Newsgroups: talk.bizarre,alt.butt.harp,alt.prose,rec.arts.prose
From: richh@netcom.com (richh)
Subject: RICHH:  SEATTLE 4--NIGHTMARE!
Message-ID: <richhCqsr9q.6CI@netcom.com>
Followup-To: alt.prose.d
Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest)
Date: Fri, 3 Jun 1994 01:10:38 GMT


     Something had changed.  Gone from the van was the beautiful
Rosetti.  In its wake was a nightmare--in fact, "The Nightmare".
     "Paul, where did the Fuseli come from."
     "Don't ask," he said.  "Don't tell."
     "Huh?"
     "It's actually a later version of the 1781."
     "You mean--"
     "Yes," said Paul.  "The one from the Goethe Museum, Frankfurt-
am-Main.  I especially enjoy the way he weaves together Classical
and Manneristic sources."
     "Interesting.  I was always fascinated by Fuseli's expression
of Burke's theory of the Sublime."
     "Ridiculous.  Now pop in "'King of New York'."
     I looked around.  Not only had the paintings changed but the
whole interior of the van had been transformed.  No longer a scene
of chaos, there now were two separate beds, a tv-vcr combo, and an
exhaustive video library of gangster flicks.
     "I had no idea you were a George Raft completist."
     Paul said, "Thought you might be staying for a few days, Rich. 
By the way, the Speed Racer bed's yours."
     I loaded the vcr and slipped into my jamjams, ready to chill.
     "You realize, Rich, I can't have you freeloading.  Now start
bagging up the weed."
     Behind Paul's Penelope Pitstop bed was a mountainous pile of
fresh Seattle dank.  Apparently Paul had discovered an accelerated
method of growing indoors.  How could I have missed the irrigation
system?
     He lit up an Old Gold and said, "Use the jeweler's envelopes
for the two-grammers and the baggies for z's."
     Paul settled down to watch the movie and I got to work.
     "Flame on," Paul shouted, as he toked the buddha.
     "That motherfucker is looking to get paid, laid, played, and
slayed," I said.
     "Yeah," Paul said, "Larry Fishburne's the hardest."
     "He's great as Ike Turner, ain't he?"
     Paul said, "Fook yeah.  Hey, pay attention to your task.  That
shit's worth more than silver.  Go light on the two's, nothing in
Seattle weighs."
     Chastised, I resumed my bagging, singing to myself, "This is
for the g's and this is for the hustlers; this is for the hustlers,
now back to the g's."

a RICHH/Paul joint