I Love Penny (Part Two of Two).

"Good Humor Man, I'm certain that I'm just telling you what you already know," Penny began, her scattered voice whispering between heavy pants for breath. "But you are the finest miner ever to excavate my deepests. You even saved the canary - that was so thoughtful of you, though between you and me, I think he talks too damn much."

She chortled for a moment before burying her face in the stained, damp pillows. She breathed in the cold musk of a hundred years without detergent and let the sweet, sticky scent recharge the blood in her veins. A shiver of electricity tickled her nerves and she wondered if this was how she felt all those decades ago, a bright-eyed and wide-legged schoolgirl with dreams of babies and bar fights drifting through her adolescent mind, until she realized she was absently fingering a light socket near the headboard. She didn't seem to mind, and continued to flick as her thoughts began to drift.

A tumult of phantasms waxed and waned in her mind's eye until she finally settled on the faces of all the husbands she could remember, most a slight variation or simple tweak on Paul Harvey's visage. A pang of guilt struck her heart and she began to chew at the cuticles of her left hand, studying the ceiling and trying to force the demons from her head. Their condemning eyes traced up and down her billowy, rumpling body, sizing up her sex while simultaneously accusing her of all the nastiness in the world.

She felt a whore. She also felt an astronaut once, at space camp, but no fond memory could substitute the guilt.

"Mr. Good Humor Man!" she exclaimed, sitting upright in bed with a snap. "I've made a terrible mistake."

Crem's muddy eyes stared back at her from the safety of the rocking chair at the foot of the bed, motionless and lifeless.

"Don't give me that look! You knew what this was from the start: a rumpfuck in the rough, a humorless hump, don't you see? My heart belongs to Chauncey." She nodded fervently, then paused. "Or was it Clancey?" Her head felt muddy. She clawed at the memories but they wouldn't stay, leaving her confused and nude in a strange hillbilly's bed.

Crem offered no reply.

"Damnation! All this time spent in the sulfurous sin of your sex has robbed me of my memory!" Penny clapsed the bedsheets and pulled them up to her chin, conceiling her naked form from Crem's stare. "Haven you a potion? An antidote? A serum? Mr. Good Humor Man, your ice cream treats cannot restore what you have robbed from me." She was shrieking now, hissing and spitting like a feral cat, the knots in her hair bouncing left and right as she sharply shook her head in furor.

When no apology came, or any words at all, Penny kicked Crem square in the chest, sending he and the rocking hair sprawling to the floor. His limp, lifeless body drapped across the upturned chair, his legs sticking nearly straight into the air, his eyes turned toward the front door, though they saw nothing anymore. Penny leapt from the bed like a spider and landed on top of him - the old bat was agile for her age, there was no denying this - and clasped the sides of his head, pulling his face toward hers. His tongue rolled lazily from his bloated blue lips.

"Our affair ends here, Mr. Good Humor Man. And if you ever tell anyone, I'll kill you!" she screamed, thick yellow spit gathering in pools at the corners of her lips. He said nothing, and Penny, satisfied, pulled the carving knife free from his sternum and laid it on the bedsheets.

She climbed to her feet and stepped carefully over the badly-mutilated corpse of Crem, the low-down trash who had the surprise of his life twice in one evening; once upon discovering a batshit old bag hiding under a crate of oranges and twice upon realizing the role of cat and mouse was never his choice to begin with.

Penny half-padded, half-waltzed her way toward the front door, not bothering to dress herself again. She hummed softly to herself an unrecognizable tune as she gazed upon the fresh morning dawning from the east outside. A fine day, she thought to herself.

An envelope taped to the screen door caught her attention and she approached cautiously, watching the curiosity like a wolf would sneer upon its prey. She snatched it from its place and tore the envelope open, wondering to herself if it could be pull of candy, or possibly the antidote for her memory loss.

Instead, she discovered a note within. She walked briskly toward Crem's workbench and collected a yellowing pair of goggles from around the neck of a jigsaw and held them over her eyes like reading glasses.

Dearest Penny,

Your talents are required.

Relocate yourself to Chicago by the first of June and await further instructions.

There you will find Misses Buttersocks and the remedy to your memory loss.

And for Christ's sake, put some clothes on.

Yours,
He Who Watches

Penny gummed her bottom lip and studied the note over once more before crumpling it up and tossing it over her shoulder. "Damn thing's in French, Crem, I can't understand a word of it," she muttered.

Without a glance back, she exited through the screen door and approached Crem's battered pick up left sitting in the gravel drive. Upon discovering the keys tucked snuggly into the overhead visor, Penny turned the ignition and stole away down the road, still as naked as the day she was born - however long ago that may have been.

Rest Stop Paintings

They pulled into a rest stop and got out to stretch their legs. They followed Joe inside to a little diner where men were talking in growling voices over coffee and half smoked cigarettes. They took seats next to a couple who were arguing over money and settled into a couple of menus.

"Did you guys ever see the Guernica?" Parker asked through the laminated paper of his menu, "I would guess not," he continued not waiting. "The Guernica is a painting that sort of symbolizes all of Colorado,"

"Symbolizes?" 

"It's a word," Parker said putting his menu down. Joe was laughing at him.

"I'm sure,"

"I've heard of the Guernica but I've never seen it," Mali added.

"Its this painting by Picasso that really only makes it in Europe. Its supposed to be about violent tragedy. That is Colorado,"

"Colorado is beautiful," Said Gordon and Parker nodded.

"Yeah but beautiful is a lot of things, you know?"

"Ah fuck, are you being born again on our table because I don't think they've got enough napkins for your cesarean," Gordon said.

No, but I'm trying to tell you that what Picasso was showing with his painting is exactly what we have here. colorado is a mixture of too many things. There is so much going on at one time you wonder how anything can be going on at all. Look at the mountains. They are covered in snow and cold and beauty. But if you stood on that mountain and looked down you'd see the valley below, warm, snowless, green and equally wonderful. Its a nightmare of beauty, so to speak. Everything that exists here shouldn't exist. You can ski and swim in the same day. You can ride a horse the same day you sit in a kayak. Its senseless place where anything can be the same thing. Violence can be peace, love can be hatred and all of it in the same moment. The Colorado you wake up to one morning could be the paradise you learn to hate the next. Its an embodiment of what struggles God and the Devil must go through every moment of the day. You can get anything you want here. Take Boulder for instance. Where else can you get prostitutes and preachers together in such close quarters?

"Vegas?" Mali interjected and Parker sighed.

Yeah but doesn't that just add to this? Colorado is God's country, through and through. A real Mecca, an American Jerusalem. The Brethren Church meets here every year for a worship fest yet it isn't much better than living in Vegas and praising the lord, you know? People flock here to have an evangelical moment and are confronted by the reality of, well, the world I guess. People come here to seek God and the Devil at the same time.

"So Guernica?" 

"Yeah," Parker sighed, "Just like that painting," 

"I think you need some sleep or something mate," Gordon laughed, "Soon as you start seeing God in the paint you need to have a lay in,"

"Maybe," Parker admitted, "but I'm not letting up on this. I'm going to show you guys how it works,"

Mali put a hand on his arm and smiled, "I'm sure you will, why don't you order first," she said and Parker smiled. 

New Dice

1. A story is based on song lyrics. A writer may only use one song per band and the story itself must contain the lyrics be it individually (each word scattered throughout) or as a whole.

2. A story must have a happy ending. That means happy as in positive, not "the killer murders everyone therefore he's happy" ending.

3. Rant. A story about nothing in particular (continued from the first season).

4. "What's Penny up to?" The entry itself will be about an ancillary character and their perspective, be it Penny, Kat, the lady at the coffee house etc. Since it would be difficult to represent in print, the idea would be to have an introduction of the characters, where they are, etc etc (whatever you wish) have them roll a 4, transition to the new character, then come back when they're done.

5. A story must be inspired by a picture. A nice touch would be to actually post the picture either in the blog or in the comments section

6. A story must hold an element that is strange but true, a concept that can be defined as "stranger than fiction."

I love Penny. (Part One of Two).

"Portsmouth Potbellies, getch'er Portsmouth Potbellies!"

The aged crate with "ORANGES" emblazoned across the side wobbled beneath her, every stomp of her tiny feet threatening to pitch her to the dirt below. She thrust her arms high above her head and sucked in as much air as her lungs would allow before shouting, with all the force of her cracked, dusty voice, "GETCH'ER PORTSMOUTH POTBELLIES RIGHT HERE."

She found herself confused. She was the greatest saleswoman Lang Tang Motors had ever seen, a star employee with a plaque hung in her honor for every month of the year, yet not a single customer had approached her to purchase a pig. With a huff, she dismissed the haunting idea that it could be because she had no pigs to sell; it didn't occur to her that it might be because she had no customers in the first place, standing atop this used crate of oranges in the middle of a field.

Dissatisfied, Penny climbed down, slipping on the slick surface of the wood and crashing into the mud below. "Oh, alright, Clancy, you can use the vacuum on me if that's what you're going to do!" she cried as she got to her feet, mud and earth-stuffs clinging to all parts of her. She deliberated the merits of a line of work as a mud saleswoman as she dragged her crate with her through the muck, searching at her feet for the road she'd left behind many hours ago.

Night was falling fast and the crows conversed between themselves about this lump of a woman, dressed in pink and white rags (and now, caked head-to-foot in thick, grey mud), careening through their field making airplane noises. As though in agreement, the crows took to flight and abandoned the field for another day; they simply didn't care for the looks - or the smell - of this old crone.

"Not no way, not no how, gonna find some screws and make me a cow," she sang.

A road emerged from the barrenness of the field, marked only by a lonely line of telephone poles stretching from horizon to horizon. Penny stepped onto the gravel and surveyed her options; to the left, nothingness, and to the right, more nothingness.

"Eeny-meeny-miney-moe," she began, using her forefinger to tick off each option. "Catch-a-nigger-by-his-toe, if-he-hollers-let-it-snow, birthday-cake-for-Jimmy-Joe. My-dead-husband-told-me-to-choose-the-very-best-one-and-you-are-not --"

Headlights appeared on the horizon to her right, routing the impending darkness of nightfall in their high beams. Penny thought it would be a great joke to surprise the driver, so she hustled into the street and quickly dropped on all fours beside her crate. With a few grunts and curses, she lifted the crate over her head and crawled beneath it, concealed between the sides of the sick-smelling box. She could hear the crunch of gravel-beneath-tire grow louder as the vehicle drew nearer, and she softly giggled to herself. What a wonderful surprise this would be.

The crunch of the gravel grew very loud for a moment, then stopped. Light poured in through the cracks in the crate, and Penny peered into the blinding illumination eagerly, her warped fingers caught hold across her mouth to keep her giggles from falling out. A car door opened with a rusty squeal, then shut again with a bang.

Footsteps.

"Jesus-sakes-Christ," came a gruff, beer-whetted voice from outside.

"Surprise!" Penny shouted as she threw the crate off herself, leaping to her feet. 

The silhouette seemed scantly taken aback by finding an elderly woman hiding beneath a crate meant for oranges in the middle of the road in the middle of Nebraska - or, if he did, he was quite gifted at retaining his emotions outwardly. This, of course, made Penny quite sad.

"And what do we have here?" the man said, his breath wet with whiskey.

"A surprise, you dimwit. Haven't you ever had a surprise party before?" Penny demanded, striding up to him and jabbing a finger at his chest. She eyed him suspiciously. "You ain't one of them buttbandits, are you?"

"Fuck no," the man replied. "Crem here likes the pussy. You still got a pussy, ya'old bitch?"

Penny shook her head. "Misses Buttersocks died in the war."

The man made an "ah" sound and looked her over. "Well, hidin' in crates is no place for such a fine lady. You want to go for a ride in my truck? Cost ya a blow."

"Oh, my poor Misses Buttersocks. She had the brightest blue eyes you've ever seen," Penny reminisced as she hobbled toward the pickup. "Then she built that space rocket and flew off into the stars, never to be seen again. I saw her last Saturday at the market, but of course she acted like she didn't recognize me. I think she was fucking my husband."

Penny hoisted herself into the passenger seat and closed the door. The man - Crem, as he identified himself - climbed into the driver's side and slammed his door shut. He quickly stabbed his finger at a button on his door, causing both child-safe door locks to slide into place.

"You're taking me to see my husband," Penny said.

"Where is he?" Crem asked as he put the truck into gear.

"Heaven, with all the other niggers."

"Yeah, lady," Crem said with a drunken guffaw, his fingers - slicked with red ooze - slipping on the steering wheel. "Yeah, I'm taking you to see your husband."

They drove off, leaving the crate by the side of the road for the field mice to make their home.