“How comfortable are you with crazy ’cause I got my feet up smoking a cigar baby and I just failed my ninth Rorschach test?”

Part 1: Out of Network

Dr. Sadhill’s Office

Joy, Joy, Joy,

can’t play in the sandpit nicely anymore,

what a shame—

Sending your little pigs to do something

You could never do anyway—

Write well.

You thought you were a wolf,

yet that little den you called a mansion

blew down before the mortar could dry

exposing the weak and spineless swine you really are.

With no mask to hide behind,

no fake fur to pretend,

now look at you,

spreading the flu,

infecting the searchers of souls,

the broken and malleable,

and the easy-to-confuse,

but that’s what you do, isn’t it?

Taking advantage like a disease,

you’re Haram,

and you’re no different from any other hog,

rolling around in your shit,

sending it flying through the air

while you throw your meaningless fit.

Keep thrashing about while no one cares,

cause you’ll soon be forgotten anyways.

It’s not our fault you quit.

Before you strain yourself in your old age,

trying to build enough breath to take down my piggery

sit back and relax,

because it’s I who will be doing the blowing,

and trust me I can fucking blow!

If you want to see me in full destruction mode,

remember this,

I’ll take myself out too just to win.

I’ll sacrifice the king just to kill the queen,

and I’ll wear every pawn in my path as body armor.

I am the definition of a Phoenix,

and I have done it thrice before,

bringing the force of Tsar with me,

I have no more fucks to give!

…but before I do

I recommend asking another Doctor for a second opinion.

Part 2: Always Get a Second Opinion-

Dr. Jennison’s Office

The clinic door’s part

a referral in hand.

“Let me see what you have,”

the receptionist demands.

She looks up at you

eyes twisted and confused.

“Are you ok?”

“Off your meds again today?”

“Is another one of you coming out to play?”

“You seem befuddled.”

“Let’s see if the doctor is in

so, he can check your head

before it’s too late.”—

’Before it’s a straitjacket and pills

for the rest of your days.”

“Please take a seat

he’ll be with you right away.”

The intercom sounds

over speakers echoing down

darkened frigid hallways—

"Calling Dr. Jennison, Dr. Eriabas Jennison to 73.”

He steps into the room marked with a number

reminiscent of that special day in Garwin.

He checks your chart

and struggles to find any beating in your heart.

The prognosis isn’t good.

“Ma’am you’re Bi-O-degrading

and shortlisting the Polar opposite of Alive,

so, I am forced to prescribe,

permanent rest in a bed

dirt-lined and divine,

but it’ll be you who decides when it’s time.”

“A couple of questions,

before you get this filled.”

Would the great Adam or Mary endorse

this blood being spilled?

Are Steve and Lizzy

squirming in their graves

watching their precious daughter misbehave—

Nearly seventy-two

and just now acting out her terrible twos?

July ninth is coming so soon.

“How does it feel

to be overwhelmed with the blues

celebrating underinflated geriatric balloons?

At your age,

I’d expect the cake to give you heartburn.

So, eat up you miserable buffoon.

Tapping his pen upon his lips

The Doctor’s thoughts were deep and thick.

He never likes to let it slip, so, he just asked,

“How do you say Ima knock out your tooth?”

“I know I’m not a dentist,

but does subtracting a Zero from the world make it Toth,

and is that how cavities are removed?”

Unless of course it grows too deep—

Going that far requires RCT,

The root canal is pulled out and killed.

After all the nerve must die,

but again, I’m no dentist.

It’s just the pill I prescribe.

Part 3: The Padded Pigsty for the Uninsured.

…You’ve been here all along.

Turned away

with no insurance to pay

You’re dropped off

at the Looney Bin

Where a stolen name is an unoriginal sin

and you’re smiling happily,

but you live that reality of two faces split.

Isn’t that an Apple file manager

or a TV Show that never amounted to shit?

It’s funny how managing anything

is not quite your strength,

like your businesses,

your sanity,

perhaps your meds were thrown down the sink.

That’s how you ended up here

strapped to a bed next to me,

or am I in your head?

Perhaps it’s insanity.

See, not all wine becomes finer with age—

Some turn rancid and decrepit,

and some have always been tasteless and bitter.

The kind of shit people sip up

only because of the label that was slapped on it,

but deep down everyone knows it’s trailer park piss.

I know trailer park shit when I see it

because I am it.

See, the differences between you and me are,

I’m comfortable living in this ghetto,

surviving among the grunge,

and I prefer being spread-eagle front porch nude,

I don’t care who sees my wang

’cause there Ain’t much to see.

So, let’s make it dirty.

I am a pig in shit too baby,

and I’ll be rolling just like you—

Hell, I’m next to you,

and if we’re gonna be roommates in this padded barn

at least make the conversations interesting.

You’ll settle in fine,

I know crazy is confusing, but give it time.

I know ordering your personality off the dollar menu isn’t sublime,

but how ’bout an upgrade this time?

Want a new face on the side

to match that personality change for an extra buck?

Hey, while you're ordering grab me something.

I’ll take a number 2

and I’ll smear it all over Iowa.

and I’ll take a side of whatever pig you send my way.

The Calamitous Demise of Deer Creek

To put it succinctly, the people of Deer Creek rued the day they crossed Eriabas Jennison. For had they known on that hot, dusty August day in 1868 what lay in wait for them, they might never have wronged a man like him.

Eriabas Jennison had shown up in Deer Creek with many other young, exuberant settlers in the wild, lush Dakota territories. No stranger to prejudice, Eriabas Jennison walked to the bank, his black skin drawing the eyes of the curious residents, his smile easy and loose, his stride sure and savvy. Having purchased a sizable property outside of the city, Eriabas Jennison took his lease, left the bank, headed out of town, ignoring the whispers and looks, and began his dream of farming land and raising turkeys.

Not one day later, the sheriff of Deer Creek, a fair and even-tempered man christened Arne Kirk, came to pay a friendly visit to the newest resident of the community. No doubt prodded and poked to do so by some of the concerned residents of Deer Creek, concerned over a new stranger living so close, concerned over how he had obtained the money to purchase his turkey farm, concerned over whether or not Eriabias Jennison might not be one of them, meaning a Lutheran.

The sheriff’s visit lasted only an hour; Eriabas Jennison welcomed him with that easy, loose smile, toured him around the farm, showing him where the turkeys would stay, the foundations of the barn where they would rest and winter, the vegetable and fruit gardens, and the future patch of soil for wheat. While others had tried to make a go of this unarable land, no one had been able to produce anything green from it until Eriabas Jennison showed up. The sheriff smiled, agreed, and let his host do most of the talking over a cold beer. Eventually, Sheriff Kirk felt the warm comfort of alcohol and found the right moment to ask some questions. Turns out, Eriabas Jennison, born free in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, raised in the north, a recent widower, and dreaming of going west, had finally fulfilled his promise to himself and his beloved late wife, right there in Deer Creek. The sheriff invited him to join them that Sunday for church, to which Eriabas Jennison readily agreed, shaking the sheriff’s hand, thanking him for the neighborly invitation, and asking what he could bring to eat for after the sermon. Scratching his head, Sheriff Kirk suggested some sweet confectionery, perhaps a fruit pie or two, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble. Shaking his head with that irrepressible grin, Eriabas Jennison agreed, shook his hand, and walked him back to his horse.

As it turns out, it was Prudence Kirk, the sheriff’s wife, who had made the biggest fuss over Deer Creek’s newest denizen. Having grown up in the Deep South, she retained a certain disposition towards people like Eriabas Jennison, a disposition that grew sour with age like wine turning to vinegar, a disposition polluted by tainted thoughts that had propelled her husband to action.

Unbeknownst to men like sheriff and Eriabas Jennison, that Sunday was also the annual pie bake off, and Prudence Kirk had again entered her grandmother’s blackberry cobbler, having brought home the blue ribbon four years running, during which time she never let anyone forget it. So losing the annual church pie bake off contest that July to Eriabas Jennison’s prize-winning and mouth-watering Cherries Jubilee, with its light, flaky crust that begged to be cut into, with its sweet softened cherries cooked to perfection, with its tangy aftertaste lingering before vanishing like the last snatches of a vivid dream upon waking, well, lit a fire under her.

Angrier than a wet hen, Prudence clucked and chatted and questioned her knitting circle and church group and neighbors and frankly anyone unlucky enough to be within hearing range of her. How could we trust him, she demanded to know of everyone, how do we know he’s telling us the truth? What if he’s some runaway or a murderer? Shouldn’t we run him out of town first? How could someone acquire fresh cherries here in the middle of nowhere unless he was hiding something? Was he in league with the Devil Himself?

While at first the residents of Deer Creek grumbled or smiled politely back at Prudence’s badgering, her words had hidden a pernicious idea that wound its way into the winding consciousness of the town like a snake curling up around an unsuspecting mouse; it coiled its scales of hatred and suspicion, smothering common sense, strangling the air of truth out of its prey, until at last the dam broke one dusty August day.

After hardly a month, the town of Deer Creek had, bit by bit, turned its back on its neighbor, envying his success, coveting his wealth, hating him for his endless good luck, cursing him for his Cherries Jubilee; this progressed to cheating him at the general store, reducing the water flow to his farm by rigging irrigation systems, and whispering to one another behind cupped hands whenever Eriabas Jennison was in town. They were telling him to leave in every way they could imagine without coming out and saying it to his face. Not even Prudence Kirk would take on such brazen effrontery. Not that they had to. Not a fool in town could see the way the wind was blowing in Deer Creek.

No fool himself, Eriabas Jennison rode into town, his dappled mare kicking up fine dust, his hat lowered to cover his expression, his demeanor of someone defeated. People mostly agreed later that Prudence Kirk had exclaimed that she had never felt so close to God in that moment, crying with joy that she had expelled the mote from her eye. The mare came to a halt midway in the street. The town residents crept out of their houses, clung to their porches like timid shadows, eager to see but reluctant to approach.

After most of the town had slunk outdoors, all eyes were resting on Eriabas Jennison on his dappled mare. The wind whistled through the now still town, stirring up dust, and wafting an acrid odor that made the Sheriff’s arms turn all goosepimply in fearful anticipation. Then Eriabas Jennison lifted his head, and spoke to the town in a clear, loud voice that rang through the still streets and burrowed into the hearts of the residents of Deer Creek.

”You all,” he began, “are my neighbors. I thought that we could be, at least. I came here, I spent my money at your stores, I lived here, and I farmed land. I sold you my crops. I even went to your church and brought you my late wife’s favorite dessert. You all have treated me with suspicion and hatred for who I am, claiming to be good Christians. You all are cowards hiding behind Jesus. Not a lick of it wouldn’t have happened, I reckon, had Prudence Kirk not started it all.”

It was at this moment, everyone agreed later, that Prudence Kirk strode out into the dusty street, her dark blue chenille dress rustling like a preening peacock, and shouted at Eriabas Jennison, who had done her no wrong.

”Get thee behind me, Satan!” spat Prudence Kirk, crossing herself, spitting at the man on the horse, glaring with equal parts of hatred and triumph.

”Ma’am”, he retorted, dipping his head and lifting his eyes to look at her, “if anyone here is Satan, it’s you. Here’s my proof.”

He held aloft a book, tattered and worn, covered in a faded red, with one word printed on the cover in what appeared to be 24 carat gold: Prudence.

“You turned the town against me, Prudence Kirk. So, Deer Creek, allow me to read to you how Prudence Kirk honestly thinks about you.” Over her screams and jumping up to snatch the book from his hands, he continued. “In church today, we had to listen to a sermon so boring it would make Jesus himself weep, and weep he would have, having smelled cheap wine on Minister Johnson’s breath. Far worse though, was Mabel Littleton’s breath, which resembles the back end of a goat, which would be an improvement over her face.” This went on and on as he read through pages, and with each page neighbors, one by one, turned their backs to Prudence Kirk, who was wailing like an angry, wet cat. He turned the page, paused, and glanced up at her face, rife with fury, and read calmly. “And, once again, I had to poke my elbow into my husband’s side to keep him from drifting into slumber and snoring during the sermon. Lord, what I would not give…” he looked back down at Prudence Kirk, who stared back into his eyes with a rage that purpled her face, and he read the last part out slowly, deliberately, damningly, “…for a husband who didn’t have the ambition, backbone, and manhood of a seven year old boy.”

With that, he closed the book, handed it to her, and rode out of Deer Creek for good. The sheriff left his wife, preferring to sleep in a jail cell than in a bed with her. Each resident later found a freshly slaughtered turkey, a farewell gift from their former neighbor. Each resident later found ways to avoid speaking to Prudence Kirk. Each resident later held her responsible.

Much to Prudence’s shock and eventual dismay, and in no small part owing to his intelligence, charisma, and drive, Eriabas Jennison worked his way into one of the railroad companies now stretching metal tentacles across the country like enormous octopuses; he became instrumental working behind the scenes to guide the decisions as to which towns in the Dakota territories should make it on the railways and which should not. The residents of Deer Creek took the rejection well enough, but it was clear to everyone there that this was the beginning of the end.

In a few short years, the town was abandoned, left to the packs of wild animals, the clusters of rustling tumbleweeds, and the choking dust; abandoned, forgotten, destroyed.

To put it succinctly, the people of Deer Creek rued the day they crossed Eriabas Jennison.

It was the trial of the millennium: the People of Deer Creek vs Eriabas Jennison. After the defense rested, the jury retired to consider the verdict. That was over 30 years ago and, as far as anyone knew, they were still there. No hung jury. No mistrial. Not even an inability to agree on a verdict--just the inability to do it in a reasonable amount of time.

Jennison's attorneys, the law firm of Goatsky and Lambsky, were not very good at trying defense cases, but they were considered geniuses at picking juries. They leaned heavily on the unemployable who had everything to gain in making $50/day-- indefinitely.

The latest Journal of The Professional Lawyer magazine reported that there were over 120 trials still in deliberation under the Goatsky and Lambsky representation--hundreds of jurors in endless deliberation.

It was easy work. In air-conditioning. Breakfasts lunches, and even hot suppers whenever recesses came later in the day. They were sequestered at the layers' insistence at the local 4- or 5-star hotel in town. With room service and bar fridges. They were always going to crime scenes in fancy air-conditioned motor coaches.

No one quite knows how they pulled it off, but there were even some jurors sitting in on more than one trial deliberation session at a time, which qualified them for time-and-a-half overtime. Goatsky & Lambsky--G&L--often went on month-long vacations when their juries began to deliberate. Goatsky had even taken a cruise around the world at one point; Lambsky had undergone chemo and radiation for cancer during that time, too. Still, the jury remained "out."

In the case of Eriabus Jennison, he had been indicted on conspiracy charges, which is the way prosecutors can catch people when they don't really have any actual evidence. In Jennison's case, he was accused of conspiring to be a Public Enemy.

That's it.

Not even Eriabus knew what he had--or had not--done. Sure, everyone knew he had hired all those mimes in town, but they weren't talking. Not under oath, anyway. And, yes, Eriabus had violated several sodomy laws in the privacy of his own home, but he was alone, thus creating the need to charge him with "Conspiracy between him and unnamed others," which is a real thing.

He had even been blamed for the serial murders of those at the hands of someone he was in a previous life. The defense had claimed he had paid back his debt to society, having been on death row several times in previous lives, sat in that chair or gotten that injection or taken the bullets of the firing squad--you name it, he'd suffered it. He had paid.

"In full!" Goatsky had bellowed and been fined $150 for contempt of court.

For his part, Eriabus just sat at the defense team table and glared at the jury members. There was something threatening about it. When they had risen and retreated to the deliberations room, they were all double-jointed with their tails between their legs.

Eriabus spoke for the last time. "Take yer time, fellas," he said, directed at these miserable losers.

Now it's been three decades, and all of the jurors are multimillionaires due to jury pay accruing, being set aside, and placed in interest-bearing accounts. One juror had even completed online night school to become an HVAC tradesman but had never been hired as such.

This is why all of the networks had swarmed to the courthouse when it was announced, incredulously, what had never been expected: "The jury has reached a verdict."

It didn't go Eriabus' way.

Lambsky had arranged his release on his own recognizance and spoke with him on the way out of the court building, now under renovation for the third time since the trial had begun. Goatsky had been dead over eight years by this time.

"What now," Eriabus asked.

"Well, Eriabus," Lambsky said with his Southern charm. "Lemme ask you something, if I could."

"Sure."

"How old are you?"

"Oh, I'm up there. Not the spry guy indicted thirty years ago."

"Yea," Lambsky agreed. "Last century, I believe."

"Hell, it was last Millennium."

"Yea, you're right, you're right."

"Anyway, I'm 76. And why is that important?"

"Well, the judge agreed to let you stay out while this thing is under appeal."

"That's great," Eriagus said with a laugh and a sputter and a hack or two.

"Yea, those take a long time to even work their way through the system. None of this speedy-trial bullshit anymore."

Eriaubus hugged Lambsky. Then he pulled away from him. "Those jurors..."

"Yes?"

"Am I responsible for their unemployment?"

"Unemployment?! Dang, Eriabus. We're talking pension for them. Me too."