John McGurk, Entrepreneur
The dancer kicked her leg high and swished her pink dress, cut low how McGurk liked it. He watched her and not the screaming woman who kicked her legs even higher, albeit with the benefit of a man carrying her aloft toward the door and the waiting Bowery cop.
“Where do they get it?” the barman asked him beneath the piano music. He poured three more fingers of whiskey for a swaying, unshaven man.
McGurk stroked his moustache and eyed the dancers, choosing. “Get what?”
“The carbolic acid.”
McGurk’s flat gaze remained on the edges of the dress, which had slipped a little, it seemed to him. “Don’t your missus clean house, Willie?”
“Not if she can help it.” A customer put three bits on the bar, so Willie extended the tube to him. The man took a deep breath, then began gulping as the crowd began hooting around him. “It could be a problem, Mr. McGurk,” Willie said.
The dancer on the left had stopped smiling, McGurk noted. He didn’t pay her to frown. She’d get a little pick-her-up before her time upstairs. “How’s that?”
“These women. That’s the third one tried to kill herself, now. In two weeks. The cops might ask questions about upstairs.”
“They all know upstairs. There ain’t a one of ’em but he dips his wick at McGurk’s after a patrol.”
The drinker coughed beer onto the floor. The surrounding patrons jeered, and McGurk smelled the camphor he cut the beer with. A drunkard reached for a dancer’s leg, then yelped as she brought down her heel on his hand.
“The customers, then,” Willy said. “Bit hard to have your fun while some woman’s burning her throat out next to you. And everybody’s heard about it.”
McGurk turned to his barkeep. “That’s right,” he said. “Everybody’s heard about it.”
John McGurk was a diligent man. He worked through the wee hours. Before the Bowery rose from its stupor sometime the next afternoon, he had affixed his new sign to the crumbling brick. New York City had 7,000 saloons, but everyone would hear about McGurk’s Suicide Hall.
there's a strange expression on your face. a shadow. a collection of thoughts, turned into paint.
i know what you're considering. something that was sleeping for a long time is now awake.
one decision, that's all it seems to be. it might not matter.
you've been waiting for too long. the silence is killing you. the missed calls, the empty house.
it'll be okay. take a deep breath. it'll all be over soon.
become like me.
Re: my previous email
Thank you for your email reply. Unfortunately, your prissy tone did not inspire me. When responding to an email going forward, please do not “cc” me when your passive aggressive tone was clearly for me alone. Even high schoolers know to face the person directly they’d like to diminish, and they don’t write emails, they write graffiti on the walls of the restroom. Perhaps this is something you can try, instead.
Next time, a more direct approach would be appreciated. Perhaps, even an in-person conversation? I realize, because of the recent pandemic, you might be out of practice. But you can’t hide behind email lingo in person. Instead, you have to directly pass on assignments to me that were explicitly assigned to you alone. And how awkward is that?
Thank you for your time and consideration on this important matter.
DO NOT TAKE ORALLY
Many women, about me, do concur:
Serious gastric disturbances will occur.
The ones who persevere destinal, say dross
From me gives intestinal chaos...
...stuck in their gut.
Proton pump inhibitors
Allow all my paramours,
Relaxation and peristalsis
Until they realize that's all there is...
...stuck in a rut.
Epiphany comes after the fact
Ipso facto in the GI tract
When bilious regret sees greener hills
Beyond premature fluorescing spills...
...obstruct it shut.
Rolaids, Tums best all latex
In pursuit of safe, eupeptic sex;
When placing protection 'round points of contact,
Adults take two, twice a day, exact...
...and nothing but.
Fetished, recreational substitutes
Not lost on vocational prostitutes
Who know how to buffer their gastric mucosa
From tantric acidophilic ambrosia...
Sometimes I pine for the good ol' days
When the only act was the good ol' way.
The catalog of ways and clever creations
That that do not result in procreation
...so cover your butt.
Existence is not so simple,
as at first it does appear.
There are dangers.
There are strangers.
and empty chairs.
Watch your tread.
and be prepared.
but do not load,
Do not fall prey,
Give all to love,
and it will be,
Alright, I should not be doing this, but if you found this book, you need to know this.
Do you believe in fate?
After reading this, you will.
If you think you found this by accident, you didn’t.
You received this because you’re on a list. Is that a good thing? Honestly, probably not.
Don’t worry, I’m on it too. Actually, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I invented the list.
That doesn’t make sense, does it? It shouldn’t. Because this isn’t any list. This is the kinda list that’s older than your grandma. Older than her grandma. In technicality, this is the list that was created 3,000 years ago.
At this point, you probably have a lot of questions. Starting with, WHAT IS THIS??? And ending with, “WHAT IS THIS?”
Both are excellent questions. I’ll start from the beginning.
Not the chronological start, that would be a nightmare.
.... put Up
With as much of Your
As She can take!
You've treated Me
like your Doormat
Drinking me Dry.
Floundered the Natural
Resources I Lovingly
Ate from my Knowledge trees
My Money trees.
Caddy exhaust driving
Rocket Fuel Child
Mother will Spew
Like a Volcano