I just finished reading a couple of books in the "Endworld" series by David Robbins. It's about life in a post-apocalyptic world setting. It's easy reading and relaxing. The good guys wear "white hats" and the bad guys wear "black hats".

A mere sixty years ago, gas pumps and cash registers had hand cranks to dispense gasoline and take in cash if the power went out.

Gas pumps run on electricity. So do cash registers, refrigerators,freezers and the pumps that bring our water to the surface. Tv's, radios, and phones all run on electricity. What if the nationwide grid shut down for several months instead of a couple of hours, or days? Hhhmmm....Go ask Katrina. She was just a very small preview of what is to come.
 

I asked my wife of thirty years, while she was passing through yesterday, what exactly the title of this blog entry meant.

"Men who act like "the He-Man Woman Haters Club."

"You mean like on the Three Stooges episode?" I asked.

"Yeah."

I mulled it over in my mind for a bit. "But they didn't really hate women at all as it turned out."

"That's right, they didn't."

Suddenly, she stopped midway in putting her scrubs on for work. She turned her face toward me. Her eyes were slitted and her upper lip began to curl into a she-wolf snarl. "Did somebody call you that? You got college girlies hanging out upstairs?"

I had a momentary flash of telling her that the college girlies were actually in the dry well in the basement, but I managed to resist the impulse. "Why no, honey. Some girl on-line called me that."

She visibly relaxed as the fur on her back returned to a prone position. "If you stopped acting like such a dumbass, maybe the stupid bitch wouldn't have called you that!"

Maybe you're right, honey," I conceded as she put on her coat and rushed out the door to catch the bus.

"Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!" I exclaimed in my best Curly imitation as the door slammed shut.

"By the power of Numbskull, I am He-Man!"
 

It was this past Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Eve, to be exact. I was upstairs at my clubhouse working on my latest short story. I was alone enjoying the solitude while scribbling in revision notes and technical corrections to the story.

Along about midnight, my good friend "J.B." shows up with a girl in tow. This is not an uncommon occurence. JB has a big heart and means well and does his very best to support the local prostitutes, party girls, and wayward women. He brings them to the clubhouse after hours in an attempt to distract me from my literary endeavors. He believes I spend too much time at it.

Quite to the contrary, and his consternation, he only reinforces my literary efforts by acting this way. Well, since I'm also being honest here, I've always had a soft spot for Mary Magdalene. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone..."

The girl takes a seat on the sofa I'm sitting on next to me. JB sits down on the other side of the room. I slide out another notebook from beneath the sofa and open it to a fresh page. The girl smiles and introduces herself as "Jackie". JB frowns and says "That's the General".

I write down her name in the book and begin asking her questions. It's the usual things; place and date of birth, schooling, family history and related information, employment history, places of residence, arrest history, etcetera. ANY girl loves to talk about herself. Jackie is no exception.

Jackie is thirty-two years old. She is five foot seven inches tall. She has short golden blonde hair that curls under her chin and jawline with blue eyes and classic roman facial traits. She is wearing tight designer bluejeans with a white buttondown blouse which accent her stunning figure. She sports an open dark blue windbreaker jacket.

Finally, I ask the "big" question, the one I am most interested in hearing an answer to, "What's the worst thing that has ever happened to you, Jackie?"

She never hesitated. "When I was shot."

At this point I couldn't help but snicker.

"Yeah," JB laughed. "Maybe by a BB gun!"

She looked at me with those big blue eyes and said softly, "I was."

I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Show me."

Maybe I should have never said that, but there again, maybe it taught me a lesson. At the very least, what I was shown will make for some very entertaining storylines.

Jackie stood up from the couch and took off her jacket. She began slowly unbuttoning her blouse. There are no lights in that room except for a reading lamp on an endtable next to my end of the sofa. Jackie was standing in semi-shadows.

A magnificent pair of breasts were the first things that greeted my eyes. They were small, but stood proud and at rapt attention. I then noticed that there were a pair of darkened lines, each begginning above one of the mammary glands, The lines ran between the valley of the breasts, then curved under them and out to each side of her rib cage. From there, they curved back in to her naval. The left line intersected the naval and the right one ran about an inch below it.

At first I thought it was some type of weird tattoo. If only!!!

I grabbed the gooseneck on the lamp and turned it towards her. The lines were scars. Real scars! They were jagged and ugly and massive scars. It looked like somekind of botched autopsy.

Jackie turned sideways and jiggled out of her jeans. She revealed another scar that began on the side of her left hip. It ran down the hip to her inside thigh and straight to her ankle. I had flashbacks of when I was a boy skinning rabbits.

I was feeling a little light-headed by now. "Those aren't bulletholes," I mumbled. "Those are knife scars."

Jackie smiled and turned her back to me. She let her blouse slip to the floor. There, up in the area of her left shoulder were four bullet holes in a tight circular pattern. Bullets leave nasty scars also. From the size of the scars I would guess they were 9mm. How she survived is beyond me.

"Story over," she said.

"Aren't you going to take care of the General?" JB asked.

"I already have," she replied with another smile.

Jackie got dressed, cupped my chin in her hand and gave me a soft kiss. JB and I sat there as we listened to her go down the stairs and out the front door.


 

"Everythin' was set now to call up the Nameless One. Abdul invited the wood-carver and the glassmaster to stay and watch the ceremony. And those jackasses agreed to it! They should have all got out of town and left Abdul alone with his madness.

"The night of the next full moon found the five of 'em gathered in this house on the outskirts of town. They had a large wooden altar set up with a black table cloth over it. On either end of the cloth was an embroidered golden pentegram. A lighted black candle was at the center of each symbol. The mirror was lying in the middle of the altar. Lying naked on the face of the mirror, bound and gagged, was Singh's little girl.

"All of them pranced and danced 'round that altar making invisible signs in the air. Abdul spoke the invocation from his cursed book and rolled his eyes into the back of his head. This goes on for some time until Abdul finally gets to the end of his mystical chant;

"Dark is she, but beautiful! Black are her wings, black on black. Her lips are red as rose, kissing all the universe! She leadeth forth the hordes of the Pit, and leadeth man to ruin. She is the irresistable fufiller of all lust, seer of desire. Her hand brings forth the revolution of the Will and true freedom of the mind. Look on her in lust and despair!"

"Abdul gently removed the gag from the child's mouth as he slid a razor-sharp blade 'cross her throat.

"What'sa matter, missy? Don't try an' say you didn't know it was comin'. There be a bucket over there in the corner if ya' need it. Throat cuttin' be a messy business. Soon as that jugular vein lets loose, you got blood pumping into the air all over the place. On the walls, the ceiling, the floor! Heh,heh, heh, heh. You don't look so good, missy!

"'Magine that poor little girl lyin' there on that friggin' mirror! Her eyes buggin' out of her head and two bloody mouths gaspin' for air and not gettin' any! 'Magine Abdul lookin' down at her all smug. Her father standing right next to him with a big shit-eatin' grin and her blood on his face! Can you see that girl's tied hands risin' up and clawing the air? Can ya' see her tryin' to stuff that air into her throat? Can ya' hear the heels of her little feet drummin' on that friggin' altar?

"Singh's daughter died. May God and Allah both keep her safe now. When you finish with that, missy, I'll tell ya some more. Ain't gonna be able to hear what I'm sayin' with that preety head of yours gaggin' inside of that bucket! Heh, heh!




 

"Singh contacts the local glassmaster, Shur ed-Din. For a tidy sum of gold and a couple of weeks worth of time, the merchant places mosaic glass in strategic locations on the mirror as per Singh's instructions. Slices of colored reflective glass are used to create bizarre patterns in the corners of the mirror also.

"Shaman Singh then comissions a master woodcarver out of Beirut. His name was Ibn Feda. Feda moonlighted as a low level magic-user too. It gave his artwork a definite "edge" on the market to those unaware. He dabbled in charm spells for the most part. It was kinda' his specialty.

"Feda spent months recarving the oaken Jharokha frame. He was a master in the true Arabesque style of repetitive abstract geometric forms. Singh guided his every step in the project. It was definitely the woodcarver's crowning achievement. Through figures and words worked into the frame, the artist and his client had brought forth a powerful message to whoever cared to gaze into the mirror. Having completed the necessary modifications, Singh had Feda slap a dual spell of enchantment/illumination on the whole shabang.

Well, missy, that mirror and frame must have been something to behold. The mirror sparkled like a huge star hanging in the heavens. Colors of bronze, blue, and peach flowed and danced across its face. The forms and figures contained in the wood seemed to writhe and breathe with a life of their own just as the glass did. Heh, heh. The whole damn thing was alive!

"That frame...that frame had tiny words carved into it that ran around and through tiny pornographic images of women. It told the story of womankind from the first wife of Adam, Lilith...Oh dear God help me! Forgive me for makin' the sign of the cross, missy. I've gone and said her name. Forgive me, Lordy. This story ain't about her! I'll not say it again.

"Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the frame. Them carvings clearly told of you females' attitudes tow'rds yerselves, yer bodies, and yer appearances. It told how you girlies call the shots of what can and can't be done to you and yer bodies.

"Those carvin's speak of the 'facts of life'. How you females have to always watch yerselves. How you are yer own 'surveyors', even when yer the ones bein' surveyed. Yup, and it don't matter if the one doin' the surveyin' is a man OR a woman.

"You girlies look upon yerselves the same as a man. Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at. Heh, heh. That's right, missy! You don't watch us. You watch yer own selves. Ya' watch your own bodies. Don'tcha get it? The watcher of women inside yerselves is MALE! Ye watch yerselves more than you watch us 'cause that's where the competition is! That's what you want to look like. Heh, heh, heh. That's how ya' turn yerselves into objects. You become objects of vision and great desire!

"Look at ya' sittin' there with that stupid look on yer face! All sweaty in all them baggy clothes. You are NOT desireable as you are. You are only desireable as I see you!
Can't ya' get that through yer empty head? 'Naked is to be oneself'. Nakedness reveals itself. Nudity is the thing placed on display, shit-for-brains!

"Ya' got me all shook up now. Let me rest fer a spell, take my meds, and have a beer. We still got a bit to go."
 

"Singh informs Abdul and the Wizard that they need two things for the summonin'. The first was an enchanted mirror. The second was a human child as a sacrifice. Preferably a female. Abdul and his buddy sorta' balked at the second suggestion.

"The Shaman went on to explain that a mirror could be a gateway to the netherword and take them directly to the she-demon's cavern lair. The greasy bastard also mentioned in passing that he had an only child; a five year old daughter.

"His wife, Basantia, knew what Singh was thinking and tryin' to suggest. She flies into a tantrum and threatens to leave the city and return to India with her daughter.

"A few nights later, Singh drugs and then lures his wife out into the desert and does away with her. He thinks that once the demon is summoned, he'll be able to control it because he is sacrificing his only child; his precious and beautiful daughter. He figured he'd have first dibs on the creature's obedience because of that. That's the way he figured anyways.

"Turns out that Singh was in possession of some kind of supernatural looking glass. It was called a "Jharkora Mirror". He mentioned how it had to be "modified" yet to work right. That boy was crazy! He was just beggin' for it!"
 

"It was right around this time that Abdul and his mentor got the idea to summon up a demon of their very own. They would imprison it and force it to do their bidding. They looked to the Qur'an to git an idea of just what they should be shopping for. 'Course they found it."

"Then I saw the Fire, and I have never before seen such a horrible sight as that, and I saw the majority of dwellers were women. The people asked, 'Oh Allah's Apostle! What is the reason for that?' He replied, 'They are not thankful to their husbands and are ungrateful for the favors done to them. Even if you do good to one of them all your life, when she seems some harshness from you, she will say, 'I have never seen any good from you.'"

"That's straight from Muhammad, missy! Heh, heh. Heh, heh. Maybe you can take a lesson from that, eh? Heh, heh. Well, them two towel-headed peckerheads decided they was gonna call up the biggest and baddest girlie demon of them all. This ain't about her, so I'm not sayin' her name. She's better off remaining nameless.

"The wizard figures they need some outside help in the summonin' department for this one. So they make a deal with this shaman and his wife who were from India. Singh was his name. The couple were temporarily residin' in Damascus as it just so happened."
 

"Well, missy, it all started in the Middle East somewhere around 700AD. There was a man in Damascus whose name was Abul Alhazred. Fancied himself a poet, he did. Called himself a mystic too. Some folks claimed he was a great magic-user. Bah! He was nuthin' but a two-bit conjurer! Brought nuthin' but trouble and misery into the world with his incoherent mumbling. People soon got fed up with his dark conjurin'. They beat him good and left him to die out in the desert.

"Heh, heh, heh. Don't look so shocked, missy! There'd be no point of me tellin' this here story if he had died, would there? Heh, heh!

"Okay. He was out in the desert dyin' from thrist and his wounds, when some wanderin' weirdo found him. the weirdo took Abdul under his wing. Nursed his sorry ass back to health, he did. Taught him things too. Turns out the weirdo was some powerful wizard.

"Well, they travelled the desert together for many years. They even found and went to the 'Nameless City'. Took a whole caravan with them. Sixty camels and thirty men. Going after golden and magical treasure, they was.

"A couple of months went by before the Wizard and Abdul came staggering back into Damascus. They was on foot and alone. They was messed up real bad too. Abdul had this book clutched to his chest. He said he wrote it while he was in the Nameless City. The book was bound in human flesh. Some say it was the mad poet's own skin! He claimed that the pages were full of invocations and conjurin' spells to call up monsters from hell.

"Keep your skirt on, missy! All this here I'm tellin' you about has to do with Leila. You want the whole story, or not? Good! Then shut yer hole and listen!"
 

On a march at night,
Filing down a long and dark road,
I pray for never-ending glory.
Lord, please make it so!
 

Nasa decided some time ago that they were going to launch a "probe" into a meteor that was passing within the earth's "vicinity". Seems that this probe is armed with a nuclear warhead. It's theroretically supposed to knock a hole in this meteor so the scientists can study the core of it. The "probe" is speeding to its target as I am writing this.

I first read about this six months ago in a tiny blurb in the local newspaper. This past Saturday it was in the "Top News" on Google.

Nasa timed this event so it would occur in the evening of the Fourth of July. The Western Hemisphere is supposed to have a good view of the explosion and its fireworks. All this to the tune of $330,000,000. I'm going out of the city up to a mountaintop to try and catch the show. After all, I am a taxpayer.

I'm taking a few friends and girlies with me just in case the "really big show" fizzles.

In 1967, George Romero produced and directed "Night of the Living Dead". It was about a meteor from outer space that crashed into one of Nasa's satellites. The resulting "unspecifed and unknown" radiation that occurred from the explosion, drifted to earth. It caused the "freshly" deceased to become reanimated and begin to devour the living.

Maybe I might have something to look forward to on the Fourth of July after all!
 

It's snowing. Feels like the end of the world. Looks like it too.

The Black Moon is coming. It came on high upon black raven wings. Silent, just like an oncoming storm,

With a host and a horde of other unholy things.
Twilight, accompanied by an artificial moon rise
Is when it came upon midnight raven wings.
Silent as a creeping, oncoming storm
With a host and a horde of other unholy things.

All would die. the innocent as well as the guilty. Snow. Lots of black snow. Specter of the Snows? Oh the ominous drone of the snow tires! It would show no mercy, none would be spared. Mankind had abused his heavenly rights once too often. the blame all of us would share. There are gnomes on this bus.

There would be no mercy, no compassion,
No one would be spared.
The abuse, the cruelty, the hate.

How could anybody be spared? The blame all of mankind would share. All would die. All would come to a swift end.
The verdict rang out as the death knell tolled,
All would die, the young, as well as the old.

Madmen, Thieves, Beggars and Other Things that Go Bump in the Night. Nice title. Peter agrees...it's official then. It's the title of the first Book.

A blood curdling scream sounded from the North,
Graves burst open, musty earth was tossed aside,
Lids flew back
And all the forgotten dead marched forth.
All would die, the mangled as well as the whole.

Clouds loomed overhead with lightning flashing,
The earth split, mountains exploded, the oceans boiled.
The winds shrieked and the din of Hell came crashing.
All would die, the rich as well as the poor.

From beneath rode Satan's Forty Horsemen,
Dealing death to all alike,
And then grinning Surtur rose from his Master's den.
All are dying, the good as well as the evil.

The Gnomemobile, the Gnomemobile, the wonderful wonderful Gnomemobile! There are gnomes on this bus.

Nations once prosperous and wealthy fell
Never would any of them rise again.
No science, no weapons could withstand the forces
Of Hell.
All are dead, the pure as well as the unclean.

The legions of Satan would be gone soon,
Their mission accomplised, their task was done,
And the only thing remaining be the Black Moon.

*Somewhere in Orange County,NY
Early AM on a school bus
Jan. 1969


 

Nowadays hate and malice surge in peoples' hearts
Murder and rapes and crime reign supreme
Lootings and beatings are considered arts.
Isn't it a shame?

People speak falsely and fill each other with lies,
Truth is just a forgotten dream now.
Pardon me while I wipe away the tears in my eyes.

Many live in absolute fear and shame,
Don't you think it's time we did something?
Don't you think it's time we ended this game?

People are suffering each and every hour.
The fortunate ones push them aside,
Saying they've got the God-almighty power.

The children gasp, "Lend your brother a hand,"
But the world continues its bustling way crying,
"There is no God, no retribution. Isn't that grand?"

Please Lord, give me your ultimate strength,
To do what's good and right,
To do what must be done at any length.
Isn't it a shame?


*Written somewhere in Orange County, NY
in the back of a school bus early AM
Jan. 1969


 

Kevin stayed at my house last night. We had a good time writing all kinds of things. We're on the bus now going to school and I have to finish this poem I promised him. Peter thinks it's very funny.

Peace will never more reign at dear State U.,
Honor students have revolted and fled,
Academic death and fear now ensue.

A radical got shot in the belly,
A leader we shall never forget,
The radical whose name is Kevin Kelly!

Woe to State U. now with one such as he,
Kelly the butterfly who stings like a mad bee!

Gas bombs burst and people screamed,
Through the smoke Kelly could be seen,
How the barrel of his M-14 gleamed!

Machine guns spit fire and lead,
Moments later, Kelly lay dead.

Pray for Kelly, we know his brain was bent,
Mourn him, though we know which way he went!

Me, Kevin, and Peter think it only fair to dedicate this to Charlie Whitman. Well, maybe not Peter. He's watching me write this and making an ugly gnome face! Me and Kevin think Charlie was cool.

*Somewhere in Orange County, NY
Early AM on a school bus
Jan. 1969
 

I'm on the bus going home. Fat Boy Larry was pretty mad about Kevin's poem. He wants one of his own too. I started at lunch time, but I couldn't finish it. Larry got mad about that too! I'll finish it now.

Once upon a time, when none of us were around,
On a grassy, round, sloping hill,
Where Noah's Ark had run aground,
Preacher Fearful lay after eating his fill.

He had delivered a speech at a bald rat meeting,
And learned that not one of them had paid any heed.
So he gave them all a good sound beating
And was ecstatic at how their wounds did bleed.

Through the crowd Preacher shouted, "Repent Sinners!"
In his hand was the dreaded Serpent Staff.
"You bald rats are sure mighty poor beginners!"
He said as he let go a cackling laugh.

Fearful turned and patted his slave boy's head.
"Slave boy, that was a very well done job!"
A few bald rats lay about the scene dead,
Slave boy dozed and his head began to bob.

This is dedicated to Larry and his Bald Rat joke. It wasn't that funny.


*Somehere in Orange County, NY
Mid-afternoon on a school bus
Jan. 1969


 

Kevin started crying how he doesn't appreciate the fact that he was killed in "Revolt at State U". So now I have to write a sequel. This is it;

ID: 897838   (Rated: 13+) Title: The Return of K. Kelly circa 1969  Description: A mainstream Radical who drifted aimlessly from the 1960's to the eary 70's * By: Gen

Preacher Fearful (we're not allowed to call him Larry anymore. He is to be addressed as "Preacher Fearful") says that since Kevin got a second poem, he should too! Kevin says he should recieve another also. Kill two birds with one stone. It's the only way out!

Kevin Kelly the radical
Was holding a protest one day.
The kids following orders,
Destroyed everything in their way.

Preacher Fearful, just down the block,
Was delivering a stirring speech.
His followers looked a little strange,
Like a squirming gorged leech!

Bald Rats were what they appeared as,
But without any arms or legs.
Preacher twirled a hacksaw in one hand
And drank beer on top of his kegs.

Kevin Kelly the radical
Led his vast forces down the street.
Preacher Fearful he would humble
In an ignominius defeat!

The two men snarled and cursed
As they faced each other.
"Don't forget," cried Preacher.
"I'm your forgiving brother!"

Then occurred such a scene of riot
And death never before beheld,
No one escaped but the two men,
Each with his honor still upheld.

After it was over and done,
The two facing each other still stood.
"We'll meet again!", shouted Kelly,
And Preacher knew they surely would!



Somewhere in Orange County, NY
Early AM on a schoolbus
Feb.1969


 

Outta school. Going home on the bus. Preacher still wants another poem about him because Kevin is still one up on him.
Peter is sitting here beside me peering into this notebook. I asked him if he wanted a poem. He said he wouldn't be caught dead in this book. When asked why, he said that the good Sisters probably have a bounty out on this book. He says I should write about History class today because it was interesting. Here goes;

ID: 914198   (Rated: E) Title: The Goodship U.S.S. Housatonic  Description: The mystery of what sunk the USS Housatonic. Beast, nature, or sub? By: Gen

Now this is for Preacher, so him and Kevin are even now.

The most dreaded weapon of all time is the Serpent Staff,
It's known only one has held it and got away with a laugh.
Many of those who come by it soon shrivel up and die,
Those weaklings who touch it know their death is nigh.
It has only been handled safely by one,
He whose work with it shall never be done.
Preacher Fearful is his name,
Whose person shall rise to much fame.

EVERYBODY IS EVEN NOW!!!

Somewhere in Orange County, NY
Mid-afternoon on a schoolbus
Feb.1969
 

Larry (Preacher Fearful) has a new persona now. He thinks he's a Confederate Major in the American Civil War. The "Housatonic" and History class seem to be taking their toll on him. He only speaks in a southern accent now.


Not long after the famous battle of Bull Run
During the magnificent Civil War,
Major Jackson stood with his slaveboy in the sun.

The Major looked down at the Merrimac,
It lay moored in the distant bay,
And a little black girl gaped from a shack.

He leaned on his freshly polished gatling gun,
"This weapon will win the war," he thought.
Many would die, some would live, the job must be done.

Troops marched across the plantations dressed in gray,
The major saluted as they went by.
Gallant history would be made on this beautiful day.


Somewhere in Orange County, NY
Mid-afternoon on a school bus
Feb.1969
 

I watched this movie over the weekend. These guys sure killed a bunch of people. And a bunch of them got killed too. They had a lot of guts in the end to go against cannons and rifles with only lances on horseback. They died well.

I think I'm going to write a book about something like this. A fantasy maybe. I've already got a couple of characters thanks to my friends! Peter says "Why not?" and to make sure I don't put him in it! He says he'll help me write this poem now. It's official then.

ID: 937703   (Rated: 18+) Title: The Stand of the Wolf Regiment  Description: The "Forbidden Forest of Despair Massacre" as told by one bard. By: Gen

Somewhere in Orange County, N.Y.
Early AM on a schoolbus
March 1969


 

Just watch me die, just watch me die,
I'm going to the top of the very sky.

Roll me over, roll me over from where I've lain,
Look at how dark it's getting, it's going to rain.

Please help me stop this nightmarish race,
The child of dawn, how I long to see her face.

I know high in the eaves are blood-sucking bats,
And in the corners lurking vermin-ridden rats.

It will end, there must be an end to the night,
I don't want to feel its poison, its terrible bite.

It's in me, surging through me, I'm glad,
Put away your fears, please don't be sad.

My brain and body are on fire,
I know I can get so much higher.

I can do it, I will, I must, you can try,
Once it's in you don't feel sorry, don't cry.

I'm dwindling fast, I've passed the high peak,
I'm dying, it's ending, why do I feel so weak?

I can hear a gigantic ringing bell
I know it is over, I can tell.

Do you know? Can you see
Why have I murdered me?


*Somewhere in Orange County N.Y.
Midafternoon on a schoolbus
March 1969


 

Fire all your pills at once, it's a real cool thing,
Come on and feel life, it's just a one trip fling!

Feel your arm go numb as the needle goes in,
Jump right up and face this sin.

Your head's high above the highest cloud,
Satan shakes his head and laughs out loud.

Blow your mind on some fizzing soda pop,
It's cruising in your veins, you're at the hop!

Problems weighing on your mind-racked brain,
You're gonna meet the death that you ordain.

Join all your friends with some home-grown pot,
Don't worry girl, he's got quite alot.

Neighborhood pusher, he's a friendly man,
But who'll be with you when you make your stand?


Somewhere in Orange County N.Y.
Mid-afternoon on a school bus
March 1969