Home > 2012-13 Season, Remonstrations of Fingers Rolly > Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part One)

Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part One)

February 15, 2013 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
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In the past few weeks, the world has become entranced by the writings of Association reporter Fingers Rolly.  And yet, I always found myself wanting more.  Who is Fingers Rolly?  What are his thoughts?  Can he even be known?

I made the long drive to the Lankville Desert Region to find out.

Fingers Rolly lives on a patch of desert surrounded by a natural arrangement of lovely pincushion cacti.  His home is a series of old aluminum trailers that have been shoved together in a fanciful manner, thereby creating a rather large structure.  There are the remnants of succulent gardens along one edge and a well-tended gravel walk but the land itself is cracked and brown, pulverized into dust by a relentless sun.

The road simply ends at Mr. Rolly’s rambling home; it goes no further.  A tremendous amount of dust kicks up as I pull to a stop.  Upon alighting from the car, I detect a strange sound that suddenly changes in timbre.  Whereas at first it had sounded mournful, now it sounds almost demonic.  I realize that it is the famous desert howling of Fingers Rolly.

Will he even answer the door? I ask myself.  “If he’s howling, you can forget about it,” said an anonymous source, whom I probed for information about the mysterious writer.  “You’ll have to try another day.”  But I am resolute.  I quickly change into a finely-tailored suit (I had been wearing some workout short pants and a lightweight shoulder harness) and make my way to what I presume to be the front door.

The demonic howling suddenly stops.  Nothing moves.  No sound can be heard from within.  “Fingers?” I call out.  I tap again at the door and it suddenly swings open.  I can perceive only shadows from within.

I enter a mysterious room.  There is a living room set (leather sofa and chair, cowboy motif) but large hand-painted plywood signs are stacked neatly against them.  I flip through the cracked and warped messages, clearly punished by the desert sun– NO!  GO AWAY!  LEAVE!  I DO NOT WANT YOU!  I cross to a bookshelf– more signs stacked on the dusty floor, more strange pleading edicts to persons unknown.

The howling comes again– this time low and somber.  I move towards it.  It is lighter here– a filthy kitchen stacked with old tins and bottles, covered with a deeper layer of dust.  And in a kitchen chair, I find the great writer.  He is shaking and moaning.  He almost appears to fall asleep at times, then suddenly bolts upright and lets loose a vile stream of profanity.

I gently put my hand on his shoulder and he turns around.  He is sweating and his clothing is filthy and ragged.  On the cluttered table before him, I find some stationary from a long-defunct hotel– Fingers Rolly is working on his latest article.

“Will you speak with me?” I ask.  I find a chair on the opposite side of the table.  There is an ancient transmission before me, resting on a yellowed newspaper.

“Didn’t you see the sign you…you little asshole?” he says in a voice that, I am immediately convinced, is possessed.

Before I can respond, he begins howling again, then cursing wildly.  This goes on for four hours straight.  As the light begins to fade, I interrupt and offer to prepare dinner.  Fingers looks up– his face seems his own now.  “Go ahead, you fucking asscake.  Who’s stopping you?”  He looks back to the window but I can tell he is grateful.

I search the dusty cupboards for our meal.

  1. Mandy
    February 15, 2013 at 9:49 am

    Hey Lankville! Don’t you want some hot women to engage in free fierce hill coitus with? Call Mandy at Lankville Hills 6412. (After 10PM).

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