[Carol kisses the last smoke from the joint, and she pops the last of it into her maw, masticates it, twists up her lips, opens them to let out some sweet smoke. She smiles. And then she grabs the topmost capital off the pile that rests at upstage right corner of DePlancher's desk. She spreads the capital out before her on the desktop]
[She motions to someone offstage left, raises a knuckle to one of her nostrils. She focuses on the capital]
So, we have Tom Howard's The Nexus Murders spread out before us. Let's just pray to Shiva right now and hope this capital is totally balls out.
[The guy from offstage left scampers out and places a mug of dark-beaned coffee at Carol's elbow. Carol slaps his shoulder]
[he pulls a pack of pall malls from his inside coat pocket, and he taps out a cigarette]
and I hate to say this, but i'd, on the downlow, love to be identified as a lit zine sans sci-fi and fantasy. prose, here, might include horror and regular old twisted lit. my thoughts. I come across sci-fi and I am a very difficult positive result, folks. i'm sorry, it's me, it's not you. though, by my narrowing of our view, we'd be limited, I mean, shit, VC's would send in historical dramas and reconstructions, and, god vomit a penis into a ripped asshole, romance. no, no. we can't narrow our vision. we'll take it all.
[he swan vestas the tip of the pall mall, sucks in some sweet smoke, exhales]
regardless, Jay Caselberg's Memories of Home just did not fucking cut the mustard, bitches.
[doomey pulls out his iPhone and thumbs his podcast app]
I must get back to Dumb Gay Politics. one of those awesome ladies got all Judge Judy on that wax puppet Pence. golden. we are in so much trouble, public. we are Germany and Trump is Hitler. those poor poor fuckers trapped in those death camps on the border of Mexico. but...
[doomey pours himself a good pour]
[he grabs the topmost capital off the pile gathered on the corner of the Cherrywood. he spreads it out before him. he takes a sip of amber]
okay, fuckers. we have the marvelous Lisa Shapter's Planet 51.
[doomey lowers his head. he is really not into the whole sci-fi thing]
[doomey's really gone deep, focused for hours on this damn capital, eyeballed it, cupped its balls in his hand, whispered sweet things in its ears. he did his best. he sits up and taps out a pall mall]
I wanted another Terminal. I did. but, wow.
[doomey swan vestas the tip of the pall mall, sucks in some sweet smoke]
Planet 51 does not excite me. it sort of meanders through some sci-fi scenes, familiar shit, and then it shrugs its shoulders, moves on to another scene we've all seen before. we are going to Porthole this capital. Martin Zeigler. and I must emphasize that it's being Portholed because of the lack of style, rather than plot or craft. style, style, fucking style people! fuck the story. we've all stories, and most of them are boring as fuck. tell your story with style, you've got something, eh?
[doomey crumples up the current capital and tosses it to Carol]
Porthole that shit, sister. Martin Zeigler.
[doomey sucks on the fabulous tube, he leans back in the pilot's chair]
[Carol snags the ball of capital, and she shoves it into the drawer, and she shoves the drawer shut]
Done, Boligard. Lisa Shapter's Planet 51 has been Portholed.
[Carol rolls back, gathers her current capital, and she stands]
[Carol laughs. She sets her shoulders. She crumples the current capital between her fists, and she twists the capital]
I won't say bad things. I won't say horrible things. Martin Zeigler. But Matias's Liebestod does not meet our needs, children, at this time. It's pretty bad, but I don't want to say that, out loud. But, fuck, why do people craft when they've no fucking iota of craft nuggets. Nuggets. Hm.
[She tosses the capital beneath her wheels. Carol gets out her kit]
Matias Travieso's Liebestod has been Portholed, Martin Zeigler, fucker.
[doomey's been examining Pat Callaghan's Desert Skies for maybe half an hour, or maybe twenty-seven minutes, might have been twenty-three minutes. we are not sure exactly how long he's been examining the capital. but, write it down, we know for certain he has been examining the current capital. it's spread out on the cherrywood's desktop, and pages have been flicked and flopped and turned and shifted. doomey pulls a bottle of amber from a drawer and pours himself a couple fingers. he tosses the amber back. he winces, and then he breathes deep. he leans back in the pilot's chair]
good satan, this cap is god awful.
[he gathers it up and looks at his desk drawers for the Porthole. there is not a Porthole in his desk]
fuck my ass.
[doomey wads up the current capital, and he throws it to the pulsating glass tiles with an attitude of WTF. the capital settles after rolling, and it steams, like a potsticker. doomey raises and looks over the desk's edge at the steaming capital. he twists his lips]
might just fucking work.
[he sits grabs up the next capital off the top of the pile situated upstage right on the cherrywood's desktop. he spreads it out on the desktop. he eyes it]
we got Owen Van Delst's A Cold Day in Hell. god damn, the title makes my nipples hard.
[Carol has been examining The "I" is for Idiocy. She smoked only two joints during the examination, so she's pretty cognoscente. I mean, maybe an editor at some other 'zine who hadn't smoked that much weed might be more awake, but whatever the fuck]
Andrew crafted a capital, and it just doesn't make us smile.
[Carol shakes her head]
We're in serious mud, folks, if we don't receive Goodstuff real fucking soon, bitches.
[She thumbs in Lack of Afro's Take it Up A Notch]
Hamilton's Idiocy has been Portholed.
[She gathers up the capital throws it to the pulsing tiles. It melts and boils]
wow. god damn. is there someone we can call? this VC is fucked in the head. I examined it multiple times, trying to figure out the angle, but there is no angle. this VC is fucked in the head, and so....
[doomey shoves the capital off the cherrywood's desktop to the pulsing glass tiles. it goes all aflame]
yeah. this capital is all Portholed, sisters. damn. we might seriously need to call someone. like someone at the Pentagon.
[doomey grabs the freshest capital off the pile of capital on the corner of the Cherrywood. he spreads it before him]
we've got Charlie Fish. and a capital labeled Second Place. okay. this guy's name is Fish. that's fucking crazy.
[he leans in, taps out a pall mall, swan vesta's it. he smokes for a fucking while. examining. he turns his head, twists his lips]
wait a fucking minute, amigo. it's an awkward examintion. but, dang this might be tight.
[he examines some more. he smokes. he scratches his eyebrow. after a good half hour doomey slaps his palm down on the layered capital]
I was so going to Porthole this bitch.
[he gets to his feet, gathers up the capital and he goes over to the wardrobe and climbs atop it, and he grabs the closest rafter and climbs up onto it. he slow walks along the beam till he comes up on a support he can climb up on, and he continues upward]
Charlie Fish's Second Place is getting fucking Terminaled.
[Carol thumbs in The Outlaw Ways by Hank 3 and David Allen Coe. She looks up at rafters. She sees Boligard's ass disappear]
Are you fucking kidding me!
[Carol shakes her head, pissed, throws her fists. She thumbs the remote, changing the song to Get Outta My Life, Hank 3 and Coe, bitches. Carol kneels down before DeP's desk and grabs the bottom edge. She hesitates. She stands. She get out her kit]
I was going to thrash DePlancher's desk. I was.
[She rolls herself a really nice joint]
Mean the fuck while, Jeff Warren's Do Some Damage is getting all Portholed, sisters.
[She rolls up the current capital and she shoves it into the drawer, and she shuts the drawer. And she lowers her chin, and she twists her lips]
[doomey drops down from the rafters, his ankles wrapped, his chest wrapped in surgical wrappings, his throat just slightly oozing blood but...he approaches the Cherrywood]
do not go up there, cousins.
[he pulls some capital from his pocket]
oh, and we're letting Ritchie's Awake in Fiction go Porthole. and you all really need to not worry about this one. honest dog poop.
[he takes a page from the capital and makes a quick, crude origami swan. he places it on the desktop. he grabs up the next page and he oragamies a buffalo. the next he oragamies a bore. the next a salesman. the next a really nice looking lamp. the next, a difficult one, a six-pack of beer. the next a bust of an old black fella smoking a pipe. the next one he makes into a baseball signed by Edgar Martinez. that's pretty difficult. next he makes a chessboard complete with all pieces. how the fuck? next he makes a duck. he sits back in the pilot's chair, raises his hands like he's pointing a pistol, and he blasts away each oragamied ornament]
yep, yes sir. s'been Portholed.
[he blows the smoke the hovers over his fingertip. he leans in, grabs the bottle of amber from the desk drawer, and he pours himself and Carol a good pour. he holds a tumbler out to Carol]