THE DESERT SONS

[The Urbane Spaceman]

This first chapter is for P. He died, you know. He fucking died.


Damn. Damn. Damn.





So here we go. We stand tall, with chalices raised high for those whom we have pissed off, pissed on, and gotten pissed with. Cheers to them who make us happy that we exist. Even if it is for an infinitesimal moment, in the eternity of space, on this marvelous little blue marble.


*AHEM*


Joey looked over at me, across the red tiles. He said, “This was a good idea.”

I nodded my head, and my face scratched against them half-cut toilet pipes. I mumbled back at him. I said, “It’s nice and warm here.”

He chuckled and nodded. Then he closed his eyes.

The angry sun of the Fuckno desert blasted his eye at us, but all we could do was to smile.




Fire by Barns Courtney




After a little while, Joey said, “Weeee-ill. It’s time to get down.”

I said, “All right, Joseph. I’m building up a thirst anyway.”

Joey sat up and put his pipe away. He rolled up his baggie of green and stuffed it into his coveralls, and then zipped himself up, professional.


I rolled over and rubbed the red clay form my face. Exfoliation. I poured water over my face and rinsed away the memories of the bad things that we had done. Today was a new day for more bad things. I put the flask away. Rum.

I zipped up my own coveralls and looking down at myself, I saw that all of the soot on my face now congealed around my clothing. I had working hard, and it appeared that I had been sweating.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

And now, we get even farther from the truth.

Joey stood up and walked down the angled slope of the roof towards the ladder. He turned back and said, “Don’t forget the sticks.”



I grunted as I stood up and nodded. I grabbed them fiberglass rods with the screw-ends and butts, and the one with the chimney brush. I dragged them over to him, as he stood atop the ladder, and as I did, the metal ends clinked against the red clay roofing material.


He said, Weeee-ill! Don’t be chipping that shit!”

I grunted again and hefted them up, and when I got close to him, he reached his hand up to grab them. I chucked them over his head and said, “Oops.”

He said, “You fucker!” Then he clambered down the ladder.


I took a moment to smile at his departure, and then I stretched my back with arms way up high, and I breathed in deep, and I yawned deep and long. I looked over the expanse of the Sans Joking river valley, way across to Bakersfuck to the north, and then south to the lovely little community known as “Those Bathrooms” in Hispanish. You know, a two story McMansion in the desert will afford you a lovely view of the whole world, if you are rich. Even better if you are a chimney sweep, much higher up than those rich fucks. Like, on their roof. They never got those sights. Too busy with their noses in their checkbooks and plastic.


The world was a million miles away, and also, twenty minutes to the next roof. We had six of these each day. You see, we had not lost our jobs. We had been gone for two weeks, and then shown up, and no worries. Yeah, it’s hard to lose a job that nobody else wants.


The mountains to the east beckoned me for exploring, but they also held me against my homeland: a tiny river island to the east. I was held like a grain of desert silt at the bottom of a crucible. Sol cooked his evil eye in judgement for what we had done.


Fuck that.


I slid down the ladder with my boots and gloves on the outside of it.

Joey hated when I did that. He said, “You trying to collect workman’s compensation?”

I landed and stood up tall. I said, “No. It’s Workman’s Commiseration.”


He shrugged and went to collect the poles. One was sticking in the ground, straight up. He said, “You lucky these things don’t break.”

I said, “We lucky that we don’t break.”

That was actually quite true. We always held close and true.

TRVTH.


Except for them poor rich fucks.



Joey walked up the rear deck and knocked on the sliding glass door. After a few moments, a face appeared. She slid the glass open and the cold air form inside blew Joey’s hair back. It was like standing in front of a meat cooler with the door open. I swear to Bacchus that I saw Joey shiver. I just didn’t know if it was because of her plastic surgery face or the cold breeze.


She said, “Was it bad? Was it dirty?”


I slipped my sooty glove up to my face to stifle my laughter. Fucking Joey held his ground. He said, “It was dirty bad, ma’am.”


I had to walk away fast to avoid ruining the next part: The Grift.

I knew his routine. As I went to the work truck, I could hear his speech in my head. He would be saying, “It appears that you will need to burn hardwood in your fireplace. Not softwood. I have something that will dissolve the creosote build-up, then next time you burn soft wood. Just spray it a few times on the wood. It will clean the chimney.”


How about that. Yeah, just wave this magical fairy wand about your head and turn three times and everything will be all right. For $20, you will be safe form a chimney fire.


Or, if they actually did spend the money for hardwood, then they were doing it right. It also meant that they had money to burn. I mean, who burns hard wood in the friggin desert unless they are showing off for friends and family?


In that case, then he would say, “Well, it appears that the hardwood you’ve been burning has caused the chimney grout to become weakened. It looks like your chimney needs to be re-lined. This cost will be covered by your house insurance. Your insurance cost may go up only $5 each month, but it’s a small investment against the fiery death of your whole family, and everything that you own. You might want to call your husband to let him know. Here’s a card for a really good chimney re-liner. Today, you pay only $84.99, plus tax.”


Of course, the chimney re-liner was the Big Man who owned both companies. He owned our sooty arses. Well, at least for $15 per hour. Hey, back in them 1980’s that was serious cash for two young bastards. At six jobs each day, it meant $90, and gasoline was covered.


All we had to do was risk our lives standing atop a two story house, upon the chimney, with two stories of wieldy, bendy fiberglass poles wavering about our heads, as we thrust it back down in the hole, and then raise it up, over and over again.

Fucking the rich in their sooty holes.

After work, take a shower with a beer and blow black snot snot-rockets out of the nose. Chug, Blow, rinse, repeat. Probably got lung cancer any time soon, son.


Thank goodness that Joey had not smashed the shower door that first night of the chess game. He’d done it before, you know.

We were on towards our final job for the day, so we stopped at the 7-11 for a Big Gulp. Joey said, “Feels good to make some honest cash, huh, Weeee-ill?”

I said, “Nothing honest about it, Joseph. But at least we ain’t getting shot at.”


Huh.


That would happen when he fell in love with La Fleur Du Mal, and before I fucked her.


See you next time. We need to go see what the hell Sean was doing with Monica.




Rest ye well, good Palinka.




.

[Dear Booze]

Welcome back, Spacey. I've missed you and these tales.

Don't be so long about the next installment, huh?

[TheDrunkardAnglo]

This is great shit!