Category Archives:  STORY

‘When The Chip Hits the Fan’

The Chip stood over home plate on a chilly afternoon in March as he awaited his first pitch in Buffalo. The six-foot-five-inch Russian baseball star had recently been signed with the Buffalo Bisons–a minor league baseball team that had ties to the New York Mets. The origin of the superstar Russian’s nickname was unknown, but due to his real name being Афанасий Григорий, most people (especially announcers) preferred to simply call him, ‘The Chip’. The Russian may have been known for his numerous home runs in his native Moscow, but had to prove himself in The United States of America before going to the major leagues. His first at bat was his chance at proving himself and he knew it. If he played his cards right, he could be making the big bucks for a crappy team instead of barely nothing for an even crappier team in a region of New York that was largely neglected by the rest of the state and nation.

The pitcher readied himself for the pitch and threw a pitch in the direction of home plate only to watch his ball hit the ground five feet in front of The Chip. Easy ball, right? Wrong. The Chip swung at full speed only to find the cool Buffalo air at the end of his bat. Strike one. “Why in heaven’s name did The Chip swing at that?” the announcer asked in confusion. The crowd was confused too; but it was his first at bat and a few butterflies are to be expected.

It was time for pitch number two. The pitcher readied himself once more and slung a curve ball right down the center of the plate. The Chip, feeling pressured by the fans and announcer, stood still. The bat, which sat on his shoulder, didn’t budge a bit as the ball slammed into the mitt of the catcher. Strike two. “Making sure he doesn’t make the same mistake twice we suppose,” the announcer said. The announcer, fans, and owners weren’t worried. They had seen footage of what The Chip was capable of via Russian television clips. Buffalo’s newest designated hitter was just nervous. That was it–or at least that’s what they hoped.

Pitch number three–potentially the final one. The pitcher, once again, readied himself and lobbed the ball into the air in an underhand motion resembling that of a softball player. “What in the good Lord’s name was that?” the announcer asked as the slow flying baseball headed straight down the center of the plate in perfect placement for The Chip to slam to the Eerie Canal. Just as the ball hovered slightly in front of the plate, The Chip swung with all his might only to find the ball continue on past him and roll into the catcher’s mitt. Strike three (he’s out).

The fans began booing The Chip. All three pitches and swings would no doubt end up on the top ten worst plays of the week. How sad for the Buffalo Bisons. How sad for The Chip. Russia’s greatest baseball player humiliated himself on pitches that even the worst little leaguer in a ‘feel good league’ would have no problem at least making contact with. The owners in the box threw fancy wine out the window onto fans below. The organ played a sad song that the crowd was able to create a ‘you suck-type song’ from. The announcers kept reiterating the awful strike out. The Russian stood still over the plate. Unwilling to move.

“Hey buddy, you’re out,” the umpire said to The Chip, “Time to go back to the bullpen.” The Chip looked at the umpire and gave an angry facial expression that suggested he was torturing the umpire with a medieval vice in his head. Nevertheless, The Chip took his bat and began walking towards the bullpen. The crowd was still chanting its song. The entire stadium was in uproar; the decibels were off the scale. All of Buffalo was disappointed in their savior–especially one fan.

“Oh look at The Chip walking back to the dugout what a freakin’ failure, man,” said a drunken fan with a soul patch, bald top of head with long hair on the back, and a cup of Bud Light stacked inside four other cups that had already been drunk. He was intoxicated. “Yeah, no wonder the Russians lost in Red Dawn…they suck,” the man taunted with a laugh that followed. “I mean, look at the piece of lard, he swings like a girl and I bet if he took his pants off we would understand why.”

Despite the loud stadium, The Chip was able to hear all of the taunting coming from the drunken fan who was ugly in appearance and character while intoxicated. The Chip, walking past the entrance of the bullpen, opted to continue walking towards the fan sitting along the ground-level wall and make him say the mean things to his face. “What was that you say?” the Russian asked Soul Patch.

“You’re a pussy. You suck dick.”

The Russian didn’t know what those expressions meant exactly, but he knew they weren’t nice by the guy’s tone. “I will break you,” The Chip responded to the fan–and that was exactly what the Chip did. The Chip lifted his wooden bat into the air and hurled it into the chest of the drunken fan with accuracy that far exceeded that which was displayed during the three pitches just minutes before. After the first hit, he did it again. Then he did it again; but then he went to do it again but was subdued by security. He was taken down by three cops and carried off in hand cuffs out of the stadium.

The Chip hit the fan! the Buffalo newspaper would read the next morning. Everybody in Buffalo was talking about the insane baseball player who beat a drunken redneck fan with his baseball bat. Most people thought it was funny even though they pretended to think it was horrible. It didn’t take long for ESPN to get ahold of the footage after a fan had recorded it on his cell phone. It was all over every sports channel within hours of ESPN showing it. By evening, even the major networks were talking about it on the nightly news. It had America watching and the city of Buffalo, New York in the spotlight for the first time in quite a while. The owners of the Bisons were enjoying it.

“This Chip, we need him back,” Owner 1 said to Owner 2.

“Publicity is good, but we already have one lawsuit on our hands, how many more do you want?” said Owner 2.

“Lawsuits are nothing, free beer and tickets will buy that fan off easily.”

“Oh, you think so? Well what about his poor performance? He flat out sucked on the field.”

“I know, it’s perfect! We are going to lose anyways, might as well be happy and laugh when we do so. It’s really not that bad of an idea.” said Owner 1.

“You know what, you might be right. Perhaps we have had the wrong attitude towards this game all along. I mean really, baseball needs some new energy–a new edge. Let’s bail his ass out of the slammer.” Owner 1 and Owner 2 bailed The Chip out of jail and negotiated a return to the team as well as a settlement for Soul Patch that involved beer and tickets which he gladly accepted.

 

It was time for The Chip’s return to baseball and he sat in the dugout ready for play when Owners 1 and 2 walked towards him and sat on each side of him. They put their arms around him and began talking quietly so the rest of the players wouldn’t be able to hear. “Hey Chip, ya know, the reason we brought you back is because we like you,” said Owner 1.

Owner 2 chimed in, “Yeah, ya know we think you are a skilled baseball player and all, but mostly we like your swagger. You know, the way you carry yourself.”

“You take no shit.”

“Yeah, you take no shit”

“Take no shit,” said The Chip.

Owner 1 stood up and pulled back the elastic on his suspenders and let go to create a ‘pop’ sound. Owner 2 stood up and fixed the waist on his pants and oriented his belt buckle to the center. “You got it. Make us proud today,” said both Owner 1 and Owner 2 at the same time. They walked away towards their box to drink fancy alcohols, smoke cigars, and get sexual favors from attractive women.

The game began and The Chip sat on the bench ready for his turn to bat. He was seventh on the lineup. He was first to bat in the third inning and made his way out to the field to be greeted by the sounds of excited fans. Everybody wanted to see The Chip. They hoped he would hit a homer of course, but even if not, they would be happy with hitting a person instead. Anything to create some more excitement.

The Chip looked over to see Soul Patch from the prior game. The man, holding stacks of beer cups was cheering The Chip on with thumbs up and a healthy “let’s go Chippy my boy!” The Chip frowned at the man and grunted too. He got in position over home plate and held his bat over his shoulder. The pitcher for the opposing team readied himself, nervous, and pitched the first pitch. Strike one. Strike two. Strike three. Out again, no surprise. The Chip, with two strikeouts out of two at bats in America was showing anger as he panted around home plate. “Take no shit,” he said aloud.

He began walking towards third base with his bat in hand. The announcer was going crazy and the fans were excited. “I wonder who he will hit today,” said the announcer. The Chip walked down the wall of fans, glancing at each one. He walked almost to the end of the wall when he spotted a girl who was unlike the other fans–she wasn’t cheering. She looked bored as she typed on her cell phone and paid no attention to the game.

The Chip stopped in front of her and waited for some time. She didn’t look up. Nothing at all. The fans were still going crazy. Security was fifteen feet away, waiting for The Chip to make his move. The Chip, growing tired of getting no attention from the girl said, “I will break you.” The woman looked up with a confused facial expression only to find the wood from a bat meet her jaw.

“He hit another fan!” the announcer screamed in excitement. The fans were cheering even harder. “But it was a girl this time, how about that? I guess it’s different in Russia huh?”

The girl, regaining her composure, stood up and raised her arms in the air, cheering. “He hit me! He hit me! My plan worked! The Chip actually hit me!” she screamed. The Chip was a superstar. Every fan wanted to get hit by The Chip. It was just the thing to do. The phenomenon went on for several more weeks, only gaining more press and excitement as it went on.

News channels were making sure to highlight who The Chip hit each night and giving interviews after the games where the fans talked about how special it was to get smacked in the face by a wooden bat. They compared it to being able to touch a garment belonging to Jesus in a crowded street in Jerusalem. It even got to the point where lawsuits were no longer filed, rather people were paying more money for seats that might have better chances for getting a visit from The Chip. Algorithms were created predicting where he would be most-likely to go. The entire country was under the influence of The Chip. Buffalo was bringing in more tourists than it had in fifty years–none of whom were even interested in Niagara Falls–they just wanted to get beat up.

 

The Buffalo Bisons remained winless for months; but even still, the biggest game they would play was on the horizon as it was election year and The White House had arranged a special ceremony for every presidential hopeful to attend the game with front-row seats. One of the presidential hopefuls would be hit by The Chip at that night’s game. That single hit could change the entire election and the fate of the entire country. The Chip had no doubt that it would.

The idea, which had been presented by The Chip, was supposed to be like ‘groundhog day’. Maybe even a new tradition, he thought. “President get broke by The Chip and it give good sign of who will win the race,” The Chip had said at a meeting with Owners 1 and 2. The Owners loved it. With the nation in such a frenzy over the excitement that The Chip brought to their lives, the presidential hopefuls were more-than-willing to oblige. They feared that saying no would make them not seem like ‘men of the people’ and they didn’t want that.

It was game day and anybody who was anybody was at the game–celebrities, politicians, world leaders, media, and season ticket holders, too. Secret Service men were everywhere to make sure that no harm came to the hopefuls. The presidential hopefuls made it to their seats with all eyes on them and The Chip. Hopefuls from the Republican and Democratic parties sat in their seats (of course there was a candidate from the Independent, Libertarian, and Green parties too, but everybody knew they had no prayer of being hit by The Chip) and prepared for the game. It was almost time for major American history to be made.

The game started off like every other Buffalo Bisons game–many strikeouts, fly balls, and easy outs. The first two innings flew by and it was time for the seventh batter to take his place on the field. The Chip walked to home plate with his bat in the air. The crowd was going nuts, as always. The Chip lined up over the plate and waited for his pitch. Like usual, The Chip missed the easy pitch over home plate. Strike one. The pitcher readied his second pitch and threw it two inches from The Chip’s groin–The Chip swung. Strike two. Once more, the pitcher lined up and let the ball fly out of his hand towards The Chip.

The ball went straight over the plate at the perfect height. The Chip swung with all his might and the crowd heard a new sound they hadn’t heard in ages as the wooden bat redirected the rubber back over the pitchers head and far into the outfield all the way into the stands. “The Chip has hit a homer!” said the announcer. “We never thought we’d see the day.”

The Chip ran around the bases as Owner 1 and 2 began throwing things out the box and into the crowd once more. The fans were quiet. They were quiet for two reasons. One, they were in shock that somebody from the Bisons actually got a hit let alone a home run and two, because they were worried The Chip would not hit a presidential candidate after all. Without a hopeful being hit, they had no idea who they should vote for.

Lucky for the fans, as The Chip rounded third and made his way over home plate, he went back to where he had thrown his bat and picked it up. He raised it in the air and began walking towards the row of presidential hopefuls. The sound from the crowd came back. They were ready. “Its election day in Buffalo!” the announcer said as The Chip stood in front of the old men and women in suits.

The Chip, with his bat raised in the air, screamed “It is time for America meet new president I choose by who I hit.” The crowd roared in approval. The Chip pointed his bat at the first presidential hopeful and said “I not break you.” The Chip looked at the next candidate and repeated the phrase. The same thing happened for the third candidate–and the fourth. “I no break you,” The Chip repeated on down the line of twelve total candidates. He had gone through every one of them and not given his recommendation.

“Could it be that The Chip can’t approve of any of the candidates,” the announcer said. The candidates sat there disappointed. The crowd was nervous, but still chanting their approval of The Chip, nonetheless.

The Chip stood in front of the candidates and raised his bat in the air once again; the crowd came to a complete silence. “I break me,” said the Russian superstar as he lowered his bat and hit himself right across top of his skull and fell to the dirt of the baseball field.

“Could it be that The Chip is ordaining himself as our next president?” said the announcer. In fact, he was. The Chip didn’t wake up after twenty minutes so he was to be rushed to the nearby hospital in an ambulance.

After the ambulance began its journey to the hospital, The Chip sat up on the stretcher and began speaking in Russian to the paramedics, “So, the plan is working, yes?”

The paramedics smiled and patted The Chip on the shoulder. “Yes Mr. President, we have confirmed that your squads have taken control of Washington DC fifteen minutes ago. Hardly any casualties at all.”

“Excellent,” he said in an evil, but accomplished voice.

“Your plan was bulletproof, sir. All of those silly Americans had their eyes on you. Getting through security in the White House was no problem when there was no security to begin with.”

The Chip smiled at the paramedics and said, “I couldn’t have done it without you.” He moved to the passenger seat of the ambulance which was now en route to the White House. The Chip thought back to his days of playing baseball in Russia as a young boy all the way to his recent days of hitting fans of the Bisons. The thoughts concerning all the fame he had accumulated made him feel accomplished on the inside. It had been a long few months and he needed rest. He put his elbow on the door molding and lay his chin on the knuckles of his fist; watching the New York scenery go by and the people in the other cars casually adjusting their GPS units, he wondered if they were really free to go where they pleased.

[story] High Heels and Fixed Gears

Lying on the Van der Rohe-designed daybed complete with the little cylindrical pillow and one arm behind his head, Farkus looked out the large window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling of the forty-eighth floor office. He stared at the new New York tower being glorified by the golden morning sun with a neutral facial expression and eyes that were seduced by the steel-clad residential high-rise that Farkus was convinced only existed to taunt him. He had read an article on Arch Daily a few months back accounting for several fires that had been started due to the reflection of the sun off the steel that armored the concrete structure. “Frank Gehry–farking joke of an architect. Allowed to set fires to buildings. No repercussions at all” Farkus said aloud in a passionless voice. “He was on The Simpsons you know.”

Farkus lie still on the daybed, as if he were trying to break the record for longest stillness concerning a body that had not yet died. Babbling on about Frank Gehry, Zaha Hadid, and every other ‘starchitect’ that Farkus had contempt for, he was interrupted by the man in Corbusier glasses who had been typing on his iPad for the past twenty minutes, “Farkus, why don’t we talk a little bit about you as an architect instead?” Farkus didn’t move his body nor did he slow down as he trashed the design of the Apple headquarters that was on queue for construction in Cupertino.

“Now Norman Foster I used to be able to respect, but why the fark is he designing a donut. I mean, I could understand an app–”

“Mr. Farkus, please,” The Shrink interrupted, “It’s been two months and we haven’t gotten anywhere. Your grandmother gave me clear instructions on the kind of breakthrough we are to have before I can mark you as healed. Please, sir, let’s just do this so we can both mark the end of this chapter and continue about our lives.” The Shrink was ready for Farkus to be on his way for good–something that might seem odd to most since shrinks thrive on returning customers for a steady income; but Farkus was not an income, he was a charity case.

Grandma Farkus–the grandmother of Farkus–had been owed a favor by The Shrink for giving him playoff tickets to see the Rangers win the Stanley Cup in 1994. Ever since Farkus lost his job and was forced to move back in to her Brooklyn apartment, she had worried about his mental state. When he decided it was time to move back out, she worried even more and insisted he see a psychiatrist if she were to begin paying his rent. Everybody in Brooklyn was aware of the boy who walking home from school when an early thirties, unemployed, basement dwelling “harmless” man chopped him up with an axe; naturally, she cashed in on her favor with The Shrink to make sure Farkus wasn’t just as sick in the head.

The two men sat in silence–still–with neutral facial expressions when Farkus finally wet his lips with his tongue. He continued to also wet his pallet with his tongue and then swallowed a deep swallow as he broke the silence, “You work so hard, all those years…for what?”

The Shrink, excited at the potential of a breakthrough began typing away on his iPad again and said, “What did you think you were working for?”

“I don’t really know, fame I suppose,” he paused, “change the world or something.” Farkus sat quiet for three to four-seconds and then said, “That” as he pointed to the Frank Gehry skyscraper that soared high above Manhattan. “I wanted to do that.”

“What stopped you, exactly?” The Shrink said, as he continued to tap the screen with his fingers.

“I know Grandma told you all about it,” Farkus said with aggression in both his voice and facial expression.

The Shrink responded, “Yes she did, but I want to hear about it in your words. From you.”

“Whatever gets me out of the city,” he said. Farkus rotated his body so that his chest faced the window as he lied with his palm against his cheek and his elbow pressed into the cylindrical pillow. Reducing his face back to a neutral facial expression, he began to speak towards all of New York. The Shrink, behind him, listened intently.

“It wasn’t a bad design. The people just didn’t know how to use the stairs…or maybe they couldn’t find them. I don’t know. But of all days for the elevator to be out of order. My design–it was a museum in Greenville, South Carolina–five stories tall. Full of African American Folk Art owned by Bill Arnett. Beautiful stuff, truly. But one of the exhibits caught fire and sent the whole place on fire. People were panicking and trying to get out I assume, but not a single person made it…not even the people on the ground floor since the installation on the ceiling fell on top of them. They died instantly probably.”

Farkus paused a moment and said with a little bit of resentment, “How the fark is that my fault anyway?” He calmed his voice back down and continued, “Anyway, don’t know if you know, but the main and only thing an architect is responsible for is fire evacuation and my building failed. One-hundred-twelve people dead. Of course they took my license away. Eight years of schooling, three years of interning, and seven exams for nothing. Not a single mercy. Not to mention the loans from Columbia that Grandma is still paying towards. Fark me.”

The Shrink, feeling sort of sad for Farkus, asked him carefully, “What do you think the rest of your life holds for you?”

Farkus chuckled and bore a shit-eating grin, “Not a damn thing. Not a farking damn thing. Fark.”

“That’s not true, Farkus,” the Shrink said. “There is plenty out there for you. You have to get out there and seize the day–carpe diem!”

The Shrink sounded like a real asshole to Farkus at this point; but he was determined to make this meeting his last so he decided to tell him what he wanted. “You know, friand, you are completely right. I have been moping around the past eight months when I should have been using my skills to change something for the better–that’s what an architect is supposed to do, right? That’s what I was always told at least. I don’t need a license to make people’s lives better. After all, Brad Pitt isn’t an architect and look at what he did in New Orleans. It’s amazing down there now I think.”

The Shrink knew Farkus hadn’t truly had some ‘groundbreaking revelation’ and was merely mocking him; nevertheless, The Shrink was ready to trade the time that Farkus spent with him for a paying customer’s. “Well, then, Farkus, it looks like we have had the breakthrough your Grandma was looking for with you. I think we can go ahead and mark you down as healed. I don’t see any axe murders in your futu–I mean, feel free to come back anytime; but do remember to ‘carpe diem’ my boy!”

Farkus was done with his therapy. He could finally give Grandma Farkus the signed document she needed to allow him to move out on his own with a piece of mind. He said his farewells to The Shrink and the Van der Rohe daybed that his butt cheeks had become so accustomed to spooning. He gave a final evil eye to Gehry’s skyscraper and left the office. It was time for Farkus to get back to Brooklyn for a few hours of work at the job that was sequel to his career as an architect.

 

While standing outside the large skyscraper in Lower East Side Manhattan, Farkus pulled out his cell phone and called his Grandma Farkus at her Brooklyn home. Grandma Farkus did not have a caller identification feature on her home phone service. The phone rang a few times and Grandma Farkus picked up and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, this is James Gordon from the NYPD, how are you doing today Ms. Grandma Farkus?” Farkus said in a voice that sounded how he imagined somebody from the NYPD to sound in a movie.

“I’m doing remarkably, James. It is good to hear from you again. I just took my medication and sat down to watch Matlock.”

“That is excellent, Grandma Farkus. I hope will check again with you soon.”

“Oh, please do Jimmy,” Grandma Farkus said in an excited and slightly seductive voice. Farkus ended the call. He had been calling Grandma Farkus under the alias of James Gordon for three months to check on her. Farkus loved his Grandma Farkus but was unable to chat with her too often for reasons related to sanity; a prank call as a concerned law enforcer was a much more efficient way to have a peace of mind. She enjoyed the daily phone calls with this “James Gordon” anyway and this made Farkus happy.

Farkus, now a block from The Shrink’s office, headed to the nearest subway station and boarded a J train at Bowery; he transferred to an A train at Broadway and rode until the Jay Street stop in the borough of Brooklyn. Farkus exited the train and resurfaced to street-level. With Manhattan’s gargantuan buildings in the distance, Farkus began walking through his home of Brooklyn, populated with smaller scale structures that didn’t aim to judge him like Gehry’s Manhattan had.

From Jay Street, he headed a block or two to Smith Street and began walking south towards his work. While walking down the street, Farkus was distracted by several pedestrians who had stopped outside a storefront to view a television. Intrigued by the small crowd of around four to six people, Farkus also stopped. On the screen flashed “breaking news” and a film clip of Anthony Weiner walking down Manhattan steps with a partially covered face and large crowd of people surrounding him. “That crowd is probably seventy-six times larger than the crowd outside this store,” Farkus thought. Flashing on the bottom of the screen was an innuendo suggesting that Anthony Weiner showed his weiner on the popular micro-blogging site, Twitter. Farkus was familiar with Anthony Weiner as a politician, but was very surprised by the headlines and allegations linked to his name. “Anthony Weiner sounds like a dick,” Farkus said aloud. He chuckled. Two people in the small crowd also chuckled; the other people had surprised facial expressions and one old lady with a bird on her hat said Anthony Weiner should be impeached.

Continuing down Smith Street, Farkus arrived to an old warehouse where he had worked since losing his architect’s license. The time was now eleven in the morning–three hours late; but he didn’t get paid anyway, so he really didn’t care and neither did management. The warehouse was owned by The Charity Organization that donates a certain amount of rice to Africa dependent on how many pixels people scroll on a computer screen. The more time people spent scrolling down on the screen, the more ounces of rice The Charity Organization would donate. Farkus volunteered as a ‘rice counter’ on a daily basis. He had no bills to pay thanks to his Grandma Farkus’s generosity; however one of the stipulations was he had to volunteer somewhere during the day.

The work was monotonous and tedious. Farkus would spend all day counting pieces of rice, grain by grain to ensure that the correct amount was sent to Africa as promised by The Charity Organization–no more no less. Farkus had the best record of the twenty-six other rice counters that worked at the warehouse for making sure the correct amount was given to Africa. Farkus attributed this honorable record to the process of knolling–something he had felt strong convictions for since he began in the arts and had a studio space to maintain and organize. The knolling process often times slowed down how much sorting he was able to accomplish, but by arranging each grain of rice at an angle either parallel or perpendicular to the table at which he worked, he was better able to accurately count and distribute each grain at incredibly accurate weights in relation to scrolled pixels.

Farkus stood in front of his table while listening to music from the music app on his mobile phone. Just as he was fixing to begin knolling his rice, he looked across the room and noticed a new volunteer who was standing roughly twenty feet away and distracting herself with a second generation iPod. She was wearing a royal blue high-waisted skirt and a white T-shirt with a ‘kitten painting a Picasso’ along with bright red vintage high heels that must have had at least three inch heels. She turned around and Farkus saw that her hair reached below the latch of her bra which was partially visible through the hole that had been cut out on the back of her shirt. She appeared to be between the ages of nineteen and twenty-three.

Curious by her authentic apparel combined with her thin build and attractive facial features, Farkus walked over to her to welcome her to The Charity Organization and introduce himself. “Hi. You are new here,” he said with a neutral facial expression. The girl looked up at Farkus and nodded her head two times and then looked back down at her iPod. “What is your name? I am Farkus.” he said with a little more enthusiasm and a face not quite so neutral–it leaned more towards a grin.

“Kate. Nice to meet you Farkus.” she said impatiently as she looked back down at her iPod.

Farkus, determined to strike up a little bit more conversation changed his facial expression to a three-quarters grin and said with synthetic enthusiasm, “What are you listening to?” She took the earbuds out of her ears and said she was listening to the new John Maus album. “Oh I loved that album,” Farkus said. “Have you heard the new Memory Tapes album? It leaked yesterday. I saw it on Twitter.”

“I don’t like Memory Tapes,” she said.

“Oh, well you might like this I think, it doesn’t really sound like his EP’s. It’s kind of different, but still good I think. I will bring it on a flash drive tomorrow.”

“What makes you so sure?” she said curiously.

Farkus, feeling a little bit more confident said, “Well, I mean, I don’t see how you could like John Maus and not like Memory Tapes. Memory Tapes is much more accessible than John Maus.” He paused for two-seconds while she nodded a little bit and he added, “Plus I just know.”

“Oh, you just know, huh?” She sort of laughed. Farkus wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a snarky reaction.

“Yes. I just know. I’ll bring it tomorrow. I’m going to go do some work.”

“Alright, I should start, too. See you around.”

“Okay.”

Farkus went back to his working space and began the monotonous process of knolling every single grain of rice before adding it to a bag that would be used for shipping purposes. He did this for a couple hours. At one-thirty in the afternoon, he watched the new girl leave her area to go to lunch. Hungry himself, he decided now would be a good time to lunch too. Lunch for Farkus was always at the same place, every day–Homage–a little cafe located on Smith Street.

 

On the street, Farkus unlocked his fixed-gear bicycle and began riding towards his usual spot. At a red light, Farkus slowed down to see that no other cars were coming perpendicular to him and decided to keep pedaling. A person on the street wearing baggy pants and a North Face jacket yelled “hipster” when he pedaled by. Farkus didn’t change his neutral facial expression and ignored the probable tourist who had only seen ‘hipsters’ on the internet or outside Hot Topic at his local mall.

As he approached the next stop light he noticed a girl waiting at the red light for the perpendicular traffic to come to a halt so she could pass. He quickly noticed that the girl on the bike is The New Girl from The Charity Organization at the sight of her bra strap through the cutout on the rear of her shirt. Farkus slowed down to keep his distance so she wouldn’t realize he was behind her. He noticed that she was also riding a fixed-gear bicycle while wearing a high-waisted skirt and the same vintage high heels from the warehouse. The sight of the girl wearing high heels while riding a fixed-gear bicycle through the streets of Brooklyn was enough to send his facial expression into a mouth-open-eyes-open kind of expression accompanied by an erection that was likely visible to pedestrians through his skinny-fit jeans from Uni-Qlo.

Farkus looked ahead to see The New Girl still pedaling at a fast rate while simultaneously noticing Homage on his left quickly approaching. Still infatuated with The New Girl and wanting to be with her, he quickly decided to skip Homage for one day and continue following her to wherever her destination was to be. They traveled two more blocks when she swerved in front of oncoming traffic in order to arrive on the sidewalk in front Wild Ginger Pan-Asian Vegan Cafe. Farkus had never eaten there and disliked vegan food and the vegan lifestyle in general; however he decided The New Girl, in all of her high heel goodness, was worth the unpleasant dining.

The New Girl, still locking her fixed-gear to the parking meter, looked up to see Farkus rolling his fixed-gear bicycle towards her. “Hi again,” she said.

“Hello you,” he said with a neutral facial expression.

Smiling, she said, “Do you eat here often? I found it on Urban Spoon and it had five spoons.”

“Yes, all the time, this place is fantastic. I love being a vegan,” Farkus lied.

“Oh man, I respect that so much, I could never be a vegan; I love eggs too much.”

Farkus was happy on the inside that she wasn’t a vegan; he was upset that he lied to her, however. He told himself that he could just renounce his self-proclaimed veganism another day if they were to ever eat lunch again. They both finished locking up their fixed-gear bicycles and walked into the cafe.

“What should I order?” The New Girl asks Farkus. Farkus, having no idea what any of the food on the menu even was, told her he will handle it when the server comes to take their order. She smiled, bit her lower lip and said, “Okay.” Farkus looked at the menu for a few minutes, not understanding what any of the meals on the menu actually were. The Server, who is not Asian at all, walked towards the table to take their order.

“What will you be having today?” The Server asked.

Farkus had no idea what to order and shouted out the first thing he sees on the menu, “Yam and taro tempura please. Two of them!”

“Of course, it will be out shortly.” The Server took their menus and walked away.

Farkus and The New Girl sat quietly with neutral facial expressions for a couple of minutes when Farkus spoke up and said, “So why are you working at The Charity Organization?”

The New Girl said that her father threatened to cut her off from her trust fund if she didn’t ‘make a positive mark on the world’. She talked about how she had contributed to the many rice donators on the internet ranging from the ones that donate based on how many “likes” they got on Facebook all the way to the ones that donate based on quiz questions answered correctly. “I just really wanted to do something I knew a whole heck of a lot about I guess.”

Farkus nodded politely and occasionally changed to a smiling facial expression to let her know that he was genuinely interested in what she was saying even though he kind of didn’t care and thought her reasoning was dumb.

“So what about you? Why do you volunteer at The Charity Organization?” she asked enthusiastically.

“Because my Grandma Farkus makes me. And because I designed a building that burned down and killed everybody inside. My life is a mess.”

“Oh,” she said. They sat in silence for a few minutes as The New Girl felt as if she had “stepped on Farkus’s toes” or offended him. Their lunch arrived and they began to eat. Farkus did his best to not throw up while The New Girl makes noises emphasizing her satisfaction with the meal. “My goodness you chose probably the perfect meal for today this is so good,” she said quickly while stuffing her face.

“I’m glad you are enjoying it,” Farkus said as he spit some of the food into his napkin to keep from involuntarily spitting it up later.

They continued eating their meal when The New Girl’s cell phone vibrated on the table to alert her of an incoming next message. She looked at the four (point) three inch screen and declared “Poop.” She texted something back and looked at Farkus with a disgusted facial expression.

“What was that all about?”

“I don’t think I should say anything,” she said.

“Okay,” Farkus said with no further curiosity in his voice.

A few minutes passed and The New Girl blurted out, “That scumbag Anthony Weiner just texted me pictures of his weiner again and I’m sick of it.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. It’s been going on for months. It’s been in the news. The guy’s a dick.”

“That’s what I said, such an asshole,” Farkus shouted.

“He didn’t send me any pictures of that,” the New Girl chuckled. Farkus chuckled too. “Seriously though, I wish he would stop. I’ve asked politely. He got himself found out on Twitter even. And he still insists on sending me these pictures.”

“That irritates me a little bit,” Farkus said. The thought of The New Girl being harassed by a member of the United States House of Representatives irritated Farkus a lot, actually. He was growing quite fond of the new girl. Despite their age difference, they had quite a bit in common and Farkus could see himself having a somewhat extensive relationship with her–be it merely physical or in combination with emotion as well. It didn’t matter. He wanted her to be happy in the sense that people on Twitter claim to be when something goes so right in their lives that it deserve a hashtag.

They finished their lunches, paid separately (Farkus left the tip), and rode their fixed-gear bicycles back to The Charity Organization to finish out the day’s work. “I hope people in Africa will like the rice I sort for them,” The New Girl said. “I think I will give them a little more than I’m supposed to because rice is pretty cheap and they are really hungry over there because of famines and AIDS.” Farkus had problems with this logic and action but decided not to risk an argument and nodded politely with a neutral facial expression.

Farkus put his white earbuds into his ears and listened to the new album by Tyler the Creator which had leaked to the internet a few weeks prior but had since been properly released. He knolled his rice and tried to take his mind off the lunch with The New Girl but was ultimately unable to do that. “I hate Anthony Weiner” he kept thinking. With every knolled grain of rice, the hatred for Anthony Weiner and his obscene photographs of his erections as seen through the bulging of the crotch area of his pants grew to the point that the grains of rice were starting to become scattered at angles close to thirty-five and one-hundred-twenty-two. The horror.

“I am going to kill Anthony Weiner,” Farkus shouted in the warehouse. Nobody heard him because they were all listening to music on through white earbuds as well. Farkus was joking. He continued to screw up angles and amounts of rice as he worked for the rest of the afternoon; he could not get Anthony Weiner off his mind. At the end of the day, Farkus went to tell The New Girl goodbye and maybe invite her for a drink only to find that she was crying as he walked up to her. “What is wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. I just want to go home. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she grabbed her messenger bag and quickly left the warehouse before he could console her.

Farkus felt sad. He couldn’t help but think that Anthony Weiner was the cause of her tears. What had he texted her? Was it full-fleshed skin instead of a clothed boner this time? Had Anthony Weiner finally gone too far? Farkus asked these questions to himself as he too gathered his things to leave for the day; the only answer Farkus knew was that something had to be done about the pervert.

He thought back to the meeting with The Shrink from earlier that morning. “Carpe Diem!” the shrink had said. That seemed like useless advice at ten in the morning but made sense at five-thirty in the afternoon–primarily because an attractive girl who wears high heels while riding a fixed-gear bicycle was involved. “I have to seize the day,” Farkus said to a fire hydrant on the street. Farkus pulled out his cell phone and opened the Twitter app and searched ‘@anthonyweiner’. He found the Representative’s Twitter profile and saw that he had checked into Whole Foods at Union Square using the Foursquare app within the past five minutes.

Farkus biked to Union Square from Smith Street because he assumed the subway traffic would be very busy at this time and biking over the Brooklyn Bridge would simply be the quickest way to get to Union Square in Manhattan. It was. Farkus arrived at Whole Foods and locked his bike to a parking meter in front of the store. He walked in to be greeted by buckets of ‘fresh’ apples that were supposedly fourteen months old according an article he had read on the internet earlier that day. “Those aren’t really all that fresh,” he said to a young man wearing a suit.

He continued through the store until he arrived at the kitchen appliance aisle. He located the cutlery section and found a knife used for cutting potatoes that was packaged in ‘minimal green packaging’. He took the knife out of the ‘minimal green packaging’ and put it into his pocket while making sure that nobody except perhaps surveillance saw the action. Farkus walked through the store, up and down every aisle in search of Anthony Weiner. There appeared to be no sign of him.

Farkus decided to give up on finding Anthony Weiner for now. He was walking out the exit near the Whole Foods Cafe when he noticed a man matching Anthony Weiner’s appearance sitting at the bar by the window. The man had his cell phone pointed at his crotch. Farkus saw the flash of a camera go off and was sure that the man was Anthony Weiner. With a neutral facial expression, Farkus walked up behind Anthony Weiner, pulled the potato knife out of his pocket and slit the throat of the United States Congressman with not a single bit of noise, struggle, or hesitance.

Shoppers began screaming at the sight of blood pouring onto the authentic wooden floors of the Whole Foods store while people on the streets flocked to the window to take pictures to upload to Twitter, Facebook, and other social networking websites. Farkus sat on the floor and laid the potato knife on the ground next to him. Anthony Weiner’s body convulsed for a couple of minutes. He fell from his chair onto the ground and his body stopped moving. Anthony Weiner was dead. “Day seized,” Farkus thought.

 

Farkus sat in the cell of the New York jail waiting for somebody from the NYPD to come tell him what the process was going to be. He had already confessed twice on the trip to the station. He was property of the New York prison system now and he knew that. “Just another person to add to the list of people I’ve killed,” he said to the NYPD. Farkus sat in the cell for a few hours until the NYPD came to let him out to use his traditional single phone call.

Farkus walked to the pay phone with a neutral facial expression. He looked at the pay phone and realized he had not used one of them for years and displayed a neutral facial expression at the sight of the ancient tool of communication. Farkus knew he had to call Grandma Farkus; it was a phone call he dreaded. While he didn’t regret killing Anthony Weiner (yet) for making The New Girl and potentially countless other girls cry at the site of his weiner, he did regret the pain and stress it was going to cause his Grandma Farkus. She was right about him–the ‘axe murderer in Brooklyn’ thing that she had worried he may become.

Farkus put the quarter and dime that was given to him by the NYPD into the pay phone and dialed the number of Grandma Farkus. He was nervous–frightened even. The phone rang twice and Grandma Farkus answered with an anxious greeting. Unable to break her aging heart, Farkus completely changed his intended direction of the conversation. “Hello, this is James Gordon from the NYPD, how are you doing today Ms. Grandma Farkus?” Farkus said in a voice that imitated the NYPD he had been talking to for a few hours. She responded her usual response, her voice delighted to hear from her favorite protector of New York’s dangerous streets. Farkus hung up the phone to walk back to his cell–his neutral facial expression now changed to a complete, one-hundred percent grin.

Obituary: Uncle Farkus [~1979 to 2011]

Introduction

Hello friends.

Farkus’s Nephew here to deliver the sad news re my Uncle Farkus. As some of you are aware via Twitter feeds over the past week or so, my Uncle Farkus had been going through a ‘strange time’ in his life. It all began with the murder of a close friend–or ‘friand’ as he would say. By looking back through his Twitter and some letters he sent me during this time, I’m going to do my best to outline the events in a timeline of sorts that goes a little bit beyond the 140 character limit that he was limited to during his living presence.

The Final Events of an Uncle’s Life

+ After the sudden downfall of close friend and politician Anthony Weiner earlier this summer, Uncle Farkus, was determined to help his friend regain his composure and re-enter the arena a ‘new’ man by presenting an economic plan to end the deficit talks and restore order in the USA.

+ Weiner, who seemed to cooperate at first, opted to leave Uncle Farkus for dead in a porta potty located at a local little league ball park. The talks collapsed and Weiner disappeared. No communication was done other than through Weiner’s ‘typical’ texts that got him media attention to begin with.

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+ Uncle Farkus was hungry and went to Zaxby’s. After the meal, he couldn’t think of anything interesting to do and stood in the parking lot for more than 48 hours. People died during this time. Cops went. Farkus began dating his long-time sweetheart of the previous 3 months, Bonnie, after Farkus promised her a boob job.

+ Uncle Farkus and Bonnie broke up.

+ Uncle Farkus went to the Pitchfork Music Festival. Taking a glock, he aimed to kill Tyler the Creationist but had no such luck due to ‘massive security’.

+ Uncle Farkus, now repulsed by Weiner’s actions from the previous week, decided to kill him after watching American Psycho on VHS. After inviting Weiner over to play Sorry after a lovely dinner at Denny’s Bar and Grill, he re-enacted the famous ‘Huey Lewis and the News’ scene, Farkus pranced around in a clear rain coat and split Weiner’s head into two pieces.

+ Uncle Farkus turns himself in. People continue receiving ‘genital text messages’ from Weiner; nobody believes Farkus.

+Disgruntled with the Oldsmobile–Farkus’s vehicle of choice for 30+ years even after the Vancouver riots of 2011, Farkus decides its time to purchase something newer and opts for a 1991 Chevrolet Astro van.

+ Uncle Farkus takes the van onto the interstate. Farkus runs out of gas.

+ Uncle Farkus hitchhikes, gets picked up by an escaped convict named Mickey in a pink 50′s Chevrolet. The two enjoy meals at Denny’s Bar and Grill and get to know each other based on the criminal past. Mickey tells Farkus he’s a bad man–a loner and rebel. Uncle Farkus and Mickey stay a night in a hotel that does not require ID in order to go unnoticed by the law. They head back on the road, driving with no particular destination in mind. Both men fall asleep and wake up with the Chevrolet crashed into a tree. Mickey laughs it off and suggests they walk from there.

+ Uncle Farkus and Mickey get picked up by Arkansas state police. Apparently they are in Arkansas.

+ Uncle Farkus and Mickey are separated. Farkus is forced into hard labor of moving rocks from one side of the prison yard to another whilst being restrained by a ‘ball and chain’.

+ Uncle Farkus gets a Cellmate. Farkus dares his Cellmate to eat 50 eggs. He does it to avoid being made fun of, presumably. The Prison Warden is furious that there are no more eggs in the refrigerator for him to eat; the Warden forces Farkus’s Cellmate to spend some time in ‘the box’.

+ The Warden has problems with prisoners spending time alone in their cell and opts to stay with Farkus to make sure he has company. The Warden spends most of his time singing, quoting Zaboomafoo, and watching Uncle Farkus use the toilet located in the cell.

+ A Christian Prison Ministry visits the Arkansas Prison to tell the prisoners about Jesus. The prison yard turns into a carnival of sorts and Uncle Farkus eats a snow cone that bears no syrupy flavor. While eating the snow cone, the leader of the Christian Prison Ministry, Pastor Garth, begins to really get to know Uncle Farkus. Asking the tough questions such as ‘why are you in prison’ and ‘what did you do’, Uncle Farkus begins to really open up to Pastor Garth and tells him all about the murder of Anthony Weiner.

+ After hearing the tale of Anthony Weiner’s murder, Pastor Garth and the rest of the missionaries began rejoicing, fore a pervert had received fair and balanced justice. Appalled that Uncle Farkus was being held for an event hardly viewed as a crime amongst the Christian Prison Ministry, Pastor Garth began speaking with the Warden, hoping to make a deal that would set Uncle Farkus free from the bondage of state penitentiary.

+ No success.

+ The Warden voiced his pleasure at having Uncle Farkus stay at the prison and made it clear he wanted him to stick around (the upbeat and positive attitude held by Farkus was rubbing off on the others the Warden said). The answer was no.

+ Disappointed at the decision by the Warden, the Christian Prison Ministry decides they must find a way to get Uncle Farkus out there. As the attempt to smuggle him out, the prison guards caught on and began rapid firing at Uncle Farkus and the rest of the missionaries.

+ In self-defense, those from the Christian Prison Ministry began firing back at the guards from concealed firearms that are legal to carry in Arkansas because it is so close to Texas (according to what I heard anyways).

+ Blood everywhere. People were dying left and right.

+ Uncle Farkus holds Pastor Garth, Pastor Garth has been shot. Begins bleeding out. He tells Uncle Farkus that his soul is safe and he should escape if possible, but worry not what happens. Pastor Garth dies in Uncle Farkus’s arms.

+ Uncle Farkus gets shot in the left butt cheek. Begins bleeding profusely.

+ Everybody in the prison yard is now dead except for Uncle Farkus who is near death.

+ Uncle Farkus crawls toward the fence, looking for a hole to crawl through.

+ Uncle Farkus finds a hole and escapes.

+ Uncle Farkus crawls on his hands and feet for three full days in the desert.

+ Uncle Farkus Tweets “Crawling through a field, butt cheek bleeding out. No cell phone or h2o. This might be it friands. #prayforfarkus”

+ Nobody has since heard from Uncle Farkus. Authorities are looking for a body using geographic information attached to the Twitter technology.

+ I was informed last night by Grandma Farkus that Uncle Farkus is in fact dead.

+ Rest in Peace Uncle Farkus; ~1979 to 2011.

Conclusion

Uncle Farkus has died. But his legacy will on through this blog. I, his Nephew, am still here, for you–his friands.

Feel free to hit me up on Twitter.

Let’s remember the greatest Uncle that ever lived.

 

Farkus plays detective

I had noticed something suspicious over the past few weeks. My Neighbor had been bringing several women over each night–prostitutes I presumed. Somebody new each night. Trashy looking ladies, but he’s no catch either. Lost half his arm in ‘Nam. So there I was, smoking a cigar on my porch, when I heard yelling coming from next door–a trend that has become all too usual the past few weeks. I watched shadows go back and forth through the curtains. The screaming got louder until it eventually came to a complete halt.

I sat on the porch and watched The Neighbor drag Tonight’s Prostitute by the arm out the door. He shoved her into the back seat of his Oldsmobile and got in the car and drove off. Something was off. I decided to go snoop around his property. I hopped the fence and creeped around the yard, taking note of the broken glass and the insane amount of dog poop. After stepping in a pile, I opted to head into the shed and clean it off. As I walked that way, I couldn’t help but notice a large amount of seemingly fresh digging spots in the yard. It was suspicious but I was 45% certain The Neighbor owned a dog, so the possibility that they were its doing was a possibility no doubt.

I walked into the shed and cleaned off my shoe. I noticed a lot of strange stuff in there such as a Sony boom box playing Play–’Us Against the World’ on repeat and a rare cardboard standup of Burl Ives drinking an RC Cola in the corner. I snooped around for a few minutes until I heard the sound of The Neighbor making his return. Beside him was Tonight’s Prostitute. Both were drinking from a 32oz. Sonic cup presumably filled with a Watermelon Slushie–anything else would have been disgusting.

Panicing, I decide to crouch behind the Burl Ives cardboard santdup as the couple near the shed. I stay still, crouched, like a Pittsburgh Panther. I Tweet my activities on my phone. I wait. The Neighbor and Tonight’s Prostitute change the song on the boombox to BBMak–’Back Here’. They begin kissing when The Neighbor pulls out a Tomahawk and begins chopping Tonight’s Prostitute into tiny bits.

I’m worried.

I stay quiet. The Neighbor takes the pieces of Tonight’s Prostitute and begins dropping them into a hole that his dog, Doug the pug, had just dug. He stays out there for a while, comes back and closes up the shed–I still remain crouched and silent–and he heads to bed.

I call my ex-lover and best friand, Bonnie–a K-9 Unit lady from the Farkville Police Department and report all that I have witnessed + enabled by my silence. She says she is in the neighborhood and will be right over.

I fall asleep.

I wake up in the morning, in a pile of blood. The bottom of the Burl Ives standup is beginning to soggy up. A shame. I move it out of the way and look around the shed to see Bonnie sitting in the corner smoking a Marlboro. She uses her head to point towards The Neighbor, tied up lying in the yard. She inhales and exhales her smoke. She mumbles under her breath, ‘ya did good Fark, real good’.

We then go to Denny’s Bar and Grill™ for breakfast and she buys me Smiley Face Pancakes as a reward.