RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Monday, November 3

PP: Part Twenty Nine

An old black pick-up with flames painted on it! Roller derby revival where people drink PBRs! Red-speckled old-fashioned kitchen tables! Betty Page bangs on chubby chicks with forearm tattoos! Framed Johnny Cash album covers! Tattoo parlour proprieters! Dudes who used to like rockabilly in high school but mostly play Slayer nowadays! Awesome!

My truck is only a four-cylinder truck. I need to cut wood, but it's a 2-wheel-drive, four-cylinder, and gets stuck when I park near mud. I just got myself a chainsaw, and have a big dead tree still standing back in the abandoned goat pen, but my chainsaw's not big enough to take that thing down. Plus, I've never made trees fall before (other than wrecking into them once or twice), and I am a-feared of having the tree bonk my head into the ground like a cartoon. I have concussed myself a good number of times through hilarious recklessness, never to where everything went black-and-white, but plenty of times where I couldn't remember things or was stupid for an hour or day or week or whatever (might still be stupid for all I know, which wouldn't be enough if I was legit knocked stupid for good), and don't want to challenge giant growths of wood falling on my brain. The hardwood kitchen table is enough.

The dude who used to own this car is a glass man and was behind me the other day coming home. He used to also be one of the regulars at the Dew Drop Inn before it closed down when rich yankees bought it to not refurbish it and ruined the one good bar in town. They have a bar themselves, and it has the football games, which is a new thing to be so close to home (only ten miles away!), but still. Dew Drop Inn was danky perfection. Nonetheless, this car sat around forever, never driven, and for sale. One time, before we had washing machine and dryer, I was doing our family’s clothes at the laundromat one Sunday afternoon (Ms. Pac Man at that place was all mine, I had five of the top eight scores) and there was a super-hot Puerto Rican looking chick. This orange Porsche was outside that day and I falsely assumed the hot Puerto Rican looking chick whose pussy I really wanted to eat drove it. But no. Just some older drunkard guy, who looks to be northern in nature. One thing I do not like about my town is how there’s all these working class fuckfaces who are from Pennsylvania or New York or whatever. Go back to Africa, motherfuckers! Although, to be fair, the dude who owned this Porsche that never drove or moved for years, I’m pretty sure I drunkenly remember him having his birthday party at the bar one time, with his grandkids there and shit. Even if you’re from up north, coming to my neighborhood and taking my jobs and stealing my women, if you’ve been here long enough to have grandkids here too, and you make them come to a bar to give you a birthday cake, I guess you can’t be all that bad.

I would love to own a Race With the Devil machine like this. So classicly boxy and probably low-frills inside. Propane-powered good times await me and my children as I force them to take long trips to nowhere, where we get chased by Satanic sheriffs and brainwashed schoolchildren. We pull the awning out to relax, only to realize we are surrounded by death. The end. Actually, that’d be a great way to die, to be travelling in a dilapidated Winnebago and then killed ritualistically by secret Satanists.

No comments: