Woody Allen Makes A Scary Sandwich - Horror Pastiche, Stories & Poems

Woody Allen Makes A Scary Sandwich - Horror Pastiche, Stories & Poems Page 20

by Karen S. Cole

Part Three: And That Was the End of That

  It’s too bad Adolf never got to see New York—he’d have PUTZED!!!

  “Yeah, Unca Hitler, we’ve BYPASSED you !” Jeannie thought to herself, we’ve killed even MORE people worldwide since you.

  Somebody’s always out to kill somebody. Always the case.

  “Oh, dot iz HORREBLE !!! I hed redder DIE foist den kill mine OWN leetle children ! I hev wery mony, chu know. I…I left zeveral bezterdz, een caze I should die durink de var ! Because I vant to go on LEEVINK! How COULT…it iz MONZTROUZ !!!”

  That’s really something, that is, having Adolf Hitler come back from the dead and have trouble with abortion. Oy vey! What do you s’pose he’ll make out of the earthquakes and riots?

  “If I hed zex mit chu, chu vould abort de child?” He looked deeply into her eyes, his wide open, ridiculously innocent.

  Oh, God, he’s propositioning me already. Dressed, loosening his brown shirt, he was leaning against the wall with one arm and peering closer into her youthful face than usual. He seemed to be searching out her soul. What, that old murderous scumbag?

  “Look, you, we need to send you back home somehow. This isn’t going to do us any good. You need to get back to Germany and, uh, lose one for the Gipper. We can take care of these times by ourselves, thank you very much. We don’t need you.”

  “I don’t know abot dot, iv chu are killink chor children right und levt, vat it iz chu know chu are doink. But jes, I zertainly vill go beck to vere I belonk, if chu vill zend me.”

  They went out the front room and leafed through the Necronomicon, getting nowhere. Jeannie fixed them another pot of tea. Hitler got up and went to the bathroom. When he came back he had this really determined look on his unshaven face.

  “I yom koink out on voot, to zeek out Rudolv Hezz. He iz loose and doink Gott only knows vat. He vas qvite uzeful beck in de var but I don’t know…I think it vould be bezt to vind him.”

  Jeannie thought, well, that’s so bloomin’ nice of you, but I bet you’re just restless. You want to go out for a stroll.

  Indeed, he had all his old clothes on: the WWI ace flying cap, the armband swastika, and the black jackboots. Jeannie got him his heavy flak jacket. Underneath, a vaguely concealed, hand-tooled 38 was strapped to his think leather belt. He’d be lucky if the cops didn’t stop him, but he looked just like a bum.

  Without another word, out the door he went, ready to explore L.A. on foot and alone. Adolf Hitler, in her own neighborhood, mustache and all, freely on the hoof in L.A. First thing he did was try to flag down a taxi. But none would even stop, and one honked his horn LOUDLY at him, not liking his looks. “DUMM NARR!!! VEGGEHEN ZU HOLLE!!!” Hitler cried, wagging a fist.

  Oh, well. Such a nice, colorful neighborhood. My, it’s run down and cheap-looking. He’d thought America was much better.

  But he entered total shock altogether when he saw most of the people slowly coming at him on the streets and sidewalks.

  They were all brown! Latins, Asian-Americans, a few blacks and white people randomly dispersed themselves around him.

  Tiny businesses sold cheap food, clothes, toys and canned rap music. Minor amounts of street litter dogged his heavy tread.

  Pawn shops, cafes, Mexican restaurants and jewelry stores were squeezed tightly together with no gaps. Most smells fine and rancid, enticing and putrid, assaulted Adolf without mercy and all at once. He saw what looked like a Jewish name on one of the places and nearly had a fit, spitting at the sign. It only turned out to be a Catholic name. But he calmly gathered himself together and stalked on…the COLORS…the SOUNDS!!!

  Strolling around grokking everything, bumping into people and not very fearfully leering back at them, “Uncle Adolf” blissfully waltzed through Jeannie’s weirdly run-down section of sprawling, overgrown downtown L.A. He finally caught a bus, sneakily paying with German coins and actually finding a seat to himself.

  It took him way far past downtown L.A. proper, which is not really very huge. Adolf could easily walk it in an hour. He stood on a Spanish-named street, one lined with flat, darkening, filthy, towering buildings, wringing his pale hands, mesmerized by the pitiless sight, unable to comprehend it. “I tought ve vould be crowded out by de Chew,” he said to a passing white woman, who even slowed down to listen. Because he seemed so happy. He reminded her of her first husband. “Or blecks !!!”

  “Now dey built de baldinks ZTRAIGHT OP !!! he yelled, thrusting an index finger skyward. “No vay vill chu effer be crowded out…chu vill all fit een, here. How a-bot dot…” She obligingly smiled at him, carefully pushing him away from her.

  He walked all through every section of metro L.A., happily taking in the traffic and the mix of people. He got a few looks for the mustache and clothes, but not many. As he strolled down to the beaches, there were Hari Krishnas, Malcolm X blacks, punkers, hippies, middle-class Latinos wearing the latest in ornately dressy fashions, nine-yard yuppies, Japanese in jeans; “de Indians here or whoeffer it iz zeem to be qvite rich, yah,” skateboarders, sexy big-breasted chicks, giant window displays in stores. Adolf was fascinated by sights, sounds and smells he’d never experienced. Still, he was on the prowl, sniffing around for Hess, looking ridiculous but intense.

  Hitler was serious about it, sort of. Hess was known to be quite the murderous cutthroat, the kind of guy who enjoyed killing, the type to ALWAYS blame the victim. Hitler merely said they smelled; Hess liked to kick their “smelly” faces in with his jackboots. But the hypocritical Adolf wasn’t too terribly worried about it, happily enjoying his every moment in America.

  “HEY! Old man! Are you a Neo-Nazi?” shouted a young, bald-headed fellow somewhere behind him. He had two other bald fellows with him. They were wearing the STRANGEST black leather jackets, with tassels of screaming bright red hair hanging down beyond their waists. And they both wore gold earrings.

  “No, I yom in fact a NAZI, and I don’t even know vat chu are raifarring to. My neme is Adolf Hitler, and I yom de Chanzellor uff Chermany und Chiff of her Armdt Fozez.” This caused some commotion on their part. There surely weren’t very many of them, these “Neo-Nazis.” They sure weren’t his Youth Movement crowd.

  “Uh, we’re having a rally at the big park down from Main Street, and you’re welcome to come and do your Hitler impression, old man, if ya want a crowd for it. We don’t like Elvis.”

  “EEMPREZZION? Humph. Wery vell. I vill go und zee vat dere iz to zee.” Skeptical but interested, Adolf followed them.

  There was quite a small crowd, ‘bought fifty smooth-skinned white boys, all pretty much twenty or younger. Punkers in ball caps, rock music afficianados, the more serious-minded of street denizens—VERY violence oriented. Just milling around in the wrong end of town, waiting for black gangs to show.

  They were listening to a guy who was giving a speech on how Neo-Nazis should spread rumors against the Jews, and that blacks were contributing to the downfall of America. He was saying it was the same in Europe as it was over here in the U.S.A.

  The young bald guys put Hitler up to speak. After hemming and hawing around, he finally agreed to do so, mounting the jury-rigged platform, looking like he’d never been there before.

  In his well-known booming Teutonic voice, he took over the microphone, surprising his captive audience by reviling them.

  “I com vrom a land vere de ghettoized Chew zprodz dizeazez eento our Aryan populaichun, vere it con be hardt to vind a crozt of brodt because uff Chewish ownership uff anterprizez, vere paiple are livink een bombed-out zhelters inztead uff beautivul, prod (here, he choked up a little) buildinks and proper homz.

  “Now paiple DIE effrey day of rotten filth and dizeazez ! All due to de GODDEMNT ROTTEN VAR !!! Var createz notink but misery, hatred, poverty. Vat are chu paiple vanting to var about? HEY?

  “Vat iz VRONG mit chu paiple? Chu are our ENEMY. Vat are chu DOINK, tryink to ENLIZT vit uz? Chu are zuppost to be KILLINK UZ!!! I do not onderstand dis ! Dare you
zympatize mit uz in dis monner? I haff hear dot chu are lozink chor leettle children to ABORCHUN. Iz dot not a more zignificant problem?

  “Chu are all a VOREIGNER here in chor contry, chust like de Chew iz. Can you not, at leazt een America, live een peace?

  “Obwiouzly chu know NOTINK uff de horrorz uff VAR. Vor VAT do chu VANT dese troblez, OUR troblez? Dis iz chor vine AMERICA, vich could be PEAZEVUL amonk all chor PAIPLEZ! Vy do you vaizt chor preziouz, waluable time fightink OUR OLD QVARRELZ? LEAF DEM TO OZ! VE VER PROD TO HAFF VOUGHT DEM VOR YOU!!!” Hitler was getting angrier and angrier at the odd, hippie-ish young crowd.

  An angry-looking, quite bald chap in the crowd spoke up.

  “That’s BULLSHIT. C’mon, get rid of this old geezer. He’s fuller of hot air than the Hindenburg was!!! They all grabbed Hitler and threw him off the stage. On the way, he punched one of them quite solidly in the jaw. They fell on him all at once.

  In a few minutes the police arrived, and the crowd dispersed.

  They pulled Hitler off the sidewalk where he was lying. He was all right; only his dignity was wounded. But his clothes were a mess, and his WWI flying ace cap was missing.

  “Good RIDDANZE! I zee vy deze yonk paiple are in de vrong var. I hoff MIZLED dem. Dat vas NOT my var. No more vill I vere dot hot!” Just as well, as the day was very hot indeed.

  Hitler checked in at a small bar on Encinado Street, the Quesadillo. He sat at the counter, ordered a cup of coffee, and lecherously chatted with the infatuating Chicana barmaid.

  “Chu are very charmink, Liebchen. Vat iz chor neme? Can I valk chu hom et de end uff chor zhivt?” She tittered at him.

  The barmaid declined, collecting her tip, and Hitler got his coat. But just as he was leaving, the guy next to him grabbed his right arm. What…oops, it was the armband!

  STARK ANGER was etched in the strange, unfamiliar face.

  Highly upset, the man was clearly about to strike him !

  “I think you Neo-Nazi slimeballs are DISGUSTING. I’m…I’m JEWISH!!! I’ve had it UP TO HERE with idiots like YOU !!!”

  “VELL, I hoff been farink no bedder mit CHOR kind. RELAIZE ME, OR CHU VILL RAIGRET IT!!!” Hitler started grabbing at the guy, who pushed him. Swinging commenced, and quite a little battle was fought. Neither side seemed to have the advantage.

  After the smoke cleared, they both ended up outside, having been kicked out by the barkeeper. They left just before the cops showed up. The Jewish fellow who grabbed Hitler apologized.

  “Look, Mac, I’m sorry we fought,” he remonstrated. He was possibly the only Jew in all of downtown L.A. “I just couldn’t take how much you look like Hitler. What a coincidence !!!”

  “DOT iz no coinzidenze zinze it iz dot I YOM Hitler. But I agzept chor apolochy. Plaize agzept mine az well. Porchops ve needn’t be een zuch a qvarrel, here in Loz Angelez. Cen I get chu a ceb? I don’t zeem to haff moch lock dere…”

  “Oh, sure, I’m not doing anything anyway.”

  “Com beck mit me de apotment I yom ztayink ot, und I zhell eentroduze chu to von uff de vinezt yonk latiez I hoff effer mat een my antire chaded live. Zhe vill fix oz som tea.”

  On the way back in the cab, Hitler tried several times to explain who he really was. Of course, Harold Rubens, the rate L.A. Jewish guy, couldn’t believe it for a moment. Hitler was dead. What did this guy mean…? The resemblance was uncanny.

  But Harold was being escorted by the elegant, charming Austrian up to Jeannie’s flat in the run-down section of L.A. she lived in. “I haven’t been any place this downside in ten years!”

  A bit afraid, Rubens waltzed into the small apartment, right after his purportedly worst mortal enemy of all time.

  “CHEANNIE! I hoff vond a boddy, dough I coult not vind Hezz, und I hoff been all ower chor vine city. Iz dere tea med?”

  Surprised introductions were made, and Hitler asked Jeannie to explain. The fascinated Rubens was all ears, especially about the Necronomicon. He was already well-acquainted with it.

  “Sure, it’s from a story by H.P. Lovecraft. He made up this magic book, written by the Mad Arab Abdhul Ahlhazard, and scared millions of readers with it. But it’s not supposed to be REAL!”

  Jeannie and Hitler showed him that it WAS real, and that you could conjure spells from it. Rubens quaked at some of the things written in it. Hitler nodded his head at the appraisal.

  “Some of this stuff is BLASPHEMOUS to beat the band! Wow. This is devil worship at its LOWEST. This stuff shouldn’t BE!!!

  “Do you mind if I read it a little?” They both said no.

  Rubens noticed the part that foreshadows the Holocaust, looking at Hitler as though seeing him for the first time.

  Stupefied, “Uncle Adolf” could only smile sheepishly back.

  They sat on soft floor pillows while Rubens tried to sort it all out. Sipping his tea, he finally went for chanting a spell.

  It was the one Hitler tried before, but this time it was performed uninterrupted. There was no visible effect at all.

  Rubens began to doubt them. “Are you sure this stuff is magic?” he balefully inquired. Hitler was unsure whether or not to encourage him. He was starting to imagine life in the times that he was stuck in, asking Harold “vere can I get chob? I yom an architectural dreftzmon by trede. Do chu know heny openinks?”

  Rubens said no, but he’d see what he could do. “I have these friends from New York who make greeting cards. If you can still illustrate you can churn those out for about thirty bucks a card, I think. No fortune, but ya, you’ll pull down a fair living.”

  In a brief while, Rubens split, leaving them his phone number and hailing a cab. That left Jeannie and Hitler to each other’s strange devices. Jeannie remembered her Miss America daydream.

  “Tell me, what’s it like leading a country, being in a war, one you know you’re going to lose, and killing all those innocent people? Does it feel good to be on a power trip like that? Do you really hate Jewish people that much? You don’t act like it.”

  “I’d rodder not talk abot it, Liebchen. Let oz conzentrete on our affarz uff de morrow, inztad. My beck iz beginnink to ACHE vrom zleepink on dot coch uff chorz…” Uh oh, Jeannie thought. I knew it. Fine. I’ll hold this bastard off somehow.

  But Hitler fixed them dinner, a strip steak with Viennese potatoes and steamed vegetables, and coffee in a demitasse.

  He kept looking at Jeannie funny as he wiped he mouth. She stirred, very uncomfortably. He was far more than twice her age.

  While she was watching TV, he went into her bedroom and turned the bed down for her. “I yom raidy vor chu anytime,” he gaily intoned. “I’M NOT,” Jeannie truthfully and exasperatedly spouted. “You keep your big fat bleachy hams to yourself!”

  “Wery well, leettle goil, if chu are zo avraid, I zhell zleep een ze ahmchar tonight, vatchink TV mit de zound turnt down zo az not to disturb chu, and draim uff my zveet dad Marlena.”

  He must mean Marlena Dietrich, who really did die after all, she thought, wondering if she should tell him so. She did.

  He looked very crestfallen. “Vat, zat iz too bod. My maigre live iz zcarzely voith liffink. Bot I zhell manache zumhow.

  “Goodnight, leetle vun,” he whispered, sniffling softly.

  Jeannie went to bed, feeling somewhat sorry for him.

  Restless in the middle of the night, she tossed and turned, as it was very hot outside. She finally got up and went out to the front room. Hitler was snoozing amiably, fallen over left sideways, sound asleep. Funny…how eerily handsome he looked…

  She went up the armchair and leaned over his sleeping form. Gathering her boldness of an earlier day, she finally kissed him on his Scandinavian troll nose. He blinked awake, and looked at her. They gazed at each other for a long time.

  Standing, he took her gently by the hand and led her into the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind them.

  The next morning, they decided to go out for breakfast. Jeannie didn�
��t have work until that night. They both appeared to be rather happy, as if settling down to a kind of resigned contentment. Jeannie was one to acclimatize herself to situations. So was Hitler, or at least he was now.

  On the way back from the (name the café, Jeannie used to work there), their car crossed paths with back-assward Rudolph Hess’s.

  “I zee ju are chicken-hawking, old men,” Hess dryly commented. God, Jeannie thought, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen anyone look that mean or that ugly. Hitler tightened up right away, almost turning pale. Jeannie felt slightly guilty.

  “Vell, dot iz batter dan chu are doink, I vould zay,” Hitler laughed, chokingly. “Vat chu tink? Izn’t she a britty yonk…?”

  “Ja, und ju haff NO RIGHT TO HER! Ve don’t ewen belonk here, and ju, hypocrite, are corruptink von uff do local vomen. Just as ju sey odders do, SO DO JEW. Gott vill haff vanchence upon ju vor it; ju VOREIGN MONSTAIR !!!” Hess seemed genuinely angry, as though something terrible was all Hitler’s fault. Adolf was growing stiffer and stiffer and redder and redder at the wheel.

  “Porhops it iz not heny uff chor BUZINEZZ, Mizter Hezz?”

  “Indeed? I tink it iz, und ju und I most be koink plazez wery SOON, old men, sooner dan ju vould vant or tink. Vor now, auf wiederzehen, bot I varn ju dat CHOR TIME IZ COMINK…”

  Hess sped off very offensively. Hitler cringed, and Jeannie wondered whatever was the matter. Who was that other dude?

  Adolf attempted to explain. “It iz FETED dot I zhould rule Chermany. Hezz vanted to be ruler, he iz chealous az a vet hen about it. He vould LUFF to azzazinate me und teke my plaze.

  “Bot he iz an enferior type, an epe-mon, a HUN. Razially enferior. He vould NEFFER be an effective ruler. Not like me !”

  “But you’re a loser, Uncle Adolf !” Jeannie softly laughed.

  “DON’T CHU CALL ME DOT, A LOOSER, NEFFER AGAIN !!! I YOM NOT A LOOSER !!!” Hitler was VERY angry, in his famous high dudgeon.

  Jeannie became afraid; he seemed about to strike her.

  “Gulp. Okay, sir, you’re their fearless leader. You’re, uh, not a loser, honest.” Jeannie felt like the original coward, and a sniveling sidewalk to boot. Hitler almost calmed down.

  “IF A KETCH dot Hezz, zo help me GOTT, I VILL VRING HIZ DEMN NECK!!! MURDEROUS SCHVEINEHIRT!!! I VILL SHOOT HIM TOT !!!”

  Oh, boy, where are we going now, Jeannie wondered. He drove them back, and Jeannie took up her hobby, painting flowers in bowls of water, while Hitler, calming down, advisingly watched.

  “Chu zhould hoff de zonlight comink een entirely vrom vun zide. All de light refleckz off de vun zide uff de flowuss.”

  Jeannie suddenly remembered a joke about a Jew, a Catholic and a Protestant that set Hitler to laughing again. She asked him if he wanted to buy a bottle a good cheap wine. He did.

  They lounged around in bathrobes that afternoon. “Perhops I zhould MARRY chu, my Liebchen. Bot how vill de peppervork go?”

  Jeannie signed. “Don’t worry, you’re not my first. You’re just the oldest. Say, you’re pretty good in bed for an old goat. Do you EVER do it more than ONCE, though?” He sputtered.

  “Ha, ho ho, HA! An old got, me. I heve hed vomen like chu EXECUTED chust vor beink vrom Eastern Europe, Liebchen. Vat vas it chu vere ezkink abot before, vy I hed doze paiple killt…?”

  After she got back from her dinner shift, about midnight, Hitler settled down into an elaborate explanation of why the Holocaust happened at all, what his role in the war was, what the Nazis were trying to accomplish. Jeannie listened sleepily over her tea, not caring terribly much about such moldy gold events, and dreaming drousily of getting this geezer a new identity and a job…wondering if they should have sex tonight.

  They did. Jeannie liked it, but felt eerily sinful, and rather out of her place and time. As Hitler snored on her bed, she thought to herself, what am I doing making love with a demon?

  There wasn’t anything she could do about it. She closed his infamously pugilistic mouth, and went peacefully to sleep.

  The next day, they went clothes shopping again, a different store, one more suited to middle-class Latino tastes. There, they ran into Herman Goering, another notorious Nazi.

  He was now a haberdasher, conjured up by Rubens’ recent spell, and was clearly gay. A BLATANT, stereotypical QUEEN!!!

  “My DEARS!!! How wonderful to see you looking both so well!!! Jeannie often shopped at this particular store, a leftover clothing items thrift shop, featuring old clothes from bygone eras. This guy turned out to be the new proprietor.

  Herman Goering was the Nazi that “maybe” suicided.

  He didn’t recognize Hitler or understand what he was talking about. “You’ll look just DANGEROUS in this old war-time bomber’s jacket. It’ll go just PERFECTLY with your hair, and that mustache. It’s KAISERAZY!!! I just LOVE it !!!”

  “I can’t belief chu are doink dis. Vat heppened to chu? I tought chu ver ronnink Bergen Belsen. Vat vent vrong?” Goering, at a loss, only shrugged. He seemed…very far away.

  Having the day, the odd couple determined to go for a drive again. Hitler was quieter than usual. It was raining, very grey and drizzly and depressing, Hitler mused to himself, but much less depressing than Aus.

  Out of nowhere, Hess showed up again, ripping up the road with an overwhelming SQUEAL!!!

  “CHU!!! I VANT CHOR LIFE, CHU HEZZIAN DOG !!!” Hitler waved his gun out the window, threatening to shoot. Hess only laughed.

  “Qvit growlink zo loudly, jor drool is flyink,” Hess joked. “Vat iz vrong mit a zimple tought about raivenge, ju foreigner? Ju heve already invaded my contry. Now DIS one as well!!!

  “JEW are raizponzible vor de deats. It iz JEW who most PAY for chor CRIMEZ !!!” Hess glared openly with hellish anger.

  Hitler glared back at him the same way. “Zo chu vant me to BAY vor dis NOTINKNEZZ, do chu? Jeannie could swear she smelled the fire and brimstone, the sulphur fumes, again. “ZO BE IT, DOG UFF A CHERMAN, EN GARDE!!! Hitler took after Hess’s car like a ruptured duck, trying to ram him. Hess danced away, circling back to do the same to Jeannie’s car. There was much SCREECHING of brakes and SQUEALING of tires. Balking, Jeannie CRINGED!!!

  “CHEANNIE!!! I YOM NOT HEVINK CHU EEN DIS CAR!!! ROUSE MIT CHU !!!” He screeched to a stop, opening the door and rudely shoved her out of the car, Jeannie protesting all the way. He dumped her flat on her ass, squealing straight away for Hess.

  They made a few remote circular passes at each other and then screamed away in exactly opposite directions. Hess ran his car up to Jeannie, and she jumped out of the way into an alley just in time. Then they both turned and RACED, together, at well over a hundred miles per hour, heading for one final humdinger fatal head-on collision…right into each other!!!

  CCRRRAAAAAASSSHHH!!! Both cars crumbled like accordions.

  PPOOOWWWWWW!!! Exploding in flames, the cars burnt to a crisp where they stopped. Jeannie, faltering, watched as they both exploded merrily away, immolating both their passengers in a most hideous and hellish Inferno. Just what they both deserved!

  Somehow, Jeannie made her sightless distraught way home.

  Glancing through the Necronomicon, crying slightly but holding most of her tears back, she chanted the original spell she’d used to bring Hitler there. It failed. But …her car!!!

  It was time to call the insurance company or mail the claim. Normal life was about to take over again. There went her rates.

  However, a shadowy grey shape fluxed and faded in her chair.

  “NOOOOO…” said a quavering, unearthly voice…” fate cannot be changed or altered…all things must be as they were MEANT to be…IT IS THE GESTALT OF GOD…DO NOT INTERFERE…AAHHHHHHHHHHH !!!”

  Hitler’s image reappeared for a moment, wearing the flying cap, then dissolved into layers of sparks and smoke. Jeannie guessed she had inadvertently sent him back into the scene in the mysterious wartime photograph, alive, dressed like an aging Irish bum, just l
ike when he sat and bowed all the way over in the stands in 1924 and insulted Jess Owens by withholding love, as extremely abstruse fathers and obscene dictators who don’t need several ounces of gold for scrap metal for the war effort are wont to do, even the silver ones there, running away from it all in his car, while not wearing an old brown WWI leather cap, no black leather jacket, and, dressed as Snoopy, peering deeply into a paper sack. In an attempt to make you feel sorry for him.

  So he wouldn’t have to go to hell when he died. In THERE…

  Deeply in, all the way to the bottom of the bag. We used to speculate…what was in it? We Americans useta pop ‘em.

  Eventually we found out that plastic lunch bags pop better.

  His heir? Hunger? From Alice Through the…Hatta, ham sandwiches and hay. How the Mad Hatter transmuted, changed to Hatta. What’sa matta…I love my love with an H…with hatred?

  Heaves…heavy, man, heavy water is only ice. I H Jew? Ham?

  We’ve got nothin’ to hit but the heights. Startin’ here…

  Hippies. Hispanics. Hip hop. Hops make beer. Have a heart? Help! Hype and hypodermics. His lists.

  Hysterectomies. Hospitals. Hospices. Hooverville.

  She looked back at the photograph. There he WAS.

  Huh oh. Sand twitches. Molecules have been moved, all the world over. H-bombs. Honolulu, Hawaii. The hula. WaHINIS!!!

  He was now facing in the opposite direction, UPSIDE DOWN!!!

  And the paper sack was missing…she had it, there in the apartment, crumbled into a small brown paper ball. She opened it, peering deeply down into its insides. They were very brown.

  Checking carefully, she began to notice the bottom of the paper sack made the letter “H”. They all do that. It’s the way they fold ’em. They all say “H” at the bottom; check and see. That’s your standard paper sack. You can put anything into it for your veriest comedia. That’s your lunch, Horacio. A hunch, anyone? Yoo-hoo?

  OH…THE HOLOCAUST!!! Or, the Shoah…show off…

  How about a harp? Oh, how horrible. Haunting to this hirable habituation.

  What…happened?

  Now, a final contribution by THE MAN HIMSELF (albeit some of the ideas are his, while the ghostwriting is entirely by Yours Truly), a Fiction Based on Fact Masterpiece twiddled by the Maestro of Manhattan:

  Woody Allen Shares a Scary Sandwich

  The Last Story in my Book of Timeless Tributes to Woody Allen, who could use a crunchy kosher dill pickle alongside his gigantic sand-witch, every time. There is nothing like a yummy sand-witch served with a kosher dill pickle drenched in vinegar, lovingly arrayed with a healthy, spicy stüpnegal - bought from the Schnitzlebank up the street. (Am I vitriolic here, or merely highly confused?)

  It’s a former German or Austrian restaurant in Kenmore, which nowadays sells children’s toys instead. I learned how to make schnitzel from the Schwarzs, my Jewish parents-in-law from my previous marriage. Schnitzel is occasionally a pork dish…which can give you trichinosis.

  Believe it or not, this book was written based on Ron Schwarz, with a side of Woody Allen. Ron died of MS, from taking psych meds – possibly due to Hitler’s fixation on him, where he liked to go out with Christian ladies. I had previously vowed I’d marry him, to of all people, Adolf Hitler. I mean, I married Ron! After reading Hitler’s weirder writings as an extra-curricular junior high school project. But I am his Witch, I mean WOODY’S witch, the Wicked Witch of the East. With heavy freckles!

  By Karen S. Cole - Maven of Wes Craven | Sikas (which is a medium-sized dappled deer) who wanted to be a Jewess Extraordinaire, in Heaven. With Woody, in the normal way, involving adult subject matter and my own vast pretentions…but not child abuse. No, not that. But murder is something that came to mind, ever so slowly and surely…in stories.

  Word Count: Just under 10,000 words

  There’s more snakes than ladders at this point in time: Captain Sensible, 1984, reverse year 1948, when George Orwell put his conspiracy-clenched writing self on his own little tropical island, going insane to create a political, anti-Nazi anti-fascism novel about “Big Brother” spying on him. And his girlfriend. I often think of the Jews of New York that other way, as purple, particularized and preternaturally precognitive hunks of Mad Magazine popular rarity – like the meat on Woody’s infamous four-man corned beef, pastrami and rye sandwich. Two men, two women, eating a marvelous meal, rife with meaning and cultural Judaism.

  “I have to figure out if it’s yet another insult.” Regarding such a large sandwich, for such a small man. We happen to be about the same height; I’m one inch shorter than him. For a while. I was also 5’ 5” tall, now I’m 5’ 4” like before. Must have drunk a lot of milk, grown, then shrunk. Anyhow, Woody’s my main crush back there, sometime in the 1970s…that inane insane pro-Semitic Universe-Cosmiverse-Dimensionality realm!

  When I was 14, the year the Vietnam War ended, I wanted to make his baby – much later, the scandal about Woody and his children etc. broke, which devastated me. As a Woody Allen fan, I wrote this story trying to put things into perspective, and hope I didn’t end up rationalizing what happened. The last thing I need to be is yet another rape apologist. I am personally a victim of multiple sexual assaults myself, so the last thing I wanted to do was excuse his actions, even on the basis of hero worship. But it seems to me like Jews are not allowed to do anything wrong. It doesn’t mean they should, but like women, they are often held up to a higher standard.

  Somehow, in the 1980s I ended up working for Groucho Marx, through home health care for the disabled. Mr. Marx, through his autobiography, introduced me to the state-run, government work realm of the Personal Care Attendant or Home Health Care Aide, in WA State. Then, Adolf Hitler reentered my tawdry, jaded non-Jewish existence. Which was maybe a Judean one. He was the first “Jew” I saw on TV, when I was a babe on my Mom’s lap. Again, he’d sadly been there in my life…but had something new to tell me. He was ranting and raving about something…about a kind of Jewish man I might meet someday. I ended up marrying him, people! I swore at Hitler that I’d do that.

  It was Ronald Gary Schwarz, grants writer and Master of Public Administration. In an electric wheelchair, he was dying of MS, and eventually got what he wanted out of love, life and death. He felt guilt-ridden because he possibly caused his girlfriend’s suicide; she shot herself in the stomach. She may have been pregnant with Ron’s kid. Remember, Woody was always talking about girls like that, who mention committing suicide? So sadly, this lady of Ron’s named Angela actually did so. She was Philippine-American. Sadly, also, I ended up committing several suicide attempts, maybe something like a dozen times. None succeeded, and I live to tell the tale and go on, hoping that the worms may wait for me. Like Edgar Allen Poe said, they are The Conqueror. I will wait for Death, while writing and living my life to the fullest and enjoying its potentials instead of its detriments.

  I don’t want to kill myself anymore. Life is too short. Too short…

  “Yet another insult…it’s not.” No, Woody Allen didn’t necessarily say that. He said the below instead, along with a TON of other wild-hearted funny intellectual stuff. If you want more, look up his incredibly effective writings, or for that matter read “The Rainbow Horizon: A Tale of Goofy Chaos” by Karen S. Cole (plug plug) which is largely inspired by Woody and his unique, studied styles of irreverence.

  “Aesthetics: Is art the mirror of life, or what? Metaphysics: What happens to the soul after death? How does it manage?

  Epistemology: Is knowledge knowable? If not, how do we know this?

  The Absurd: Why existence is often considered silly, particularly for men who wear brown-and-white shoes. Manyness and oneness are studied as they relate to otherness. (Students achieving oneness will move ahead to twoness.)

  Philosophy XXIX-B: Introduction to God. Confrontation with the Creator of the universe…through informal lectures, and field trips…”

  I wish I was Jewish, every other time…maybe I a
m. I helped write a book about the Holocaust, and it did put me somewhat through it. Can’t claim I lost my KNOWN family in it; I did slave work for a Jewish-Polish-American family, the Lyons and the Lewenbergs, for whatever reason; “LL” like in Detective Comics again. As in Larry Leichman, the Jew who hired me at Arbor Books, the Floating Gallery, on Madison Ave. in NYC, to work on some book ghost writing and editing projects. He was great, and we almost worked in-house together. We did one about the Antichrist, a tract about book ghost writing and how it’s done, several SEO documents, and wild-butt preliminary weird stuff about Rush Limbaugh, too.

  Well, after a long time of pondering the Inevitable, here is the Infamous Tale in its Entirety, written and launched by a still loyal Woody Allen fan who became a world-famous (at least I’m #1 under book ghostwriter and book ghost writer on Baidu in China, and recently so on America’s Google, Yahoo and MSN as well) freelance fiction and non-fiction writer in order (not solely, I needed the money too) to eventually pen:

  WOODY MEETS HITLER – LOVE IS A NICE SANDWICH (since Woody’s gone by more names than inhabit a Chinese phone book, and so has Hitler, who may be reading this in South America for all I know)

  Subtitled: Free at Last, or Not for Free?

  Führer (no, further) subtitled: Does it Matter – You Decide

  Ideas supplied by: H. P. Lovecraft, H. Poo Feedcraft, etc.

  One night, waking from a restless sleep tossed with genius wild-hearted dreams, Woody Allen was caught…munching on his lower lip. You see, he had noticed our lifelong fixation on God. He startled from this singular, absurdist reverie, and realized he was far more in love with Death. The infamous D-word. Not the B-word, not the N-word, but the altogether underwhelming D-word. Woody had finally attained the marvelous age of 79. The D-word was looming eerily closer. Step by step, inch-by-inch, it was creeping up on him that he may have hurt both a little boy and a little girl’s feelings…and his own. His two brightest kids, out of many. Without anything genuine having happened to him. What was the meaning of this?

  Meanwhile, his memories told him it had all been done for publicity purposes. Surely, this meant something deeply wrong, someone who begged for a high price to be paid. And Bill Cosby had been caught at something similar…too alike for words…what if, say, Woody Allen mused, I am imagining my entire life? Sort of like Bohrian physics, where you manifest your Reality by experiencing it?

  Suddenly, Adolf Hitler was there. He was playing with Eva Braun’s long blonde tresses, lovingly stroking them. But he had that look on his face again. That look implying all he cared about was, Kill the Jews. Kill all the horrible evil Jewish People, over and over again, until all that remained on the face of the planet was wealthy, well-off American Jews, who had to prostate themselves through writing comedy, politics and news programs on television, formerly Uncle Miltie’s Island. Life in Hell until it changes, Woody sighed. Right now, I can’t recall whether I…gave Mia an enema.

  There was this night I tried to be her amateur physician; she was horribly sick and couldn’t get her movement out. Gee, why are you never allowed to talk about things like that? Who is stopping you?

  “I…had to give Eva a bowl of coffee once. I took pitted dry beans, ground them up, waved them right under her nose. She frowned, didn’t know what it meant…Adolf,” she told me, Hitler snorted right there in Woody’s bed, “You must be crazy. Why’re you doing this?” She got up, Hitler sighed, and marched off into the next room. “You know, Woody, she’s intelligent enough to have figured it out. I think I punished her for it later on, by standing her up at the altar. But she wouldn’t pick up on my hints about drinking some black coffee. It kills off your histamines, makes you feel much better. Maybe she was a stupid bitch? Wouldn’t have done her much good, is what I thought at the time. Must have been that reference to my dying mother. Mom was at home when she died in Austria. For some reason, I frigged out and thought Eva was her. Well, you know, I always used people for political purposes, in order to stay alive,” Hitler coughed. “I thought there was something wrong with me,” he additionally harrumphed.

  “No…you can have it. They are all packed in there. Like sardines in a can. Yes, it was overpopulated where you were every other time, and underpopulated the rest of the time, wasn’t it, Adolf?” Startling, Hitler looked askance. “I just want a cigarette. Damn, they took over Bosnia on TV again.” Both of them glanced perceptively at the screen, but Woody wasn’t agonizingly happy about what he was seeing there. Not because of politics in Bosnia, but because the TV was suddenly on. He noticed now that Hitler had flipped on the TV by using the remote control.

  Like a giant misunderstanding, Allen thought to himself. YOU like one; I can’t! “I don’t have sex with boys. You think I am a boy, Adolf, like too many others do; and you’re not much taller than me. Say, want to check on that? I have completely forgotten whether you’re any taller than I am.” And I’m hallucinating too. What is my bed, now, summer camp?

  “You know, they obscured everything about your death. They obviously wanted to make another Jesus Christ out of you, promo everything Catholic and pretend you came back later…are you Jewish, Hitler?” Startling again, as though coming out of a strangely veiled dreamlike reverie, one to which he’d much rather return, Woody reached for a pack of cigarettes. So Protestant, the Nazis, so prone to millennial anti-Semitism. He fiercely threw them across the room. Hitler thought, they bounce as much as that dying Jewish guy did when he hit the ground. The one we slicked the dogs on, those German shepherds, too easy to breed to kill. Like that guy, that shrimp-boat over there. He thinks I wanna have sex with him…as if I’m somehow Miss America, and not a leader of men.

  Gee, I wonder what that was about. Well, it’s a mistaken premise, one where you pretend you can make the other guy pregnant. Then it works, obviously, Adolf reasoned. “Not to be annoying – are you gay?”

  “I’m a greater man than you, Allen. I mean, Hitler.” Am I talking to me, a hallucination, or is that HIM in bed with me? I’ve been rambunctious in my life, all my life; maybe vile sometimes, Woody thought – but not evil. I think! I fronted for Civil Rights and Women’s Lib at least. Hitler knocked everything but Hitler. He’s the one who thought he was Jesus. I think I’m the Devil, probably spuriously.

  “You mean you took on less than I did. Fewer things!” Hitler crowed.

  “That doesn’t make you greater than me. I know what a woman’s breasts are for. They are for squeezing, not ridiculous farmland references. Kill, kill, kill doesn’t make up for fondle, fondle, fondle. I have the right to – “

  “I went down in history as a homicidal lunatic.”

  “You went down in history…on Hermann Goering’s…twat.” Slapping his own thigh, Woody leapt out of bed. “I’m going downstairs, after I check on my two teenage children. Then, I’m going to fix an aging Austrian dictator a sandwich. You’re gonna have to settle for a ham on rye with mustard. That’s what we have for someone like you in the house.”

  Dreams, Woody thought, are won by thudding down your stairs. You feel the shock through your icicle toes, but in the dark, you arrive. Those kids of mine are fast asleep, not victimized like me.

  Is this only a dream? Must be weird ironies, Allen mused. He opened the fridge door just a crack. Heaving a sigh of relief, he saw the sandwich sitting in there, untouched. The ghosts that had been haunting him, weird childhood memories, the neurosis…he grabbed the sandwich and briefly thought about putting it into a bowl. Of course not. It’s on a plate, with an artful pickle perched right next to it. Something about a boy at the next desk, whom I wanted to love only in a humanitarian manner. Who I wanted to show off as the guiding light…somehow nobody is able to do that other thing. The one where I’m all things to all people. I said, take the money and run. I’m capable of killing someone tonight, maybe. There is a butcher knife over there, like those I used in two of my movies. I had somebody else come at me with one of those. Violence, though.

  Wait a minute, maybe I�
�ve got something in common with Hitler’s spook, albeit I’m generating it, resting on my bed like he owns this island paradise; but he’s just a hallucination, and I’m just imagining things. He’s a bad man, I’m a good man…but am I a good person? I used other people to get ahead, but who doesn’t? I said women, now they are there; but then again, maybe I never knew what it meant. What if they take over The World? Then, I will be free to make my own sandwiches…forever!!!

  I’m a hungry empire builder. Manhattan was mine, but it’s obvious to you why it was, isn’t it? Not yet? You all should be waking up any minute now, Woody Allen fans. It isn’t my REAL NAME, get it? Just call me Legion. Well, you know me, I’m short, you’re tall, let’s get a long little doggie…Nah! Psych meds, I don’t take them, never did and never will because they don’t always work as advertised…they tend to bend your brains, molding them into a shape not of your own accord. They overdose you, even for a mere neurosis. What could I tell you about this aging Jew? You are waiting for them to announce my death, and I am waiting for nothing.

  SUDDEN INEXPLICABLE SWITCH OF VIEWPOINT:

  Yes, I’m a Jewish Bill Cosby. We are both victims of the mores of the American public, too much exposure, child abuse, and overproduced commercialized medicine. And potentially, testosterone levels. I’m chunky peanut butter, not creamy. ‘Neff said? I will leave you in the dark forever, wondering why. I have to go Home, dear fans. Whether or not you believe me, I was strictly a “Wicked” Peter Pan. My way. Be good girls. She was one, once. Found out the hard way money rules the Universe. Not…good looks. Yes, Karen, didn’t have any when she looked at me, like your Missy Lotozo. Power, prestige, security; but sometimes, other things, such as the location of a “gone” daughter. My son is gone too, so I don’t know how the world feels about me now. Judgement Day will soon be upon me, and I plan to stand up to it the best I can.

  It may be in the future, it may be in the past, but I say we will find our freedom at last. Remain in the dark. You don’t want to know how you’re gonna die; like I said, we will abide in Heaven or Hell together, dear my little lost Karen. Or, are we both somehow found? Principally in this life, side by side, I as your Reggie and you as you. Hopefully, on your bed at home. If not, in a hospital, a hospice, somewhere indoors, and not in a concentration camp. Why do you have nightmares about dying in one of those? It’s too soon. I appreciate your blog about internment camps, Serious World Politics, but it’s timeless, not timely. Death is hard, life is easy, next to Death at least. Hard work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I have never been dull, so I have never been Jack. I make jack, through any means necessary, and it is up to you to decide what kind of fool that makes me.

  Rape children? Feh. Adolf Hitler? Hillary Clinton. But she’s a Rodham, ham on rye so to speak. We told you, there’s no such thing as a true virgin. Tee hee-haws. Yes, we Jews do indeed have the darkest invisible aspects. Have you discovered yet why the sausages were smelly? Worms, Karen. You wolfed down a ton of worldwide human flesh back there, and of course some of it was freeze-dried “them” from WWII. I’m more careful than you. I am eating this sandwich, but you are right. It may well contain trichinosis, the Jewish mystery of the ages, which “we” think we carefully arranged for you. Thus the little black dresses on Saturday Night Live. We mourned you in advance, after the fact. Or, was it simply uncooked pork?

  You may think you caused it, but in fact, your name is not Trichina. It’s Karen. His name was Adolf, he was one of us MEN; but then again, I’m only as crazy as everyone else is silly. Wouldn’t we have killed you by now, if we really meant it? Men are fools; you women merely tolerate us. Words nowadays, so short and western. Russian novels, so wordy and sexless. I will not save you from anything but ennui, same as all else you can name. Meanwhile, I have a ghost to attend to, one who survived the beating death “we” obviously gave him. The Catholics hanged him, “they” shipped him around on the trains…he had to tank in the smells of rotting human beings again, again and again and again. I am an elegant man, nowadays. I don’t do things like that. Here in New York City, I spend my time plotting out films, not spewing vomit.

  I’m an American. You are one, you go ahead and think otherwise. I’m very happy when you succumb, not when you suck. I’m very sad when you realize that I didn’t give Roland the high times he needed – in order to be without feathers, you have to be able to fly. If your Angela has wings, she will! Meanwhile, be haunted by Ghost Writer, Inc., the word “Word” and a typewriter (word processor, schemers dreamers, notebook computer) that leaps around, acting like me on camera, for no apparent reason. Yes, I’m a witch, warlock really, and I cast a spell on it so you would wake up and smell the coffee. Karen, we were even Ann Landers and her twin sister, Dear Abby. Who do you think Rules the World nowadays?

  The computer isn’t yours, it’s mine. I bought the Universe yesterday. Do not change the channel, I control your TV set through laughter, existential crises, and being an Irrational Man. Magic in the Moonlight went largely under the radar, but I mean to keep going infinitely. I hold back on my best intellectual jokes merely to maintain my audience, repeating myself only to entice you back into my ever-lovin’ arms.

  I split the sexes up to fool you. So you’d see what I see. Dwarves and midgets grow in later life, you are one, but I’m a dying old fart. Live and learn. You think this book of yours might bring in some business…little j, we FOUNDED it for you. Isn’t that quite an impossible find, the Internet’s miniature gold mine of mine? The fiduciary field of ghost writing. That’s what I meant when I sent you that lengthy (I ghostwrote the book “by God” you dreamed up Freudian/sexually) love letter, and God authored my roaring 20s book for me, the one with the faded, worn-out, nondescript Colour from Outer Space book cover. Remember, that’s the era directly before I was born? Instead of replacing bad ol’ Hitler with little ol’ me (another Freudian tilt of mine, involving marriage and childbirth), you managed to level us both to the ground; but you had to do it “our way.” I hired God, alias Stalin, Satan, Swaine and a million other Hebrew names, such as Harlan; he’s a patient man, one prone to handling people who require better destinies than the ones their Protestant parents attempt to arrange for them, such as marrying a rich Jew. I managed to loosely chain him to the wall. Oozing purple flesh, from his affected writer’s pipe smoking.

  He’s over there, keeping an eye on the television. Yes, he’s merely Harlan Ellison. I think Harlan and Hitler will get along, but if not, I plan on chopping them both into tiny pieces. I love women, not men, but you should know that I don’t love you. You grew up on me. It’s that you are often a kid again, seen that way by the ruthless Jewish world, and you were only a grownup back then. In the days when you should’ve been a kid, you avoided being the goat. It’s not a method to my madness, I’ve not minded being the goat or even the butt of certain jokes, like Ron Schwarz as Bottom in Shakespeare. This tends to be noticed by fools like me (they certainly do!) Thus, the Lolita fetish. It isn’t really mine, but it did result in the James Barrie Peter Pan thing. You will get slowly younger, not older, as your voice deepens, as you wonder more and more…why you are hungry. Jerking your chain? They will follow you around, thinking about how they are superior to me. They need something unreal, which they cannot attain through me. They seek it now solely through you.

  You’re still in shock over it. You have sent me Hitler, to have his way with me. I of course am having my way with him! It is an aspect of Reality that you cannot understand, fathom, cherish, or abolish, because you feel alone in this life. You never wanted to make the million dollars, you wanted to Rule the World – with love and kindness. I let you know what that’s like, because we are we, and you are you. Surely, you have seen the Error of my Ways? Qué no? Dear Editor, correcting words, thoughts, ideas and possibly morality that has gone awry, that’s what you do best; but this has turned into a sappy Young Adult ending. In a book that is obviously aimed at a mature audience…the phrase “young adult” notwithstanding.


  Why do you think your singular group of peons/heroes was called the Young Adult Conservation Corps back in the 1980s, before Ronald Reagan killed it? I don’t know, either. I’m thinking there is such a thing as an old adult. I happen to be one. The YACC was juvenile delinquents, maybe they bent your brains in the direction of growing up too fast. But I was not on meds, you were on meds, also Nixon and Hitler were on meds.

  Well, so has many a good person been. Bent brains are a human forte, if you can believe it! Bill Cosby is surely on antipsychotics; if not, should he be on them? I doubt as much. I have fought all my life to be normal and far beyond that…so much pain. I mix it with pleasure, best I can, it’s your job to do likewise. I am famous, you are a bit famous, but ghosts cannot tell tales without covering up their sources. It would stretch the truth for you to say what is on your mind, day in and day out.

  I’m shocked any of us comedians outlived Hitler, given Andy Kaufman, Robin Williams, John Candy, Chris Farley, etc. We are all smiling, laughing victims of our own subtle deep-seated vices. Meanwhile, you insulted and exploited Weird Old Adolf and his Rudy (those two idiots would’ve made decent Jew comics, given their angry Nazi histrionics) in a sneaky way…saying Hitler could only “do it once” and then roll over. Probably ‘cuz he was middle aged at the time in your short story. He’s supposed to have died before he actually hit middle age…I feel lucky to be alive. God is good, sometimes. I have said that I believe in women more than God, though. You girls are a lot more fun, whenever you keep your stories straight!

  Be middle aged, be middle class, be Middle Earth…get rid of that middle. It’s a writer’s middle, and it will kill you, unless you lose one hundred pounds. If not, I’m ecstatic. Kapeesh? You’re not even competition, and I thrive on that. On the other hand, I’m your mentor. So get lotsa rest, kick back and eat Reggie’s good food. He is one of us, you know which kind. He thinks he’s Jewish, he can think that all day. You know what “mystery force” gave you Angela. It’s a Hebrew name, bless her, but she’s likely to find out she’s a grunt worker forever. That’s okay, that’s all I ever will be. Which is why I’m willing to kill Hitler. If that really is him, sprawled out like white sheets on my bed, with a terrified look on his bitter little Nazi face, as I slowly approach him while pulling out the meat cleaver, ready to alleviate myself from centuries of stress, weeded out manhood, a devilish nature, the loss of my entire People, and a modicum of hard work…

  Actually, he’s licking his lips. I think you’re right, he wants that sandwich. Well, I have news for you, “Chicana;” I don’t want him to get what he wants. I’m sizing up my chances right now, while he’s sizing up how to get at the sandwich. Harlan is preparing to howl, loudly I suppose, attempting to outdo Alan Ginsberg, while Hitler is casting several worried looks absolutely everywhere about the room. Is this a dream? It seems boring, redundant really, didn’t we do this before? Lifeless, kind of like suicidal art.

  Ghosts on my bed. Adolf Hitler is futilely dead. Years ago, girl. Elementary, my dear Watson. Thank you for the appreciation, the funny humor books based on mine, and for taking your meds when you were suicidal. Though you shouldn’t have “joined” Ron Schwarz at that sort of thing, it could actually be what did it to Bill Cosby. He seems to have been paranoid since his youth, whether diagnosed or not. Hitler definitely was on his, too, several of them – for rank depression. Probably a goodly dozen, the Dirty Dozen do you suppose?

  Well, I have faced and fessed up to my neurosis; I’m not going to limp out my Jewish wrists, to accommodate your Christian relatives. Too far is simply too far. I see myself trudging up those steps slowly, with a giant meat cleaver hidden behind my small but towering back. If that ghost so much as moves towards me, I am going to show him something none of you have seen before. I do have those pearly little Peter Pan teeth, and a great Barack Obama-style death grin. Now there is an infinity of dereliction silence, where we constantly move around a rich man’s bed in Heaven, waiting for the next move of that thing. Half asleep, it moans evocatively.

  We’re all here like you saw in Stehekin, Washington, as a Racial Group without much Religion between us (except for now): Milton Berle, Jerry and Ben Stiller, Anne Meara, Mel Brooks, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, Jerry (the Ripper) Lewis of course, Phyllis Diller, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, Bob Kane, Carol Burnett (who’s glad we’re having this time together), Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz, Sr. (Desiderio Alberto Arnaz y de Acha III), Carol Channing and Louis Armstrong…Sammy Davis, Jr. and Frank Sinatra, plus the entire Rat Pack including Liza Minnelli, who has a THOROUGHLY unspeakable look of utmost “evil” joy on her face, getting ready to take True Vengeance in the laziest manner possible. No, Jay Leno isn’t here. He’s downstairs, assembling one Hell of a pile of two by fours, each made of shittim wood, for clubs and stakes. Liza is laughing, she’s been Dead for years, sorry about the Zombie fetish in the movies, that was our madcap responsibility…and she is revving up that smallest size of Chainsaw you used to handle, the lady’s version…she is and was an abuse victim, Karen, who never said much, and I think Sinatra’s maybe responsible for that…and the five Marx Brothers, everybody keeping that aging Austrian dictator in one place. We shall spend eternity circling him, because of what he did to Cosby’s fertile, family-oriented African mind. That’s why!

  In dreams, Karen, in dreams…Bill did it to Hitler, okay? If not, I’m sure he wanted to, mostly because to him he sold more records. Bill the alleged rapist, if you can. They set him up, maybe, to date-rape women, I wasn’t quite in on that. He must think he invented it, the silly moron. No, not that time. Robin Williams was faulted for killing himself, of course. It’s still the same old story, a fight for love that’s gory, a case of do or cry. It’s what we all deny. Shall we comedians “learn our lessons,” spending an egalitarian abstract Picasso time in a homicidal warlike vein, harmlessly pretending to murder the ghost of Hitler? Well, Bill told you all about it in gruesome detail, with that “tread water” routine. Same obnoxious curse; he’s pissed ‘cuz he was neither the Wicked Witch of the West nor the Wicked Witch of the East. All of it is old shit from the past, except for the sexual switcheroo part, like the LGBTQ trends of it all. Men wanting to be women. Because we need to be inside you, denied you and guide you, and to control you. Like you handle our children, we think you are OUR children.

  We always do that, get jealous of you gals. While you get jealous of we guys. I’m neither, really, because I’ve never been jealous of tall people. However, it’s amusing, the look on Hitler’s ghost’s face, with that wide open toothy mouth and gasping “female” bloated white corpse laying back on silken pillows’ hate stare. No, he’s not being cooperative. He knows we can’t call the authorities; he’s beyond being arrested, for all time. He’s starting to appear startlingly bored, so I’m gradually inching over there, with that sleepy feeling. It’s like I’m holding something in my left hand, a memory of life fulfilling that is what I needed tonight: a golden wedding ring, and a simple food item for my children.

  But you know, I’m peaceful, my aging soul and splintered memories are each at a growing peace. I meant what I said when I mentioned my spontaneity; I don’t plan for much anymore. Heed her heel. You thought as much? I eat for a living. The world is worms, I am one too, Karen. We Jews keep coming at you, helpful as ever, far too alike to be human or real, narcoleptic; while you as Wonder Woman wonder assiduously, but not astutely enough for me, about what’s going on. It’s only STORY MATERIAL my dear! That’s why the references to you as a fictional character; we were trying to get you to make a few of them up yourself. I think God is mistaking you for Hillary, so that she will get away with the crime of becoming President of the United States. Yes, that is our weird little plan. Ask Malcolm Little; he understands it. He was buried next to his wife, not next to his children. Do you finally get it? Do you? We don’t bury our children next to us, unless they can afford their own graves.

  Hitler is frowning. “Verdammit, why is the food out of sight aga
in?” he chokes in a bullish roar. Damn, he’s even uglier than I am – I used to be sorter decent looking. “I ordered a ham on rye!” he rudely leers, ogling my open left hand, but not my hidden right. I still have that meat cleaver clutched tightly, trembling like aspen leaves in the wind. I am gripping and re-gripping it, watching the bed clothes warp back and forth. Looking for a signal cue, as all the other people in the room fade away. As I near the bed, the ghost gazes through my body entreatingly, as if searching for somewhere beyond hope. I smile, laying down my meat cleaver flat on the billowing sheets, figuring that fantasies never do come true. I sit on the bed, loathing staring at him, while he licks his acidy mouth sideways.

  “I am dying,” he gasps. “I don’t care,” I breathe. I lay the plate gently down on the slippery satin sheets, which are red only. Scarlet hued, like your hair used to be, when you were almost whole, Sweet Young Thing. Yes, we are the same height. Yeah, it is the only thing that matters, sometimes. You think I wanted to eat it, a strand at a time, when you were fourteen and sticking your nubile legs up in the air. Well, Pussy Cat, I’m an old man who likes his midnight snack, not that anymore. Horror stories long ago diminished, like snowflakes...hark! I love those, read them every night in bed. I go through about three solid books a week lately, used to be one or two heavy duty intelligent tomes a day, you see – like you, whatever I could grab. But I’m eclectic, picky, can’t take anything trés stupide. It keeps me awake, thus this fantasy, placing me on the alternate side of Jupiter. Making movies requires a great deal of intellect, time, substance and verve. So I keep a childlike mind about a variety of subject matter; but when it comes to vengeance, I’m taking it whenever I can.

  Howard Phillips (HP) Lovecraft? He followed his own name around the entire time, while they didn’t realize he was only seeking comic material. You HAD pontoons! The ghost is gone, whew, it is finished. I settle down back into my comfortable, rich double bed, whooping. My kingdom for another book, this one is over with and done, and Hitler was the kind of writer…who wasn’t kind. He was kind of a writer, not the right kind. Kindergarten. Make money, not war, Karen S. Cole. Well, you won your invisible battle, but I have yet to win mine. Hitler haunts me to this day, visiting my bed at night, offering to take me to the realm beyond reproach. Once I am there, I am going to discuss what he has to do with our millennial witless persecution.

  Meanwhile, I am hungry for a feisty glass of running water, and thirsty for a stentorian plate of mangled spaghetti. I see sounds you don’t easily hear, avec your precious skin of three colors and styles, and feel feelings having to do with the unwritten works of Shakespeare, performed in a lofty park where Barbra Streisand and I do not cooperate with our petty authorities. She and I are not "an item,” you see. Neither are her and Oprah Winfrey, and believe it or not, you are NOT their mother either.

  So don’t worry when you live long enough to have to worship, along with your husband, the televised passing on of Oprah, which shall probably not happen in this lifetime anyway. She made all the Jewish money, and if you want to make some of hers, you will have to can writing this silly story and get back to rewriting those of other people. Any day then. I don’t know when you will get to pen another celebrity work. Neither does Jerry. Karen Louise, Jerry Lewis, not Louis. A world we made for you, one that you could never enter, so he explained it to you as downright terrifying.

  Did you ever taste defeat? You will in a few short years. That’s why I have one last cooperative phrase to impart, sans ringing destinies or headless chickens, which may be people like me, but are also people like you - as you, your daughter and your perky husband, who apparently needs his special Sabbath above all else, even though he took Saturday and Sunday off for years. They must’ve made him work on the weekends. It’s a doctor thing, you know. I tend to take them too, being rich and elderly; ready to sleep, this is how I must end your horror story about Hitler’s ghost visiting my bed, while claiming nuptials with me he could not achieve:

  “Well, if he doesn’t eat this sandwich, I will!”

  End of story, and Hitler – World’s Worst Holocaust Joker

  Really, trying to make me and “him” into a human sandwich, as a horror story. You call that a flash fix? No, that would have been a slash fiction. That’s a real life horror show, and unfortunately NYC is overflowing with Jack the Ripper incidents like those. So I paid to have that slash fiction thing on the Internet called off permanently. As for your story, ham on rye, I get the joke already. I’m a ham, he’s from Catcher in the Rye. We “hams” no longer break a leg, if you were wondering about the general origin of that idea. It’s not from coming down with trichinosis, tricky Jewish noses; it’s from the upper part of the human leg.

  It’s the lower leg you usually break when you jump, fall or are pushed off a stage, my dear – just like you broke your left ankle, and your lower leg along the outside, the fibula. It’s the commonest bone to break, and it heals remarkably well – thus, you had a “big break” into showbiz in the old days, if you broke your leg and got someone’s attention with it. It’s the courage of those who went right back in, just like a war of sorts, that fetched the audience. I’ll never believe in it myself, as it’s what we always use to grab you. It’s what they used to be idiotic. Courage is the worst excuse for manhood I’ve ever met. Don’t try to be a “man” anymore, please. It tanks.

  You know I was usually one to use my hams, mostly in a showbiz way, off camera. That would be porno, not quality control, and I like clever words and funny actions far more than leaning perpetually on the word f—k as the word fornicate. The lot of us my age was the same exact way – not always, not for boring you, but you have to discover something stupid, derogatory and false to do that properly. Jewish comic timing is an art form and a legacy; howsoever, I’m glad you think you found another way to fly. Nobody should have their female wings clipped by a bunch of wealthy male nitwits who think they know it all without having any such capacity to review a simple 50-page ebook.

  I am definitely going to write me another one of those, sooner or later. It will probably be another history of Jewish people in Hollywood, that sort of thing. Nah, I’m gonna come up with something completely different soon. Potentially, do you think you might purchase a copy of it yourself? Sorry, I’m not going to have it ghost written, although I’ve found you do great work via your team. Now go away, girl, you bother me! Hardly, since I didn’t exactly read this at great length on Amazon; but in real life, no guarantees, Princess! I liked that book your company edited, “Torn in Two” by that Afghan-American author; fiction based on fact is my forte. Always thought of myself as a kind of Jewish US Marine. Glad I ever got to be something like that for you, it’s a daydream of mine, admittedly.

  I also like making money, so if I hear about this new book of yours in any depth, I just might come and get you. Or something. Because you haven’t paid me anything from your proceeds yet, now why is that? You’d better start making something from this one, and if not, I hope you can use it to sell your services. I understand you mostly send out work to your team lately, which is a great way to commence your retirement.

  Well, good luck to you, sweet Watson girl who thinks she’s Sherlock Holmes, glad you followed my advice to the Letter, cough cough…I don’t send mail to everyone I have a phone conversation with, although it’s been lots of people…you were right, the Autobiography of Malcolm X was an intriguingly non-anti-Semitic read….happy you liked me more than them, because politics are only for closets ineffectually, not us intellectuals…I feel hugely complimented by your deep-seated 1970s teen “lust” for me.

  Which I thought was around at my end half the time, and neither does anyone else here in NYC…such as Larry Leichman of Arbor Books on Madison Ave., but he says he likes you too. We all send our undying cosmic pure love out to you fans…how does it feel to be one of we Undead, Karen…say, how do you end this corrodible story? Oh, it’s awful, just hideous, you aren’t making any of the residuals! Well, don’t
mess around with the dead people, uh, next time. That’s why this is a horror story. You feel like you’re a Holocaust victim, and you probably were one. So is most of America. Seriously, such a Valley Girl word, be sure not to marry your English teacher next time…he knows nothing, next to moi!

  C’est moi, c’est moi…no, I don’t “do it” to children, Karen!

  Signed, the “weirdo” Jewish spontaneous dwarf who proves that you can’t outlast the Russian objects of your greatest affectations. Be a nice Christian lady, please! I gave up on my wacko routine a long time ago, to do more serious stuff – about Love, Death and Murder, for example. Don’t follow me on that. Part of you probably feels obligated to get their attention. Don’t, they won’t forgive or forget a single thing you do along those lines, honest Injun! Play along, work the job, and write Allah your wacko stuff down before it escapes you into the ether. It is good work, some of my best (especially in the writing department), but it follows stereotypical thinking about certain people.

  Don’t play into your enemies’ hands; it may seem like the greatest thing in the world, but in reality it’s the most nauseating thing you can do in your entire ruthless life. Really, just love your family the best you can. I am eternally grateful for mine; be so for yours.

  You’ll find out what that means someday. I meant what I said at the end of my book, whether you end up buried next to Reggie or not. One way or another, we will be gently rotting together, as separately nihilistic piles of eternally loving male and female amoebic gestational goo. Whether or not God ever stops by and picks up his unpaid for dry cleaning. Thanks for caring about the Holy Cause of Judaism, whether or not you are one of us, sorry you are yet another of its suffering victims. Stay out of concentration camps, they get windy this time of year. And I agree, they probably are going to end up running Michael Steele vs. Hillary Clinton in the next election. How else would they stand a chance, going immediately back to white presidents like that? Yet, I have a fellow Jew to vote for…like you again, I keep thinking the rug will be pulled out from under us. It is a secret list. Yeah, it’ll probably be the Don after all. Donald Trump has them convinced Muslims are hiding under our beds.

  I know it bugs you that Hillary looks and acts like the Virgin Mary. Well, she’s a Mom, so if she’s a virgin - I am too. Which after several children seems a stretch to an aging vaudevillian storyteller. Take care of Reggie, life never lasts long. Keep an eye out for your daughter, she’ll surprise you. But remember, time gathers in its little disappointments on a regular basis, sneaking along on the soft paws of its silently oncoming cat feet. Then, kitty claws up your pants leg, rips through your shirt, batting you hard in your surprised, wretched face!

  Just be happy you have access to Mimi and Unum, the twin brother “gay” cats of Kenmore. Don’t ever think you’re gay, it’s something they try to foist off on people like us because we have any original talent, say things they can’t understand or particularly relate to, and they think we are short “easy” types. Such mental retardation abounds. Don’t let the small stuff sweat ya! Remain easygoing, not easy. Life is hard, but get your sleep at night, or you’ll go into a coma. Take care, see you soon!

  --Woody Allen, really Heywood "Woody" Allen (né Allan Stewart Konigsberg). Remember when I told you I was from Lithuania and my name was really Alan Leibowitz? It was in that book “written by God,” or the Devil either, but it was by me. And now, endless love from an old man:

  You gave me the world’s most enthusiastic “Hi, Woody!” over the phone once. I gave you that “hi” right back, indeed. Then you led a relatively fascinating life. I’ve loved sharing it with you from a distance, in our dreams; but to tell you the truth, my memory is not what it used to be. I don’t know how your life will end, don’t care to know that about mine either, horror novel projects aside.

  I looked into my future before, and what I know is I’m planning on entering it…whether or not it is planning on entering me. I’m sure my vaunted overgrown mind will hang on until the end, much like Gary Schwarz’s, making love to my fans from a distance, supporting you women while I’m still awake, conscious, and a serious-minded Jew of New York City. Which one really, who knows? I make movies, I love this country, and I try to run things within reach - that’s what I do nowadays.

  You, you’re always struggling to find something out of your reach that you can grab onto. That tapeworm fixed itself against your intestine, through you worrying so much. Try relaxing more often, smell the ripe roses amidst the road dust, reminisce that you have done great work in the world (not writing, you know what) without half trying. I had to work my dwarfish butt off to build my empire of comedy, drama, tragedy and roasted fleas, and you need to lose weight. Write me another book! If you’re good, I might break down and send you a copy of my latest novel someday. Email me and ask for it, I’ll sign it. Be sure to send me one of your own, and it had better be a good one, as long as you keep claiming I’m such an influence!

  May I suggest you try writing something serious for a change? Like your life story? I know you are averse, since it was “so weird,” but you’d be shocked how simple and productive it is to get started. It might turn out to be only 300 pages, less if you’re careful…don’t put it off forever, and those intestinal worms won’t wait. That’s why we Jews get nervous about them. But you’re right, it’s not the end of the world. You have many long years ahead, not imaginary movie bugs bursting out your face. Just keep eating enough spicy foods, tropical worms are highly common; people live through them right and left, and your husband probably has had them all his life. They live mostly in your guts and eat your food, mucous, bile and BM in there. Make sure you keep them fed, and moving through your system. Go for long walks, get out, move your cute can around, don’t sit there writing the day and night away, it’s a tempting thing to do. Walk, walk, and walk!

  That Negro statue of me in NYC is a Keep on Trucking production. I hoof it everywhere; Manhattan takes a year to navigate otherwise.

  Shoot, it’s time to go for my daily constitutional myself. Then the movies, a premier, and I have to put in an appearance again. The life of Reilly. I hate to say this, but I hope you outlast me, and I agree that Angela should outlast you too. You never know what’s gonna happen. But I have a great life, no complaints. Hopefully, you were wrong, Karen, about the food flowing from China and North Korea, that monkey-tasting “mystery meat” they were packaging and selling to cheap outlets such as hospitals and insane asylums. Yes, it’s true it wouldn’t be real monkey meat, way too expensive. I wouldn’t put it past those weirdos, but cannibalism is such a taboo practice. I’ve seen references to clubs of people who want to be human cannibals on the Internet, though.

  What a hideous thought, but not unlikely. I use a kosher butcher and never buy any meat when I don’t know what it is. Same as your folks-in-law back there, Gertrude and Alexander Schwarz, may they Rest in Peace. May you do so too someday; you never know. We may finally meet at last, somewhere special, silly girl; but neither of us knows anything real about said matters. I hope you didn’t eat any of that spoiled, perverted mystery meat, since it scares you. If you did, well, it’s not your fault whatever or whoever happened to be in it. You feel like you have worms crawling through your body now? Learn to be more careful what you eat, have Reggie fix you something nice at home. It’s cheaper that way.

  Maybe someday, I will take you two out to our Russian Tea Room uptown; with luck Angela and her current boyfriend could tag along. It might have to be later on, in another wormhole dimension, in another tempting life. Or it could be next year, if I travel to Seattle, touring the International District for its film potential. Have Reggie drive you there, and see if you can spot us wandering around. If you’re feeling lucky, sidle over our way, and we could discuss doing book ghost writing. As I get older, yes, I have less and less time to write my own books. So it’s an idea, if possible.

  But are you available, or would it have to be someone else? I’d like it to be you,
but get it about your fading eyes. And of course you spend less time on the Internet, it’s so addictive and fattening. My own eyes are moving apart, and it’s getting harder to use them. Aging process. I still view what I need to see. You’d be a lovely sight, strolling with Reggie and Angela in our monumentally large, sprawling haven for every type of denizen, the Capitol of the Known Insane World, New York City. Where books are everywhere, before Amazon existed. We could hit the bookstores together too. Plenty of sights to take in, coffees to drink, park benches to rest on. Stop by, we’re there now, as the year warms up and the snow melts and nothing smells like garbage anymore. Hey, Wonder Woman, you know who you are. Let’s go up the Empire State Building together, okay? Nah, it’s wearing; let’s take the elevator and eat lunch at the State Grill and Bar.

  Then, at that time, hi Karen, again. You said your first “hi” to me, and I let you know how far away I was. But I found your stuff to be pretty impressive, albeit a bit unusual for my tastes. Thank you for what you did for Seattle. The animals are not the only ingrates in your vicinity. But maybe you don’t know my fellow Jews. They can’t fathom somebody who didn’t do Life in a small group; they think you think you’re Jesus. Rugged-mug individualism is more my style; thus I understand you somewhat. I built my life from the ground up, ‘gainst the tides and winds of being short.

  But like I said, I’m a Jew in NYC, a Manhattan promoter. If you can be a Jewess in the Seattle area, I guess I’ll feel like I did some type of minor outreach. Maybe God will learn to be simply nice, stop laughing at our woes without stepping on my nose. But if “they” insist you be a Christian, go along with them; true horror stories come of such refusals. I think Reggie doesn’t care what religion you espouse, though. He worries more about fools like me his own age, cutting in on a middle-aged lady like you, as I’ve been quite the marriage lothario in my time.

  I had best be going, before he reads this. The last thing I need in my life is an angry black-belt karate expert who thinks his wife is cheating on him with me. That’s a worse horror story, one I’d almost like to brave! Woo woo woo, you thought you’d hide being Cherokee from me. I’m Native American from somewhere…ah, you don’t believe me this time, do you? Yes, we came over from Eastern Europe. Well, didn’t you? I bet I’m a Wooden Indian from around here, even if only in my lusty imagination. Well, nonetheless, I shall remain your “Evil” Peter Pan, the angry young Jew deep inside. You, please conk out tonight, get some rest, and continue writing and walking. And eating. Major gobs of protein and fiber. Drinking glass after glass of water - put those Cokes down and drink WATER, dear! And less coffee too…Starbucks is contagious.

  Haul big fat Reggie out to a park, don’t let him make excuses, it’s getting beautiful this time of year, and your stay on Earth is short, like mine. Your friendly “hi Woody” was over 40 years ago; can you believe how the time flew? “Without Feathers!” That’s the meaning of it, time slips by like a Shekinah bird housing the Divine Presence of God. Sans feathers, the little dickens called Time floods out the window. Sans wings, sans mercy, sans any right we have to cling to Life. Death is the end to each road. Yet I still wonder, as I always have…if there is a U-Turn. Or an exit where you glance down a weird path, seeking a strange house hidden in the bushes and trees. You’ve seen those; they go off the main road, arcing down to houses below that look so inviting from a distance. Like you, I’ve yearned to travel along those dirt roads, merely to see where they lead.

  But I have to go, money-making duty calls; the film industry won’t wait even for an old, lust-lord Jew like me. Got to hit the bathroom; as an aging older gentleman, those trips are becoming more frequent. Say, d’you think saw palmetto is good for prostate? Ask Reggie, he knows herbals. He’s an osteopath, they have those things. Medications have always been hard on me, and you’re right, they are outright poisons. They have helped me get by from time to time, but as I get older I think about it.

  I’m sure they’re affecting my ability to go, for example. And I have trouble sleeping at night anymore. You’re not the only one, don’t let anyone tell you that nonsense. All my life, there’s been someone who thinks they can talk me into being “The Lone Paranoid,” and you know it’s only a movie role for me. I have friends! Paranoia, Karen, is when you think you’re the only paranoid around. Look up some friendly clubs on the Internet, and get some new people into your life. You won’t be sorry! Keep it down to a neurosis, not a psychosis. That’s my secret, how I operate.

  Oh, Diane and the bunch are waving. Soon-Yi my beautiful wife, Jean and of course all the others. Believe it or not, we’re not entirely Jewish! I have to get off the Internet and out the door. Got to grab a bag lunch from the fridge, they won’t serve dinner at the premier. We’ll go to upper Manhattan for drinks later. I only eat breakfast and lunch lately, special diet, no dinner before bedtime. Hopefully I’ll start getting more sleep that way. Less food to digest at night. Say, what’s in this bag, it looks like a human head…oh, it’s a stale apple, Diane likes to carve those into grandma faces. Hobby of hers, she likes working with her well-manicured hands.

  Diane is my BFF buddy; always has been, far as I recall. Could you arrange a life story from her, a memoir, maybe with a cover showing off Annie Hall? She wants to work on a few children’s book ideas I think. I don’t know what her plans are. We’ve both had books ghost written; I was thinking of working with her next time. We could use an expert editor to go over the results; keep in touch? Play your cards right, do a great job, we consider making our joint lives into a film. Hold the time open, or at least find somebody like Kerry Z. who’s ready for action, Queenie! Angela’s the Princess now, but yes, she’s a grown-up, shucks.

  Happy 21rst B-Day, Angie!

  May Greenlake treat you “peons” to a choice, forest-fire-free overcast and moist wet summer! I hope that bicycle shop of Nate’s sprouts those necessary silken feathers, making his “thing with wings” fly, as a hallmark of the 1960s World’s Fair in Seattle. He should, however, take the time to realize how his Black-Eyed Susan grows, if his “choice fertilizer” involves burning ancient rubber bike tires. While idling moronically, unable to file erstwhile “nonprofit status.” That decrepit Jalopy of his could wreck yer lives, it ain’t a good ride; and I’d rather not rocket o’er a rental bike’s bare handlebars, crashing into a six-inch-deep Greenlake pothole. I’ll quietly retire instead, happy landings. Flying’s funnier.

  Ahem…per this bit, and not forever: Bye, Karen!

  --The Lieutenant Columbo impressionist

  THE END of this book by Karen S. Cole, first in a series of short story, essay and poetry compilation books by a Professional Freelance Name Book Ghostwriter. GWI charges affordable rates for work, matching our experience levels and capabilities to your needs as a newbie author, or as a refined and sophisticated old school published author.

  In addition, look out for “The Book of Nice Monsters: Or a Few Scurrilous Drawings,” a compilation of about half of my Dr. Seuss-inspired phantasmagorical drawings in color and innovative computer imagery via Google Picasa. It will be published at the turn of the year, 2015/2016, in honor of my daughter’s coming of age. My next book after that may well be “The Men’s Baby Club.” I think that volume and “The Rainbow Horizon - A Tale of Goofy Chaos” will begin a series of Pacific Northwest humor novels. Later, there will be a second collection of my European stories, involving events in Seattle, Canada and Whidbey Island: telepathic murderous deer, invading Russian witches, and myriad weird other impeople.

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