This Friday, Bizarrocentral put up four of my Julie Newmar, strange little prosepoetics bits of flash fiction about Julie Newmar and my complicated relationship with women. You can read them here. Since some of you seemed to enjoy those, here are five more.One of these first appears in my cryptic poetry/prose chapbook Pserpent Psalms, available for only 1.08, or once cent per psalm.
Another Fine Mess
Julie Newmar has discovered my secret and my five bosses are coming over for a dinner party to discuss my promotion. My bosses are deciding if I should be promoted or shot out of a cannon into space. I get my dog, the Indian actor Sabu, and we bury my secret. Relieved, we rock out to Steely Dan. My five bosses arrive on the back of their bosslizards, the race of reptilians that conspiracy theorists believe rule the Earth. Bosses rule the Earth instead, since they are bosses. I am nervous when Julie Newmar walks in in an apron and polka dot dress. She might not be ‘, as I previously thought. She is carrying a tray of delicious rice crispy squares.
“Honey,” she says, “you never told me your bosses were so handsome.”
I notice now that my bosses are all Julie Newmar wearing a fake mustache. Julie Newmar kisses me on the cheek. My bosses do not promote me but they do give me a gift certificate for Henderson’s mustache wax.
My bosses leave.
“Why?” I ask.
Julie Newmar laughs.
“You’ve got an awful lot to learn about humans, Garrett Cook.”
Julie Newmar walks into my office. I’ve been expecting her. I expected her to wear the outfit, to offer the dance as tribute before she opens her mouth to explain. The dance should just about cover it. I pour her a glass of scotch and I pour me a glass of Scotch. I don’t like it. Seems like she’s hiding something. I know she is. I expected this. I make a phonecall and it’s confirmed. Professor Lundquist’s invention is a weapon. A terrible weapon the likes of which the world has never seen and there are people who would pay a fortune to get their hands on it. Her betrayal wounds me deeply. She places her hand on my oozing betrayal wound and it feels nice. The look in her eyes is exciting. “I knew I came to the right man for the job,” she says. And now I know as well.
Julie Newmar walks into my office, tells me the mask I’m wearing is too pallid and waxy by far. I’m annoyed by this since she hasn’t come to get me to solve a case or to seek reparations for some harm that I have done, merely to complain of my mask. The mask and jaundiced heart are my business as any man’s mask and jaundiced heart are his business. She hums a few bars of a Dylan song I like. No, not that one. I would not stay frightful if it was that one. She does it purrfectly. And I would approach her, but I wearing this mask and my skin and soul and heart are jaundiced. I fear it is ‘ in a Julie Newmar costume just as Julie Newmar wears a Catwoman costume that some theologians would say is the guise of ‘. But those who do would be quite cruel to cats. Those who do would show no love at all for cats. I hold out my arms for nought until I no longer feel like extending my arms, but like pounding a piano or performing a blasphemous play.
“Will you be in my play?” I ask, confidently, boldly.
She shudders. Her fingers twitch. But from somewhere she doesn’t recognize, a “yes, of course” emerges.
It’s So Cold in Alaska
“I’m the jealous type,” says Julie Newmar, spearing a big chunk of my salad.
“Waiter,” I say, to change the subject, “there’s a Deep One in my soup.”
“Who,” she asks, “is ‘?”
I rise to my feet, leap up on the table and draw my gun.
“Waiter, I said, there is a Deep One in my soup!”
The fishy baby in my minestrone coos. I try to ignore the resemblance and I try to ignore the resemblance of this situation to a story by Orson Scott Card, whose other works I never really liked. Sabu, howling and whining at my feet, still a dog, wants a taste and I’m tempted to give it to him. I also feel slightly tempted to shoot him, gods help me.
“Who,” she asks again, “is ‘?”
I look around the restaurant, hoping that Plush or some other compatriot is there so I could possibly make good my escape, but no, it is me and Julie Newmar and a very hungry Sabu.
“Waiter!” I scream, “My son is in my soup!”
“Who,” Julie Newmar asks, “is ‘?”
Julie Newmar walks into my office wearing a pig on her head.
“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask.
“Why do you say that?” Julie Newmar asks, looking around the room for Lionheads.
I answer my email. I ignore her. I go shopping. I take the sled I bought and careen down Everest. I break every bone in my body and end up in the hospital. The Surgeons confer and decide that I have been dead for eleven years.
Julie Newmar walks into my hospital room with a pig on her head. The pig laughs at us. She lies down beside me in my hospital bed. Frightened, we await the dawn and the extinction of Surgeons.