Devilcountry by Craig Spivek

Almost, too empty.   I toss my pizza bag over the ten feet of spiked iron and start my
climb.  The fence is black with rungs and circular designs in it that make
for good footing.  I get to the top.  I have to swing my leg over.
 For a moment I am perched on the top like a Raven.  It is late at
night.  I hear a smash against the front door.  I turn back my head
to see if the carnage from the house has spilled out into the front yard.
 All clear.  The tiny bark of several Pomeranians is still pinching
my eardrums.  I have to get free of this place! I turn my head back around
to the street.  I am perched still.  Trying to get my legs around the
spikes.  There are cops in Beverly Hills.   Lots of
them.  In fact, there are too many cops in Beverly Hills.   Especially at night.  Every third or fourth car is some
sort of hopped-up police car with two extremely bored and slightly
trigger-happy white guys inside.  If one of them were to drive past and
turn their head they would see a bald, overweight, poorly dressed Jewish man
making an active attempt to break OUT of the Osbourne estate.  Risking
life and limb in Papillion -esque fashion to escape the clutches of the
shitball crazy.
    My shoes connect with the ground.  I go to
my knees to absorb the shock.  I’m okay. I look around.  By some
miracle no cars pass.  I pick up the pizza bag which had fallen into the gutter.  I wipe it off and head back to the car.
 Safe from the clutches of evil, The spoils of
war in my pocket.  The sounds of another light being thrown against a wall
with dogs yelping out of fear becomes muted and recessed as I make my way back
to the car.  I think I hear eating as well.
    I think back to smoking shitloads of dope and
being lost inside the first Black Sabbath record wishing I could play drums as bad-ass as Bill Ward.  Mesmerized by Ozzy’s war cry.
 I stare back.  I sense the dark forces Ozzy’s fortune was founded
upon and the effect it’s had.  I think about his bouts of madness and the
awesome music that resulted from it.  I think about how much I fucken love
rock and roll. Especially those who succeeded with as little
compromise as possible.  Guys like Ozzy, John Bonham (for the
drummers) Frank Zappa and of course Frank Sinatra.
 All heroes.   All unique in their vision.  
    My own voices start to whisper, and against the
advice of my Godly counsel, my heart goes out to the Prince of Darkness and his
family locked inside the blackened kingdom.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
    GERALDO DOES WHAT HE MUST DO

 
    Geraldo
knocked on the door to Carin’s apartment.  After ten minutes he let
himself in with the passkey Carin had given him two years before. Carin was
asleep on her loveseat, the TV on in the background providing a nice hum.
 Oprah glowed.  Gino sat passed out on the couch.  As Geraldo
looked around the room he noticed all the pictures and accoutrements.  It
was impressive to him.  He recognized a lot of the stars, Brando, Pacino, De Niro.  He wondered if she took any pictures with
some Luche Libre.  Those dudes were bad ass .
    As he stared he gripped the divorce documents
tighter.  He could feel the green packet in his right front pocket.
 He wasn’t completely sure of the move, and now that Gino was in the mix,
he had to be doubly sly about it.  Gino was a turd.  He had been hired
by Pudgie to work as a counter guy but would do nothing except be on the phone
to girls or agents.  Most times, when Gino was on duty, Geraldo had to do
everything.   Gino’s job and his own.  He did
nothing except charm Carin after Dickie left.  He was her “go to” man for
illicit sex, drugs or neglect.  That’s why he was here on her couch,
sucking at her, like a bug.  Geraldo silently clicked his tongue and kept
his judgments to himself.  
    Carin was his queen and he was very loyal.
 She had helped with medical bills back home.  She had been decent.
 That was all you needed to be in