Huzzah and Welcome to the Strange!

I cannot tell you how excited I am this ‘zine has been such a hit. Putting it together every month is a thrill and I thank all of you who have reached out to tell me you dig it. I’d love to know what else and who else you’d like to see here. Hell, if you’ve got stuff you want in here, hit me up too! Email me at christian@fugitivepoems.com.

This time around we’ve got the latest installment of Rufus Black’s “Morgan’s Lens,” a great twisted tale by M.G. Capitelli and killer comics from Adam Matthew Smith and more!

Find a comfy chair and prepare to get comfortably uncomfortable.

Your purveyor of weird,

Christian De Matteo

Co-Founder of Fugitive Poems

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Morgan’s Lens, Part the Third

by Rufus Black

Part 1 here.

Part 2 here.

Through Morgan's eyes, the world was black. In every sense, there now seemed enough distance between himself and reality that he'd forgotten what it was. Where he was? Vague memories. It all seemed as someone else's life now, as he swirled through rousing blackness.

A clarity came upon him, his mind able to venture freely now without the burden of sight, sound or any other external influence. No distractions in the void. No pain… pain! He was in pain, wasn't he? There was a recollection of burning, of cooking ocular jelly, of all-encompassing agony. Hmm. Well, none now.

He had something important to do, that much pervaded his sweet emptiness. A mystery to decipher. And at his purest, he was a solver of mysteries. Since the first jigsaw passed through his childhood hands, he knew he was a born solver.

Time to review the pieces, he thought.

From nowhere they came, juxtapositions of sound and fury. A screeching tyre, rubber burning on asphalt. Tyre of what? Tyre, tire. He who tires of tyres. Think. White chassis. A van? Yes, a white van. Screeching isn't just the tyre. Feeling tyred. A girl. Pitch is the same as the rubber. E flat, up three octaves. Impressive lungs. She's here somewhere… go to the van. Open it up. Lungs must be good, he could barely breathe, let alone scream in this… this what? Like sulphur and carbolic soap. Like the spray they used to clear bedbugs out his apartment. What's 'bug spray' in Spanish? Why does he care? Doesn't speak Spanish.

Morgan grabs the handle. Can't feel it. Illusion door. Open. Open up, fucker, Morgan's-a-comin. Black. Hmm. Black from the van, spreading. Screech intensifies. G now. Shut up, girl. Shut up or I'll… I'll… bludgeon you? Crowbar in his hand. Strange, he can feel the weight of that in his - no! It is his hand. Skin fused, crowbar a protruding growth, a metal finger like his radius just continuing out his palm. Shut up. Bash your fuckin' brain in, bitch.

Getting hazy now. Mystery fog. Not enough pieces. Mist falling over proceedings. Not mist, glass? Broken glass. Ground to fine paste, like razor dust. Chewed, broken-glass-razor-dust. Mist descends, squinting to keep seeing. But no avail. It's in his eyes. They too, fade away as the glass takes it all away. Pain returning, eyes screaming as all turns black again.

———— —— - —— —— —————— - - —— —- ———- -

In many ways, Hopper Lawson had also seen the world through Morgan's lens. But not anymore. Once, back in the jungle, things had been colourless and death. He thought the world would pass him by, a dark monolith of bleak pain, that one day he'd die and the suffering would be over. Sixty years gone by, war was hell. Black hell. Coming home was something else. Brown hell. Then he was ill, dying. Green hell. But that was the worst of it.

Perspective changed after the illness didn't kill him. When he got better, he was well prepared to die, and everyone else was glad to be nearly rid of him. All hells had passed, and he felt fresh. All his friends had abandoned him, family too, job gone, money gone, time had taken his abilities. It was the best thing that ever happened to him, really. He had nothing to protect, nothing to guard, no expectations to uphold, nobody to answer to. He could simply let every mental burden that existed flutter into the breeze. His shoulders, held tense and knotted for decades, finally hung limp and relaxed.

So it had been for the last seventeen years for Hopper, sat outside the gas station. Some people would toss him coins, and one girl who worked there felt sorry for him and would buy him a sandwich when her shift came around. Every day, the same view: sprawling, empty field in front, highway disappearing into horizons both left and right. Crisp, clear gasoline air in his lungs and a warming sun sat in a big sky.

The nothingness of life was a daily boon, as it ever was, when the van pulled in for gas. 'El Exterminador!' For the first time in years, he thought of 'Nam. Young kid called Vasquez had the same thing written on his helmet. Bright and cheerful, he was, eager to chalk up his first Charlie. Nearly had one too, but a friendly claymore peppered him with frag from the waist down. Lost one leg, got shipped home, didn't have to see out the tour like the rest of them. Lucky bastard.

Anyway, El Exterminador's shitty wheels pulled up for gasoline. This was one odd duck, no mistake. Getting out the van, this character kept his gas mask on, nose to chin hidden beneath the mass of plastic and metal nozzles. Could see some pretty old timey black mutton chops poking out, then cut off to meet his bald skull. Tracksuit bottoms, suede jacket, work boots. The darkest eyebrows Hopper had ever seen tensed over angry eyes. The exterminator lumbered to the pump, his gait almost clumsy. He had to be 6'5, 6'6, but he'd clearly never decided to fill out to match, lanky as he was.

When he saw the van rocking on the spot even without the driver in it, he decided to stop watching. When he'd finished, El Exterminador didn't bother replacing the pump, and let it clatter to the asphalt. As he approached the station, now with clear purpose, Hopper looked at the floor. Tried to ignore his peripheral, not look at the man. But his filthy work boots planted square in front of him and stayed there.

His gaze travelled upwards, and the unmoving Extirminador's own eyes were boring a hole right through him. Unlike the last hundred, hell, last thousand people he'd met. There was nothing tired, nothing black, nothing beaten in those orbs. They were full of fire, alert hate and forever war.

He remembered that look in his own eyes, jungle-war-years ago, standing over bleeding Charlie, screaming insurgent garbling mercy or defiance in alien tongue. Hate makes me want to kill you, hate makes me want to leave you suffering. Hate.

How long did they stare, unbroken, unblinking? He was bleeding Charlie now. Kowtowed old man, beat and ready for the end. His lids fell slow, universal signal to El Exterminador. Do it. Live up to your name.

But it never came. When he opened his eyes again, van and driver were vanishing into the West. Didn't even pay - the toll is for everyone else.

…to be continued next issue.

Rufus Black is a writer, actor and all-round odd duck. His doctor has warned him to stop eating live fish due to the risk of contracting parasites. He is currently writing the series “Dido” (illustrated by Rob Toal) for Fugitive Poems whilst awaiting trial for 'tickling up a public nuisance'.

Going Horizontal

by Christian De Matteo

When the rain goes horizontal, you’re best to keep low. I kept low at a dive bar, five steps down from street level in what was once an old Chinese meat locker. That’s where I found trouble. A guy named Jehoshaphat, straight out the Bible. Told me to call him JoJo, which I figure was better than Phat. Said he had woman troubles. I said, “That ain’t too original.” Said she was trying to divorce him. I said, “They got lawyers you can take for that.” He said, “You don’t understand; I’m worth 6 million dollars.” I said, “You got kids?” He said, “Yeah, but they’re worth less than that. I need this to go away. By the way, what do you do?” I said, “Whatever needs doing.” Gave me his address and said, “I’d love your take on the situation.”

I waited for the rain to slow. It didn’t, so I went out anyway. Not keeping low. She didn’t seem surprised to see me. Women are a lot smarter than we are. At least, that’s what I’ve found. She had some good words, so we waited for him to come home, cuddling, canoodling and doing a few other things. He stumbled in around 4 in the morning. He looked like a sack of trash hiding 6 million dollars. She did the work. No idea where the gun came from ‘cause I’d searched her pretty thoroughly. He crumbled and I turned to express my admiration for her preparedness. I caught a slug in the belly.

I was the intruder. He was the late-home hubby. Hers was the tragedy, and no one will ever know the truth of this tale. I think I prefer it that way.

Christian De Matteo is Fugitive Poems Co-Founder and Editor-in-Chief, as well the Founder of Tellworthy.com where he edits every kind of writing (including comic scripts) and coaches authors through writing their novels and short stories. His stories have been published in The Bleeding Margin and Horrorsmith Magazine. He is a college professor and professional writer. He loves to eat, drink, and be merry.

Downtime

by M. G. Capitelli

I started at the bank in 1976, just a kid from the Bronx. The boss liked me. Attention to detail, you know? You could set your watch to my comings and goings, and my paperwork was impeccable. Nancy was a teller, and she did not have that gift. Honest mistakes, but even forty bucks’ worth of mistakes can get you shitcanned in a bank.

“I shoulda known,” Mr. Rafferty grumbled. “That’s what I get for hiring a pretty girl with a big rack instead of the usual frump. Shitcan her, Don. Can’t have her making me look bad.”

My stomach was cartwheeling when she sat before my desk.

“Sorry, Nancy, but we have to let you go.”

She cried. I felt like a complete shitbag. She was so pretty and so young. I was only twenty-three myself, but she was fresh out of school. The first time I had to fire anyone, and it wasn’t that creep Lenny who used to “accidentally” brush up on the girls’ asses with his crotch when he’d “squeeze past.” It was sweet, beautiful, sexy Nancy.

I found her on the street in her little hat and coat with those huge sunglasses they all wore back then, still sobbing and waiting for the bus to take her home to Brooklyn.

“Hey, Nancy,” I called. I jogged up to her in my gray suit and dark tie. I wanted to throw my arms around her but managed to only pull a handkerchief from my pocket and hand it to her. She laughed. “Fellas still carry dese tings around?” she giggled. We’ve been married forty-eight happy years. We had three kids: Chris, Angela, and Cindy. Now, we’re grandparents to five little ones.

I bought this house in 1978, right before we got hitched. I grew up looking at it from my apartment on Stratford. It’s the best one on the block. For years, the whole block was a jewel, but if you live long enough, you watch all the jewels of your life lose their luster.

Nobody takes care of things anymore. Take the house on the corner for example. Beautiful! A three-story Tudor, built in the golden years of Pelham Bay, left to rot. The Racanelli’s used to live there. Good people. Old man Louie Racanelli would lose his friggin mind if he were alive to see the place now. Somebody bought it a few years back and let it go to pot. Chipped paint, rot, green stains on the once sterling white façade, it breaks the heart, it really does. Louie spent his life outside that house. If he wasn’t trimming branches or spraying the walls he was painting the trim or washing windows. On his days off, he washed his car in the driveway and tended to his tomato garden. I went inside once in the eighties when his son, Peter, needed a hand moving out an old mahogany desk. I couldn’t believe it, man. It was old world craftsmanship and rock-solid wood: the kind you never see these days for less than 20 grand. Louie wanted it out. Too old. He wanted new.

That desk was in my home office for years. Sold it for a nice chunk of change when the girls demanded separate bedrooms. There was just no more room for it. Now, the kids are all gone and the room is my office again. I wish I still had that desk.

▫◊▫

My retirement was nice, I guess.

Great restaurant, and all the big New York guys came out. The bank gave me a gold Rolex. They never do that anymore, but I’m considered one of the last oldies-but-goodies. I ran that bank like a golden watch from ’85 to ’25. Forty years of the same thing every day would be a lot for some, but they had to push me out the door. I knew what was waiting at home: downtime. I can’t stand downtime.

Nancy still loves me, but she can’t stand me always being home and telling her all the things out of place or that could be done more efficiently. I swear, she might kill me with a frying pan before the Lord takes me, so I try to get out of the house. I drive up to Westchester to watch the grandkids, but once Chris and his wife come home from work, I’m out. Sometimes I drive down to Long Island for Angela’s kids. I love those kids, don’t get me wrong, but they’re friggin hooligans! Some days, when I’m desperate enough, to drive out to see Cindy. Sometimes she’s happy to see me; sometimes, not so much.

Some days I get warm hugs and thanks, others I get blamed for everything wrong with the world and she screams. I hate it when she screams. It comes from such a dark place. She can’t help it though. The doctors tell me she’s usually all right on the meds, but then a bad day comes and…

Well.

I can’t sleep.

“Don, you up again?” Nancy will groan from the bed. I’m always standing at our bay window looking out over the neighborhood I bought into so long ago. There are full grown trees here that I remember as saplings. I look at them sometimes and wonder how they can stand still for so long.

“Come to bed, Donny. I’ll hold ya.”

I love my life, but it’s killing me.

“Sorry, Nance,” I answered. “I’ll go downstairs. Get your sleep.”

My den isn’t mine; it’s Nancy’s. I don’t live here. I live in my office or outside, doing my best impression of Louie Racanelli. Or else, I’m behind the wheel of my Mercedes, driving out to see the grandkids. Nancy is home. Always home. She loves being home. I hate it.

One night I went for a walk.

Streetlamps buzzed. The distant Long Island Sound gently lapping the distant shoreline in my left ear, and the sirens that governed the rest of the Bronx in the distance on my right.

I looked at my Rolex: 2 a.m.

I headed back.

I passed Buhre Ave., near where Sam Berkowitz shot Jody Valenti and Donna Lauria. I knew those girls. I knew Sam too. People say things are crazy today, but you gotta ask how far back today goes, ‘cause otherwise, maybe things were always crazy…are always crazy. I don’t know.

Cindy’s crazy. My little girl, she’s crazy. There ain’t nothing I can do about it. She was always a little off, but something changed. We all got our theories. Some say puberty set her off. Nancy blames the internet. She says we shoulda watched what she was doing on that thing. She’s probably right, but me…? I think someone got to her. I think someone did something to her. Some boy…or maybe some man. Another twisted fuck like Berkowitz. She was always a little off, but she never had rage like that. Ah shit. But that’s exactly what they used to say about Berkowitz.

Coming up on my block, I saw a city bus. Dim lights, but in service. It stopped at the Metro post on the corner and a figure stepped out, walking into the old Racanelli house. Yeah, he walked right in. Son of a bitch! Someone still lives there?

The bus drove off and switched the sign to “Out of Service.” I guess that was the last stop.

I walked up to the fence.

Silence. No lights on.

I stood there, peering into windows. Nothing.

I sighed and saw the vapor of my breath in the cold morning air. I walked home.

▫◊▫

Every morning. Every morning at 2:17 a.m., that bus crawls quietly through the night, bathed in the streetlamps. A person gets out and walks into the old house. Every single morning, and every single morning I’m standing at my bay window watching it.

“Donny, see a doctor,” Nancy groans.

“Yeah, I will,” I reply.

Friday: 2:17 a.m.

Drop off. No lights.

Saturday.

Nothing. No one leaves the place. I watch it all day.

Sunday.

Church in the morning, but I left my old video camera propped in the bedroom window, pointed at the corner house. Nothing.

Nancy is making rigs and gravy downstairs. The kids and their families are coming over. I set the video camera and go downstairs to greet them.

Checked the footage later. Nothing.

2:17 a.m.

A light goes on in the house. It’s on the third floor at the apex of the house. Nancy is knocked out from entertaining. I put on my Rolex and check the time against my cellphone: perfect.

I put on my gray suit and black tie. I slick my hair back and put on my black coat, leather gloves, and burgundy scarf. I kiss Nancy goodbye.

At the door to the old Racanelli place, I freeze. No doorbell to ring. Someone ripped it out. I open the screen door and knock, but when I do the door creaks open. It was left that way.

I walk in, kicking up dust bunnies. The staircase is right behind the door, so I head straight up. From what I can see in the dark, the place is a hovel. Racanelli would spit bullets.

At the top of the flights, orange light peers out from under a door. I open it.

There’s my mahogany desk staring back at me. The rest of the room is empty of furniture, but not of decorations. There are faded Polaroids tacked up on the peeling wallpaper. Pictures of the neighborhood. Old block parties, casual day-to-day pictures, and there are some of me and Nancy. Some of the kids and their friends. Some of Cindy.

Close-ups. She’s smiling at the cameraman. Playful, even flirty. Now there are some of her a little older. I follow the mural to the right as if travelling forward in time. There’s some of her in a bathing suit.

“I knew you’d come.”

There’s some of her crying.

“I told myself, ‘Sooner or later, Donny will get ya.’”

There’s some of her naked. There’s some of her…

“And here you are.”

I turn to find Peter Racanelli curled up in the corner behind the door. Missing teeth, bald, but wearing a long beard, his wide eyes bloodstained and glassy and far, far away.

“I could feel you watching,” he says.

I stare. I feel flush. I can feel the hot tears pouring down my face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, rocking slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“Cindy,” I whisper. “My baby.”

“Yeah,” he whimpers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

My hands find his neck and squeeze hard. His head grows red as a tomato in his father’s garden. He grabs my arms and digs his nails in, but I’m a bronze statue. My entire body is one muscle, clenched in spasm. He’s dead ten minutes before that spasm releases.

Pain crawls up my body and seizes me tightly. I can’t breathe. My head is in a vice.

I lay there and hear Peter’s corpse whisper to me: “People say things are crazy today, but you gotta ask how far back today goes, ‘cause otherwise…maybe things are just always crazy.”

Grunting for control, grunting for air, I look at him and he’s gone. The mahogany desk isn’t here either. The pictures aren’t here. There is no light bulb in the fixture above me. The room is full of the morning sun. Only I am here, in my $800 gray suit and gold Rolex, surrounded by peeled wallpaper and dust bunnies. My last breath is a bitter one.

M.G. Capitelli is a writer and editor. You can find his work on The Comic Jam, Luke Henderson’s Crit One series, and all over Fugitive Poems where he is Senior Editor.

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Another issue in the can. Hope you enjoyed getting some strange!

Stay weird.

• Christian De Matteo

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