Billy Gilardi has a school year to save his neighborhood from gangsters from another dimension. Welcome to Normal Avenue.
"At three forty five in the morning, Billy woke up when a loud set of sci-fi laser sounds began blasting around in his room. Billy thought it might have been a dream but the alarm clock numbers were correct so he couldn’t be asleep. The sounds intensified so loudly that it felt as though his eardrums were just at the melting point. He began to scream but couldn’t hear himself.
All at once the sound stopped and a screen appeared in the room floating in mid-air. An image quickly focused itself and a distorted far away voice was coming from it. The image began to look like an older white man, an older white man still with an impressive pomp of white hair and blazing green eyes, an older white man that looked a lot like Billy if he was old. Then it looked exactly like Billy if he was old.
“HOLY SHIT!” Billy screamed at the screen.
“Hahah, holy shit is right you little bastard. Look at you, hahaha, you’ve never even had your dick wet yet,” Old Billy was wearing some sort of black military jumpsuit but the background was too hard to distinguish.
“Wait, am I dead?” Billy asked his older self.
“Naw kid, you’re very much so alive, in fact your life is critically important to me, I need you to do something for me ok, I don’t have a lot of time.” Old Billy kept looking off to his left and there seemed to be a rising concern in his voice every time that he did.
“Hold on, if time travel works circularly, then you would have already seen this message when you were young, so whatever you need me to do is already going to happen—or get screwed up—and force me to make this message. Or maybe time works like a mirror affect where things splinter off into many different types of futures where-“
“Shut up you little shit, I don’t have time! You have to take care of Suzy, you have to find the Codex, and this is super fucking important so don’t forget it, you ready?”
Billy nodded at himself, “You have to stop…” and then the message cut out and the screen disappeared. Billy couldn’t sleep after that. He looked in the mirror and the image there was no longer this hated face of disgust it had been for so long, he nodded at himself for the second time that night, and laid out his clothes; tomorrow was a big day.”
Hey tumblr humans! I really love our strange picture based relationship in which I know a ton about you without ever actually speaking to you. It’s fantastic. However now I have to try and con you for a very good reason: my book! Maybe you like my writing, maybe you like books about funny, epic, weird things, or maybe, just maybe you have too much money because you are super rich. Whatever the reason come pre-order yourself a super sweet, limited edition, holographically embossed (not true…yet) copy of my novel: Normal Avenue.
If you hate it you can punch me in the face but you won’t.
He came up and asked me for a smoke.
Out on the monument while the stars or satellites or whatever
blossomed out of the dark in to gray line embers at the end of cigarettes.
He said drink this. I drank it but not because he told me too. I drank it because I was tired of my own brain. Then he said come back to my house to get high. To smoke. To snort. To fuck his older sister while he played with her son.
He said it from the other side of the street with a voice that shakes you awake just as you fall asleep. Ever feel like your stumbling in bed he says as he lights his smoke and grins. He smells like gasoline and pine. His voice is in the train rumbling. I can barely hear him now.
Bill Zenith sat on the curb in the last gasps of the twentieth century wearing a silverchair t-shirt. His hair was long but shaved underneath. His leather jacket had belonged to his father, the one who had been a founding cast member of the international terror show Blackwater. At some point someone transferred six million dollars into Bill’s bank account and then he got a letter saying that his father was dead somewhere in Somalia. Bill started smoking that day, it was also the day Chris Farley died, it was also the first day that Bill ever saw someone wear JNCO jeans. He watched a white kid with dreads strut on the other side of Milwaukee Ave, in broad daylight no less, wearing only what appeared to be an amish skirt made of denim split in two and a wife-beater. A toothless old homeless lady, looked at the kid like he was an alien and her unlit half cigarette fell out of her mouth.
Bill looked at his busted old Levi’s torn at the knees and crotch. Thought about the coming fashion, and laughed to himself. Bill went back to his Ravenswood Academy, his boarding school in Bucktown, which he had escaped from that day, but no one had noticed. Becca Kimberly was waiting for him. She said hello and she said cigarette and lips and jokes and smile and girl smells and thighs and feathers in her raven hair and why don’t we slip away and yes and yes and yes of course. So Bill went with her down the block of Normal Ave where she lived. She asked Bill if he could tell which one was her house without ever having been there. It only took Bill a moment to reach out and to hear the decrepit old red brick row house mansion of sorts coo at him like a nuzzling owl.
Bill pointed and she kissed him. He followed behind mostly trying hard not to stare at her ass but he did anyway. The house instantly swallowed Bill. It was a house for Rockefeller if he was secretly Dracula. A house that dripped in wealth and archaic Victorian taste. How? How in the fuck? Bill asked with his mouth constantly open. The Kimberlys are a very old family she said, very very old. We’ve lived on this block before it was Chicago. How can that be Bill asked? But Rebecca was already up the stairs, laughing and sprinting.
Bill caught up to her in a room he assumed to be her bedroom but none of the furniture was from this century. How could a seventeen year old girl live without a cd player he thought, but she was already against him, her warmth slithering itself inside of him as the wetness of her kiss soldered him into her. She wanted to show him something, something wonderful something that would cheer him from his father. Something that would be the start of a whole new life.
She took him to the attic. A place of creaking floor boards, feathers, dust, and a single massive armoir. The armoire had extention cords running from. An electric armoire? what in the fuck Bill wheeled but Becca was not alone now. Ten figures in black robes stood with her.
One asked Becca if “Bill was any good?”
Becca said “he’s the best I’ve ever seen”.
She took the dagger from her belt and drove it into Bill’s stomach. “You dick” was the best Bill had to rebuttal. They descended on him; some for his arms, some for his legs one for his hair, all holding him to the face the armoire which now was beginning to laugh in hideous tones behind the rattling door. Becca took his blood smeared it over his lips and drove her kiss into him like a stake. Then she held his face to the armoire, opened the lock letting blue light poured for its doors, and Bill’s beautiful auburn hair went snow white as his future exploded from a piece of antique furniture.
I see all the old molding
on the facades;
bright and glowing
and I think about the people who used to live there,
used to love here,
with their smiling eyes
as they danced in sweaty bars
and laughed at jokes in the street
and lit fireworks for no reason.
I hear them sometimes
on the back stairs
creeping sadly into the basement
or looking in the windows
to places they knew
by different names.
I look at the toddlers
dressed as adults;
drinking and gnashing and shouting
karaoke at the top of their lungs.
Just seconds away from making out
to breed more waves of crap
and I pretend to remember what
the fuck I’m doing here.
I have decided under a great deal of mental duress, and by a great deal I mean almost none, that I will now use my tumblr for a new and bold reason. You may be asking, “What? What could it be? Sweet fucking Kirsten Dunst tell us what it is you sick ass clown bastard!”. You may be saying that, most likely you are just trying to take a picture of your own butt with an iphone, which was what I initially going to do with that blog but then I decided that I would instead write crappity crap and put up pictures of my own taking which no one in the history of tumblr has ever done.From here on out the only reblogs I will toss into the internet ether will be from other writers and possibly drunk people I live with here in Chicago. Otherwise I’m going full tilt original content. “Who gives a shit about you? You’re a dickface and your poems are for weiners.” You may be saying. And you might be right but you should still listen to me because I am a doctor. I am your doctor and you should listen to me. Do drugs.