Temerity Theatre

My name is SkinFlint, but you can call me Flint. Oh, where I got my name is a long story. My MomMom’s nickname was Skin on account of she was real difficult to tickle. And my PopPop’s nickname was Flint on account of he was always stoned. Most days, he couldn’t remember his rightful name. But my parents, they wanted to honor that from which they came, hence what’s on my birth certificate. And I even founded a charitable foundation, which surprised the fuck out of donors on account of my name doesn’t sound like fiscal responsibility. And that’s why I’m mostly now known as Flint Johnson, which is also my Playa Name.

I feel like I have fled my life. Which one? The middle one. The second one weren’t that bad at all, not while I was living it, and not when I reflect on it.
My MomMom’s MomMom fled her life, too, and crossed the Oregon Trail to avoid paying her debts. From what I heard, those debts amounted to $75. If only I finish building that time machine, I could go back and give her 75 bucks so she wouldn’t have to cross the Oregon Trail and she wouldn’t have to eat her younger brother who died of the consumption. Oh, I suppose I don’t have it as bad as she did. But I did flee, and I reinvented myself, and I got rich. It’s a shame I remember the past, though. It’s so heavy, and carrying it around with me is rough. Maybe that’s how I sprained my ankle?

Where was I? My Poppa used to say, a man who has no fear is real stupid. True. Sounds like a case of not having no autonomic nervous system. Reflexes are there to help you. When the 95 mile an hour fastball is coming too close, you might wanna dodge it. Fear is healthy. Fear is sexy, just like The Statue of Liberty. And The Statue of Liberty, well, that’s one of the most fragile things I can think of.

When they arrested me, they said I had the right to remain silent. I’m used to being silent. Maybe if I had talked about my feelings more, I could have avoided breaking the law. Or perhaps could have found a better loophole. Anyway, while I was sitting in silence, I thought, who will feed the fish? I had built quite the home aquarium. So many Betas, Tetras, Clownfish, Brownfish. They locked the cell door and it was too hard to open my mouth to say “Who will feed the fish?”

If I see the way your looks are coming across,
I wanna give your curls a toss watch me do it.

The way you salt my salad, babe!
Ooh lord child.

The way you tenderize my onions
And degenderize my hormones.
Life is sweeeet like Vidalia
or Asgardians from Valhalla

Have mercy I get zygotic with you every time you look at me.

I feel like I’m in space with room
To climb back inside the womb

Bah da da da dum

Good gracious, sister if I can’t control me
I’ll be doing something salacious, console me

Put me in your hooooooly water right now
And fry me like salmon kung pao

Bah da da da dum

Yooooou’re the vortex
That sucked my cerebral cortex

Yooooou’re the apparition
That turned up the heat in my kitchen

Yoooooooou’re the djinn
That got me in the hooooole that I’m in!!

Bah da da da dum

Ain’t got no scansion
Just wanna stretch out in your mansion

Babe don’t evict me
It was your sooouuuullll that picked me

Bah da da da dum

Slow fade soft landing
Cushion for the pushin notwithstanding

I’ll pay you 20 clams for a dram of Glencadam.

It’s a single malt, because it’s tired of putting up with pickup lines. This is 100% bullshit- proof whiskey, folks. Well, it’s 48% Alcohol By Volume, so technically it’s 96 proof.

If I could find the liquid solitude that highland courage could provide… Sorry, start over. If I could find the highland courage that liquid solitude could provide, I would be uninvisible, no need to hide.

If Satan came up to me in denim jorts, saccharine smile and sulfur snorts
I would grab his netherworld thigh and ham and give his ass a body slam
Weave a box around him thrice and seal the deal with macrame
For shots of Scotch will save the day and help us overcome our vice

Stanislaus Kostka woke up in bed afraid to open his eyes. It was a hot summer day in Poznań. Or was it Białystok? So hard to tell these Polish cities apart. But what was this dread of opening his eyes?
Maybe it was the buzzing sound he thought he heard. What could be making that buzzing sound? A sleeping whore? A giant beetle?

Eyes open, he saw that it was a really big insect, all right. It was the biggest anyone had seen. That is, in the way Poland was prone to exaggerating all the good things they did. They had the sexiest astronomers, the most literate blonde population anywhere, the easiest terrain, that is to say the flattest, for calisthenic workouts. Why must he be so hungover? Because the best brandy comes from Wrocław.

Stanislaus Kostka rolled over and squashed the big insect. The humming in his head subsided.

“What do you want from me?” he asked the universe. “A Saint I ain’t.”

When he couldn’t sleep, he had the tendency to predict big things. He had predicted that bread and butter would be a hit at the royal court. People were poised to fight a war over that one, but they tried tasting it and, yeah, it was the best thing since sliced bread.

It sounded crazy, but he was feeling that Poland, currently the biggest thing around, would merge with Lithuania in one big commonwealth. I mean, even for a progressive year like 1569, there was no turning back from this kind of thing. What could happen to top that?
He had some other brief visions. The Austro-Hungarian Empire. The United Kingdom of England, Scotland and Ireland. The Star Alliance. It had 26 member airlines, whatever those were.

Stanislaus Kostka closed his eyes and tried counting backwards from ten. Dziesięć. Dziewięć. Osiem. Siedem. Sześć. Pięć. Cztery. Trzy. Dwa. Jeden.

Much more relaxed now. Really gets all your mouth muscles working.

It has been truly a curse to have such a wild imagination, thought Stan. It was a gift from god, though, he knew. Because otherwise he would keep seeing visions of the hour of his death. “Don’t you want to know when you’re going to die?” everyone would ask. Not really.

Whores really liked him, because whenever they touched his chest he had a burning flame like the great heat of the Savior. They all swore by it. And he was always available to confess their sins when they were done.
He looked out the window and saw three eagles perched in a fruit tree. The eagles were squawking at each other and posturing, which caused the berries to fall to the ground. At which point one eagle dropped down and began to walk all over and smash the fruit, and soon all were doing it. Aha! exclaimed Stanislaus Kostka. I predict something called jelly will be made, and it can go on the bread with the butter.

This was suddenly too much. The heavens opened up, and angels came out of all the clouds and corners and orifices of the world. They pled with Stanislaus Kostka: you’re doing too much. Go to sleep. Rest up. You have a big trip coming up tomorrow. You have to hit the road and go to Kraków, and then Częstochowa, Malbork Castle, and then Bydgoszcz. Can you dig it?! Tomorrow will be even bigger than today. You’ve just got to believe, man!

Don’t get sad!
Get even!

Sadness thrives in odd numbers, as has been proven by Galen the physician.

You must have a balance of four humours, count ‘em:
Blood, for those of a sanguine humour
Yellow bile, for those of a colic humour
Phlegm, for those of a phlegmatic humour
Black bile, for those of a melancholy humour

If you don’t keep that balance you are mad. This makes perfect sense. Look at all the people walking around who are absolutely batshit crazy. Science recommended putting blood-sucking leeches on these people with big feelings, to see if they could get balanced out.

However, not all Europeans, you know, the smart people, agreed with Galen. There was also Paracelsus, the alchemist. After a few hundred years, it was no longer considered sane to go around bleeding people with leeches. Instead, a revolutionary scientific method was developed. By using beakers and flames, scientists would focus on turning lead into gold instead. That was definitely a more rational idea, which explained why only men in togas were allowed to do this kind of work.
Paracelsus was a big hit in Switzerland, and Vienna, but especially in Baden-Wurttemburg. After all, when your Prince is spending all the money on stupid shit, trying to turn lead into gold is a perfectly reasonable idea.

Alchemy is not a religion. But since it kind of is, here is a suggested prayer:

Dad who art in Heaven
Asking you for help is, like, six seven
Rad is the one who has gold
Add gold to gold and I think you’ll be sold
This is not Capitalism, it is older and much sillier
Fad is another name for how long this lasted, not even linear
More like a teeny tiny dot
Colorful it is not,
More like plaid,
LIke when a college grad gets ripped to pieces by a Maenad.
So when someone at your door wanting to be happy, calls
Smile back and kick that mothafucka in the balls

In later centuries, many wondered why folks got so emotional over science when it had not yet been applied to Sportsball. Sportsball, like science, is subject to peer review, do-overs, and hooliganism. We’ve sure come a long way.

“I’ll never trust a cannibal,” muttered Tex, and then spit tobacco. “They’re so mealy mouthed.”

His horse, Prince Albert, pawed at the dusty road. Tex was a repressed heterosexual. He had named his horse what he named his horse because there was a saddle involved, and bouncing, and friction, and the name took Tex to a happy place.

“Nope, should never have trusted her. She woulda said practically anything to get her hands on my family jewels.”

“Neiiighhhh”

“Yup, those ARE some bright jewels, Prince Albert. I ain’t gonna lie. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. No need to hide any jewels. Except from someone who wants to eat your heart.”

Tex looked out at the usual majestic vista. The horse came up and commenced to lick his ear.

“Naw, I know you want my sarsaparilla.”

“Neeiiiiigggggh”

“But ya see, the last time, you went at it like it was broth. And you got drunk. Yer snores shook the canyon. Ever try to motivate a drunk horse? It’s harder than escaping from a whole buncha cannibals.”

Tex hung his head and sat on a rock. It suddenly felt a bit cooler, and so he looked up again to see where the shadows had come from. Nope, no one would ever believe this. The horse was standing on two legs, and casting a nice shadow, too.

Tex stared warmly at Prince Albert, who held his gaze. And then, Prince Albert said, in a Boston accent, “Blessed ahh the pure in heahht.”

“Gosh darn!” averred Tex, slapping his boot, “That was beautiful, brother.”

“Blessed ahh the Red Sox, for they shall hit it outta the pahhk.”

Tex frowned. “Perhaps. Perhaps.” And then a silence descended.

“Tell me this. Got any crackazz?”

“Sorry. Not today.”

“How about chowdah?”

“I wish,” murmured Tex.

“Gimme some nuts, then.”

“My friend, I don’t have what you’re asking for.”

“You’re a wicked shitty liahh. What about these nuts?”

It was at this point that Tex realized everyone around him was a cannibal and he should never share his phobias with anyone, even horses. He broke into a run.

Which is why the Sheriff of Randall County tells everyone to this day about the cowboy who thought he could outrun a horse.

Yes, I’d like to open a bank account. My name is Pufff Adder. Three fffs. Two dds.
Imagine if Puff Daddy and Black Adder had a baby.
No, it’s not short for anything. Is Penelope short for something? Is Raminagrobis short for something?

Of course, I submit to a background check. I also don’t mind a body cavity search. I have excellent dental records. If you don’t believe it, you can bite me.

No, there’s no need to call Security. I admonish you, I am an intellectual chap, and think of things that would astonish you. You seem very nervous. Is there a law against rhyming in a bank?

Please, take my money. It’s very heavy. I’d rather not carry it all around with me. Yes, exactly. It’s in the big metal box that set off your metal detectors. It’s kind of heavy metal, if you put two and two together and add up to four. No? Asking too much?

One more thing. My money is only mine. It is not affiliated with any terrorists, nepo babies, bitcoin aficionados, people who want to put Elon Musk in space, people who want to put Hilary Clinton in jail, people who believe in the Fifth Beatle, the Twelfth Imam, the Return of the King, the sanity of Kanye West, that diamonds are forever, that the Big Bang is not forever, people who don’t have a Taylor Swift era, people who smoke crystal meth, people who drink Liquid Death, people who have sex with cattle, those who are easily rattled, and those whose brains are addled. If you only have five senses, why would I want to grow my money with you? Open your third eye, and open my account, yesterday!

Are you not hearing me? Did you see how much money I have? I’ll even take a savings bond james bond, some options, swaptions, futures, and forwards, not to be too derivative. You really don’t want my money? Man, I tried really hard today to match my tie to my suit. I think I see the issue. Your vault isn’t big enough for my dough. I guess I’ll go back to my yacht with all this. But I’m gonna need a bigger boat.

It was 6:00 in the morning. I had just finished the first part of my bakery job, the leavening was done. Finally, all the fucking leavening was done, and we can all get baked. I took this opportunity to open the cash register and take out my bong. Rings of smoke soon floated up to the ceiling of the bakery.

Also, floating near the ceiling, was Leviathan.

“Holy shit!” I snorted, “it’s Leviathan!”

He looked like a long, thin, scaly, impregnable snake. A randomized, chaotic, cold-blooded beast.

“I can read your mind, you know,” bellowed Leviathan.

I hadn’t thought of that.

“And because I can read your mind,” he continued, “ I’m very sad”.

“Why?” I thought, but loudly, because he could hear me.

“I’m sad because there’s nothing interesting inside your head.”

“I can take constructive criticism,” I murmured, and hit the bong again. “How about a singalong? Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea…”

It was at this point that I usually admitted that I didn’t know any of the other words to the song. Smoking ganja all day every day can do that to you. There must also be benefits to lighting up 24/7, but I can’t remember any of them. Which tracks.

As I thought through all of this, the level-headed Leviathan had continued to sing. He did indeed know all the verses to that song. Maybe because he did not smoke blunts. How can you light up a spliff in the depths of the sea or in the heights of the Empyrean heavens? I could hear Job asking questions of the Lord, and then the reverb, with booming bass, for the thoughts of the Lord are very deep. As noted in Psalm 92.

“Leviathan, where is my levity?” I asked.

Leviathan was flying around, doing loops in the air.

“Don’t you have more baking to do?” he inquired.

“Yes, I will just go check the ovens and see if I can get a rise out of those buns.”

“Good,” he said. “Try not to get a yeast infection.”

I shuffled off into the next room to check on some croissants and garlic knots. They all looked lovely, so golden brown. My frazzled brain knew that it is easy to have leverage on a bagel—anyone can make them flip, turn them into snitches and narcs—but a croissant, oh, a croissant is suss. A croissant can’t be leveraged that easily. You need to find a way into the heart of the croissant. And if you get that far, and if you can make a croissant cry buttery tears, it will follow you around forever.

Back through the door I came. Leviathan transfixed me with a sad stare.

“Leviathan,” I whispered, “you look like you want to eat me.”

“Child,” whispered Leviathan, “it is you who are going to eat me. At a big banquet at the end of times. As seen in the Talmud.”

“Oh yes, Tractate Bava Batra.”

“How did you know that?”

“I have no idea!” I admitted.

“In the mean time, since you can’t eat me, there are scones.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “and cannoli, and focaccia”

I turned to my bong, and wanted to light up again, but couldn’t find my lighter. Good old Leviathan, he opened his jaws and belched flames in my direction. I got a good buzz from that. He singed my man-bun a little bit.

Joseph O’Malone was in search of something “sticky”.
Really, he wanted to spend some time doing something that he could market to himself as “life worth living”.
Sure, lots of people around him thought of Joseph as mellow. That was just a word that Joseph couldn’t really feel.

Here he was, burning the Michelin tires, crossing a great distance. Over the course of this journey, he would camp in the middle of open fields, in a forest, in a cave, on a beach, and stuff that was natural like that.

Lucky Joseph, he could look up at the night sky. Except when he was in a cave. On all other nights, he could look up at the night sky, listen to the maudlin cry of the whippoorwill, or the hum of the silence of the world, see the mauve vibrations. Joseph didn’t know that the color mauve was the French word for the mallow plant, which itself was that color. And still, the sky was of a beauty that he couldn’t buy for all the bitcoin in the world.

Driving from Michigan to Michoacán was indeed very far. And yet, not since he was in the womb had Joseph felt wrapped in the world like a tortilla.

“Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?”

Kevan Khachartourian breathed in through his mouth and out through his nose and stepped into the New Spitfire Grill. A sign inside, written in Russian, proclaimed “Welcome to Primorskii Banquet Hall!”

Kevan himself was Armenian, born in Iran, and his parents had scooped him up and fled the country in 1979. Since then, they had run this restaurant in Kenosha, Wisconsin.

He sighed. Time to hurry up and get ready before the Russians arrived.

There were bags of walnuts to shall and crush and puree. There were bottles of wine to chill. Georgian wine. Kevan was not Georgian. But all the Russians really cared about was that one walnut and pomegranate and chicken dish, which they believed was Georgian, not Persian.

Both Russia and Iran had colonized Georgia. Persia had grabbed bits of Georgia from 1555. Sadly for them, since Muslims are not supposed to touch that famous wine. The Russians took over in 1801, ostensibly to protect the Georgian Christians from the Shiite Islamic empire, but also to get drunk on the wine.

There was a knock on the door, and the sound of someone talking twice as loud as they needed to. Kevan opened, bowing and smiling, wearing a ridiculous fez with a tassel.

“Dobryy Vecher!” he proclaimed to the customers, also talking twice as loud as anyone needed to.

The Russians always filled the restaurant on Saturday nights. They had no concept of current events or geography. Kevan’s father had put a world map on the wall in the 1980s and had not bothered to change it. Maybe the Russians thought there was still a Soviet Union, like on the map. If he informed him of the fall of the old U.S.S.R., they might become quite irate. Or, to the contrary, if he told them about Putin’s plans to reconquer everything….

At least there was one good thing about the Russians. Now that they felt they had really made it in America, they tipped well. This was a skill that was completely unnecessary back where they were from. All Kevan had to do was pretend to be one nationality pretending to be another nationality, and they would reward him for it.

Kevan supposed it could be worse. If another person died from a nut allergy, it would be bad for business. The whole thing had been hushed up by the community. Something along the lines of, he could not eat nuts, he was not really Russian. Kevan dreamed of getting out of this place. Running away to Portland, Oregon, or even to Portland, Maine. It didn’t matter.