How Could It Have Been That Obvious? William Seward Bonnie

Posted: December 22, 2010 in Short Stories, William Seward Bonnie
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“How could it have been that obvious?”


Me and the Moon man were on a world tour down in Mississippi. We had plenty of drugs and gin to get us through the night; we had only come to see the jazz band. They were universally known as being cute and spunky, and we were already thrashed in that 1928 speeder, hugging the cliffs over the croc’s lair. Scared and drunk, we slowed down, and cussed at each other until we cried, but he was less scared then I, and coasted down that jagged edge. We arrived at Rimbys, the jazz parlor, to see the band, and immediately ordered a couple of kissers when we walked in. They weren’t strong enough to make us see straight so we sat down by the front. The band came to the stage, the lead pianist was tall and bony and high on some sort of upper, grinding his teeth as the melody of the sweet piano donged in. The bassist was clearly tired of the lead pianist’s act but respected the music so that he was forced to stay.The rest of the band was less apparent than the bassist, but more open about it as well. The Moon man was pouring some cough syrup into a cola under the table and nudging my leg with his, like I shoulda, but I didn’t. The entrancement of the notes slapped my tongue over my cavities to rest on my ulcer-sored gums, the Moon man slouched deeper into the chair until he made such a stir, the woman besides us moved. I took the cola from him and proceeded to drink it myself. Slower than Mr.Moon did, of course. The pianist drove his fingers through the ivory, creating a rough hole that cut through the tip of his cuticle, rubbing the skin off his prints. He smiled all the while as he continued the destruction of his fist, blood now trickling out over the keys and dripped down to his knees. His band slowly faded as the rumble of the piano broke the eardrum of every listener in tow, as he created a devilish symphony that made his pale skin glow. Mr. moon was cheering wildly on the floor and I could hear myself standing on the table screaming, but everyone else was deaf or shocked. I even threw up on some patrons at the table behind us I was so excited, and they didn’t move, covered in vomit, they still didn’t believe their ears. Mr. Moon staggered up, now that the piece was over, the vomit couple now dabbing themselves dry, and like the others, still whispering question marks as murmurs to the lovers at their sides. I was thinking about fish and what had happened to the sea when the pianist grimmishly came up to me and began rambling incessantly, and Mr. Moon chimed in: “Hello pal! We liked your piano strokes, but we don’t want to know ya.” I nodded and crossed my arms behind my friend as if to back him up, the man left. We then got into the ’28 speedster, Senor Moon chose a vinyl, and we hit the dirt highway.

Chapter 19876:
Highways came and the morning was slow, we had woke up drunk at this coffee shop, named Mellow House or Child’s Corner…There was a newspaper stand outside and a policeman next to that. He was a nice fellow. We walked in and demanded to be seated where the other police were because of the encounter outside; luckily there were two in a booth caddy corner to the wall. ”Gentleman,” I said as I approached them with my arms wildly open. Perplexed, they watched with curious intent. ”How are you guys today?” I said as I came to a stop and sat next to the one with a mustache. Then the one with the mustache replied: ”Who are you?” the one with a mustache nodded, as if agreeing to the question. I stared for a second as if they should know, and then threw my hands on the table and yelled: ”Tom’s kid!” They then proceeded to draw their weapons and pistol-whipped the few remaining teeth I have out. Mr. Moon, taking offense to this, jumped behind the counter, grabbed a hot skillet and spatula, and then proceeded to leap over the counter to where the blues stood and burned one on the top of his head, while bashing the crown of his skull in and cut the iris on the other one with the spatula and then proceeded to jump on his chin. By this time, I’m on my feet, making my way to the door, spitting my teeth on the floor, and I see police officer three coming in to assist me, when I grabbed his gun, and in a short struggle, shot him in the knee and then called him a nancy for crying, I still haven’t decided which was worse. Back in the speedster, we didn’t stop until Arizona.

In the devil’s playground, sex is wildly overblown as something sensual and unique to spouses, in general. Mr. Moon was a deviant for the woman; I mean I had known the man for years. An Argentinean fellow with a taste for extreme expansion and dancing, and consequently romancing. He taught me all I know about mechanics and the Olympics and he gave me a recipe for a mince pie to die for. He was a mentor to me as I was a sensei to him. We gave each other hope that one day the world would be fucked up with love. We ate strawberries every afternoon in Arizona, hoping to see planes fly by with scrolling letters, hoping one day we’d find wives with big enough breasts to fulfill our dreams. One summer day in the devil’s playground, we were in the backyard of this girl’s house over off I-5, making napalm, when her boyfriend came home, and questioned who we were. Mr. Moon took offense to this and challenged him to a dance-off while the man foolishly turned him down; the woman consequently had sex with Mr. Moon after. While the two fucked, I took a stroll through her channels, with her boyfriend crying on the couch next to me, clutching a pillow in his grips. ”It’s over, man” he constantly repeated “and this is my house, why couldn’t y’all have left?” I continued to scroll and asked the guy for a beer. He was a nervous wreck, but a generous host. Moon came out several hours later and announced that we were leaving, and that all would be right in the household, the man shook our hands, it was a strange scene.

Chapter jet 2:

Moon and I develop this radioactive turntable that shoots gamma rays into space. Well anyway, we decided one day to go on the roof of our apartment and see if it was capable of inter-dimensional tears in the fabric of time and space. It was, god dammit, so we lunged into a time-traveling roller coaster that is loosely based on the “Quantum Leap” series. I’m the good looking one, Moon, the guardian. Our first stop was ancient Pompeii, on the very day of the eruption that decimated the city state, well I wasn’t about to be baked by this gelatinous lava lake, so I pulled out a pinner and went to commandeer a fishing vessel, giving free joints to all the sinners, seeing if I could truly develop myself as the skanky Jesus. I sat on the corner, and rock quarries of the city, deciding if I should stay here to be a messiah, or at least the town’s prettiest bachelor of notoriety and scholar. I pondered and pondered and it wasn’t till that moment, I remembered I should jet the fuck out before this city becomes a wax museum and kinder. Moon telepathically reached me, screaming, he says “I think I just scored with the most beautiful woman…she had hair of snakes that made my dick as hard as cement! In fact, I’m feeling round 42!” Jesus, I muttered under my breath as the tiny ship hit the open waters. “What a lucky bastard…why do I never get laid?” The volcano exploded, at the same time Mr.Moon got Medusa pregnant, he could tell he claimed, by the way her snakes screamed. On the Mediterranean Sea, I watched the decimation of the once mighty Pompeii, and then I wrote the very first copy of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No good, Very Bad day. In which, I played the protagonist of Alex, and Mr. Moon created the destruction of my favorite historical city state.

Haha, anyway.

We quantum leaped the next day. It was hot as fuck on that boat and I had to poop, and it seems as though when I need a bowel movement, I quantum leap time and space, Moon claims he made it that way, I just gave up and believed everything he said. We awoke in 1960’s Berkeley, we both had vials of lsd and pounds of hashish, we didn’t question how they got there, we just closed our eyes and squealed. We looked like two Japanese school girls who had won the spelling bee. It was sweet, immersed in the hippy culture, introducing those assholes to better 21st century weed, and their 20th centuryy, circa Albert Hoffman, lsd. We tripped for what seemed like days, until these ladies we met got us into a Lenny Bruce show without pay and that moment of realization came, we could be stuck here on acid until modern days. Mind you this is pre-microwave, pre-cable…limited hydroponic haze! We could barely go an hour without Sportscenter updates, and Chris Berman is probably currently shitting in his pants, so the only thing logically to do was place bets on everything. We became kingpins of Berkeley, and soon the Bay, making all our money off gambling and smoking the stash away, I have to admit for a while we had it made. Long days of orgies and showers with flower empowered girls who are probably our friend’s mothers, or grandmothers…making us possibly our homeboy’s fathers. This turned us into confused zombies, roaming the streets on heads full of lucy, we came to City Lights bookstore in San Fran. Loosely, for a little bit, we had fancied ourselves as Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg, we wanted to see what they were like in their own time, dropping the prophet status and the glory. We mustered up the courage, and finally walked in, as the time warp fucked us over again. No skanky Jesus returning, to no joining of a movement…no, now 1800’s saloon with all dusty frowns eyefucking my body, and Moon’s too…somehow we had become lawmen of the days of high noons. Quick and the dead, we shot everyone in the room, later explaining we had mistaken some priests as bandits all huddled over the spittoon, a pretty useless murder spree, but we were getting used to the carnage that had ensued. Ever since those acid years, or months, our brains have been in orbit around Pluto. Which in this western setting, was still a planet, yet we were forgetting we needed to vanish, downing shots of the local morphine supply off of the doctor we executed was risky business, especially since his daughter, a lovely waitress at the bar, had been shot by one of our stray bullets. Swigging the morphine, chased by a shot of bourbon, I approached the teenage girl and went into a speech to try and explain the day’s events, this morbid scene of rowdy boy reminiscence (Moon knows what I’m talking about. we pound fists. righteous shit!) She’s sobbing, so I brush the hair from her eyes; see those big blue ovals peppered with fear and delight. She grabs my finger and twists it in her sweating palms, fixed on my glare. Asking what are my plans for the night? Well, I begin; I guess the law is the fugitive, on account of all these executions. She asks to come with, Moon is so fucked off the medicinal heroin, he passes out in his drool. Me and the dame carry him out to a few painted horses. We ride through the night, south Colorado, west Texas bound. We stop over in Santa Fe, set up camp on the outer limits of the New Mexican town. I apologize for taking her father’s life, explain my story. We laugh and cry. We make love all night, as Moon keeps rolling his body into the fire, letting out hoots and hollerins.

I explain to her, I want this to be the rest of my life…I wake up on the pavement of a synagogue, groggy and hungover, Mr. Moon is vomiting in the bushes, as a rabbi pats his back, just then the 5.0 show up and step in…

We will continue this…at some point or some shit.



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