Volume 4: Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s (Reluctantly added, “Scummy”) Stall

Fresh Grinds From Strizzy’s (Reluctantly added, “Scummy”) Stall
by Scott Thurlow

You open your mouth and your teeth smell like they took a shit
scrawled underneath:
at leas the zombos don’t! shit, that is!

Huge fuckin hail, man!!

(a peace sign in faded green)
across in recent red:
NO     FOR THE WICKED

Bitches all have their own agenda
Give ‘em a boxpunch to the curb!
(As an added suggestion): curbstomp the whore
So long slut!

BULLEts!! GUNs!! DECICDE NOWWW
Do It For The Troops

Connect the dots, dillhole
Are we not already connected on all possible levels, thereof, otherwise?

The Time-Being is eating my time, AGAIN.
what a catfucker!
Zombosniffer!
(added to that):
Feed him some minutes/seconds then, asshole!!
(under that):
It’s Cool Bro-- Just Eatin My Time…

GO FUCK YOUR (ZOMBIE!) GRANDMOTHER

And so on, so forth.

A mix of graffiti from before and after.  The writing on the wall, as it were, if you will.  An assorted array of much other such whimsical nonsense gibberish that was good for a chuckle or two as one passed the time or by.  They were rendered in vibrant colors that were pleasing to the eye-- luscious hues of reds, yellows, and blues, a whole prism too.  Sometimes with alternatingly elaborate and badassly basic designs to accompany each phrase interpretation.  Free art.  Many had the “zombos” incorporated into them in some humorous or grotesque way as well, some freethinking artists adding their own touches along the way.  Myself being no exception.  They were sprawled everywhere like a kaleidoscope of glorious guttural salutes to the absurdly dark, ridiculous humor, that was rapidly becoming the norm for these times of ours.

The times of the  “ZomboApoc,” as one of my associates with that rusty rifle, called it.  He told me his name was H. Hunting, III. , “Esquire.”  Quotations emphasized.  And that his little saying “ZomboApoc” was still copyrighted.  Whatever good that might do.  Still, it seemed to make him feel better, so I let it be for the time being.  I helped him along just recently with some harebrained scheme to sell what amounted to nothing more than one of those faux poetic graffiti slogans itself to one of the mayoral candidates.  The last time he stopped by, before I asked him how that “adorable little whore” of his was, I had to remind him again, that, if he did not politely ask me to, “put my fucking disgusting coffee down,” that next time I heard him say such to me, I would personally feed him to the “zombos” of the “ZompoApoc” (copyright) myself.  Or sue him for infringement.  This is how H. Hunting III, “Esq.” and I went about our business, whenever he came in search of something from me.  Or if I were able to articulate a more profitable plan unto him; the Jenkins deal being such an example.

Ah, you may be asking who I am.  What is my role here in these days of olden times that have returned upon us all?  Simple.  I am merely a humble craftsman.  One who knows how to barter certain things, in various ways, usually with lucrative returns, for all involved.  Nothing more complicated than that, really, so on the subject I shall say no more.  It should hopefully be immediately apparent though, friends, that the market of yore that we find ourselves in, is itself wondrous rich in treasures and tales.  Allow me to regale you with some choice ones:

I once hadn’t done any laundry in some time, since it was often hard to find good help these days, in the ZomboApoc.  (Henceforth I will call it such, as agreed upon in a previous matter.  Let it be noted here that I make any and all attempts to uphold a bargain and keep my word in these times, while many others might not.)  There was another acquaintance of mine who offered to me some small advice upon my inquiring of him what his actions and decisions were, when he was faced with a laundry quandary of his own.  When asked what I should do about this confounding quandary of the laundry kind of mine, he replied that, “One thing he knew, was not to go to William the Q.”  That is, William the Un-Clean.  Because William will “totally un-clean your shit.”  So, from William Q., I did not find myself seeking cleaning or laundering services to be rendered for any time soon.

Later, I learned the real story.  It was not really William the Q’s fault.  He had gone quite mad early into the chaos (that is, of the ZomboApoc, and events leading up to it) but somehow survived.  He spent most of his days endlessly scrubbing and re-scrubbing scraps of otherwise useless discarded cloth.  Scrubbing so madly, so furiously intently, that he often rubbed his hands and fingers raw.  Smearing blood over ruined rags and shredded shirts (some of Mag Mike’s early designs likely among them) but still William the Q. scrubbed on.  His son, Q. The Younger, was still attempting to salvage his father’s failing business in the wake of the ZomboApoc.  Sometimes, it was unavoidable though that someone’s wash got lost along the way to the elder William’s demented relentless cleaning.

Patron: What the fuck do you think you’re trying to do me here, anyway, huh?  You won’t pull the wool over my eyes, buddy.  Whose fucking eyes, who the fuck’s eyes do you think you’re trying to pull the wool over on?  Huh?  NOT ME BUDDY.  NOT TODAY.

Young Q: “Don’t get your fucking panties in a bunch, pal.  Relax.  We can work something out.”

Patron: Hey, YOU don't get YOURS.  AND EVERYONE!  HEAR ME!  HEED MY WARNING!  DON’T TAKE YOUR WASH TO WILLIAM THE Q. OR HIS IDIOT SON.  THEY WILL UN-CLEAN YOUR SHIT!  WILLIAM THE UNCLEAN, Q. THE UNCLEAN, THE UNCLEANER OF THE Q.’s!  RIGHT HERE!”

Such was the scene in the market, from time to time.  But yet, Q. The Unclean he remained known henceforth and thereafter that particular instance, and thus my reason for not bringing my soiled undergarments to him (vis-à-vis the story as related to me) or his Young son for laundering services.

Mag Mike, I mentioned him just now, is a fine fellow.  One of my favorites in fact.  The fact that he also carries around a pristine magnum pistol, dissuades in no small way.  He tells me he ran a shirt printing press or some such of that nature, before the ZA (I will shorten ZompoApoc to ZA, from now on, for brevity’s sake.)  In a type of business, in his own words, that was “Run directly, out of the home.”  Novelty shirts had lost much of their appeal as clothing since then, but can still be useful in terms of raw material, so he traded what he could get for them after it was clear there was not going to be much further demand for clever apparel.

 Mag Mike's real passion in life is gambling.  Games of chance and fortune.  He and a couple of other enterprising entrepreneurs have assembled in their spare moments (and with the help of some of Kelly's goons/associates) a small-time gambling ring that is increasingly encroaching in its radius.  They plan to set up/build a full-scale casino, eventually.  I wish them only the best of luck (and also help them along, where and when I might be able to.)

Another:

Overseen/heard in Brothel Alley
(Storyteller’s Note: This is somewhat of an urban legend in our time.  I learned a great deal of it piecemeal, but as best can be recounted and reconstructed, I shall try my utmost.  Dependent upon whom you ask, and for reasons known only to themselves and now lost, the two young gentlemen of the ZA who feature in this next tale usually have supposedly decided on Roman-ized and bastardized versions of their names.  It was said to be a popular passing fad of some sorts.  Much like this ZA nonsense, that I would like to remind, I am yet continuing to mention, as per previously arranged terms.)

“E. Pluribus Stevie”: “Render unto us an answer, bitch.  Which of us, if either, are you going to fuck, today?”

“B. Barnibus Bradley”: “And why?”

“Shut the fuck up Barnibus.  So again, I ask, him or me?”

“Yes, bullets or gun, baby?  Let one of us have some fun.”

“Will you please stop saying that.  You know how teeth-grinding-ly annoying it is, to me.”

“Fuck you, I’m fond of it.”

“Fine, I but will say to you this: If you.  Do not.  Stop.  Fucking saying.  That stupid shit.  It is going to be You.  Versus.  Me.  Right next to the wall.  And you will be receiving a fucking one-way ticket.  From me.  To you.  For a ride.  From which.  You will never.  Be fucking returning.  Ever.  It will be the last hurrah and final bon voyage, for you, zombofucker.”

“Fine, I shall stop.  For now.”

“Thank you.  Now, let us return to the topic.  [To a girl, “Lily”]: So, is it in fact, going to be me, or Barnibus?”

“Lily”: “Oh, I dunno…I like you both, you know…”

“Yes, we know.  Now decide, please, whore, if you will.”

 “We haven’t got all day, baby.”

The girl’s supposed suggestion to solve the situation at hand was as follows: “Can’t we work something else out?  What if you guys fight…each other…for me…?”

(Storyteller’s Note 2: I pause and beg another moment to impose myself directly at this point.  A customer of mine who shall remain nameless, once rather wittily himself interjected at this point in the story.  And, borrowing a phrase from the wall, he commented that one of the two “soldiers” should have responded thusly: “Bitches indeed seem to all have their own agendas.”  I felt this augmentation lends a certain panache to the spirit of the original legend.  I include it here for appreciation or discarding, as you see fit.  I shall return now to the scene at hand.)

The Roman bastards looked at each other.  Not a bad idea, “from this cunt,” they agreed.

E. Pluribus Stevie and B. Barnibus Bradley both agreed upon the terms of the duel.  It was to be to the death.  They shook hands, then.  It was the honorable thing to do, it was said.

E. Pluribus then taunted his companion, “If I win, I shall come in, or on, or some combination thereof, her face.”

“Over my fucking grave.”

“See you in hell.  And OMFG to you, too.”

The duel then began. E. Pluribus Stevie slipped out a garrote and walked ten paces while B. Barnibus Bradley drew a banged up katana in one hand and a rusted army knife in the other.  He tromped off in the same manner as his counterpart, going the opposite direction.  Lily herself sat and watched distractedly.  In a turn of events in her favor, the duel was said to be brief, and mercilessly short.

E. Pluribus then stood over B. Barnibus’ strangled body, and proclaimed, “Over your.  Fucking.  Grave, it is, Zombofucker.  Fuck your bullets, and your guns.”

Finally, to Lily, “It appears as if the choice has been made for you, slut.  So, let’s dance, shall we?”

Thus was the sordid tale of how E. Pluribus Stevie, slew his former brother-in-arms, B. Barnibus Bradley on the streets of Brothel Alley (according to some witnesses who may or have not have been there, I cannot vouch for all.  However most agree the drama unfolded in a manner that reasonably resembled the above, with only moderate embellishments and exaggerations added) and, it may be presumed, fornicated with Lily the working girl, and came in, or on, or some conjunction of either, upon her face.

In any case, they had been spared the trouble of being “escorted” outside the wall and city itself.  An event that was likely to have shortly occurred, were the incident described above not to have taken place, more or less as I have heard it told, and recanted for you just now.

So you see, this is life in my market, the city, and during the ZA in general.  Filled with colorful characters and dastardly deeds.  The personifications of the wall phrases acting out their odd parts and various eccentricities upon the stage.  Welcome to the jungle/madhouse, friends.  May I get you a cup of coffee?  Perhaps you’d be interested in making a deal.  What have you to offer?  Let us see what I can arrange.