volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

lobbied by lower thoughts, swell chest cavities with inhaled smoke
that diffuses across alveolar membranes, pass into pulmonary
capillaries, and stampede stoned hemoglobin to brains.
“Fuck.”
This comes, of course, from Rick, master of the monosyllabic
bon mot.
“Shit,” vouchsafes Jason, first runner-up.
Roy—replete from the groaning board, saturated with the
several beverages imbibed, and now thorougly stoned—has
nothing of substance to add.
The reigning quiet is interrupted in places by the bark of a
cough or an occasional, monosyllabic expletive.
Mel is the first to make a foray into sentence structuring.
“‘They bought me a box of tin soldiers, I threw all the
generals away. I smashed up the sergeants and majors, now I
play with my privates all day.’”
Rick’s doobie glows.
“Great dessert,” observes Jason, staring fixedly into the
flickering of a candle’s flame. “No trans-fats.”
Roy’s eyes droop.
Pete leans forward and removes Roy’s plate just as Roy’s head,
like an overheavy sunflower, thunks upon the linen-covered
tabletop.
“Almost innocent lamb,” appraises Mel.
While Jason continues to stare into the candle’s flame, Rick
recklessly kicks back his chair and staggers to his feet.
“Fuck.”
He sways as he walks towards the stairs, his favorite word
trailing behind.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Mel and Pete watch as he ascends, half-crawling, half-drawing
himself upstairs with the aid of a handrail.
Pete shakes his head.
“Kids today.”
Mel hoists the brandy bottle.
“Drinkie?”
Congenial Pete seems well disposed to Proposing Mel’s
proposal.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 11