1 Fresh-Picked Jack-o-Lanterns

You are mud. You were born from mud. Mud flows through your veins. Dust swirls in your lungs like a Sahara sandstorm blinding the little pilgrims traversing the unearthly landscape. Look at yourself. You are a hideous abomination of the planet that the Overlord God did not intend. He gave you the name human as though some cruel mockery of your once-true potential: the ape that walks upright and fights with wood and steel. Fucking brilliant. Instead, you used that upright posture and wood and steel to find a new way to jerk-off. Dont pretend it aint true. Ive seen what you do late nights in those lonely condemned drive-ins. Nobody goes to the drive-ins anymore except the alcoholics drinking in private. I recall one man from Arkansas who left the abandoned theater lot in a Dodger Lightningbolt and, halfway home, veered off the road and into a church, killing seven children and a nun. That man didnt die right away either. He crawled from the wreckage, looked around, and died laughing. He was a weird fucker. Its a good thing he died. Of laughter. Or maybe internal bleeding. After all, his ulna bone was sticking out of his elbow when he went strolling through that little chapel, so he wasnt in the best of shape. And yes, it was ten in the morning. What, you never drink that early? Then maybe you werent a manicdepressive trying to raise a couple of shit-streak sons in one of the worst counties on Earth. That was how the father of the Obscure died: laughing and bleeding on a chapel floor. After that mess of an event, the Obscure and his brother Tobacco James had to fend for themselves. They were God awful at it. The Obscure was around twenty-five when this story starts. He and his brother, aged twenty-nine, had come into possession of their fathers land. I dont remember that old scoundrels name, and I dont think the Obscure himself cares

to reminisce, so well further refer to him as Sir. Sir didnt have shit going for him: just a tree that grew Jack-o-lanterns. It might not seem like much, but idiot tourists roaming the back roads of Pisshawk County under the delusional grandeur of finding the real America will pay plenty for one of those naturallyforming gourd-heads. That tree is still around: bushy and red like a ball of fire with black vines and big orange pumpkins dangling from its skeletal branches. Being naturally formed, the pumpkin faces are obtuse and asymmetrical, adding to their inhuman, off-putting fright. The Obscure and Tobacco James would pick these gourds from the trees (gourds dont grow on trees anywhere else in the country!) and sell them on the side of the road. Those muddy roads. Cars fly by. Tires kick mud three feet in the air, occasionally hitting the Obscure in the knees. Some well-to-do asshole not looking where hes going or what he leaves behind. It happened once, twice, three times. Fourth time, the Obscure took out his shotgun and fired into the sky. The luxury automobile swerved and sped off. From then on, the Obscure would brandish his double-barrels anytime a car approached at too great a speed. Its not like the Sherriff would care. Pisshawk County didnt have police, just a bunch of vengeful fuckers with guns! Notice the exclamation point I placed there. It was very intentional. So for hours a day, the Obscure would sit on a stool beneath his booth on the side of the road. Mud would congeal beneath him. A big red sign stood above him that read Fresh-Picked Jack-o-lanterns. The gourds sat around him like servants at their masters side, screaming and gnashing their teeth at the tourists that passed. Once every three hours, a car would stop. A middle-class shill from Big Rock would humor her brats. Look! Look at the funny faces! Arent they cute? Can we buy one? Hell no. Get your ass back in the car. The Obscure would stare at the sun or crush ants with his thumb to pass the time. One day, he had a guitar. No explanation. Suddenly he had a guitar and 3

thats it. Hed play for hours on end, breathing dust and talking to the lanterns, communicating with them on a spiritual level not accessible between man and man, but only between man and vegetable. Hed sing love songs and hate songs and love-hate songs, which seemed to be the most common. Pretty soon, he was writing his own stuff. He started with a simple chorus and then made lyrics based on things hed read about in the lives of more interesting people. It was here that he penned the original chorus for Golden Watch on a Copper Chain. Walk on me. Walk on me, Johnny, Ive got nothin in my pockets and no thoughts in my head. Walk on me. Walk on me, Johnny, Ive got nothin in my pockets and no memories. He had a bottle of Walker Johns beneath the booth, so you can see where this bit of inspiration came from. None of the other songs from this brief era of his music career survived, though, but that dont matter much, since most of it was shit anyways. They were only stepping-stones on his path to greatness. One day, Tobacco James got to the booth earlier than usual. He looked at the guitar. He looked at the empty money-jar. He looked at the guitar. The fuck did you get that string-box? Around. Your playing is scaring away the tourists. Hasnt been any traffic for over an hour. You still got that bottle of Walker? Get your own. Put the guitar away. You look like an asshole. You are an asshole. There. Were even.

A Studebaker clattered down the bumpy dirt road. It rolled to a stop alongside the booth and out stepped a scrawny little man with a green tongue and matching eyes. He wore one of those ole wrinkly suits, the kind made for a fancied corpse to rot in while his widow and children lay flowers on their dirt mound. The driver took a long time reading the sign as though illiterate and pretending to read. This is one piss-poor excuse of a business. Whats wrong with it? asked Tobacco. From a distance, I couldnt tell what you were selling. The sign says Jack-o-lanterns, said the Obscure. The dashes help you pronounce it. No, I mean I couldnt tell what kind of business this was. You dont have any key indicators to inform the general public as to what they are to expect from your establishment. Jack o lanterns. What part isnt to get? Yeah, maybe the O is a bit vague, but the word works as a single unit. What kind of indicators? asked Tobacco ignoring his brother. You need a picture. You need a logo. You need a mascot, maybe a guy in a foam suit waving to customers, telling them look, were friendly. Come buy our lanterns. All I see presently is a skuzzy-headed punk with a git-box. That doesnt indicate service to me. Howd you like to be our new mascot? asked the Obscure. Go put one of these pumpkins on your head and stand in the middle of the road. Thatll get business. Listen, I am a very successful marketer. I made the word Riboflavin a household name. Families across the country set Riboflavin out with the salt and pepper. From what university did you get your degree? asked Tobacco. I am accredited from the Fenix Institute in the San Sebastian Plaza and Strip Mall. 5

Oh yeah, the one next to that Chinese take-out, said the Obscure. That place is delicious. No wonder Riboflavin caught on. Youre a fucking genius. Want to be our mascot? Go lie in the middle of the road. You can be Bumpy the Speed Bump. Listen, punk Im listening, but my name aint Punk, as thrilling as that would be. I didnt drive all the way out here to be ridiculed. Then why did you come out here? said Tobacco. No one invited you. Fine. I thought Id offer my assistance to the poor souls in need of professional help, but I see Im wasting my time here. And what kind of phrase is fresh picked anyways? What would you have said? asked the Obscure with some weird tinge of sincere interest in his voice. The fucker didnt know how to answer. He squinted, twisted his lips as though thinking and finally spat out: Yeah, I would have said something action-packed. Something to catch peoples attention. I get you, said the Obscure. You want the booth to be exciting. Yeah, exciting! Ecstatic! Excruciating! Americans like action. Action movies, action news, action set, Action Jackson. Yeah, they like sword fights, and spaceships, and gun battles. Guns. Americans like guns. Yeah, guns. Guns like this! shouted the Obscure arming his shotgun. Careful with that. Guns, those metal dicks. Perfect for the dick-less. Ejaculating bullets like a deadly bee-sting. Ill just shoot down every car that passes.

The Obscure fired his weapon. The blast shattered the Studebakers windows. The adman shook in his dollar-store shoes. Tobacco was speechless, but didnt dare stop his brother in the middle of one of his rants. In fact, fuck this business. Im going to go into the business of shooting down tourists and stealing their heads and then selling their severed heads to other tourists for food or decoration or what have you. My car! the adman finally screamed. The Obscure pointed his gun at the fuckers face. Now how about you lie down in the middle of the road like I told you. Yes yes sir. Dont call me sir! the Obscure said. Its a disgusting word and I hate it. Just do as I wish and your degree will not have been obtained in vain. Quivering, the advertising expert got down on his knees, turned over, and laid on his back. A stiff, dusty breeze swept over him. What the fuck are you up to? asked Tobacco James. The Obscure answered: marketing! Tobacco left, taking the northbound road back to their ranch house. Twenty minutes later a black speck appeared on the road. It was a delivery truck ambling down the hot white dirt, some kind of bread product illustrated along the side of the vehicle. The driver wiped her brow with a ragged red bandana and tried to focus her eye on the weird shapes ahead. It was like a guessing game. First: a black Studebaker. Easy enough. Second: a shed? No, it didnt have proper walls. A bit closer. Yes, it was a vegetable booth with a pale little merchant holding a broom. Not a broom. A gun? Why would a vegetable-seller be holding a gun in the middle of the day? What was in the road? A speed bump in the middle of nowhere? Odd, but it was definitely a speed bump. Strange, she had never seen a safety barrier that wore a suit and had such a bad comb-over Oh shit, theres a man in the road!

The driver spun the wheel and careened off the road. She drove into a ditch and slammed her head into the steering column. Bleeding, she stumbled out of the cab as the engine gave off a satisfying plume of smoke. Mister, the fuck is wrong with you lying in the road like a dead man? He made me do it! Hes crazy! Hell shoot me! She looked up. The vegetable seller wasnt holding a gun after all, but a guitar. Youre the one who is nuts. Get the fuck out of here you bump in the road! The adman took this chance to spring to his feet and dive into his busted car. I told you youd bring me business, shouted the Obscure as the man drove away into the sunset like a defeated cheetah if cheetahs could drive. Hey, youre bleeding. Thats kind of hot. Dont get too excited, Im not that kind of woman. You got a bandage? No, but I got some napkins and duct tape. Good enough. He helped her get patched up and eventually the shallow wound crusted over with purple and black scabs. She finally eyed the booth with curiosity. This your business? I inherited this proud industry from my father. You want to buy a funny little gourd. No. I dont blame you. You must have a miserable existence out here in the middle of no where. Are you in advertising? No. Why? Just checking. And yes, it is miserable, but existence is pretty miserable, isnt it? Eating, drinking, fucking, sleeping, religion all those simple pleasures are pretty meaningless arent they? 8

Youve been in my head, stranger, said the trucker. But it doesnt have to be miserable. Maybe youre just lonely. Lonely? I hate other people. Especially my brother. I have no use for anyone. Why is that? Because theyre just going to hang onto you like a leech until one day they meet someone better who they can latch onto. It happens to me all the time, so I say to hell with all people entirely. And you sell Jack-o-lanterns on the side. What side? This is all Ive got. Dont you have dreams? Sometimes I have dreams that my teeth fall out and sprout teeth of their own. No, I mean aspirations. Dont you want to leave this town? I wanted to leave my town, so now I drive these trucks and travel around the country. Can I have your truck? Get your own. Nah, trucking aint my kind of thing. Well you seem good at that guitar. The Obscure didnt realize it, but the whole time they were conversing, he had been playing away on that box of his and sounding pretty damn fine. Maybe I should take this show on the road, said the Obscure. But I dont know. Ive never been trained formal or nothing. A lot of musicians skip-out on the education. Just go for it. Fuck, whats the point? Ill just pitter around bar to bar and then fade into obscurity. He didnt realize the play-on words here. Actually, you could always sign a contract. She sounded grave and serious as though confessing to a murder. What kind of contract?

You know. Go to the crossroads. At midnight. Old Nick will give you what you need. Meth? Because Ive got plenty of that. No, far better. On the ethereal plain, the pain of a thousand screaming sinners will fuel youre desire. From fire and mud they are born and to fire and mud they will return and burn eternal! Hear me you adulterers and murderers, rapists and traitors, your kingdom is mine and my master will awake to devour the thousand burning suns! Hear me, dark lord, hear me in anguish for the gifts you give me! She snapped out her trance and rubbed her head. Sorry, I must have hurt my brains on that crash. Crossroads, huh? Ill have to give that a try. You know what, let me buy one of those little gourds over there. For ten bucks, she received a short pumpkin with a scowl like an angry old woman eating bad porridge. It was a funny face. The Obscure packed up shop and went back to the house where he found Tobacco James sweeping up the kitchen, which was littered with broken jars and rice. A strangers negligee hung from the sink faucet. Nothing happened here, screamed James, surprised by his brothers appearance. I mean, she might say otherwise, but shes a bold-faced liar! I barely touched her Wheres the nearest crossroads? Huh? Oh, probably where Duane Road meets Syzee Lane. Ill be back. The Obscure took to the road, walking quickly but patiently because he had several hours to kill before midnight. He passed a half-naked girl stumbling down the road. She fell to her hands and knees, panting for breath: rice and glass sticking to her flesh like leeches. The Obscure didnt regard the mess she was in, for he was too focused on his own problems to regard the world around him. A house could be on fire, a volcano could erupt beneath him, or a dying girl

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could be crawling for help right before him, and hed only think of the crossroads. It was the way he was raised in America. Hey, kid, do you know what time it is? he asked not bothering to look at her. The child screamed when she saw the Obscure who bared a resemblance to Tobacco. She vomited, curled up in a ball, and shivered. Fine, dont be any help. The Obscure walked on. Walked on. She would stay there a while, die, and decompose into dust. Mud would overtake her body and shed return to the earth. Unfortunately for her, there werent any cops in Pisshawk County, just a bunch of vengeful fuckers with guns. But dont be too hard on that district of land, because it gave us the Obscure, the best musician to ever walk the kingdom of you mortals. And you people have the tendency to forgive a sinners sins if they are famous, so why make an exception here?

The Demon Bluesman by Anthony Sotelo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://theobscureshow.blogspot.com/

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