Henge and Len quibbled, for a few moments, over the bill. The Soup Salad and Fruit Bar tipped Henge’s portion of the check to mostly his side.

The price of genius, Henge thought, was a voracious appetite.

Len and Henge walked out the metal framed glass doors into the August stifle. Someone was smoking outside ( Read more... )

            The waitress came, and asked Henge and Len Wiedeshofer if they wanted anything else. Henge picked up the dessert menu from the condiment island, just behind the Heinz ketchup bottle, and said he needed a minute.

The hostess led two men to the booth behind them. It was a window booth, just like theirs, and they looked like ( Read more... )

            The water cannon, the main weapon of Henge’s small sailboat, was sub lethal, and was to be powered by a hand pump mechanism. Henge liked the simplicity. And crafted and hand powered. Not dependant on oil or some energy subsidiary of oil. Raw man power. Though Henge preferred calling it, in some circles; human power, he would, however, ( Read more... )

            The water cannon, was designed, on a napkin, to be a semi powerful, sub lethal weapon - the kind you would find suitable for a naval battle on a small Midwestern lake on the outskirts of a college town.

“No,” said Henge through breathy slurps of his macaroni salad from the Soup Salad and Fruit Bar in Frisch’s. “Bubba, I don’ ( Read more... )

The water cannon, powered by a vacuum pump from a magnum penis enlarger, was a custom built water toy.

Henge wanted it.

“Power bubba,” Henge said. “Powerful enough to change the tide in a small naval battle.”

Henge and Len Wiedeshofer were having a late Lunch in Frisch’s restaurant. Some reasonably ( Read more... )

            “The water cannon!” Len Wiedeshofer slapped his palm to his forehead. “I forgot,” he said.

Big Ernie Shores was planning on taking Len to a meeting that night. An AA meeting. Len, big Ernie figured, was in an opportune spot.

***

“A fuckin’ moon shot!” Big Ernie S.’s sponsor, Rick W. said to him on a stroll around ( Read more... )

            Len rubbed his red, snot caked nose with his palm. Mabel, teary eyed and swooning with happy nudged Len’s coffee mug, and told him to take a sip.

“Take a sip honey,” Mabel said. “It’ll make you feel better,” she said.

Big Ernie Shores leaned on the door jamb. His big branches stretched up, forearm flat to the ( Read more... )

            The pathological hush of the concrete floored office tasted like the electrolyte oil pumped into the clear cutting chamber of a CNC machine. One of those stagnant, stale cabinets with Plexiglas doors, and an encased fluorescent light, and a robotic arm wielding a metal burr or blade or drill bit at 15,000 revolutions per minute. Big ( Read more... )

            “I gotta come clean, Mabel,” Len Wieshofer told his wife.

She was hunched over the pile of green glass and metal shavings. Len stared at his wife’s ass. The crease of her polyester pants rode right up her butt, because she was wearing a thong. Len had told her to wear a thong a while ago. Said it would really turn him on. ( Read more... )

            Len Wiedeshofer’s inautheticity, becoming apparent upon reading the obituary of the late George Ist Gestorben, Len’s little league coach, was tearing Len into tiny fragmented shards. Len was like the green O’Doul’s bottles, shattered into unspecific triangular shapes. Out of the zippo pocket in his jeans, Len pulled a twenty four hour ( Read more... )