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Royer’s Madcap Experiences: I, River Dick

June 2, 2016 Leave a comment

royerIt was a muddy, debris-choked tributary of a much greater but unseen river. Several greying, dilapidated highway overpasses blotted out the sun. The trees along the banks were dead and gangly. But someone wanted it protected. They decided I was the man.

I, River Dick.

My interview took place in a forlorn trailer, littered with trash. The foreman was decidedly obese– his fat rolls could not be contained by his undersized, cheese-stained sweatshirt. He sat behind an overflowing clothes hamper. I sat on a stool. I suspected he lived here.

“You ever do any river dicking before?”

“Nope.”

“You ever done any carnival work?”

“Once”.

“OK. It’s like that.”

I was hired on the spot and issued a bright yellow pantsuit and a revolver. The first day passed without incident.

On the second day, some droids attempted to fill their pails under the overpass. I confronted them.

“You can’t fill those pails here.”

A long series of computational beeps ensued. One of the droids issued a small, printed-out index card. It read, “CHEESE OFF, HUMAN.”

I didn’t think twice about it. I blew them all away and buried them beneath some rocks.

On the third day, the foreman called me in.

“Did you kill some droids?”

“Yep. You know what– I don’t even feel bad about it.”

“Well, some guys at the lab feel bad about it. And they’re making me feel pretty damn bad about it too.”

“They egged me on. They were asking for it,” I added. “You know it, I know it, they know it.”

“That’s fine,” he said, after a long silence. “We’ll cover it up. Just go back along the banks and make sure the parts are pretty well-hidden.”

I did as I was told. But the parts were gone. The rest of the day passed without incident.

On the fourth day, the foreman called me in again. As I was approaching the trailer, I noticed something odd. There were tracks there, made by rolling droids. They led off towards the woods. There was an overhang there, covered by odd brush that didn’t belong. It was a setup. I was being sacrificed.

I hotwired the foreman’s pickup and headed for Lankville Beach.

I, River Dick.

Royer on the End Times

February 18, 2016 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

ROYER’S MADCAP EXPERIENCES

News filters to the Home slowly. It was only yesterday at breakfast that Warden Jenness approached the lectern and asked for our attention. He then introduced Captain Greenscreams.

Captain Greenscreams placed both hands solidly down on the lectern. Indeed, the force nearly toppled the venerable wood structure but the Captain did not even blink. He surveyed us patients with a steely calm, turning his head only slightly as though blown by a gentle breeze. Then, he delivered the news of the approaching monstrous races. He took no questions.

Jenness, for some reason, began clapping. The Captain stopped him with an icy stare. Then, we watched him exit into the courtyard. We could see him light a cigarette through the high windows.

“Our thanks to Captain Greenscreams,” said the Warden, his command of the institution now shaken. “He took a moment from what is a busy time to come here and speak to us today.”

No further information was given and we were dismissed to our cells as normal.

I reflected upon the end times. My prevailing thought for many a year was that the world would cease its existence in a fiery shit-storm but I realize now how wrong I was. I realize now that the marching of the monstrous races, left undiscovered by man’s paltry efforts at exploration in the hills, provide a perfectly fitting terminus.

I would finish one final novel, I thought. I had thirty pages to go on Lum Csasa’s Fangs of Cement and then I would put down my reading, shed my clothing and contemplate in the buff how I would enter the afterlife. I would take no further sustenance, I would not permit the entrance to my cell of any religious figure, if offered.

I forgot about all this, of course, within a few hours time and I only remember it now upon waking in the morning. And now, it bores me, frankly.

Lankville Daily News Guide to Picking the Perfect Thanksgiving Day Outfit

November 25, 2015 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

HOLIDAY NEWS YOU CAN USE

Begin by understanding your Thanksgiving location beforehand. If you have never been there before, it will be important to case the house weeks in advance. Affect the persona of a gas and electric official, a salesman of tents, or one of those guys that solicits donations for pandas in order to have a better look. Pay close attention to doors and windows.

Avoid buying your outfit anywhere but at a large, suburban shopping mall. I generally skip the “poor” area of the mall and go straight for the luxury wing. Be sure to stop at the food court first though and loudly consume a meal rich with proteins. Be sure that at least one item you have ordered is a similar repeatable shape (you’ll see why). Complete your repast with a Cinnamon Buns. Order it “to go” and make sure the server gives you a wide basin (don’t them let tell you differently– THEY DO HAVE THEM).  This way, you can rip the Cinnamon Buns apart as you walk along and let the errant pieces drop into the wide basin. Sometimes, it’s best to order two or three.

You may at first be tempted to simply purchase one of the many shirts that says “Thanksgiving” across its front– don’t be fooled. This is merely a ploy by certain retailers to sell more shirts. Ignore it. If you have the means, reach into the display case and knock over the mannequins. “I’M TEACHING YOU A LESSON,” you should say as you do this. You might save this act for last, however. Move onto the luxury retailer of your choice. Pick out a paisley blazer, red pants and some high socks that reach above the knee. Shove them onto the counter and turn your head away as though the last thing in the world you are interested in is buying these wretched rags (this often teaches the stores another lesson worth learning).

You will now want to leave the mall completely and head over to your nearest home improvement store– I recommend Home Dump. They have many locations, are severely understaffed, and easy to steal from. Pick out a bucket, a link of chain suitable to wear around the neck, a bundle of cedar wood shingles and several elongated lighters. You can hide a lot of these items in the bottom of the bucket– just throw your jacket on top! Often, they even forget to charge you for the bucket! Pay only for the shingles and the lighters.

Hopefully, by now, you will have a sense of where you be spending the big day. I want you to have a window selected– know that window. Does it push open in an inward manner (see photo)? Does it need to be thrown upward? Will it have to simply be busted through completely? Whatever the case, have your friend or lover drape a heavy canvas throw tarp directly beneath the window (so, you’ll need to go back to Home Dump and get one of those– I forgot before). Put on the chain and the red pants and keep the blazer handy in case it’s chilly.

And now, when you’re ready to greet your family, your friend’s family or your lover’s family, you come bursting through the window with one of the shingles in your hand (the shingle should be on fire). I often find it useful to have my face painted as well and to be crying but that’s your choice.

You won’t come up short with this method. Everyone will have a wonderful time.

Ric Royer is a prominent Lankville businessman. He currently lives in the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness mental institution.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Phantom Car Balloon

July 29, 2015 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

I was driving down one of those busy routes when I saw a car dealership. The cars all had balloons tied to them. “MOTHERFUCKER”, I said aloud. I swerved suddenly across two lanes of traffic, drove up on the median and sped into the lot. They all came out from the air conditioning.

“What are you doing?” one of them said. He had on a short tie and brown pants. The rest sauntered back inside.

“I saw the balloons. Might want to buy one of these cars.”

He calmed down a bit. “What are you in the market for?”

“Anything with a balloon tied to it. Anything at all but maybe something with a lot of leg room. Where a person could get down in the well and hide there.”

He showed me around. The heat was terrible. But the balloons held up. They were strong and noble in the stale, windless air.

“What about this one?” He opened the door to a late model sedan. The steering wheel was brown. I looked over the hood and saw the balloon there.

I decided to play it tough. “Can I keep the balloon on it? I’ll only take it if I can keep the balloon on it. What are you going to say to that?” I paused. “Asshole,” I added.

“Sure, you can keep the balloon on it.” He smiled. I called him an asshole again just for effect.

An hour later, I drove the car off the lot. And as soon as I did, the balloon disappeared– it was a phantom. I turned in my seat and saw that the entire dealership was gone. “How can such things be?” I asked aloud. “I’ll drive for an extended period of time and see if it returns.”

It never did.

Ric Royer from the Depths of His Heart

March 24, 2015 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

The Lankville Daily News is proud to present a new series by enigmatic Lankville businessman Ric Royer.

The depths of my heart are a pure place to go.

I used to think it was a place of intense confusion, horror, and lewdness and also where the past lived, but I’ve come to find that it’s really a place of deep purity, like beautiful bouncing white soap bubbles caroming gently off a bare wall and onto a lover in a towel. Some people have said that these emotions are intense and for some reason I have experienced some sort of negativity in this world. Maybe it’s the way I am taking it? Maybe it’s the way that I interpret our world? Maybe it’s because there are heart simulacra everywhere and the true heart is no longer recognizable. You know how they have those little candies?

 Nevertheless, I am starting to find that this emotional intensity about life is actually simplicity itself. And therefore, I intend to get more and more emotionally intense. It will be as though there is a knob and I shall turn this knob higher everyday and all days through the rest of my life. If you want to lunch with me– say, for example, in a run-down restaurant with a hubcap attached to the desk and no exterior signage, you should expect long periods of emotional intensity. You may not even get to eat. Emotional intensity can sometimes manifest itself on tables and a full surface clearance is not out of the question. But that is purity.

In doing so, I shall link into the purity of these emotions that I have never fully experienced before.

Maybe that is life right there – fully experiencing emotions.

The depths of your heart can be a place where you go to understand the intricacies, mysteries, horrors, and sexual irregularities of this life. Those little candies are a poor substitute. Although, they are very good. I eat several hundred a day.

There are so many things that we do not understand about our world simply because we cannot see them. Sometimes, you must trust they are there. You have to be willing to put your feet forward while throwing out intense emotions everywhere all over everything before walking into a dense fog. Will it be scary? Absolutely. Will it be worth it? Oh absolutely.

Purity. Probity. Fogs.

Time and time again you must travel into the depths of your heart to find yourself. Only then, will you begin to function in a way that is truly connected and present with the world.

If you can do that, there’s no cork in the bottle of what your life can become.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: I Will Box You

February 25, 2015 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

One day, I walked into a gym in a lower-class Island neighborhood. I walked right up to the ring and smashed a bottle of orange soda into the canvas. The boxers looked up.

“I will box you,” I said. The orange soda seeped towards their shoes.

“Get in here, you fuckin’ frog,” said the boxer. His manager, clad in protective gear, backed away.

I was wearing a bathrobe, some camoflauge short pants and a pair of penny loafers into which I had shoved quarters for effect.

“Hey, better get the frog some trunks, maybe some shoes,” called the manager, now outside the ring, relieving himself of his protective burden.

They brought me some proper gear and a small group of Islanders gathered around the ring. The manager rang the bell. Within three seconds I was hit by an uppercut and collapsed into the ropes. I recall a short burst of cheering and then nothing.

Hours later, I was in an outdoor chaise-lounge by a pond. I had a terrific headache.

“That’s what you get for egging on that Island boxer,” said a little man, who sat off among the reeds. He was clad in ancient, unfashionable clothes and wore small grandma glasses. Clouds approached from the east.

“After the fight, well, I don’t know if I can call it that– after your destruction, the Islanders strapped you to a chair and marched you around the pizza block. That’s where they have all those pizza restaurants. They took you in and out of some of the restaurants. They bought a pizza and shoved a lot of it in your hair. I tried my best to get the sauce out but you really should have a shower.”

The little man handed me a glass of iced tea. I took a sip. It was awful.

“Yes, that is awful iced tea,” he agreed. “It’s pond iced tea. This pond is all iced tea.”

“I’ve never…”

“No, it’s completely unique in the world. You would not have.”

We watched the sun go down together.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Haunted Bridge Abutment

December 21, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

I saw the catalogue sticking out of his bag before he saw me.

“Hey! Asshole! Bring me that catalogue!”

He looked up. He was trying to do the house next door first.

“You do that house first and I’ll shoot you dead, God as my witness”. I was bluffing but he didn’t know that. He walked over slowly.

“I’m a federal employee,” he said, handing me the catalogue along with a batch of other letters that I immediately dropped into some hedges. “I’ll have you arrested.”

“I’ll burn your truck to the ground,” I countered. “Then what will you do?”

He said something but I missed it. I was staring too hard at the catalogue.

Back inside, I immediately opened the catalogue and the laptop and began ordering items in a blind, indiscriminate fashion. About 100 trains, all different gauges, some structures, a huge ferris wheel, some track nails, tons of figures– “Man with pants”, “Cougars and Cubs”, “Hot Dog Wagon”, “Toilet Scene”, they had everything.

In the comments section, below my order, I wrote: FUCK YOU PEOPLE! as I always did.

Three days later, the order arrived in six separate tremendous boxes. The postman shot me a disgruntled look. I kicked him hard in the ass as he walked away. “I’m a federal employee,” he said again.

“I’VE GOT TRAINS!” I screamed. I began crying and removed my shirt. “DISAPPEAR! FOREVER!”

Just as he was climbing into his truck, I crept up behind him and whispered, “You’re inhuman“. He didn’t care for that at all. Then, I dragged the boxes into the basement and began tearing them apart in a slipshod, desultory manner.

I came to the box labeled SCENERY. I screamed for no reason at all as I tossed aside utility poles, bendable armatures, potted flowers and fuel tanks that I could not possibly hope to find a use for. And then I came to the bridge abutment.

It was packaged in ordinary factory shrink wrap. I fingered it delicately. And, in return, I received an awareness of some grim, unmentionable horror. I knew right away that the bridge abutment was haunted.

And I have never truly recovered.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Christmas Snow Village Chalet

December 1, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

I parked my car up on the grass and ran into town, shoving people out of the way. The store had a series of pinwheel displays out front (one ejaculated great bubbles into the air) and I knocked these into the street. I tore the door open with such force that the plate glass window shattered.

The clerk, a smallish thick-haired woman in a medieval-looking dress, came out from behind the counter.

“Oh my God! Look at that!” she exclaimed.
“Fuck it,” I said. “I got your missive. Where is the new Snow Village Fiber Optic Chalet?”
She seemed stunned. I could barely take it.
“SHOW ME RIGHT NOW YOU LOUSY LITTLE WHORE!”

She led me to an alcove cramped with snow village boxes. There was an illuminated display behind a great glass case.

“WHERE IS IT! HURRY!” I let out a baleful scream. She finally got to work.$(KGrHqR,!gwE5k8vM6zsBO)C6R7LUQ~~60_35

It required quite an intolerable amount of maneuvering– boxes had to be lifted from beneath a table and moved aside (several, I crushed with my boot instantly). “It’s here…somewhere,” she said, hardly able to contain her tears. “THERE IS NO TIME!” I shouted, as she bent over her work. “I just…I don’t see it here.” She was crying now, blubbering even.

It was then that I came up with the idea of lighting the large pile of looked-over boxes on fire. “I HAVE NO TIME FOR THESE. NO TIME!” I could feel a strange whooshing in my head. Mania was creeping in.

And then she found it. “Oh, oh, it was buried so…so deep,” she said. And she emerged from beneath the display case with the Snow Village Fiber Optic Chalet, shimmering in its plastic wrapping. “OH, GOD! OH JESUS,” I yelled, feeling an almost sexual release. And then I screamed again as the terrible interior conflagration erupted behind me. And then she collapsed in my arms.

We remained that way until the building burned completely to the ground.

Ric Royer’s Recipe for Olives a la Augustine

November 13, 2014 Leave a comment
Ric Royer: Gastronome

Ric Royer: Gastronome

Ric Royer is well-known for his gastronomic creations.

Royer teaches cooking at a nearby mall food court.

Royer teaches cooking at a nearby mall food court.

We’re going to take some Deep Island olives and fill them by means of a swollen bursting bag and pipe filled with pate de fois gras that has been passed crisply through a bent sieve. Then, take some little bouche cups and fill the sons a’ bitches about a quarter inch deep. Now, stand an olive in each as if you’re violently piercing the earth with a roadside sign that says to the world, “You want to kiss God, you get through my motherfuckin’ ass first.”

You want to kiss God, you get through my motherfuckin’ ass first.

Next, cement the olive in there with aspic jelly or with caviar aux crevettes if the jelly isn’t available. Now, fill up the moulds with all this bullshit and round the olives out with little gentle sprigs of chervil. When it all sets, you’ll dump the olives out of the moulds onto a little crouton of hard bread of panini, butter and mask it all with ham, tongue, coral, hand, a tuck-away sauced sheet or eschalot (your choice) and serve it all up on some goddamned dish-paper, one to each unrepentant asshole at table.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Girls at Washington Flats

November 10, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

There were some girls that operated a little bakery out of an old gas station.  There was an ample little weedy parking lot and an old sign that had been changed out to show a close-up color photograph of a muffin. Dilapidated mill houses could be seen in the hills behind.

This was Washington Flats.

One day I waltzed in.  I pretended to admire the fancy embroidered tea cozies and girly, racked greeting cards.  Then I made right for the counter and the bakery case.  One of the girls came out from the back.

She was a brunette with a round but pleasant face.

“So, what you got here, cookies?” I asked.  I very slowly moved my index finger to a spinning basket rack of bagged heart-shaped chocolates.  She watched me all the way.  I fingered the metallic edge and then spun the rack furiously.  She was going for it.

“Yes…here’s what we have today,” she said, not even pointing at the case.  Everything was breaking down for her.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I commented.  “Give me one of those chocolate tops.”

She removed the tray from the case and started to bag it.

“No, no,” I said gently.  “Feed it to me.”

She was trembling now but she held the cookie to my mouth.  At first, I allowed my tongue to tickle the edge and then I suddenly bit into it ferociously, shaking my head side to side like an animal.

It was done.  With one arm, I cleared the counter.

Later, in the back room, I turned to her.

“I actually am hungry.  Why not bring one of those trays back here?”

She proudly brought back a full tray of tea cakes.  I ate them half-heartedly.  I hate tea cakes.

But that’s what you get when you allow for a trip to Washington Flats.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Haunted Profiterole

November 4, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

I decided to order a profiterole for dessert. The waiter brought me a copy of Profiterole Digest. The cover showed a gigantic pile of profiteroles photographed in a red wagon. “We have everything in there except for custard, chocolates, and the one that has the hose attached so you can suck out the cream.” He pressed his crotch as he said that last part but I decided to ignore it.

I went with the “Special Occasion Profiterole”. The waiter disappeared. Ten minutes later, another waiter appeared with the pastry. He went away wordlessly.

I stared at the profiterole. They had presented it well– there were little lines of chocolate all along the plate edge and a series of minced strawberries along one side. They had also placed a little off-white card and the words “pastry ball” had been written there in fine calligraphy. There was also an emergency number printed on the back.

I picked up the profiterole and ate half in one bite. It was then that I became aware of an eldritch phantasm from beyond the borders of this world.

It was then that I became aware of an eldritch phantasm from beyond the borders of this world.

I dropped the profiterole. It had turned green and was covered in blood. I could taste the gore in my mouth but could not expel it. Two waiters, watching from behind a ledge and a series of hydrangea bushes, suddenly expired.

“It was a hell beast, unleashed by your indulgence,” said a voice that sounded not unlike a kindly grandfather. I fell over backwards in my chair. Next, I was being dragged by something unseen, deeply into the purlieu. There seemed to be a lot of vomit there.

The next thing I remember is the cargo train. I was packed roughly into a boxcar full of sacks of grains. There was another man there who had had a series of pastries slammed against his face. He nodded slowly.

It was then that I could finally scream.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Deceit That Will Deprive You of Your Harvest

October 24, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

As a younger man, I used to hang about with a guy named Howie.  That was his last name– I never knew his first.  He came from a poor section of Lankville Falls, littered with rusted aluminum trailers and trash-choked creeks.  I recall that Howie’s Pappy had tried to paint the trailer but the effect was a bit like attaching shiny chrome to a barrel of shit.  “You’ll not rise in social status,” I told Howie, as we stared at the freshly-applied silver finish, the rust still obviously apparent underneath.  He put his head down and I put my arm around him and then pushed him ever so gently into a pile of mud.

People who live in trailers often have fireworks.

People who live in trailers often have fireworks.

He sat in that pile of mud for quite awhile.  Then: “I’ll cultivate here.  We’ll have a bounty”.  I laughed and shot off some fireworks.  “You don’t know nothing about land.  You’re trailer.  Be easier if you just admit to it.”  But he demurred and when I next saw him, he had a magnificent farm.

“Cheesus, look at them onions,” I said.  “You doubted me,” he responded.  “But look at those rows of corn.”  Indeed, several of the trailers were now buried deep in the cornfield.  “I’m trying to blot out this park with produce,” he said.  “Lush, growing, flowering produce.”  He looked far off at something unseen and then returned to his hoeing.  I shot off more fireworks but nobody cared anymore.

I went off to college and Howie stayed behind.  I visited him that first summer.  His fields were completely dead.  The mud was back.  It rained incessantly.

“What happened?” I asked as we lazily watched wrestling on a black and white TV.  “Wild Boy” Ric Tipps, my namesake, was fighting.

“It was my deceit,” he said.  He drank some soda out of a Christmas-themed gravy boat.  “I lied to the earth, essentially.”

I considered asking if he had any more fireworks but thought better of it.

“I had the promise of a great harvest,” he added.  “But you were right.  I’m trailer.”

He died in September.  I did not attend the funeral but mailed along some chocolates.  That’s what you do.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: Rough Men of the Shore

October 17, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

 

The icebox came late to the Shore. For many years after its invention, the Shore men continued to store their perishables in rough holes dug into the ground, covered by a mean tarpaulin.

Once, one of the Shore men showed me his reserve. I peered down into the dark hole. There were two eggs down there, a soda and a large plastic child’s toy barn. I asked about this toy barn but received no answer. Instead, the Shore man spat off to the left. “I need to plow field with an ass in the midday sun,” he said. He walked off.

I became agonizingly bored, as is my wont. There was a clothesline with some soaking flannels hung there and I knocked them to the ground. This was momentarily entertaining but then I became bored again, a little tired, and then suddenly horny. I decided to feign hunger so that I might check out the Shore man’s wife.

I entered the kitchen. I pretended that I had worked for hours along the banks, hustling huge rocks into donkey carts for no particular purpose. The kitchen was sparse and undecorated. The cupboards were thrown open in a frank way and there was nothing within. I loudly rustled a newspaper. The Shore man’s wife entered.

She was dressed in homespun and had long thick brown hair arranged in a bun at the back of the head. I had no idea what to do. And then I told her that her husband was dead, stomped by the ass. There was no body.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

We were married later in the afternoon in a simple service at the rough chapel twelve miles yonder. The preacher’s name was John Thomas. I laughed aloud at that. We decided to honeymoon in the next town where there was a hotel, a famed pinwheel garden and a lunch counter that served dinner.

And now I plow rough fields with an ass in the midday sun.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Low Moan From Room 3

September 26, 2014 Leave a comment
Ric Royer

Ric Royer

In my early twenties, I leased an apartment on the top floor of a rambling boarding house located at the terminus of a filthy alley. The landlady was an ancient, distant, stooped creature that never looked one in the eye and always carried a series of three colored dishtowels wherever she went. It was seldom she made the journey to my top floor and this pleased me and thus, generally I was left alone.

At the time, I was working on a long novel about some gorillas on the moon that had special powers. I vacillated between feeling it to be a work of unparalleled genius or complete idiocy. As the work progressed, I kept adding further gorillas. Towards the end of my work, I added a band of singing gorilla children out of desperation. Then, I scrapped it completely– burning it in the wood stove.

It was about this time that I began to hear a low moan from next door. This surprised me; I had believed myself alone here in the heights of this great, languishing flophouse.

The next day, I confronted the landlady. She was pushing a small, filthy carpet into a cookie jar for reasons unclear to me. “Who is the man in Room 3?” I asked. “He moans constantly”. She looked forward, her lips slightly parted. “Big Ed,” she answered in a whisper. “Been here for 13 years. He owns a Barbeque.”

She looked down to the unwashed parquet floor.

“No one knows what goes on there.”

I had heard of the place. It was two blocks from here and although one could safely enter the establishment and purchase a perfectly good barbeque sandwich, one never asked any questions about what went on upstairs. There were four long ventilation ducts that meandered from the windows upstairs and sunk straight into the ground and it was rumored that the racket of mysterious items slamming against their sides could be heard throughout the night. Big Ed himself was invisible.

Royer suddenly became distracted by a giant, swirly lollipop and promised to finish the story later.

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Onion Ring Trailer

August 25, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

The lands of the carnival were brown prairie– cleared to accommodate the various structures. But nearest the gravel parking lot, as the ground began to slope a little, was the Onion Ring Trailer.

The heat was terrible. I passed many people from town, dressed in slacks and shirts, the women in house dresses. So many, not being able to stand the thousand-long line to the one portable toilet, simply urinated where they stood. The children carried cones filled with strange blue ice substances.

I had eaten 19 cotton-candies– my stomach was vastly confused and there was a feeling of great turbulence. I needed something to soak up the cotton-candies and the onion ring trailer instantly beckoned.

A doctor had told me once:

“Eat some fried onion rings. That will settle your stomach.”A016

I never forgot that sage advice.

PART TWO

This was a part of the lot poorly-lighted, bereft– empty picnic tables, empty barrels. Someone had overturned an abandoned old incinerator, the kind that abuts right up to your building, releases the smell of garbages [sic] into the air directly surrounding your home, office, or business. The positionable “clean-out” doors were swung open in a frank way, there was a skull inside.

I was now beneath the lights of the onion ring trailer. The proprietor was a morbid, putrid creature– I wanted to view his death instantly but he was all that stood between me and those rings.

The sign said “FRESH DAILY”.

“Is that true?” I demanded.

He seemed far away. Finally- “Huh? Wuzzit? Fuckin’ onion rings, man.”

“I’d like five tureens.”

He paused. “How about if I just put them in a barrel?”

“OK. I would like that.”

He filled the barrel with rings and I paid only $1.75 and five carnival tickets. I smothered them in ketchup and then, when the creature turned his back, I surreptitiously placed all the condiment containers at the top of the barrel. I was going to stick it to this creature. I was going to make him responsible. I desired to know that he would be fired, that others would say Look at this god damn lardass. I’m not hiring this god damn lardass. I desired him to sleep in barns, to make his way quietly across pitch-black countryside and to finally be shot down, for trespassing as he attempted to gingerly cross an electrified fence.

I rolled the barrel over to the picnic table. It was then that a figure emerged from the shadows. I cannot say that he was an official. I just know that he made me leave my barrel where it stood and he walked me to a place in deep darkness near the back of the gravel lot and then he punched me until I fainted.

When I woke up, I was in the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senseless, a notable mental institution.