It was true. Henge had hubris, per se. Clint Dossier’s observations were right, at least from a far. Hubris, that expression originating from the Greek: a classical crime of pride, of gloating. Henge’s hubris, however, was a rare case of preemptive gloating. A sort of bragging prior to victory, which in modern parlance has become the ( Read more... )

A Note From Sax’s Mom

Sax Taxson, you freak, teeth bristling, ichabod crane technique in your Chomsky chomper - grinding up dogs and cats, knowing, so intuitively, and without pause, how to locate a magnum penis pump from a non descript porn shop. I wish we had the dough to get you some orthodontia work. I feel bad. You are just like your father, I ( Read more... )

            Sax fashioned a crank mechanism out of an old Huffy bicycle pedal, a cam from a John Deer riding mower, a door hinge, and some lengths of steel strapping. When finished the thing looked like a gun on a turret, with a two handed crank at the butt end, and a swivel mount in the center. Running down the side of the cannon was an intake ( Read more... )

            Sax attached the base, or breech of the metal barrel of the water cannon to the magnum penis pump with some JB Weld, a series of grommets, and a few discretely welded lap joints.

The air inside the basement shop of Cheviot Machine and Screw was stale, stinking of rust and metal shavings, ozone, and cigarette smoke and the ( Read more... )

            Sax Taxson was a polymath and an unabashed autodidact. He loved reading chapters from books in bookstores - calling in to local radio talk shows, and editing wikipedia entries.

Sax also subscribed to Popular Mechanics, and had done some research surrounding fluid dynamics. Archimedean screws. Sump pumps. Bilge pumps. ( Read more... )

            Pete put a quarter in the small black cash box by his bed and twisted the knob. He lay, supine, as the world under him quaked and shimmied. He squinted his eyes up at the plaster pocket ceiling, and reflected on the whole mysterious reconnoiter trip to Cincinnati. Staking out Frisch’s, and then Cheviot Machine and Screw, meandering up ( Read more... )

            “Drive carefully,” said the trooper.

“Oh I will officer,” said Sax. “Boy oh boy I will.”

Sax Taxson looked out the driver side window and craned his neck down the straight ribbon of US 27. Shimmers of heat rose up, and a wall of corn six feet high buttressed each side. US 27, from that view, was a flume. US 27 ( Read more... )

            Pete pulled the ear buds out of his leathery ears. The buds, attached to thin cords, flung around pendulously and clacked against the gold frames of his sepia toned sunglasses.  Out from under the front seat of the Lincoln Towne Car, Pete Limpelli pulled a cardboard box and a Styrofoam mold.

Sonitor Parabolic Listening Device™ the box ( Read more... )

            Pete made out some faint garbles. Flimpojshowahsheeoh uuffff.

“What the fuck was dat,” Pete mumbled. His toothpick, sitting limply on his lower lip, bobbed up and down with his words. He adjusted the knobs again, and this time he directed the parabola not to the wall in front of him, but to the steel door leading down to the ( Read more... )

            The knobs made a whirring and whining sound like an old time radio being tuned in. Maybe a weather radio even. Some sort of archaic listening as communication device screaming and squelching to be heard, and somehow knowing and upset that it will only remain a one way communication. No discourse. No interlocution. Nope. Things that ( Read more... )