The Finger Of God

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

When the blonde woman from The Weather Network who looked a lot like Connie Stevens announced the impending storm of all storms, my wife was quite excited. She had always been that way. I however, was somewhat indifferent. She was ecstatic, dancing around the house with the joyful exuberance of a school girl, waiting with gleeful anticipation of the impending downpour. She said that thunderstorms stirred up the spirit world and set the forces of the other side n motion. She said it was destined to be one scary night. The storm arrived late in the evening. She stood by the open window watching the lightening illuminate the night sky like fireworks on Canada Day, and listening to the thunder claps that shook her nerves and rattled her brain. The gale force winds howled, causing her to close her eyes every now and again as it blew the cool spring rain onto her face. She said she couldn’t sleep, not with Mother Nature being so exquisite, so I went to bed, leaving her to revel in the euphoria of nature’s unyielding power. Sometime during the deluge  I awoke to find her sitting on the edge of the bed nudging me. “You’re not going to believe this.” she said. “Someone was just in here.”

“Ah, hell.” I said. “There’s always someone in here.”

“I’m talking about someone from the other side.” she replied.

“I know.” I said. “They’re the only ones you ever let in.”

She said that the experience was weird, even by her standards, and she needed to talk about it.  I hated those conversations and did my best to avoid them at all costs. She was well aware of my feelings, but just couldn’t seem to stop herself from dragging me into her other worldly world. I had seen a lot of weird things over the years. With the assistance of an inordinate amount of hallucinogens and pharmaceuticals that I had religiously introduced to my brain, I have seen flying lizards, talking dragons, and miniature Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles performing ‘Dancing Queen’ in my kitchen sink, but to be honest, the whole spirit, and ghost thing just simply freaked me out. To my wife however, it was commonplace. It had become a recurring part of her life. This time though,she said it was different.

“It was really weird.” she said. “I was just standing at the window, smoking, and someone just came up beside me and stuck a finger in my ear.”

“You mean like a wet Willie?” I asked.

“Ya.” She said. “ But it wasn’t wet.”

“Of course not.” I said. “I don’t suppose spirits would have saliva. Maybe it was just the wind.”

“Are you listening to me?” she asked. “It was a finger.” She leaned over and inserted one of her fingers in my ear. “That’s what it felt like, a finger.”

“It doesn’t always have to be from the other side.” I said.  “Maybe it was from another universe. Maybe it was an alien probe. According to the Enquirer, they’re really quite common.”

“Do they usually probe your ear?” she questioned.

“I don’t think so.” I said. “But its possible you got a trainee.”

She thought that I was trying to be funny, and wanted me to take it far more seriously than I apparently was. I swear I was trying. She was spinning her wheels, stuck in trying to understand what the hell had just happened to  her. I struggled to help, trying to find some sort of reasonable explanation but sadly, I arrived at none. We carefully considered the possibility of her having been dreaming, but she was adamant that she was wide awake, standing at the window and smoking. Everyone else at home was sound asleep, and she claims to have not been under the influence of alcohol or drugs, although I have encouraged her to give it a try on several occasions,

“I suppose it could have been the finger of God.” I said.

“The finger of God?” she questioned.

“The finger of God.” I repeated.  “The same finger that brought the plagues to Egypt and etched the commandments into the tablets Moses brought down from Sinai.”

“What would God want with me?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I answered. “But I’m sure you’re not the first one to ask that. I’m sure that everyone God has reached out to has asked ‘why me’? I don’t suppose it really matters though, I mean its God.”

“That’s a little nerve racking.” she said. “God has never visited me before.”

“Then I guess you’re due.” I said.

I sat beside her on the edge of the bed and I rubbed her back. The joy of the storm of all storms was gone.

“Just come to bed.” I said. “Its getting late.”

“How can I sleep?” she asked. “This is just so weird.”

“I’ll protect you.” I told her.

“Really? What are you gonna do?” she asked. I was surprised that I had to reminded her that I had spoken to God on more than one occasion, and that sometime in the mid 1970s I had firsthand experience with alien probing while completely messed up on a small bag full of peyote.

“Why don’t you just lay down and relax” I said, “and leave everything to me.”

“What are you thinking of doing?” she asked.

“Nothing, really.” I replied. “Just trying to help. I thought that if we recreated an alien probe, you might be able to tell if that’s what happened to you.”

“In my ear?” she questioned.

“No” I said. “I think we need to go the more traditional route. I think its worth a try.”

“Of course you do.” she said. “But I suppose we’ve really got nothing to lose.”

“Nothing at all. And after the probing” I added, “we can try to rule out the finger of God.”

“How do we do that?” she asked.

“Just leave it to me.” I said.

Saddles & Spurs

by Fielding Goodfellow

 

William Temple had been called Billy T since second grade when that shithead Billy Kramer showed up at Rockford Road Public School. Pretty soon everybody was calling him Billy T, including his family, despite the fact that he hated it. But as far back as any of us could remember, he had always been Billy T. Every now and then he would hang around with us on our path of self destruction and spectacular feats of daring. We were, after all anti heroes, protectors of all that was good and right with a dark side, willing to bend or break whatever  stood in our way.

Billy T  was just a little guy who dreamed of being a jockey, although we regularly suggested that he would have made a great midget wrestler. In the days when the world was kept safe by a flying squirrel and a moose, and hipster douches kept their man buns hidden behind closed doors and drawn curtains, I had convinced myself that I had become a gunslinger, hanging around the Ok Coral, fighting off the Clantons, and then encouraging and enticing Billy’s sister, Veronica, to ride me off into the sunset.

It went back to the days of watching westerns with the old man, catching glimpses of Linda Evans in ‘The Big Valley’, and Raquel Welch in ‘100 Rifles’. I was a big fan of westerns, but even then I was more interested in tits and ass than I was in guns and horses. With a head full of pharmaceuticals that took me up and down like an escalator, I was captivated by every movement of Veronica’s body. Particularly the subtle ones, and with her tight jeans, cowboy boots, and white t shirt  that I was certain had been painted on, with the words ‘I LOVE TO RIDE’ printed across her chest, she not only stirred my loins, but whipped and beat them into a state of frenzied excitement. As she rode past, with tits heaving in rhythmic harmony to the horse’s gait and thighs tightly clamped around the mare, the salute in my pants stood at full attention.

“Interested in a ride today?”, she asked as she passed.

“Only if you’re the guide.”, I replied.

“Think you can handle one with an attitude?”, she questioned.

“Are we talking about the horse or the guide?”, I inquired.

“You’re funny.”, she told me. And while Billy T, Farberman, and Tate stood by the fence that circled the coral, Veronica and I headed into the stable to saddle up some horses.

Billy T was the first one out of the barn and man could he ride. He was almost standing with his feet firmly in the stirrups with no weight on the animal’s back. He said that it gave him more control and it was easier on the horse to ride that way but it didn’t appeal to me. Not one bit. I preferred to ride with the reckless abandon of the Spaghetti Western, to simply jump on and ride like fuck. The horses never really seemed to mind. Old cowboy tunes started playing in my head as Veronica led us through the ravine and across the creek. It happened every time I got on a horse. This time it was Gene Autry’s ‘Back In The Saddle Again’ and ‘I’ve Got Spurs’ melding together to create one somewhat indiscernible song, although I suppose it could have simply been the pills.  Not that it mattered. The sun was up, the air was clean and sweet, and Veronica was galloping towards me with her long, dark hair flowing in the breeze, and her wonderful tits bouncing up and down like balloons riding a wave, hypnotizing me into a state of total submission.

“Billy T’s hurt.”, she shouted as she raced past. “I gotta get help.” Tate , Farberman and I headed off to where we had last seen Billy T, and there he was, laying on the ground just a few feet from the embankment with his leg all bent and twisted, his riding crop still in his hand.

“You okay?”, Farberman asked.

“Do I look okay?”, Billy T responded, motioning to his leg.

“What the hell happened?”, Tate inquired.

“I don’t know.”, Billy T told us. “It was weird. All of a sudden the horse just reared up and I went flying across the field. It was like he got spooked or something. I think there’s something down in the ravine.”

Help arrived in the form of two ranch hands who loaded Billy T onto a flatbed and transported him to the hospital. Tate and Farberman headed down into the ravine in search of whatever might be down there, while Veronica and I followed the makeshift ambulance to the hospital. She was beautiful when she was worried, and despite the fact that Billy T was probably going to lose a leg, all I could think about was introducing her to the hard on I had been carrying around for most of the day. We sat in silence for a while, with me thinking about taking the official tour of her body, and Veronica probably thinking about her brother’s mangled leg, until the conversation unexpectedly took a turn that I never saw coming. “How come you’ve never hit on me?”, she asked.

“What do you mean?”, I asked her.

“Well”, she continued, “you never make comments about my body or make any rude remarks about what you want to do to me. Don’t you like me?”

“Are you kidding me?”, I asked. “Of course I like you. All day long I’ve been walking around with a hard on. Just looking at you makes me hot as hell.”

“I can take care of that for you.”, she assured me.

“Now?”, I inquired.

“Why not?”, she replied. “We’re here, we’re alone, and you’re certainly ready.”, she continued as she rubbed her hand across my crotch. We popped some Benzedrine and jumping into the back seat of the car set off on a journey of rowdy, western sex complete with the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, and some of the dirtiest talk I had ever heard as she rode me off into a glorious sunset. By the time we reached the hospital, Billy T had his leg immobilized and stabilized, and was scheduled for surgery the next day.

Tate and Farberman found nothing in the ravine other than poison ivy or poison oak. Either way, their arms were red, swollen and itchy. Billy T. had a metal rod and several pins inserted in his leg, making it relatively useless, and ending his dream of being a jockey. He never rode again, but he wound up designing some kind of safety device to protect jockeys from falls, and is still very much involved in the horse racing industry. Tate went on to become a writer, publishing several books, and moved in with an artist named Ramona. Farberman continued with his scientific interests and found work with the government until his untimely and suspicious disappearance. Veronica continued leading trail rides at Rocking Horse Ranch, and started dating one of the ranch hands. We never slept together again, and to be honest, I was already beginning to lose interest in her. I suppose that it all just disappeared like a puff of smoke. She was an insanely fun ride, but she really had nothing else to offer me. She was somewhat of an idiot. I saw her once or twice more in passing, and while we were cordial, I had no interest in talking to her. I would have continued banging the hell out of her if she would have let me, but she was taking her new found relationship with Festus or Cleetus or whatever the ranch hand’s name was quite seriously. Years later I heard that she had joined some traveling rodeo show and had come out of the closet as a card carrying member of the League Of Lesbians. I continued my life as a gun slinging anti hero, travelling a path of self destruction while engaging in spectacular feats of daring for many years, and often times find myself inadvertently walking that path again. I’m not surprised really, I mean, we always seem to go back to what we know and who we are. The rest is all just pretense and make believe, and at this stage of my life I have no time for that shit.

The Politics of Dancing

by Fielding Goodfellow

There was a time, not so very long ago, when I was certain that the path we walked was not the path of my choosing. Fraught with warnings and danger signs that were ignored, we had marched in headfirst with nothing but nerves of steel, a pocketful of pharmaceuticals, and $20 worth of peyote, spiraling totally out of control. As graduate students we spent an inordinate amount of time pondering right versus wrong, light versus dark, and lager versus ale through the early morning hours, nestled in College bars and private rooms in Asian massage parlors, as if it was all just a masturbatory fantasy, only to find that the crisis had now reached critical levels.

We were the artists, the philosophers, and the poets. We were the dreamers who had watched in disbelief as the separation of politics and religion became impossible to discern. We attended demonstrations with nouveau socialist, topless women who believed that there was nothing in a pair of tits that anyone should be ashamed or afraid of. We agreed. We protested our leaders’ promises of eternal salvation in exchange for one’s very soul at enormous public funded rallies designed to stir up hatred and distrust, each with a smirk glued on their face, created by their ever present army of aides whose noses were wedged deep into their backsides, while the mass of onlookers were blinded, mesmerized by their heavenly glow,  unable to see that these charlatans really didn’t give a shit. None of them, in their inherent idiocy could see that what was being offered was the same parcel of bullshit that was proposed years ago. It just had a nicer ribbon. And when the leaders spoke,  the followers in attendance erupted in cheers,  just as he shuddered in a thunderous orgasm brought on by the blind adoration of the chanting neanderthals, and left to be cleaned up by the millions of mindless shells who watched this in silence from living room sofas on big screen, high definition televisions, with a handful of pork rinds being funneled into their gaping mouths.

Harley Stokes showed up out of nowhere, arriving with a bible in one hand and a Parker-Hale M82 sniper’s rifle in the other. He portrayed himself as the second coming and had managed to convince much of the populous that it was true. He was, in reality, a far right, bible thumping, fascist, evangelist straight out of the Stalin School of Interpretive Dance. He claimed that he spoke on behalf of The Holy Spirit. He was a liar and a swindler, a con man, travelling the country to garner support for his impetuous attempt at entering the political arena. Stokes knew that timing was everything, and he had managed to pick the exact moment in time when he could swoop down, and promise the people everything that he had convinced them they had been clamoring for. As if on a beam of divine light, Harley Stokes had in fact, become their only hope for salvation, and was now about to embark on another in an almost endless series of ‘Save Your Soul for $100’ orgasmatronic rallies.

The politics of faith was quite disconcerting, as single celled life forms rose to power, driven by their own fragile egos and self induced wet dreams. It was a slow and painful ballet in which politics and religion were intertwined in the customary pas de deux, as they bum fuck their way through plies, releves, and the ever seductive arabesque. Strangely enough, although unnoticed by the fans of such nonsensical drivel, the dancers did not really move at all. It was all just smoke and mirrors. It was a cheap magician’s trick.

We protested the event, marching to the venue in a failed attempt to disrupt the rally. We were greeting by strong arm tactics from muscled orangutans who stood at the perimeter of the arena to ensure such nonsensical political activism would not disrupt the enlightening of the tens of thousands of people in attendance, and detract in any way from the communal cumming that occurred at the conclusion of every one of Harley Stokes events. His fire and brimstone approach worked the crowd into a frenzy, and through the power of suggestion, they were, as a group, able to experience a mind blowing, spiritual orgasm. I have no idea what that felt like, but the orgasm I experience with assorted women in hotel rooms is as close to religion as I will ever get.

I spent the night in jail for my attempt at violating Harley Stoke’s right to free speech. “There’s only one solution.”, Doc, my cell mate who, as it turned out. was a member of a popular motorcycle gang informed me. “You have to have the mother fucker disappear. Before its too late.” Killing was nothing new to him. Killing crazy mother fuckers wasn’t new to him either. Doc had been involved in many a disappearance. He offered to help, but we would have to wait 3 to 5 years for him to be available.

Very few of us were surprised that Harley Stokes went on to become President. This was a necessary step for his ultimate goal as Lord & Master. The streets were no longer paved with gold, but rather consisted of hatred, derision, and fear. Everything was falling apart, but Stokes’ supporters continued to defend his character and his intentions. And therein lies the dilemma. It is only a fool who cannot admit his mistakes and seek to correct it. An idiot will continue to believe what has already been disproved, as they view being wrong as evidence of their stupidity. Oh, hell they know they’re idiots, they just don’t want anyone else to know. So they lie, ignore evidence, change statistics and grab hold of their bibles and rifles, as that is where their strength comes from. The word of God in one hand, and a means to force their beliefs on everyone else in the other. Indeed, God is a bullet. Have mercy on us, everyone.