Crash Courses

I see this ad on televsion for Larry Larva's House of Carpets, out on Route 51. So it seems, a father and son team run the business, which I wouldn't know about because I don't go there, but my experience for the long haul has been you never get to see the clowns in the commercials. One of the two carpet sellers looks like he flew there on a rug. The other seems to have fished himself out of Loche Ness.

The commercial makes me dwell on that stone-in-the-shoe question to the effect of was Route 51 made of antimatter from the laying of it's first brick, or did the asphalt die, and it's soul went vamonose? Why does traffic itself seem like a neat line,in two directions, of witches flying on brooms? Used car lots grow along 51 like forsythia. Virtually nothing communicates a sense of love or caring.

Last year we got an influx of super large mosquitos that reminded of Larry Larva and his unsettling family enterprise. It's the comercials on television that put the hex on me, but I've been forced to drive Route 51 for reasons too ass to trouble telling, like some crown and bridge work, also this field study I did of some of the drinking places. There are no atractive people. No ethics. No good. It's as if everything has been installed like an Edison base light bulb to make a few shekels before the Apocolypse rolls up everyone's awnings. The skeeters were these slow moving, graceless flying twigs with a hypodermic stinger and disgusting wings, cracking into your windshield till you pray for a vagrant with bucket and squee-gee.

Holy mackeral, no sooner had I managed to wipe some of the squashed mosquitos from the wind shield, using just a white snot rag for chrisake, I'm pulled over in a parking lot outside the LaNauga Lounge, there's this big flashing sign you can pull anywhere with a trailer hitch, and there's Larry Larva, looking just like he does on television, except he has an Elmer Fudd hat. So did I, which is a rat fuck coincindence since I got mine at this outlet store in some other shitted up part of town. I swear it's the same hat.

I've never been in worse trouble, dear friends. Larry Larva has been calling me on the phone morning noon and night. He put a magnetized GPS device on my Kia Sedona so he could get a handle on my moves. Dear, I never dreamed that one eighth of a rug salesman's genes are for stalking. I wonder if he had, in the first place, been I guiding force, from a distance,in my decision to buy the red plaid hunting cap. Only now am I certain that certain hats summon the devil.

So I wake up inside a burgundy cargo van, barrelling down Route 51,with the two Larva men looking down at me. Critically. I'd been slipped a rohypnol in the LaNauga Lounge. Some acrylic bimbo,over-friendly, sure sign she works for the Larva clan. It's not just Larry and his son, Clootis, it's a whole network of blood kin to the Larva clan, and a whole ant farm of dumb yokels all answerable to the Larvas. It's crude, dynastic, but it keeps large families secure in tiny cramped row houses. Soon as I started coming to, Clootis put me out again with fat, hammy right fist. My ass was hurting.


Shit, they took turns throwing shovels of dirt in the hole I'm burried in. Behind a hot dog stand along hideous Route 51. I back sassed the Larva people, and they took the trouble to know their enemy. They did their home work. You must be meticulous to sell rugs. Now I'm gone.