The Ultimate Terrorist - A bit of Fried Food Day Satire

You might think that as a member of the Homeless Community, I fear the gangs and addicts hanging around us, slinging drugs, stealing stuff, and the like. But it ain't so.

I still fear the one branch of criminal activity we will never control. The mafia so determined to win, even Al Qaeda and the Sicilians sit in awe over their perseverance. Terrorists to us all, capable of far more dollar damage at the individual level than anything short of a natural disaster.

And this morning, I detoured around the long way to check on the local branches of this foul organization, wondering what dark thing they plan next. What I saw sent shivers of horror down my spine.

The Wild Ones are nearing that time of year, when they wreak havoc on us all.

They're up there, watching for their moments. All the branches and chapters.

The most aggressive stand just inside the cemeteries, ears twitching as they choose targets. Occasionally one lowers his or her head, tossing it about while pawing the grass, before calming down, head still low, eyes narrowed, ears tilted back. The others look at them, trembling as they know what was said.

"Dibs".

And thus the fate of yet another poor motorist is sealed, as some buck, doe, or foolish fawn claims the right to ruin our day, choosing our car to take with them to the "other side".


Saw it this morning. That old buck with the graying muzzle, looking around at the young rivals and deciding he was done, then glancing through the fence towards the road. He's looking for his target now, the car to claim as his headstone or monument of destructive suicide. Might take a while, he seems picky about who to inflict the insurance claim upon. Might even wait for better weather, and a chance for a convertible.

Yes, Deer. And you know they are pissed off when they reach out to their allies and cousins to make matters worse.

It's organized, believe me... and when they feel you are beneath worth, they'll taunt some foolish pronghorn or armadillo out onto the pavement to collect their rightful due for them. Sometimes a fat raccoon or other beast gets conned into taking the fall for the events. They love to watch your shocked expressions, frantic braking or swerving, and revel at the satisfying "Bang-Crunch" noises that follow, especially if they can survive unscathed, and rack up a tally before heading to the Happy Grazing Grounds.

Worst is when they call upon the ultimate enforcers, seeking vengeance on even the largest vehicles. Ol' Uncle Bullwinkle and Cousin Wapiti smirk at the mass, lean in a shoulder and take on even semi's, just to keep us all on our toes.

All this, just for racing through their turf, those neighborhoods called "Rural", "Urban-(blank) Interface" or "Open Space".

And you have to watch out for their own Black-And-Whites:, the most feared of all. The little demons that issue tickets even without stopping you, or any contact. God help the poor driver following that minivan with the health-conscious mom that tosses out the half finished pack of donettes... the buggers smell that rich, chocolate caked pastry from miles away, diving in like TV cops on a box of full-sized donuts, tail raised to let all know, you interfere with our investigation of this littering, we will tag your vehicle beyond redemption of several power-washes. And no make or model is safe from their vigilance, even the light rail trains carry the citations they issue, as any nose can tell.

Yes, beware the Wild Ones.... the ultimate terrorists, who can dive through windshields, serve their own home search warrants and against whom there is no legal recourse!
Take heed, folks, those critters are up to something, their "Chatter" is up....

Guillotine Jim's Tale - A ghostly poem from a few years back

Gather close my kin, lean in to the fire
as I tell this tale of woe and the wages of sin
for Washington Irving's tale of the horseman
can only hold a dim candle indeed to this yarn
of the fate of Guillotine Jim the gangster ghost
who is damned to wander in Hell's fires forever
brought low by the curses of many young girls
whose ponies he defiled to scare them senseless.

Now Jim was the one you hear the tales of
who did the deed few would confess to
of chopping of the heads of many lil' Flicka's
and leaving them on preteen girls beds as omens
to their daddies to keep their mouths shut
about what they had seen or heard in bars
when drinking beneath their station to find
some silly floozie to take the place in bed
of the frigid wives they had married in haste
or over bad gambling debts they could not pay.

After decades of ruling the streets of the Big Apple
with his chainsaw and the heads of too many mares
he chopped into the wrong thoroughbred herd
and made enemies with a wicked coven of girls
who had found the paths of darkness in grimoires
better left unmentioned, untouched, and forgotten
Those gals had been scarred by Jim's evil in their souls
and sold them to Satan without a single regret
for the revenge of which you are about to be told

Satan heard the offers, and took their souls,
and for once held up his end of the bargain
heading out to the pastures of Sheol to find
the stallion of midnight's darkest moments.
He loped off its head and sent it to gather in
a sinner long unrepentant for his actions
and torture him with his own worst fears
to keep the souls of thirteen young pure hearts
to quench his lusts in forever and ever.

The beast had screamed when its pate was torn
from his sleek shadowy neck that night
and tore off as charged to gather up a rider
and take down to meet his damnation
Fire blazed up from that trachel exposed
as he trod the avenues and alleys searching
for the man who destroyed little girls' hearts
to bring him down to his proper level.
Night after night, once the hunt began
Jim lived in fear of being caught by the beast
for on his first glimpse of that ghostly creature
he knew it was crafted to be his fitting end.

At last after months, the horse caught the mobster
and kicked him out of his seat in some bistro
before a crowd that stampeded out in fear
as the headless stallion claimed his rider
by tossing Jim aboard its razor spined back
to be cut in a million places dear to the man
who soon was sheathed in Hell's fiery blaze
to scream in fear as borne along the roads
he had taken his own prey down in days before
to chop their heads off in Central Park
leaving the bodies to rot, and leaving the heads
in the beds of innocent young children.

They say the Stallion took him deep into Hades
others claim he rides the plains of Purgatory
I heard a tale he races in Newark against bullet bikes.
But all know his fate, and reason the mobs stopped
leaving the pates of ponies in beds these days
As Guillotine Jim still does ride at the head of the parade
every All Hollow's Eve for now and eternity
leading thirteen girls who sold their souls to see
him burn in hell for harming their ponies
down to damnation for ever more.

2010- Dyfedd Rex