By Lee Moyer

[half light]

Preface:

3 weeks ago, the spirit of noted Beat Author William S. Burroughs came to me as I sat working at my desk. I was as surprised as anyone.

He told me he’d come back from the Western Lands to commission a worthy vessel for his spirt- a "Homonculus". Who was I to disagree? I’d never had a visitation before and besides, I was pleased he liked my sculpture. Most people don’t even know I sculpt…

So I set to work- Needles, thread, cloth, felt, wax and a little human hair. I was building what Burroughs a magical form which he would animate when I’d gotten the form just right. He promised me 2 grand and some dirt on Ken Kesey… and I actually believed him. Even dead I figured, he has more connections than I do, and his books are still selling.

So… it was after 2 in the morning and I had finished the figure at last.

I was walking upstairs to sleep when I heard the basement door creak … open … slowly.

I ran back downstairs and found that the figure gone. All that was left on my work table was THIS- a single sheet of typewriter paper with a few hastily typed words…

So if you see an emaciated wax figure about 3 feet high, bald, dressed in a black suit and a dark felt fedora, tell him I’m looking for him. Bastard owes me money…

[A second’s blackout then full lights]

My trip back from the Western Lands- A tale in 3 parts by H. Bugjuice Lee.

Part 1: Cats.

Those crazy mewling puking cats. They showed me the way. Not at first. Later. After the entrails were finished and they were wiping their paws on what remained of my pantleg. I won’t miss them.

Part 2: The Appalling Hand of Parody

The head came up just like a big bald sun.

I stood, reached into it, and squeezed its pustulent grey mass of congealed gravyboat pulp. It knew me then -- The recognition of the killer returning to the scene of his crime -- But before it could act -- Gulp, I pulled it apart. I stretched a brittle grasping hand inside the glistening petals of viscous pancreas flesh, the gout and seep reminding me of Joan. The only downside to shooting my wife through the head was that I could only do it once. Ask anyone who was there. It was a hell of a shot- the dear sweet natural Junk to steady my aim. You should have been there, and after there, in the bug room. I saw things there -- Little things -- Specks of foam — Spittle — Gristle -- Vile orange grit -- Shedding dirt from the crossroads -- And caught in the gaping maw of memory were acts and encores that beggar description except for the fact that they were all true -- Every God forsaken one of them. The plain of Mexico and the place of dead roads stretched out in varicose nostalgia from the Western Lands. The words- the God damned nuzzle of the virus. I should have stayed in Vienna with Benway. He knew the big stout fix. Why did I wait so long? "Show me a man who says he prefers a woman to a 10 year old Turkish boy, and I’ll show you a liar." Maybe I said it. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I believed it.

Part 3: This Word did not Exist.

The scorpion’s arm is waving -- Waving in errant salute -- Hello -- Razorblade -- Swop -- Heat Engine -- Goodbye -- Our time on this ball of dung is past -- So a salute to the rest of our twitching juicy body parts as the bug’s arm moves in spasm and swoon across the rough wooden floor -- Other pieces shimmy and jerk, like the mirage of a shotgun shack -- Like the fetal earthquake inside Joan’s decaying womb -- Like the St. Vitus dance of wounded toys -- Winding down forever.

Nothing is true.

Everything is remitted.

[Blackout]