Mer Rouge (Part 16)

For Chuck Norris

1940-2026 đŸȘŠ

Hutch couldn’t help but gape at the Judge’s long and gnarly fingers as they danced across the ancient church organ. He couldn’t see his face. From behind, stringy white hairs dangled from beneath a black felt pork pie hat and what little skin showed was as white as a fantail pigeon. He didn’t speak. He only communicated through that haunting and ungodly organ. Hutch couldn’t help but jest. “The fuck is this? Transylvania?” he smirked.

The tall and gaunt man turned his attention away from the sheriff and shot him a bone chilling glare. “Show some respect you pissling!”

Hutch backed down. “Forgive me. You must be Riff Raff.”

The gaunt man, not getting the reference, lifted a finger to the air as if to make a great proclamation. “I am the mayor of Mer Rouge!” he declared.

Hutch was rueful. “Oh forgive me,” he explained. “I am honored to be in your presence.”

The mayor nodded. “Much better,” he said. Then he straightened his tailcoated tuxedo jacket and polished out his accent. “Now, you are responsible for killing two of my men. Why?”

Hutch became apoplectic. “Hey bud! I didn’t kill nobody! We were chased away by the sheriff and his gang! One guy got shot and one guy got ran over but that was they own damn fault!”

“Poppycock!”

“No it ain’t no poppycock neither!”

“But you knew that priest,” Dirk chimed in.

“I don’t know that priest from Adam!”

“He seems to have known you.”

“Shit. Maybe he was just a nice guy. You don’t seem to have too many of those around here.”

The judge laid onto the keys and the ghostly sound of a church organ again pummeled its way through the ether. All eyes shifted to him. After a moment of unearthly silence, the judge raised his decrepit finger and a gargantuan hooded figure resembling a Byzantine eunuch stepped forth and presented him with a grail. The judge took the chalice and raised it to his lips. His head slightly turned and Hutch could see the folds around his mouth. His pail skin pierced through the faint candlelit shadows. As the judge lifted the cup, the water dripped from both ends of his crinkled lips. When he finished, he returned the chalice to the eunuch and again turned his back towards Hutch. The Mayor and Dirk stood as still as a boggy creek bed. As the judge held his fingers over the faded white keys, the eunuch leaned forward. The judge turned to him and whispered in an unintelligible if not ancient and demonic tongue. The eunuch’s face turned sullen. When the judge completed his fiendish dictate, the eunuch stood straight up and turned his ghoulish eyes towards Hutch. 

“Find the priest,” he ordered.

TO BE CONTINUED


And moreover again


The NFL team in Nashville is having an identity crisis. This problem should be enough to keep us all awake at night. Thankfully I have a very simple solution. As you are aware by now, I have advocated for restoration of the Oilers name. I don’t do so because I prefer the old name, but because Amy Adams Strunk has painted herself into a corner and this is the only way out. Now, she’s already brought back the Oilers uniforms. So it’s time to go the extra mile.

But I have another suggestion, and this suggestion might not be as popular but nonetheless necessary. An emphasis with the new uniforms is its Nashville identity so they subtly incorporated “guitar strings” onto the helmet. Yet again, as I have complained so many times before, this is a half measure. So this is where I may kick up a hornet’s nest: the Nashville football team shouldn’t be called the “Tennessee Oilers.” They should be the Nashville Oilers.

Now I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t necessarily roll off the tongue. But neither did “Houston Oilers” for that matter. Additionally, this might mean dropping the iconic “stars of Tennessee” from the team emblem. Whatever my detractors might think, I believe that this is a necessary measure to emphasize exclusivity; this is a team for Nashvillians and Nashvillians ONLY. And let’s just be honest, Nashville is where the cool kids of Tennessee hang out. The fair weather fans of Memphis couldn’t care less. The people of Knoxville are too busy cheering for that team of roadside construction workers. And Chattanooga might as well be in Georgia. If you want your club to be cool, you don’t make it appeal to the largest group possible. You make it exclusive. And the Oilers aren’t “Tennessee’s” team. It belongs to the cool kids of Nashville.

The Friedkin Connection

So I often wonder: if you put the three titans of American 70s auteur cinema – William Friedkin, Paul Schrader, and Michael Cimino – in a room with a loaded gun and a gram of coke, who would come out alive? Personally, my money is on Billy Friedkin. I am only more convinced of this after listening to Friedkin’s retelling of his autobiography The Friedkin Connection.

If I’m being honest, the French Connection and Exorcist director seemed like a massive asshole. They say never meet your heroes. And I definitely never wanted to meet Billy. In fact, I’d probably jump his ass in a parking lot. But there’s no doubt that he’s the most underrated filmmaker to come out of the era which produced Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg, and George Lucas. Some would argue that his run during the 70s is unimpeachable. The Boys in the Band (1970) was a turning point in LGBTQ cinema. The French Connection (1971) personified the grittiness that later define the decade. The Exorcist (1973) needs no introduction. Sorcerer (1977), then a box office bomb, now considered Friedkin’s magnum opus. The Brink’s Job (1978), never seen it. Had Billy been able to keep his ego in check, he might’ve coasted his way into the GOAT conversation. With that said, I’m sure Friedkin had no complaints on his deathbed. He ultimately won an Academy Award and married actress/Paramount CEO Sherry Lansing.

What’s interesting is that Friedkin claimed that he never subscribed to the ‘auteur’ theory of cinema, stating that film is a collaborative medium. Mind you, all of his actions with writers, actors, and studio executives say different. But there is something unpretentious and almost proletarian about his direction. That’s probably due to the fact that he was a high school educated kid from Chicago who worked his way up through live television. This greatly contrasted with his peers who attended film school and/or were mentored by Roger Corman.

Now you can talk your shit about audiobooks, but I’m tellin ya, I doubt The Friedkin Connection would hit as hard without Billy himself reading it. So do yourself a favor. Drop a few shrooms, shutter the windows, turn up the sound system, and waste the next 20 hours by listening to William Friedkin tell his story.

Mer Rouge (Part 15)

Hutch and the deputy stepped across the red brick threshold and onto the well manicured terracotta floor. The interior was a Spanish design which conflicted with the eclectic modern exterior, but at least the foyer provided much needed shade from the rising temperatures outside. The butler immediately stopped them. “Please remove your shoes.” The deputy cursed under his breath while he removed his leather boots and placed them by the door. When Hutch took off his prison slippers, he revealed his patchy and rancid socks. As the butler noticed, the stench of raw asshole and landfill trash filled his nostrils. “On second thought,” the butler told him, “I’ll permit you to keep yours on.” A passing Persian cat slinked past the foyer and began to yak. Hutch shrugged and slid his feet back into his shoes. Soon after, the butler guided the men into the mansion while the deputy held on to Hutch’s elbow.

From inside the living area, they could see the inmates on the outside pointlessly toiling around while dust kicked up around them. When they approached an immaculate staircase, Hutch presumed they were about to ascend it. Instead, the butler proceeded to the right just under the staircase where an old rotted and wooden door was positioned. The butler opened it and ordered them inside. Hutch was to go in first. He stepped to the edge and looked down the passageway descending beneath the staircase. He noticed the walls were made of a combination of stucco and shit brown mud. Then he turned to the deputy. “How about you go down first?”

The deputy nudged him along. “Boy! Get yo ass down them stairs!”

Hutch slowly proceeded down the corridor with only dim candles guiding the way. The other two were close behind. Trickling water echoed down the passageway and then muffled voices were heard. At about the halfway point, the haunting blast of a church organ filled the air and Hutch jumped backwards. “Keep going you dumbfuck!” the deputy ordered. He cautiously moved forward. The muffled voices grew louder and more clear. When they reached the bottom of the steps, the corridor continued leftward. And when Hutch turned the corner, a cleared out underground den awaited him. Sheriff Dirk was there. A tall and gaunt man was reaming him out, using words that Hutch didn’t understand. Both of their eyes turned to meet the visitors. Dirk, sullen and gloomy, spoke first. “Mr. Waites, allow me to introduce you to Judge Castor.”

The sheriff stepped aside. Behind him was a fellow seated and turned away from them. His fingers placed on the unsettling organ.

TO BE CONTINUED


Judgement Day

As the internet is well aware, after the ill advised firing of Mike Vrabel by the Tennessee Titans, I renounced my fandom for NFL franchise in Nashville and proclaimed my allegiance to new titans of mediocrity in Los Angeles, the Chargers. So far, that decision has paid off in spades. Yet Tennessee still had one ace up its sleeve – or, in football parlance – one last Hail Mary to bring me back into the fold. And that hand was played today by the unveiling of new uniforms.

So. The final verdict?

Underwhelmed.

For the record, this is not a bad uniform. But I’ve made my opinion clear to anyone who would listen. If the Titans want to be the Oilers, then they should stop with these half-assed measures. Go FULL ass. BE the Tennessee Oilers for fuck sake.

But alas, we get this halfhearted nod. Which is fine. But if they really want to send this uniform over the edge, do a light blue alternate for the helmet 👍

Mer Rouge (Part 14)

The inmates piled out of the old army truck with the urgency of a platoon going into battle. Everyone knew right where they were supposed to be. All except for Hutch. When his feet hit the ground, his instinct was to follow Moses. But a deputy lowered his shotgun to block his path. “Not so fast there bucko.” The officer’s face was as cold as granite, his eyes glaring a fiery red from underneath his leather brim. “Stand over there.”

So Hutch stood over there. 

Upon closer inspection, the sprawling ranch land did not consist of St. Augustine and Bermuda grasses but of a polyethylene blend found only on shitty ball fields. It was fake grass as far as the eye could see. All the inmates lined up along the dirt road and dragged their tools across the rocks to kick up dust. Hutch raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Hush! The judge will see you in a moment!” the deputy shouted.

Hutch stood off to the side with shovel in hand and scratched his ass. He gazed upon his fellow prisoners and pondered. They had the look of determination plastered over their faces as if they were doing actual work. It made no goddamn sense. Meanwhile, one deputy rested the butt of his shotgun on his hip. The other lazily jogged from the ominous mansion back to the truck while Hutch watched his man tits bounce to and fro. When he arrived, the deputy wheezed and leaned forward as if to puke. “The judge is ready to see you,” he managed to utter between laborious breaths. The other officer grabbed Hutch by the arm and handed off his shotgun. First, they traversed across phony grass before stepping onto brick underneath an exotic covered breezeway. This led them to right up to an ornate, if not garish, rustic double door and the deputy knocked. An English butler opened the door. “Yes suh?”

The deputy spat a wad of tobacco on the bricked porch. “We’re here for the judge.”

“Name, suh?”

“Deputy Iverson. Jesus Christ! Deputy Thumb was just in here! Did he not tell you we were comin?”

“And his name?”

The deputy nudged Hutch. “Tell him yur name.”

“Thomas Jefferson Waites. They call me Hutch.”

“One moment, gentlemen.” Then the butler shut the door.

“Jesus fuckin Christ!” the deputy cursed.

Twenty minutes and three cigarettes later, the butler opened the door and bowed. “The Honorable Judge Castor will see you now.”

TO BE CONTINUED


Mer Rouge (Part 13)

Midday. Outside of the tool crib under the lingering sun, Fornier shoved a shovel into Hutch’s chest. Hutch gripped the handle and raised an eyebrow and voiced his concern. “The fuck is this?” he asked. The sheriff chewed his loose leaf tobacco and spat. “You ain’t never seen a shovel before?”

“I mean, I have. But I don’t know what I need it for.”

The inmates behind Hutch grew pissy as sweat poured down their brows. Before agitation could reach a boiling point, Moses spoke up. “It’s for yardwork you dolt!”

“Yardwork?” said Hutch. “I’m a prisoner. I don’t know anything about yardwork!”

Fornier shook his head. “Boy, you are a special kind of dumbass.”

“Just take the goddamn shovel and get in the truck!” Moses shouted.

Hutch did as he said and took his seat in the open air convoy truck. Other inmates poured in behind him. When the bed was filled, two deputies donning their pump action shotguns climbed in and took their seats. No words were spoken and the truck roared southward into the green lush bayou. The skies were clear. For the moment, the midday breeze provided a reprieve from the scorched sun. Hutch’s mind began to wander. He knew not if Oren was dead or alive. Then remorse sank in. If only he had ate more fiber, then that toilet in Arkansas would have never been clogged and they’d probably be in Florida by now. But the wheels underneath him kept spinning. It took him further and further away. Then the truck turned down yet another dirt road. Dry dust kicked up and the inmates covered their faces. The deputies lifted rags over their noses. When they arrived, it was a sprawling plantation stretching out onto the flat horizon. The only elevation in sight was a gentle sloping hill on which a colonial, almost gaudy, mansion sat. The deputies climbed out and opened the bed.

“Everyone out!”

TO BE CONTINUED


Tf is this shjt?

So I walk into Waffle House. I sit at the bar. The server asks what I want. I say coffee. He brings me a coffee. Then he asks what I want to eat. I said I hadn’t decided. He says take your time. So I take my time. Then he comes back. I tell him I want an All-Star breakfast for $12.99. Eggs runny. Bacon burnt. He says yessir. So I drink my coffee. It’s black. Tastes good. I watch the staff. They’re happy. They’re friendly. 4 minutes and 28 seconds later. Food is in front of me. Bacon. Crispy as fuck. Eggs. Runny as snot. Waffle. Cooked to perfection.

I look upon the spread in front of me. It was everything that I had hoped for. The server stood over with a smile as wide as Kansas. So I look him in the eye and hold my fork in an almost threatening way. “What the fuck is this shit?” I ask him.

“Sir?”

“I said ‘what, the fuck, is, this shit?’”

“It’s what you ordered.”

I looked at his name tag. I turned around to glance at the sign outside. Then my eyes flow from one end of the diner to the other. “Forgive me, I thought this was a Waffle House,” I said.

“But it is,” the server pleaded.

I furiously shook my head. “No,” I told him. “At Waffle House, I come here for half assed and unsatisfactory service and food that’s greasy enough to cure next week’s hangover. That’s REAL America. If I wanted to be respected as a human being, I’d have gone to Denny’s.”

THE END

What a great day

The weather’s warmer. Just got out of jail. Have $27 in my pocket. And my stool sample came back negative for dysentery.

But the best part?

No new war has been instigated by the United States that bears an alarming similarity with another disastrous war instigated 20 years prior. It’s like after 300,000 years of humanity’s existence, we’re finally starting to learn from history.

So I think we’re gonna make it as a species, folks! We’re turning over a new leaf đŸ„°