BPC: the big fat lame

I know, I'm a big fat lame for not posting for like 2 months. What can I say? the muses have been uninspired. I haven't been able to produce anything: not even some poetry.

It may also have to do with getting kicked out of my apartment because my roommate has some problem about my not paying my half of the rent. So I had to get a new place. And a real job. I'm answering phones at the patent office now. And the brainless inanity of that has kept the muses at bay: not to mention the feng shui of my new place is just off. I need some serious chi revitalization. A few plants, an expertly placed mirror or two and that'll be better.

Also, chocolate pudding. Muses love chocolate pudding.

And if any of the other "friends" on this blog felt like posting something, I'm not stopping them in the meantime. Lazy bums.

Potato-Head 5

You back away slowly and quietly. Your mother always told you to avoid any fight you could. You're 0 for 2 on that count tonight. You think about that bottle of vitamin water in your desk drawer and almost turn back. But you're in bad shape; you might not be as lucky on a third fight. You decide to head over to Paul Beet's place, it's not too far from your office and he never asks many questions.

Paul's shop is called "A Taste of Home," which always makes you smile because it doesn't taste like your home. You can only assume the dark, loamy vitamin water he serves is a taste of his home, somewhere out of the reeky reach of the city. You knock loudly on his back door; the shop doesn't open until after noon. Paul takes his sweet time getting to the door, but opens it right away when he sees it's you.

"Spud-head! What're you doin' here? And missing an arm!" He ushers you into the dusky interior of his shop. The early sun breaks weakly through the grime of the city and lights the shop. It gives you an eerie feeling. "I ran into some trouble last night on a job," you tell him. He rustles around in his back room for an extra arm. It's one of his: too short for you, but you take it gratefully.

"You don't need to do all that, Paul,"
"Take it," he tells you, "it's a loaner I keep on hand." He wordlessly pours you a glass of vitamin water and sets you down at a booth. You ask him if he's ever heard of a Miss Amelia, or someone she might be working for.

"Na," he says, "I get some shady folk in here, this shop bein' where it is, but I try not to pay too close attention to what goes on e'zactly." You nod. You get it. Paul can stay where he is by turning his beety cheek once in a while. You can't blame him. He's got a sister and mother to take care of, can't work for themselves.

You finish your vitamin water and set down in the back room for a little sleep. When you wake up, the lunch crowd is already in the shop. Paul is gone. You ask his counter boy, some sassy onion where he's gone too.

"If I knew I wouldn't be here. Called me up 5 minutes before I was supposed to be here. Does he think I don't want this job?" The onion boy keeps talking but you leave before he finishes.

You find a body shop, a less sketchy one this time, one with plenty of other customers, and buy a new set of arms. You don't have time to get them custom fitted. But despite their being different than what you're used to, they're plenty strong and quick. You take a detour past your office. You watch the outside and nothing seems amiss. You're not ready to try going back inside though, maybe in a few days.

You get back to "A Taste of Home" before the dinner rush begins. The place is empty. And too quiet. You walk in the front door and think at first that it's just a little dead. Then you notice a gentle breeze blowing through from the back: a door that is never open. You step. There is a glass broken on the floor. You smell the sweet, strong scent of manure. You hear a soft shifting behind the counter. You look over.

The onion boy is lying in the broken case of manure. He's been cut deep, at least a few layers. He sees you and sighs, relieved.

"I thought you was those tall stiffs come come back!"
You help him up as you ask, "What tall stiffs? Where's Paul?"
"They took 'im," he tells you, "Two guys. A yam with a bad attitude, I didn't recognize the other one."
"Not a potato?" You ask, thinking of the yellow spud you scared off the night before with your boot-arm.
"Not a potato. Might have been a turnip. The yam cut me up bad." He winces as you wrap him in some cheesecloth.
"Miss Amelia's thugs," you say under your breath, but the onion boy hears you.
"You workin' for Miss Amelia?" he asks, worried.
"I'm trying not to," you tell him, "she's making it kinda hard. Why, you heard of her before?"
"Only that she's trouble. And if you don't do what she wants, I'll be lucky to have talked to you and get just this," he motions to his cut. "I gotta leave, before they come back."
"You need water," you tell him, "You're gonna dry out."
"Better that than them. You don't know me." And he leaves.

You head into the back room where you had hoped to find Paul.

OR

You decide to take a chance going back to your office.

The Vigilante Vengeance of Mr. Potato Head: Part 4

You pull out your broken arm and toss it away; it’s only in the way now. You skirt surreptitiously around the building. You see a nice car in the alleyway with the motor running. You smile as you watch Bitalo escort Miss Amelia into the back seat. They drive off. You make a note of the license number and start heading back towards home.

You see a 24-hour body shop, typical for this side of town, and decide to head in. The clerk, though you’ve never seen him before seems to get very nervous when he sees you. You laugh. You realize you must look like potato salad.

“It’s OK, man. I just need an arm.” You wave your right side to him where your arm used to be. “Got in a scuffle.”

“No arms,” the clerk, a water chestnut, says with a thick accent. “All out!”

“Really?” you ask. “None at all? What’s that behind you in the back room? All those boxes seem to say ‘arms’ on them. They’re all empty?”

“Yes. All empty,” he asserts nervously. You look around the shop and notice a mirror in the corner. In it you can see a rutabaga on the floor behind the counter holding a peeler to the water chestnut. It’s the rutabaga you saw earlier than night! Before you can say anything, you notice the gross spud in the mirror creeping up behind you. You leap out of the way just before he can grab you. All he gets is a fistful of garbage hat. The rutabaga has now come from behind the counter to join the fight. The clerk leaps into the back room and shuts the door. It’s just you and two shady vegetables. And you only have one arm.

The spud lunges for you again and you get out of the way. You find your back against a wall. You see a beefy leg in a display case at the front, complete with steel toed boot. It’ll have to do. You reach for it and shove it into your empty arm hole. Its weight nearly pulls you off balance, but you stand your ground.

The spud looks ill as you turn towards him. He drops his knife and runs for it. The rutabaga has an evil look in his eyes though. He smiles and comes at you anyway. You knock him down easily with a sickening thwack. You hit him so hard he falls through one isle and into a display. You can hear him laughing as he rises from the rubble.

“This is why Miss ‘Melia wants you, I guess.” He calls you a dirty name and spits. You can see the peeler sticking out from where he fell on it. He’s a goner. You back up slowly, cursing your brute strength; you hadn’t meant to kill him. He calls to you from the door, “You better watch your step, Potato-head! If she wants you, she’ll get you.” He groans and is finished. You can already hear the sirens down the road.

In the open air of the city you try not to think about what just happened or the portentous mutterings of the rutabaga before he died. You just want a tall glass of vitamin water and a nap at your desk. It's nearly sunrise before you get to your building. As you unlock the door to your office, though, you smell the strong stench of yam…

You open the door, preparing yourself for the worst

OR

You back away slowly; you need somewhere safe.

Vigilante Vengeance of Mr. Potato Head Part 3

It’s the sweet she-carrot you saw dropping a note off at your door earlier! You try not to look surprised as she smiles coyly at you.

“You’re not surprised, are you?” she says.

“No,” you say, but she laughs.

“Bitalo, give him back an arm. He’s allowed to be comfortable while we talk.” The yam obeys silently and stands back, waiting.

“Thank you for being patient,” she began, “My employer is looking for someone with your particular talents for a special job. You would be generously compensated for your time and efforts. Are you interested?”

“That depends,” you tell her, “on what the job is exactly. I’m no mercenary. So you better have a very good need for ‘my services.’ I don’t like killing vegetables, especially innocent ones.”

“What about the guilty?” You don’t dignify her comment with a response, so she continues. “We will be in contact with you, Mr. Potato-head.”

“I haven’t agreed, you know, to do anything,” you tell her.

“You will.” She nods to Bitalo and exits.

“I guess it won’t do me any good to ask you what I’ll be doing,” you ask Bitalo as he takes your arm away and stuffs your eyes into a bag. “I thought so.” Bitalo gives you back your other leg and leads you from the room. He has left your mouth so you keep talking. “I hope I have a job as nice as yours. You seem to enjoy it so much. And working with that she-carrot must be what puts that sparkle in your eyes…”

Bitalo shoves you to the ground. You can smell the air of the alleyway. “You’re not allowed to talk about Miss Amelia yet,” is all he says as he pulls one eye out of the bag and puts it back in your head. He takes out both your arms from the bag and puts them back in, slightly askew.

“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” you say to Bitalo as you stand up. His confused expression tells you he doesn’t understand.

You punch him, hard, and pull out one of his arms. “That’s for your yamhandling!” You grunt as you beat him with his own arm. Bitalo clocks you with his other arm and knocks you down. He tries to kick you and you roll out of the way. His foot connects, but weakly. It’s still enough to bruise you, though. As you try to rise, he picks you up and throws you against the wall. You hear your arm snap. Great. Now you’ll have to go buy a new one. Your broken arm is still holding Bitalo’s beefy one. Bitalo picks you up again and spins you around. You punch him in the face miraculously knocking both of his eyes out. He yells as he drops you to the ground.

You pick yourself up and hobble off down the alley leaving Bitalo to find his own eyes.

You decide:

To get to the bottom this

or

To head back to your office, recoup, and wait to be contacted by “Miss Amelia”?

Guest Contributor: Corner of Toaster Pastry!

We have the great honor of having a visiting writer and poet wish to contribute to our blog! Corner of Toaster Pastry comes from a long line of poets and writers. His esoteric lines of verse cause us to question our place in the world and what we are doing to make it better. Corner has agreed to include a recent poem of his, currently unpublished, on our blog! What a treat! Here's the poem (it just begins; Corner doesn't believe in titles...)

flurbin garleesa grendertow
snervin heesterglee
sowbin jeeversteek lilock
jigglywok
soq?

Fowdin ubdee acklwad cid
cid opleen.
cid toofenheckly bipanderswat
fren-cloo iber
sonder
pwees sonder
eeeeeeeerrrrrrr
freinnnn reeebooooooo
freiin NANANANANANANA
tijiwa
frizen.


If you ask really nicely, I'll include the video (if I can) of his reading. It is inspiring. Don't forget to vote on Mr. Potato Head! Only a few more days left!

The Vigilante Vengeance of Mr. Potato Head: Part 2

You stop and watch the spud. He has stopped too, and is picking at his eyes again. You decide to go back to your office when a shady looking rutabaga meets up with your spud and together they slip into one of the abandoned warehouses. “If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is,” you say to yourself and start to follow him again.


Just as you start to follow after him, someone pops off your arms! You’re helpless! They throw a bag over your head and drag you away! You try to kick, but you realize they’ve taken your legs off too. Who are these guys? You know there’s no reason to yell so you’re smart enough to keep your mouth shut. You stop struggling and wait.


You stop moving. They sit you in a chair and give you one leg, to keep your balance. A massive, knotty and point yam takes the sack off your face and frowns at you.

“What do you want?” You demand.

The yam frowns and says nothing.

“I don’t know what your deal is; what do you want from me?” you ask him, hoping to get some sort of response. Still he says nothing.

“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just be going…” you try to stand. The yam shoves you roughly back into the chair with his overly giant hand.

“You wait," he says to you.

“So you can talk! Congratulations!” you mutter sarcastically. You’re not used to being yamhandled in such a way. You’re a little indignant. “What am I waiting for? For you to muster up the energy to mash my head in? No thank you.”


“You’re waiting for me,” a voice says from behind. It’s…


The spud you’ve been following all day!
That sweet she carrot that dropped off the note at your office!

Vigilante Vengence of MPH: Part 1

You walk out of the doorway and into the rain. The light from the streetlamp is dim, clicking between off and almost on. But it doesn’t matter. You can see the one you want. You lost him there for a minute between Marc’s Leg and Shoe and the corner of Turnip Boulevard, but only for a minute. You drop your toothpick on the ground and follow him into the wet and the cold.

You’re not worried. Not yet. You’ve done this many times before. You can’t even count on all your sets of hands the number of times some spud walked into your office wanting you to trail someone, find something shady, where there was nothing to find. This ‘tater seems to be no different. You’ve been watching him all day and so far the worst thing he’s done was clip off one of his eyes onto the sidewalk. “Gross,” you thought to yourself, “can’t he do that into a trashcan?”

You’re beginning to wonder if this job is worth it. After all, if you wanted to watch spuds be gross in public, you could sit on your couch and watch TV. And the request was pretty bizarre: a letter slipped under the door with a picture. Usually the client at least made a phone call. But apparently this client didn’t want anyone to know she was there. (Lucky for you, you keep an eye on the door at all times, so you know it was a sweet she-carrot that dropped off the note, but you didn’t get a good look at her face.) The note read only: Follow him. It’ll be worth your while. G.
And you, like a fool, believed it.
You decide to turn around and go back your office when…

You get grabbed from behind and thrown in a bag!
or
The spud you’ve been following meets up with a shady looking rutabaga and slips into an abandoned warehouse!