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

That the tiny bells working so hard above Roy’s insouciant
head have proved themselves ineffectual here at the Wailing Wall
should by no means be taken as proof that their power is a myth.
Instead, it might be asserted that the evil residing herein at the
Wailing Wall is so intense that their feeble plaint is overwhelmed
and muted, not merely unheard.
ting-a-ling ting-a-ling
For, it is a well known—if oft forgot—fact that music was
invented by Satan to lure people’s minds away from God. Here,
in the Twenty-first Century, so many people have traveled down
this path that, for some lost souls—such as Roy’s—music has
become a substitute and replacement for God.
That great, gentle Rocker, Little Richard, once confessed: “I
was directed and commanded by another power. The power of
DARKNESS. The power of the DEVIL.”
May it please the court that the music played at the Wailing
Wall be entered as evidence of his assertion.
The man behind the counter does not notice Roy. He is
distracted, screaming into the telephone.
“Yeah? Yeah? Well, eat me, you fuckin’ bitch!”
The man behind the counter has long, black, wavy locks that
rain down and end in peroxided tips. Like Roy, he also wears
fingerless gloves. Only his are black leather adorned with spikes.
“If I don’t get my shit back TO-night, I’m gonna smoke you
and that that dyke, you fucked-up piece’ve shit!”
His arms are tattooed and spindly, as though little used,
except for holding telephones, shelving records and tapes,
dressing, feeding and manipulating himself, but not much more.
“Yeah, well stick it up your gawdamned ass, whore!”
His apparel is all black, with the exception of bold,
white letters on his tee-shirt that read: I FUCKED YOUR
GIRLFRIEND. A long, silver chain dangles from his belt, its
nether end attached to a brown wallet that protrudes from the
right, rear pocket of his skin-tight jeans.
His wrists are wrapped with silver-studded bracelets, and his
face is adorned with a Frank Zappa mustache.
As often as Roy has been inside the Wailing Wall—and he
is a frequent browser, if not buyer—he has never noticed the
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY