella, who by this time was in a full blown insulin attack. Fortunately she wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t recognize Punk Mother, who had wrapped the coat around her and led her indoors.

Stella was in hysterics crying and ranting that Jarvis had done this to her, kicked her out of her own house and and he was drunk and selfish and a complete asshole to her.

Kent and Clay were furious, and correctly thinking – out loud I might add – that Jarvis was still over at Stella and Cannes’ place “probably draining Janet & Richard’s liquor cabinet of every last drop and thinking he was such a big man showing that hypoglycemia bitch who’s boss.” The two of them stormed over to the Yossarian house fully intending to beat the living shit out of him.

Meanwhile, Pearl, Punk Mother, and Milo wasted no time getting some orange juice into Stella, and inundating her with cheese and crackers and assorted fruits so that all that excess insulin raging around inside of her would at least have something to feed on. And as a side, they let Stella smoke as many bowls as she wanted to settle her head, too.

Pearl wanted desperately to embrace Stella and tell her it’s okay, but it was obvious that Stella had an earthquake and a volcano going off inside of her…and needed the space to come down off that turmoil.

Now, nobody was really keeping track of how much time had passed since Kent and Clay left the party. But Stella was in a much calmer state – albeit still angry with Jarvis obviously – when the two of them returned. They had brought a little bit of company with them of course, in the form of a beaten and bloodied Jarvis dressed up in Stella’s clothes.

What follows now are the last words Jarvis would hear Stella say.

Stella: You suck as much as a drag queen as you do as a boyfriend!

Jarvis: Chiquita…

Stella: Chiquita, my ass! Gimme back my clothes…NOW!!

And with as much loving tenderness as Jarvis had shown to Stella, Kent and Clay stripped Jarvis down to his birthday suit…even tearing off his boxer shorts with the full intent to run them up some random flagpole not far from the heart of town.

“NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY LIFE AND DON’T YOU EVER DARKEN MY DOOR AGAIN YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!”

And of course Punk Mother had something to say to him, too!! “DON’T EVEN THINK OF COMING AROUND THE CAFÉ ANYMORE EITHER, OR I’LL GRIND YOU TO A PULP AND HAVE THE COPS COME AROUND TO CLEAN UP THE MESS!!”

With that Jarvis was unceremoniously shoved out into the street…just in time to be seen by a couple of police officers making the usual patrol rounds in the neighborhood.



And while we’re on the subject of Drag Queens…

Cannes was putting the finishing touches on a strawberry blond wig that rested on the head of a Queen of Magmaville contestant – one “Sierra Mayes” “Sierra Mayes” was on a bit of a verbal roll, prattling about those “annoying Gay BLT on wry stereotypes…I mean, God!”. Feel free to listen in!

“Just because I’m a gay man, people automatically assume I’m into The Wizard of Oz! I mean, give me a fucking break, geez!”

Another contestant pipes in, impersonating some unenlightened middle american type. “But it’s Judy Garland! You queers are supposed to be into her, after all!”

A whole lotta irises and pupils could be seen rolling upwards underneath all that eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara as “Sierra Mayes” snipped, “‘Lions and tigers and bears oh my!’ Pfft! One more fucking Oz analogy and I swear I’ll puke up a spleen!”

“If we’re going to get into stereotypical gay analogies, why not throw in some lines from The Rocky Horror Picture Show?” Another contestant added.

“Why oh why couldn’t we have had the Stonewall Riots on the night that Jimi Hendricks played the Monterey Pop Festival? It would’ve been so much less depressing. Better music too!” Well, obviously “Sierra Mayes” was clearly not down with the whole Barbara Streisand and Broadway trip!

“Hello!!” Yet another contestant was a bit hellbent on changing the subject so that it was all about HER, bitch! “Who do I have to blow to get a touch up on my manicure??”

“Just grab an emery board and do your own damn manicure, bitch!” “Sierra” snapped.


Now here’s the rub of why Cannes was at this pageant the same night that Punk Mother had her going away party for Pearl; One of the judges of the Queen of Magmaville Pageant was Andre Simmons, the proprietor of The Glamourous Beauty Salon. To work there was considered the pinnacle of beautician success at least within the city limits. Cannes’ ulterior motive was to impress the good proprietor with her skills. And she was game for the challenge.

Besides, anything to distract her from being depressed that she hadn’t been with Clay for awhile.



Meanwhile, Richard and Janet were seated at the bar downing Guinnesses and facing the front of the stage. Neither of them came often to the gay district of Magmaville; too busy with their video projects, after all. Richard had nothing against gay people – in his own way he understands what it’s like to have been picked on for being different from other people…even though he was just as straight as the next person…provided the next person was Milo Haskins. In fact, these people seem okay, and much more interested in their own dates than in hitting on him. And anyway, he Janet really liked the ambience of the nightclub actually. The interior reminded them of Glam Rock.

Anyway, they were here for Cannes, and “If our girls want to be ‘fag-hags,’ if that’s what makes them happy, it’s alrighty by me!” Richard declared.

“Yeah, right…anything for a free trim!” Janet teased.

“Yeah, well, you’d take a freebie from your own daughter, too!”

“A freebie?? Gimmie a break, jeez!!” Janet rolled her eyes and continued, “Have you forgotten what diabetes management costs nowadays? It’s a wonder they can pay for their own meds!”

Anyway, Cannes did join her parents after finishing “Sierra Mayes” to watch the queens strut their stuff. Drag Queen after Drag Queen came a workin’ the runway, sweetie, showing off their finest gowns and wigs and hair extentions made so much more fabulous by the capable hands of Richard and Janet Yossarian’s youngest daughter.

By the very end of the pageant, the contestants were narrowed down to 3. “Sierra Mayes” was voted the 2nd runner up, after a contestant named Dawn Vito came in 3rd. The winner…was Princess Johnson.

Cannes didn’t stick around after Princess Johnson’s coronation. She said “See ya back at the house.” to her parents after pecking them both on the cheek before she hooked up with “Sierra Mayes” and headed over to his place. After she left, Richard and Janet began to chat a little bit about her. Both of them seemed a bit concerned about her, and no amount of stout could erase this growing concern. Richard noticed that Clay hadn’t been coming around as often as he had before Henry Burke’s wedding, and neither he nor Janet had seen the two of them together since then. He also remarked about the state he noticed she’d been in lately; how moody, agitated and lost she seems anymore. Janet hoped that her volunteering for this pageant would help her to land a job at the beauty salon so that she could give her life some real focus.

Boris the bartender couldn’t help but overhear the Yossarian’s concerns about Cannes. Now Boris, a very muscular bartender who stood at about 5’ 9” with short cropped naturally curly red hair and piercing blue eyes, was a bit of a legend around the GLBT territories of Magmaville. To date he has survived every single violent attack that the homophobic thugs had subjected him to, and he has commemorated each and every survival story with a tattoo. There was a tattoo of a steel chain around his neck, which told the story of having been strangled into unconsciousness by a gay basher with a stainless steel chain. A 2nd attack, both of his kneecaps were fractured. Once the bones were healed and he successfully completed his physical therapy sessions, he went right out and had the word “fag” tattooed on his right knee and the word “got” on his left.

Then there was a 3rd tattoo of Willie Mayes – he loved baseball – on his chest. This was to commemorate the moment when he’d decided he had it up to heeeere with having the crap beaten out of him all the time. Somehow he’d managed to grab the aluminum baseball bat out of one thug’s hands and proceeded to start cracking some skulls in the hopes of perhaps knocking some sense into those goddamned fascist pigs once and for all. Oh yes: Boris was in a blind rage and had easily broken several bones with that bat before they all high-tailed it back to whatever hell hole they had crawled out of. Wherever that was Boris didn’t really care, as he was too busy shaking his fist at those chickenshits and bellowing, “You better run, bitches!! You better run back to yo’ mamas and don’t come around here again if you know what’s good for ya…

“THIS IS OUR FUCKING NEIGHBORHOOD!!!” And everyone who lived within a two block radius where Boris the Bartender stood holding that damned baseball bat heard every word that was bellowed out to the sky. The entire neighborhood erupted in applause! He got a huge standing ovation in fact! His finest hour!

Richard Yossarian loved that story, and thought to himself that if he was a gay man, he’d’ve so gone for Boris. This was a man’s man!

Boris never seemed to tire of telling this story, nor of showing off his tattoos. His 2nd favorite tattoo, apart from the Willie Mayes tat, were the words “The Big Gay Elvis” printed in a straight horizontal line directly above his pelvis, which left just enough room for a arrow that pointed downward, directly at his genitalia.

“I got a lot of blow-jobs after that!” Boris said with a guffaw.

Richard and Janet loved his story. Boris was just about ready to start prattling about his gay – and more effeminate – nephew Simon when…yeah, speak of the devil – said nephew and his circle of friends began to make noises at the other end of the bar.

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Bartender!! We need another round here!!”

And they were calling him in the most deliberately gawd awful, annoyingest falsettos they could muster up.

“Yoooo-hoooooo!”

Yeah, so anyway Boris excuses himself to go deal with Simon and his crazy friends. In actuality, since he was just about to talk about Simon anyway, his intention was to beckon him and his pals over to where Richard and Janet sat drinking. It appears that Simon has a hate crime survival story of his own that his Uncle Boris was just dying to make him share. So Simon rolls his eyes like okay whatever, anything to get a fucking beer out of his uncle.

So Boris introduces Simon to Janet and Richard, who shake hands with this guy. And at his uncle’s urging Simon raised his Dead Kennedys T-shirt to reveal what looked like the bottom of a hiking boot tattooed over the left side of his ribcage, very near where his stomach and pancreas would lay.

Now here’s Simon’s tattoo story;

“Okay, so my boy Gerald’s parents were out of town, and it was my 17th birthday. So we wanted to have a party while they were away. About 8 or 9 of us show up and we all got totally ripped out of our minds. Gerald and I had hoped for some alone time after everyone passed out, but by that time I was really starting to feel kinda sick from all the drinking and shit. So I start to head for home, and I’m walking of course, coz I’m too drunk to drive, y’see.

“I’m halfway home and alla sudden I gotta piss. So I go behind this dumpster to relieve myself, coz I had a lot of beer that night. Anyway, I just barely zipped back up again when I suddenly get jumped. I think there might’ve been at least two of them, but in any case they had me on the pavement and were really kicking the shit out of me. I had my hands over my face and I could just see this big ole hiking boot kicking me right here – “ With that, Simon points to where his tattoo was. “—again and again and again. They were totally out for blood and were wailing on me for a long time before I passed out.”

Simon then took a huge swig of the Newcastle Ale that he scored off his uncle, and he drew a heavy sigh before he continued. “So the next thing I remember is waking up at the hospital. My mom was really upset, practically in hysterics. I wanted to tell her I was okay, but I couldn’t even move, I was such a mess. Then this nurse comes in with some kind of meter, a needle, and a vial of insulin. And so I’m thinking, ‘What the fuck do I need insulin for? I don’t have diabetes! Is this a joke? Then the doctor comes in, Mom’s crying her eyes out, and I’m like, what’s going on here, doctor? He then tells me about all these tests they took, the x-rays and mri scans and blood tests, and he tells me that my pancreas was so badly damaged from all the kicks to my side that it’s no longer producing insulin anymore. So happy fucking 17th birthday, I have diabetes now. What a fucking present!” With that, Simon took another huge-ass swig from his bottle of ale. He was looking a little teary eyed. He clearly hated telling that story. “That was 7 years ago.”

Instinctively, Richard offered the lad a basketful of pretzels. The poor kid looked like he was ready to go hypo any minute, what with all the drinking.


Meanwhile…

Cannes met with “Sierra Mayes” at his studio apartment. And it wasn’t long before the two of them were splitting a bowl of “Cap’n Raunch” (“Stays raunchy…even in silk!”) and sat in front of the TV set. Cannes often retreated to a gayer atmosphere when things turned south…esp. betwixt Clay and herself.

Anyway, a clip of the movie Dirty Dancing was being aired on the telly. Now, there wasn’t any sound because “Sierra” has a thing for letting the television run with the mute button on and then playing the music of his choice in the background.

“Hm, for a second there I thought that was a YouTube clip.” Cannes said right after she expelled a well bogarted hit (Cannes never bogarted a joint or a pipe. She prefers to bogart the hit itself. She’ll hold it in her lungs as long as she can and then let a little of the smoke out, inhale again, hold that for a little bit more, and then let it all go.)

“It might just as well be.” “Sierra” replied. “They’ve uploaded a shitload of movies to that site, after all.”

As long as the subject of YouTube was brought up, “Sierra” got up from the sofa where the two of them had been sitting, and headed over to his computer. “Speaking of YouTube clips, would you mind if I play something on here for a bit?”

“You’re the d.j.!” Cannes wasn’t particularly riveted by what was on the small screen by any stretch. She could dance way dirtier than Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey any day of the week as far as she was concerned.

So “Sierra” navigated the arrow onto the tab of Favorites and scrolled it down to a listing that reads “Elvis Fucking Christ by The Cramps on Youtube.” He then clicked the left button on the mouse to activate the link…which came up in about 30 seconds…

“Well I got out of bed this morning…” crooned Lux Interior, the Cramps’ lead singer. “Ah heard what the guy on the TV sayyed…The big rawk o’lords crowned a brand new king!! It shoulda been me instead!! Don’t they know that I’m Elvis Fucking Christ!!! Elvis Fucking Christ!! Chicken-plucking, runamuckin’ Elvis Fucking Christ!!!”

While this was going on, Cannes found herself mesmerized by the Xmas tree in the corner of the living room. It had the basic miniature white lights strung along it, and was garlanded with two red and white dyed feather boas. The branches had his collection of cockrings hanging on them.

“Nice tree.”

“Thanks”

“One year we had jasmine vines on our tree.” Cannes began. “My mom read somewhere that the true spirit of Xmas had more to do with the changing of the season rather than some newborn savior. So she decided to honor that spirit by trimming the tree with garlands of real flowers.”

“Well, it’s all glitter and glam to me. Don’t you think so? I mean let’s face it, Candace; winter can be such a cold and gloomy and depressing time of the year, and the world needs a good counterpoint to that…

“A friend of mine had a Halloween tree. It had the basic little white lights, of course. And the branches were filled with rubber bats, rubber snakes, spiders, skeletons, and plastic severed fingers. And I don’t know how he managed to pull it off, but he somehow fashioned a garland made out of some animal’s entrails.”

Cannes was taken aback a bit by that one. “From REAL animals?!?”

“Yeah! He tried to get a plastic entrail garland online for the tree, but I guess there wasn’t any online site that sold such a thing…at least he couldn’t find one.”

“Eyew, God, I hope he at least emptied them out before he hung them up.”

“I couldn’t tell whether he did or not. In any case he ended up getting rid of the damn thing. It was stinking up the whole house really bad…”

“Good God, I can believe that.” It’s a good thing Cannes was stoned on weed, or she’d’ve been really nauseated by the very idea. And she doesn’t gross out very easily at all.

“Oh God…neither of us could stand it any longer after awhile, and it damn near turned me off permanently, man! One year I had hung all my make-up and jewelry on my tree.”

“Now that’s inventive!”

“Wasn’t it, though!” “Sierra” replied, beaming with pride. “It made it a hellova lot easier to find precisely the right color palette that I wanted to experiment with. I had such a blast with that tree. I would throw parties and invite damn near everyone I knew. And then we’d get really drunk and give each other makeovers using the decorations on the tree. We were all so wasted and sparkly and happy, and it was beautiful!”

Just then, Cannes could faintly hear the chatter of neighbors in the next apartment. The walls were practically made of papier mache, for fuck’s sake!

“What do you think you’re doing, Claude?” an Egyptian male’s voice protested.

“C’mon, Anwar…tide you over till you get back to your girlfriend.” This Claude insisted.

“Man, not tonight!”

“Anwar..”

“Claude, please go jack off. I’m too tired tonight, man!”

“I’m horneee! Anwarr!!”

“That…” began “Sierra” as he pointed at the wall. “Is precisely..”

“Look, stop tickling me, dammit!”

“…why I rented this piece of shit apartment…”

“You know you sleep better afterwards, Anwar.” Claude wasn’t giving up at all!

“I get a huge rush listening to those two monsters getting it on.” “Sierra” concluded.

All it did for Cannes was to make her cunt twinge. It’d been awhile since the last time she had gotten laid. She could barely keep from squirming at the thought of Claude’s agony.

Then “Sierra” started knocking on the wall – if you could call that a wall – and called, “Hey Claude! If he don’t want you, you can come over here and do me!” Then he turned to Cannes and made a face like he was silently cracking up laughing.

Cannes snirked and then said, “I suppose I’d better leave you kids alone, then.”

“Hmm, yes…”

“See, there’s the bitch queen next door, Claude. Go and fuck him for awhile…”

“I somehow think Anwar’s in no mood for a menage a trois tonight, dear.”

“Oh whatever, Anwar…you suck!”

“T’chuh! Don’t you wish!”

With that Cannes said her goodbyes to “Sierra” and as she left she passed Claude in the hall as he left his apartment. Claude seemed a bit snippy as he said to her in passing, “I guess he just wasn’t that into you, was he.”

Ah, nothing like gay banter, even when it got snippy, to crack Cannes up.

Anyway, she made her way to the nearest Hoagie Queen, thinking it might be about time to elevate her blood sugar levels. As she ate her bbq chicken wrap, some poor stressed out sandwich sculptor was getting verbally reamed by that douchebag of a manager who’s name she couldn’t give a hootenanny about. They must breed like rabbits, her head observed…

And then her thoughts screamed, “Dammit, stand up for yourself, bitch. I’m being traumatized listening to this shit!” Cannes made a mental note to herself to file a formal complaint to whoever it was that recently claimed that she ran Magmaville about this.



Janet was listening to what she referred to as her favorite soap opera while Fergie Mum-Mum lay sleeping in her bedroom. Her mother was ill with the flu, and Janet decided to give Morty a break from being at the beck and call of this woman all the time.

If she were actually watching this program, instead of fixating on the monitor of her laptop, blogging her memoirs (this was her latest project, an autobiography), this is what she might be watching…

“Previously on Bear Country…”announced the voice over talent. Janet would turn the tv on to Bear Country…just to piss off Fergie.

But she wasn’t really paying attention to it at all. The television was basically serving the same purpose as any one of your favorite record albums would do; a background soundtrack to chill out to while you do what you need to do.

As she blogged she thought about last night…how she looked in the mirror and really liked what she saw reflected back to her.

Her memory played out like a scene in a movie…

“Y’know, Richard, I think this is a sexy look for me.” Janet was at the time wearing a brown ribbed cotton tank top with a pair of black denim jeans. She loved her short-cropped pixie hair cut and she loved how all three of them seemed to work together. “This nice healthy looking bit of bare shoulders and just a hint of cleavage…just a hint.” And Janet had a great pair of shoulders, too, just bordering on the muscular. And thankfully her upper arms weren’t sagging very much at all…even after all the years.

“If I ever accuse you of doling out too much information about that,” Richard declared as soon as he came up behind her and wrapped his burly arms around her waist. “You should lock me in the loony bin and flush the key down the toilet.” The two of them kissed. Richard was anxious to put the day behind him and join his wife in bed…really anxious.

What a day, tho. The two of them learned what Jarvis had done to Stella the night before while everyone else was at the pageant, and Richard had a lot to say about the matter…as Jarvis discovered as soon as he came within yards of their front porch.

Jarvis had the nerve to come back, with a bouquet of flowers, balloons, and animal plush toys, eyes brimming with apologies, only to have his ears suddenly bombarded with enraged tones coming from behind the front door!

“…and it ill behooves me to think that asshole wouldn’t even let my daughter have ten minutes to take care of herself so that she can get back in the mood to let him continue to sexually assault her some more. I mean, if he’s too damned selfish to be patient with the fact that my poor little girl is battling this dreaded disease and will have to do so for the rest of her living days, then he doesn’t deserve to have any woman at all, let alone either one of my goddamn daughters!!!”

Well, that was all Jarvis needed to hear. It was obvious he wasn’t referring to Clay Burke. Jarvis looked towards the attic window where Stella’s room was and could only see the curtains shutting out any view of the street below. No doubt Stella was inside, sniffling with her hands over her eyes and murmuring, “I can’t even look out there right now.”

Oh well, he’d try again later when everyone calms down…or at least when she was home alone…maybe.

Eventually Richard calmed down enough to speak to Stella. He approached her as gently as he could.

“I’m not running a brothel, you realize. The illusion that I am does turn me on to no end, I’ll admit that. But that said, the only reason we let you girls bring your guys over here is so that you can be safe, and we can be sure that the guys you may think you want to marry don’t turn out to be major assholes like what that jackass turned out to be. And I just want to say that I’m really very sorry that we weren’t around to kick his ass before he pulled that shit on you.” And Richard meant that.

“I don’t want to see him anymore, Baba.” Stella grumbled tearfully. A rant welled up in her and burst out. “I don’t want him around here. I don’t want to look at him, I don’t want to talk about him…” her voice was cracking. “I don’t want to think about him and I hate being in love with him so bad like this! He’ll only kill my lust, just like he always does!” At this point she was sobbing uncontrollably.

Her father sat beside her on the bed and held her in his arms while she wept. “Well, look at it this way; you probably won’t be quite so horny for him anymore. Anyway…” Richard hope this would help console her. “I don’t think your lust can really be killed by anyone. It’s just got enough sense to walk away from a fucked up situation. You’ll find another guy who’ll make you go crazy the way you like to go crazy, and maybe he won’t be such an asshole to you. At least we can hope so, anyway.”

And then he kissed the top of her head and added, “Look, you’re a beautiful woman…just like your mother.”

Janet had been eavesdropping. As angry as she had been that her daughter had been abused, it cheered her to hear her husband say that she, too, was a beautiful woman in his own way and that he still finds her very, very attractive. That was true love.

That night, she and Richard made love. It felt so beautiful…so beautiful. It made Richard weep a little bit as he moved in and out of her. Stroking his back with the balls of her fingertips, Janet whispered, “Just keep fucking me, darling. We’ll both feel much better.”


“I can sure pick ‘em.” Stella confided to Punk Mother the following morning. The two of them were sipping sugar free iced mochas to ward off the effects of a particularly oppressive heat wave. The effects of this heat wave put both room and outdoor temperatures at heights generally inconducive to even minimal physical labor.

“How come I can’t draw a good man to me? I cannot possibly be that scary, can I?”

“Au contraire, Stella; you’re one of the scariest bitches I know.” Punk Mother replied.

The ladies laughed.

“In fact,” P.M. continued, “Up until I put you to work here I thought no woman could possibly be even half as scary as I am. But damn, you’ve come pretty close to outdoing me there, girlfriend.”

There was more laughter and then Stella said, “Is that so? Well, I’ll show you scary!!! Rrrrrooowwww!!!” Her lion imitation only served to unnerve Kent as he looked at both ladies askance. “You like scary women, though, doncha.”

“Of course I do. That’s the way a woman has to be in this day and age. It’s what the world deserves for being so damned scary to begin with. Besides,” Punk Mother replied, sipping her drink, “How else can we expect to separate the men from the boys, anyway?”

The ladies raised and clinked their glasses in the generic “cheers” toast.

“By the way,” Punk Mother continued, “did I ever tell you about the time I boffed Bam Margera?” She loved to tell tall tales. She and Stella both knew this was bullshit, but it’s still a funny-assed story. “Of course if you were to repeat it to him, he would deny it. But he was so shitfaced drunk, like he always is, so he wouldn’t remember any of it even if it did happen. But I fucked that bitch so hard it put him in a coma. Then I gave him a blow job…with a vacuum cleaner!”

The two women laughed and Punk Mother added, “And that vacuum cleaner really sucked!”