In the train

Jacob and katie walked back from the hotdog stand near the metro.
‘get some sauerkraut up in this bith homie” Jacob said, as he grabbed a full handful of Katie’s juicy ass.

The hotdog man grunted back

“Aint no sauerkraut up in this here bitch lessin you a hog or a cattle”

Dumbfounded, Jacob’s grip began to loosen upon Katie’s ass. He knew that it was finally time to take action. That he had put up with enough throughout the years, his time working fo, but nonetheless r Seymore, at the glue factory. Seymore. That fucking pig. FUCK SEYMORE!

“Hey bud!”

He blurted

“How bout you suck the fat off a lard’s ass you fucking pig”

The hotdog man lay defenseless. THroughout all of his years, he had never once felt the sting of Jacob’s words. Not only because they resonated with his most adolescent and naive self, when he lived a life previous crossstictching pillows in aunt Lilly’s factory. Where a days worth of work would buy you enough to catch a train home. But also because hotdog man knew they both came from the same place. His mom’s pussy. And at hat moment hotdog man put out his hand to Jacob, and with this gesture he uttered “May you ever last in peace”

The words, had not been well thought out but nonetheless he knew that the impact had been made. There would be sauerkraut on this hotdog, and he knew damn well why. But in opposition to his own programming and semblance to reality, he continued. “Give me five on that bitch and I give you five fifty”…refrain..”and give me nine on that bitch and I’ll give mine thrifty”.
scratch it with your finger nail, . half it again, and then rip it again, and then half it again, and then rip it again, and then half it again, and then rip it again. but you’ll still end up at the same place. sending texts to some ne erdowell from the south side at all hours of the night”

This woman is fucking nuts. There’s no imaginary hairs on your jacket. Stop taking them off.Bobbling bulbs bounce past the window and blow up the periperral vision. Why. Why. Why keep ripping that paper. seriousl. what the fuck are you doing .


Who gets to own our memories? Our hopes and dreams? Our thoughts? If you share a memory or a story, does the act of sharing it diminish it in some way? Are memories like sacred magical items, which can only be touched by a few clean hands? Are they to be protected in velvet lined boxes and only opened for a few righteous souls. If someone steals your story, do they also steal a part of you? Do they break into your thoughts and pry your memories out forcefully like a thief popping out a car stereo? What happens if you are the sole person who holds onto a memory or a story, do you have an obligation to share it?

The story which I am about to tell is one that involves the best friends any person could ask for. And it is sadly one that only I can tell. In 6th grade, before puberty totally destroyed our creativity and free spirits, and replaced our ideas of adventure with thoughts of conquest a “club” was formed. The Club (as we called it) was formally banned by the school we attended after ‘the incident” (as the school liked to call it). All of our notebooks which were covered in Club propaganda were repossessed and disposed of. We were told to stop writing the secret symbols of the club on our arms with bic pens. They even told the gym teacher to make sure to split us up when we played dodgeball. It was as if we were all on probation and any contact with other miscreants (mainly our best friends) was strictly forbidden. But of course that didn’t stop us. How could it? We were 11 years old. You can’t tell an 11 year to do anything. As it should be.

The name for the The Club was taken from two sources, one of which is glaringly obvious, we were a small group of friends, therefore a Club, and the second was the name of the porno mag we stole from my friends dad. Which was also called Club. The Club consisted of four members, bound by blood and mutual experience.

Ben was the muscle, he came from money and lived in a big house on the outside of town. He was good at every sport he ever played and was unusually large for his age. Hitting a growth spurt early had made him one of the best basketball and football players his age in 6th grade in Bismarck, North Dakota. Ben was a natural adrenaline junkie who never turned down a challenge. Which made for some interesting circumstances considering that I would generally be the one who lead everyone else to trouble, but when the time came, I’d second guess myself and reluctantly continue.

Jason was my best friend since I can remember. Growing up just down the hill from me. My first memories of Jason are when we were in his mothers minivan and he had an asthma attack. Playing suddenly turned into panic as his mother veered the car to the side of the road. Throwing the entire contents of the glove compartment onto the floor in search of his inhaler. I just sat there completely quiet, looking him in the eyes as he struggled to breathe. Only to be relieved by his mother grabbing him by the back of the head and wedging the inhaler into his mouth. And then, a minute later he would be all smiles again. As if nothing ever happened. And I’d convince myself that nothing ever happened as well. My best friend was still here with me, everything was ok.

And then there was me. Jeremy Olsen. I was essentially the ringleader, as I see it. Whenever there was trouble I was sure to be around. However, I never got caught. Which made both the teachers as well as the other parents to see me as a good influence on their kids. “You see how Jeremy always says please, Jason? That’s how nice boys talk to their mommies” . Old people were such suckers.

Rusty was the latecomer to the Club, and you’ll get to know him a bit more in a moment. However, none of what I’m about to tell you could’ve happened without him.

The Club operated from October of 1988 to September of 1989. Forged in Roosevelt Elementary School in Bismarck, North Dakota. A small town of 50,000 smack dab in the center of a huge sea of corn and wheat stretched on endlessly in all directions. The nearest city is Minneapolis, which is an 8 hour drive. So needless to say that back in 1988 most of our only connection with city life would be on television or spray painted on the sides of the train which plowed straight through the city. The Graffiti was a brief glance into urban life, and something which was completely removed from all of us. A place which was so different that it was frightening. None of us had any desire to move or complained about having “nothing to do” as we all would in our teens. We had a river. And what else does a city really need?