Never Fall in Love with a Musician, made of balsa and basswood, acrylic, bass & guitar strings which played songs of unrequited love, obsession and betrayal, 6” x 6”.
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My ebook of this story is now available for your digital reading device. For only $2.99 you, too, can be hip to this noir. Go here to buy it, and/or check out my Amazon author profile.
“Some people here to see you,” said the jailer. “Supposed to be your parents.”
“Why not?” said Slim, his chipped tooth a hole in a smile.
A few minutes later, they were as close to him as a sheet of bulletproof glass. The man supposed to be his father said, “The D.A. seems very intent on the death penalty.”
The woman supposed to be his mother kept staring at a spot in space just above and to the left of his head. “I want to pray with you,” she said.
“Try it and I’ll tell the guard you smuggled in plastic explosives by sticking it up your ass,” he said.
That shut them up for a minute or so.
He couldn’t remember just when, but at an early age he’d become convinced that these two people were not who they said they were. Fake parents, maybe even fake people. Or maybe he was the imposter. The physical resemblance was slight at best. He felt nothing for them.
The man supposed to be his father said he would like for him to consider donating his body to science. That way, he said, something positive might come out of this someday.
He told them he’d already put in a request to be torn apart by wild dogs.
The woman supposed to be his mother wanted to know how could anyone pour lighter fluid on another person and set him on fire? And just watch them burn alive? How could one human do that to another?
“Didn’t you hear?” he said. “It was spontaneous human combustion. The guy was so rotten with corruption he just blew up.”
Her upper lip twitched to the side, giving her the appearance of a cleft palate.
“The D.A. didn’t like that story any more than I do,” said the man supposed to be his father. After a long pause, he said, “Wouldn’t you like to know you did one good thing before you died?”
Slim laughed and for some reason, felt obligated to explain why. “That’s the same thing he said,” he said.
Twitching, the woman said, “You mean, the man you…?”The man tugged at her arm and said, “Let’s go.”
RIP Joe Gracey, deejay, producer, songwriter, musician. This is a photo layout from the Daily Texan coverage of a benefit for Joe at the Armadillo World Headquarters in 1978. Joe started recording my band, The Skunks, when the band had been together a mere four months. But we were hot shit. Also shown, Asleep at the Wheel and Alvin Crow.
Italian Actress Whose Name I forgot, art pens & highlighter, 4 x 6 ” paper, from my Little Black Book Series.
Green heron grooming on Lady Bird Lake, Austin, Texas, May 2009.