Adam Kluger

The New Show by Adam Kluger With Art by Dreck

“Excuse me

Excuse me

Excuse me!!!”

Gavin Tolkin was standing on a chair now as he tried to get the room’s attention.

“Hey Everybody – please shut the fuck up!”

A display of dominance was required from the show’s new show runner. The network was suddenly in the business of creating an episodic BTS docuseries on the NY newsroom. The brainchild of some bean counter at the big building on Madison Avenue— and Tolkin’s name was on the memo as the new sr executive producer of the whole magilla gorilla.

Tolkin guessed that some schmuck in corporate must have finally stumbled across an episode of TMZ and hatched a brilliant new idea on how to make money without spending money.

The crowd of employees started to stir in the newsroom around the tables of the writers pit. Tolkin needed a clear surface to lay out the new bible. He brandished it like Moses hoisting the 10 commandments and yelled again at the top of his lungs.

“My most esteemed and respected colleagues I need your kind support right now, please grab all your shit off the tables and find another place for it — we need this space to work on the new show—now!!!”

Tolkin felt the power the resentment and jealousy swirl around him as co-workers filed out of the room silently—aside from some random grumbling— with their folders, files and coffee mugs.

His number two, Headly Montague admired his boss’s balls or what do the Jews call it?

Chutzpah.

Tolkin’s name was on the memo and the show bible as the new show’s sr executive boss— so he better fuckin bring it like that every day or the whole operation would be untenable, unmanageable and everybody in the newsroom would probably lose their fucking jobs.

“How soon do those corporate idiots want this supposed television show on the air?“

“45 days big T”

“We’ll just see about that.”

“Hey Chief, ” a young intern named Rosamela interrupted, “someone to see you…The Fox?”

The Fox was a rising star at the network.

A young hitler-youth wannabe in his early 30’s who was quickly climbing the ranks to the top of the mushroom.

Always staring or smiling— the Fox was always assessing weaknesses in the smaller fish at the bureau and then whispering to a mystery suit who was always next to him. He was a prep school bully and if you went up against him you would lose and be fired. That was his power.

“Gavin”

“Fred”

“Just down here on directives from corporate to make sure the new project gets off the ground with the least amount of fuckups.”

“Just getting settled —Day 1 – we should be good in plenty of time to make the deadline.”

“That’s reassuring Gavin —because I was the one who chose your name out of a hat to run this new “concept.” So try not to screw the pooch on this one —like you did with that airline show.

“Thanks, Fred”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

“Right.”

-Break-

“T… all assembled in the main break room”

“Great. Head on in Headly and I’ll be right there”

(Urinal Flush the hands being washed momentarily in sink)

“Gavin?”

(Plop ker-plop, kerplop)

“Fred?

“Yeah, listen I’m thinking that the B-block needs to be shortened to include enough time

(Plop ker-plop, kerplop) …for a station ID break, mmkay?”

“uh… yeah, sure. No problem will make that change to the rundown as soon as I get to the break-room.”

“Great.” (Plop ker-plop, kerplop) I’ll look forward to getting the revised rundown later today.”

“I’m on it.” See you later (sound of bathroom door opening)

Tolkin had to admire the total un-self consciousness of the junior executive who couldn’t give a shit about taking a shit while they talked business in the men’s room. It was Fred’s little way of letting Gavin know where he stood in the network’s pecking order and that shit always rolls down hill.

“Alright, Shelley please take a note that we are taking the anchor wrap out of the end of the B Block and now bumping out with a beauty shot of the bridge with a music sting . That should shorten the B block”

“What’s the matter Bonehead? Are you getting tired of my end of segment ad-libs and timeless witticisms.”

“Of course not Chick. Your pre-commercial teases and patter are solid gold, Big Daddy… but the network needs a little more time to make the donuts.”

“That’s what this cockamamie show is gonna be Bonehead— a giant donut— if you keep cutting into my spontaneous moments of comic genius.”

(Appreciative laughter throughout the break-room)

“Duly noted, Chick… now listen everybody, the only way this show is going to have any chance to work is if we have our shit sewn tight. We need to each do our part to stay on top of all the small details and deadlines. We can’t have misspelled fonts, teleprompter issues, stage managers who are looking at their newspaper instead of cueing the guests on time. We need to operate like a team… like a well oiled-machine. Like a “REAL” TV show. Remember the cameras and audience will be watching everything we do in real time…Any questions?”

“Yeah, Bonehead. Who died and made you the king… I thought your main credentials were fetching me my pumpkin spice latte?”

“Still is, Chick, two sugars, right?”

(Laughter) (Door opens)

“How’s it going— everybody on page with the new format?”

“Hey Fred. All good. Chick was just leading us in the morning prayer before we go through the work bible page by page.”

“Great. I’ll let you all get at it. I’ve got a big budget meeting to attend to. See most of you folks later I’m sure. (Exits room)

“All right let’s start at page one. New flying logo, new theme song, with highlight montage dissolving into Chick at central anchor desk with a box on his left— no, I mean “screen left” — with new show title with a live crawl on bottom of the screen with clock and the bug…Go Chick.

“Good morning everybody on this beautiful Monday in New York City as we welcome you to a new behind the scenes look into the goings on at a real New York television station … kind of like TMZ … but not nearly as fun or cool”

(Laughter)

“No ad-libs just yet please Chick—let’s just try to get through the first read through”

“ jawohl Herr Bonehead or should we call you Pope Bonehead the First? Or better yet Senior Executive Coffee Boy…

(Laughter)

—Break—

“Hey Henry—what’s shaking at the top of the mushroom”

“Hey Gavin— nothing good, I’m afraid”

“How’dya mean?”

“Just got out of the annual budget meeting —what a bloodbath.”

“ They can’t disband the news unit —can they? That’s the network’s bread and butter isn’t it?“

“ All bets are off since the merger, belt tightening across the board was the operative word of the day —every unit is fair game as far as I can tell.”

“How bad is it gonna be?”

“ It’s not going to be pretty.”

“ or cinematic?”

“Line from the Sopranos?”

“Yep.”

“Apropos”

“How so?”

“ Someone or some unit is gonna get whacked every week from now on—til the end of the fiscal year.”

“Not good.”

“Oh hey— how’s the new TMZ inspired show coming along?”

“Oh just peachy — a cross between a pig fuck and a barrel of monkeys.”

“ Well put — at least they picked the right guy to put in charge.”

“Thanks, Henry”

“You bet kid. Keep your head up.”

—Break—

“Hey Chick —how’s it going?”

“Bonehead! Can’t you see I’m busy conversing with our most beautiful young fashion intern, Rondela er um Romela!!”

(Intern giggles and walks away)

“ Sorry, Chick just going for a coffee run wanted to know if you cared to join me?”

“What? You don’t know my standard order by now?”

“It’s not that — thought we could do a walk and talk — just wondering if you heard anything more about today’s bloody budget meeting?”

“Not a word — what? you worried we’re all getting shit-canned? That would be a blessing to get me off this stupid fucking TMZ ripoff show —Listen up Bonehead —

When you’re a comic genius —one show or gig gets cancelled —and lickety-split my LA agent Morty Seidelbaum is on the phone with five more TV offers already lined up for me to choose from — at least he used to do that —a couple years ago— haven’t heard much from him recently —for a couple years now. Don’t sweat it Bonehead if we all get whacked I’ll hire you to walk my pet shitzu, Marmalade—

“Thanks, Chick”

“ stop worrying and wipe that stupid look off your face… oh, that’s right … you can’t.”

“Hardy har har…see you at the bar in a little bit.”

“Cheers…you stupid Bonehead …now you got ME worrying!”

“Chick — YOU are the golden goose —they would never ever get rid of YOU— you also have a huge fan base — in Japan”

“ Domo arigato Mr. Roboto— too bad you fucked up that Japanese Airline show Bonehead —

“Yeah don’t remind me — and it wasn’t my fault if you remember.

“Ah-so… that’s what they called you after the terrible reviews came in— Mr. Ah-so —shit for brains producer—very bad!”

The two old friends/co-workers smiled, nodded and bowed to each other —and then headed in opposite directions.

##

Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)

The Refrigerator by Adam Kluger

” Pam, I can’t believe you were able to get me an appointment so quickly”

“Why’s that?”

“This time of year…”

“a personal reference goes a long way.”

“Apparently.”

“It is actually a great time to do it with all the publicity surrounding similar types of surgeries–the price went down significantly.”

“I can’t wait…I’m been wanting to pull the trigger for years.”

“What was the final straw?”

“Oh you know better than anyone…it was just an ever-growing laundry list.”

“Amen sister.”

A gentle knock was barely perceptible on the kitchen door.

“Dear?”

“Yes, Marvin”

“Would you and your guest be more comfortable in the living room while I start preparations for dinner?”

“No! Actually, we’re still finishing our wine…but do come in I wanted to talk to you…I’m very unhappy.”

The middle-aged man timidly inched his way into the kitchen nodding to his wife and her guest.

“Yes, dearest?”

“Don’t sweet talk me–look at these counters…I see cookie crumbs all over. I certainly didn’t put them there.”

“But, but…”

“Don’t you but me..and don’t backtalk me in front of my friend…” Suddenly, Marvin’s wife filled her empty wine glass with cold water from the sink and then threw the cold water violently into her husband’s face.

“There! Maybe that will wake you up to what I expect from now on…. you did not stack the plates in the dishwasher the way I like it. When I tell you to do something a certain way in the kitchen I expect you to follow instructions. Or are you trying to get me angry.”

“Yes dear, I mean NO dear, Marvin replied with water dripping off his emotionless face.”

“And remember…the refrigerator is organized a specific way. Don’t start putting food on the second shelf. That’s only for water. How many times do I have to tell you that.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“And don’t think I didn’t see that one of my yogurts was missing. Those are mine. You have your own food. Leave my food alone. You’re fat enough as is. You don’t need to be eating yogurt. You should be working out more anyway.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I’m right…I’m like a broken record player. Why don’t you go clean up my shoe closet for the next hour until we’re done here. That ought to help you break a sweat.”

“Yep, I’m on it.”

“Wait!”

“Yes, dear?”

“This dish rag is all wet….were you planning on leaving it here in the kitchen? Yeah, I’m sure you were. It’s goes in the clothes hamper with the other dirty laundry you should be washing…right NOW….you can get to the closet after”

As Marvin quickly left the kitchen, Pam’s friend was pantomiming an enthusiastic applause with her hands. On her face was a huge smile.

“Pammie, you’ve got that one almost totally housebroken.”

“I can’t take all the credit, they do offer tremendous after-treatment consultations at the clinic if you ever need them.”

“Seems like you have everything well in hand here…can’t wait to get Fred in the operating room.”

“Timing’s great, Nan…I’m here too if you ever have any questions.”

“I’ve got one question actually…It’s kind of personal.”

“Go ahead, shoot.”

“What do they do with them–you know, after the operation I mean?”

“Oh those useless things…I keep Marvin’s in a jar in the cabinet above the fridge.”

“You do NOT!”

“You BET I do… that lazy prick sometimes needs a good reminder of who’s the boss now.”

“Great wine by the way”

“Isn’t it? Sheila recommended it. I really love a good Chardonnay.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)

The Turtle by Adam Kluger With Artwork by Dreck

Jacob Shellstein was a soft-spoken New York Dermatologist who enjoyed collecting stamps, studying birds, reading Revolutionary War books and treating his patients.

When his wife had just about enough of their normal existence without the luxurious perks her other Upper East Side friends seemed to enjoy and flaunt in her face daily, she served Jacob with papers charging him with being “withdrawn, cruel and unusual,” and she took custody of their teenage daughter Annabelle, and moved in with that hedge fund manager Juan Carlo Esposito-Caron whom she had been having an affair with for years now.

Dr. Jacob, not one to get overly emotional, became even more withdrawn. As his practice started to dwindle and his finances suddenly dissipated after a contentious settlement (not that the good Dr. Jacob ever had any intentions to contest a thing), he looked through the mail on the kitchen counter of his new “bachelor” pad and saw a missive from an organization he knew well, “Doctors without Borders.” The telegram was from an old colleague he also knew quite well, Dr. Felicia Winstrom, she was in Guatemala handling a leprosy outbreak and she desperately needed her old mentor’s help.

Dr. Jacob was on a plane to Guatemala the next morning.

Felicia and Jacob had been more than just colleagues. He had wanted to marry her at one time but the timing had never worked out. Their love affair and shared passion for helping others made them perfect potential life partners. Dr. Jacob read about George Washington’s theory of enlightened procrastination on the small prop-plane as it circled over the Green Mountain Range and Jungles of Guatemala.

Felicia was just coming out of a tent when she spotted Jacob–she went to him, put her arms around him, pulled down her surgical mask and kissed him passionately with tears running down her eyes.

“You came, you came…my dearest love…I knew you would …I knew you would”

Felicia collapsed in Jacob’s arms, clearly sleep-deprived and overwrought. Jacob carried her to her small hut, laid her on her bed and let her sleep.

After speaking in Spanish with a couple local doctors and nurses Jacob got a better grasp of the nature of the outbreak –and knew from the description of the symptoms, exactly which type of leprosy it was, the warning signs to look for, and the utmost importance of keeping certain acutely infected patients away from the general population. Upon receiving those instructions, the nurses rounded up the patients with those particular symptoms.

Dr. Jacob explained to Felicia when she awoke that time was not on their side and that it was absolutely essential to try out a new, relatively untested, infectious disease treatment on at least one of the patients to see if it might reverse the awful symptoms.

The local doctors found a willing volunteer, a 10 year old boy whose face was starting to bubble like a gourd. Upon administering a large and painful hypodermic with a strong steroid and drug that had recently been FDA approved, the young patient’s symptoms started to go into remittance within 48 hours. The look of joy and relief on the boy’s face and the local doctors was matched only by the love in Felicia’s eyes for Dr. Jacob.

The rest of the acutely infected patients were quickly administered shots and all seemed to be under control except for one minor incident where an old villager, who did not appreciate the size and pain of the needle, and perhaps the nonchalance of Dr. Jacob, jumped up screaming from the table and bit his arm. Dr. Jacob calmed the old woman down, finished administering the shot, checked his arm and quickly wiped the area on his arm with a alcohol swab, bandaged it and continued on with the hundred or so remaining villagers.

The next morning, Felicia kissed Jacob on the cheek and was quickly off in a helicopter to another village area in the Ticataxa Region after having received a telegram regarding another outbreak. She couldn’t say no. The letter to Jacob included a photograph, a poem and a promise– that when the time was right they would find each other once more–and never be parted again.

Jacob felt relieved and was happy for the first time in what seemed like years.

When Dr. Jacob got back to New York he immediately started to feel funny.

He went into his office and gave himself a full physical. What he saw caused grave concern. He administered the hypodermic with the anti-infectious disease serum and waited 48 hours.

No improvement.

The symptoms were getting worse.

Of course, it must have occurred when that old woman bit me–but why did her leprosy symptoms go away–could I somehow be resistant to the cure?

He looked in the mirror and was shocked by his appearance.

His face looked almost reptilian.

Dr. Jacob was horrified, panicked and confused but knew exactly what he must do.

He needed to quarantine himself immediately. He packed a couple bags full of supplies, put on latex medical gloves sanitized the area, placed a hand-written quarantine sign on his outer door and waited for dark.

He drove upstate at night to his small, broken-down cottage in Millbrook where he kept a small laboratory and research center and often studied birds and nature. The area was beautiful for nature lovers with the nearby Innesfree Gardens and various farms, but of no interest whatsoever to his ex-wife. “Let him have his little nature shack she told her attorney, it’s not worth anything.”

Jacob called a trusted colleague and told him what had occurred and that he couldn’t risk starting a leprosy outbreak by infecting an ill-equipped hospital staff and that the best solution was either to find a cure in his laboratory–quickly– or kill himself by tying himself to a chair and lighting the shack on fire. There was no other way as he saw it.

His good friend could not believe the situation was so dire. Dr. Jacob assured him it was so.

“Paul, remember my old Medical School nickname?

“The Turtle?”

“That’s exactly what I look like now.”

“Jacob, …no…”

“I’ve got to go…no time.”

Jacob Shellstein was awarded the affectionate moniker of “The Turtle” early on by his adoring Columbia Medical School classmates because of his last name, his tortoise shell glasses, his methodical nature in the lab, his withdrawn personality outside the lab and because of his preternatural intelligence– if ever a man was the embodiment of a wise old turtle it was indeed Jacob. He graduated the top of his class and became a leading global specialist on infectious diseases. His charitable, pro bono medical work around the globe over the years had positively impacted thousands of lives.

Jacob carried the two large red plastic containers of gasoline up from the basement and plopped them down on the carpet next to the rocking chair in the study. He took a favorite old book on George Washington and placed it on the chair and then he went back into the lab.

He biopsied his leprous flesh and tested it for hours under the microscope. He poured through old books and scanned the internet looking for any similar cases of patients with similar reptilian-looking skin.

He thought he found one possibility about 20 hours in but it was a false lead–so he kept plugging away.

He listened to Gershin’s Rhapsody in Blue as tears ran down is turtle-like face, He loved the song and it made him think of his beloved daughter Annabelle Blue–who he might never see again.

His good friend Paul called and asked if Jacob wanted or needed anything.

Jacob joked– “a cure would be nice.”

“Absolutely, said Paul, awkwardly–let’s pray for that–what about a Blonde Russian Hooker? he joked in a thick Russian accent –a call-back to an old medical school joke about what would be a good solution to any problem? Jacob laughed and replied, “No Paul, she would probably just say, “I von’t fuck turtles!”

“Hang in there buddy–if anyone can figure this out, you can.”

Jacob smiled and then suddenly a light bulb went off. Joking about hookers suddenly made him think of a whole new group of unapproved FDA rejected HIV drugs (Interferon6QP & Glaxiclaplonase) that had shown great promise in tests on mice in combating certain infectious diseases when used in combination–but the potential side effects were still totally unknown if used on humans. Jacob probably still had the recently mailed samples in his medical kit –never used– he glanced into his study at the two containers of gasoline–and then quickly rifled through the kit. After preparing the hypodermic he said a short prayer. He quickly wrote a last will and testament with instructions to leave everything he owned to Annabelle Blue along with a brief note to her and he emailed it to Paul. Then he phoned Paul and left a message on his voicemail and told him that one bullet, or a torch thrown through the study window from a safe distance of at least 10 feet –would ignite the gas containers and set the house on fire and protect everyone from this new strain of untreatable leprosy and that NYPD/ Hazmat– if they have not already– should simply light his old apartment on fire as well-to be safe.

Jacob Solomon Shellstein, or the grotesque creature he had suddenly become, then took the large hypodermic needle and jammed it in his arm. the image of George Washington flitted quickly through his mind as he gasped in excruciating pain, closed his eyes, and then everything …just…went….black.

Two years later at a solemn dedication ceremony at City Hall, the Mayor of the City was heard saying, “…Today we remember the heroic spirit of a New York doctor whose courageous actions and selfless decisions protected the lives of thousands of our fellow New Yorkers…”

Later that day a family walking by Belvedere Castle in Central Park stopped at a little area before the Delacorte theatre.

“Now, what’s this big surprise?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Annie and I thought you might like this little part here Darling–it’s called…”

“I know exactly what it’s called Felicia, you minx…it’s Turtle Pond–home to red-eared turtles, loons, frogs, ducks and soon one very beautiful, retired and very pregnant wife of mine.

“Oh, Jacob… I’m so indescribably happy.”

The three of them hugged and soon there would be four.

Adam Kluger and Artwork by Dreck

The Mentor by Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)

Brickhead wasn’t stupid he was just a little bit slower than the other guys.

I guess it was my job to bring him up to speed on how things at the office ran. Over drinks was the best way to get that shit taken care of.

Anyway, Brickhead wasn’t a bad guy. He was just young and from the Midwest or the country or some place somewhere where they had chickens and roosters and cows and hens and I really didn’t give a fuck about any of that.

It wasn’t my job to care.

It was my job to train the new recruits so they knew how things were supposed to go and to get things taken care of without making any mistakes.

That was the most important thing of all. No mistakes ever.

This bar I took them all to was called Mr. O’s—a favorite little shit hole because it was always empty, the bartender minded his own fucking business and he never charged me for drinks- why? I don’t know– but that was just fine with me.

The juke had a pretty good selection too —The Doors, The Stones, U2, The Who, The Police,Fucking ACDC, Good shit.

They even threw me free chicken wings –a big ol’ greasy bucket.

Yeah, man– Mr. O’s is the shit.

Ok so get this– Brickhead– who is nothing more than a little fucking shit-eating cowboy– he says to me –with this serious look on his face—-“So when do I get to handle some real action, already.”

Can you believe this fuckin guy–the balls on this fuckin retard.

I look at him and I’m about to slap this mutt silly but just then, Charlie the bartender, trots up with a couple free beers and a buckets of wings…and I just laugh to myself–I eat a couple wings and down my beer.

Then I grab this mother-fucking prick by his fucking neck with my right hand and I start to squeeze– and he looks at me–all surprised–but now I got his attention real good–I start squeezing harder and harder –and his face starts to turn redder and redder–like a real brick-head– now I got his full attention, his eyes start tearing up, he looks all confused and then I whisper–“when I say we talk about business–that’s when we talk about business…do you got me?…nod if you understand…” I helped the kid nod.

Then I slowly eased up on the vise.

Same routine for over a dozen new recruits.

What can I say? They gotta learn from the get go ’bout protocols.

Anyways for some reason schoolin’ this young prick made me think about all the other important stuff I had learned over the years about all sorts of shit.

Like, it’s always better to over-tip than under-tip. Just is. Red-heads are all crazy. They just are. Always mute commercials–that’s why there’s a mute button. Never answer a phone call from a phone number if you don’t recognize the number on caller ID. Police lie like a rug–just as much as criminals. Potato chips go great with ketchup. Always double down when you can. Don’t order take out sushi. Never write down shit or text or email important stuff only use payphones. Women never look fat…not if you wanna get laid.

Don’t ever bet on the Jets.

Always expect traffic.

Don’t trust nobody.

Adam Kluger (Art by Dreck)

The Party by Adam Kluger (Artwork by Dreck)

“His prose?”

“wonderful, piquant”

“Sentence structure, syntax, use of colloquialisms?”

“The entire body…of his work…is chopped…a little hard to digest but deliciously robust narrative nonetheless.”

“You really have been spending a lot of time on your food blog, huh?”

“Platform is everything these days Bascombe. How are plans coming for tonight’s get-together.”

“Oh, you know, the usual drama and complaining, of course. It wouldn’t be a literary circle event if someone wasn’t bitching about someone or sticking the knife in somebody’s back. It’s all part of the fun and games, I suppose. You’re part of the scene long enough and nothing surprises you. These writers though– continue to show even poorer taste if I do say so. This latest one– couldn’t have been any more impertinent really. You shepherd them through “the process”–you offer them immortality and you give them a chance to be sampled by the true arbiters of the literary intelligentsia and do you receive any form of gratitude from them whatsoever–hardly.”

“I know Bascombe- they are truly the basest of all creatures. All ego and no talent. Insecurity and hubris. They grab and cloy and never once realize that they are not special in the slightest. They are simply the current flavor of the month.”

“This new one was the worst I tell you– he thought he was born with a gift of some sort. You know the type. He had no time to “play the game” as he would call it. No time for foolish submission guidelines or petty protocols.”

“Can you imagine?”

“Yes…he really did say that.”

“Didn’t he realize that those submission guidelines and protocols that he mocked were instituted centuries ago to keep out the dreck and the unwashed masses who claim to be writers?”

“If we did not maintain standards or a threshold, then there would be nothing but a giant puddle of dung surrounded by flies.”

“And by flies you mean, of course, aspiring writers”

“Of course.”

“So who shall we expect at tonight’s heavenly soiree?”

“Oh, all the usual suspects- the staff from Creative House including the illustrious Madame B and her devilish young ingénues all dressed in high fashion like Dorothy Parker clones, all the top literary lights, bloggers and buggerers…some glitterati, musical theater friends, a surprise or two –expect the usual standing room only.”

“Lovely, lovely– are they all going to be pulling this new fellow apart to get at him?”

“Mmm…there should be enough of him to go around….when last we spoke he impressed me with his big personality.“

“So how did you handle the particulars?”

“Per usual…he signed his rights over to us for the novel etc, etc..for the standard minor advance.”

“Did you make him jump through hoops?”

“Of course.”

“And dance like a chicken with his head cut off.”

“Naturally”

“And he didn’t read the fine print on the contract?”

” They never do—do they?”

“That’s right, so eager they are for that small advance and for that sweet taste of fame.”

” They never have time for contracts or submission guidelines or petty protocols…”

“They never do.”

” Even when it says very clearly in black and white.”

” Upon the occasion of my death, all rights to my novel revert back to Bascombe Wellington & Associates.”

“Speaking of which…how’s your famous “writer-stew” coming along?”

“Should be the hit of the party –as always.”

“Bascombe, you are a cheeky devil.”

“Thanks, old friend–be a good fellow and pass me a fresh sprig of rosemary will you..and could you toss these left over metacarpals into the incinerator–I have a feeling he won’t be needing them anymore”

“Quite right…. you incorrigible old rascal, you.”

A Photo Gallery By Adam Kluger

(Note–Adam Kluger is not only a top notch writer and artist, he knows when and where to aim a camera. I think we’d all love to have out hands on some of the wares in this window. Reminds me of the time, at least twenty years ago, when I found eight original Amazing Stories dating back to before The War (WWII for the very young) at the local St. Vincent DePaul. I spent something like five bucks and got them all (those things can pack a big price amongst collectors) and I gave to to a friend’s wife so she could give them to him as a birthday present–told her to leave my name out of it. He is a big collector of such things and that made it the hit of the birthday party. His wife, also my friend, was grateful because he is one of those people who has everything. It got me drinks with the good stuff in it and it is a good thing to make people happy. I imagine most of the items in Adam’s pictures will do that for anyone with a love for books.–Leila)

Adam Kluger (And there will be a gallery coming by Dreck soon)

Those Summers in Nantucket by Adam Kluger (Artwork by Dreck) (Artwork featuring bare naked ladies warning for sesnsitive souls)

(Note-it is our serene pleasure to bring Adam Kluger on the site. He is a first rate writer and a fine fine artist despite the somewhat effacing name of the artist–The Eds.)

Paul had been heartbroken…

There was nothing better for a broken heart… than new pussy.

Paul started painting houses in Nantucket.

That’s where he met Kathy.

She had a big smile, blonde hair and a confident, easy way about herself. She was also really nice and pretty and intelligent too. She saw Paul on the roof of a house without a shirt on listening to the radio and painting a window frame. She worked down the street at a muffins shop. She would be attending Harvard in the fall. On Nantucket all the kids worked part-time summer jobs. At night they would go to the beach for bonfire parties or to summer houses for keg parties.

Paul and Kathy hit it off nicely. She would come back to his basement room and they would get busy. If Paul hadn’t still been pining over the girl who broke his heart he probably would have been able to give Kathy more. But there wasn’t anything to give. So it was just sex. And the sex was really good. For a straight-laced kind of chick she had a killer body and she was always so neat and clean and there was something about being on an island in the sun that makes fucking so much better.

Paul was already accepted to Bard.

This would be his summer for fun and Kathy helped him heal with terrific blowjobs and guilt-free sex. She seemed happy to have a good looking guy to bone and it was pretty uncomplicated.

The following summer, Paul would get a job scooping ice cream in town at the Old Corner Shoppe. He wore a fruity looking pink shirt and didn’t pay much attention when a pretty young blonde girl with short spiky hair started flirting with him. Her name was Stephany and she worked at a gas station pumping gas. Her uncle was a famous movie star and she had grown up on the Island. She was a smoking hot chick and Paul offered to give her a ride back to her house after his shift on the back of his moped. Granted, a moped is not nearly as cool as a motorcycle…but it’s also not nearly as lethal…when they got back to her house they quickly got undressed and jumped in a shower together. Paul couldn’t believe how sexy this chick was. Tanned and beautiful. He brought his “A” game with him into her bed because he wanted to be invited back again and again. Luckily, his enthusiasm was rewarded and he would end up fucking her throughout that summer.

One time on the beach he joined her and her girlfriend on their blankets.

He was asked to spread orange suntan lotion from France on both of them… Paul couldn’t help but notice how friendly and familiar the girls were with each other as they took off their tops to let Paul spread the lotion on their hot tan bodies. He suggested that If they were hungry that he would be glad to make a “sandwich” with them. The girls just laughed and nothing ever came of the idea…a little bit later Paul did take Stephany behind a dune and started fingering her. She could have fucked anyone she wanted on that Island. Before she met Paul she probably did…none of that mattered. She loved riding on the back of his moped and he loved rubbing baby oil on her body when they showered together after a torrid boning session. The sun, the surf. Hot blonde chicks, doobie and tooling around on a moped on a beautiful island.

It couldn’t get any better.

One serious bummer though was the day Paul almost drowned.

He had been with a work friend at Nobadeer beach. They tossed around a football and scoped out chicks. They listened to some of Paul’s cassettes on a portable boom box w/ cassette holder. UB40…reggae…the Specials..ska…anyway, Paul dove in to cool off…swam out and did a little body surfing…it was pretty mellow so he went out further and further

He could hear the caw of the seagulls and he felt great.

That is, until he saw a huge wave building to an enormous swale about 15 feet high almost 50 yards away. Quickly he looked around and realized he had made a huge mistake.

He wasn’t a great swimmer and panic shot through him like an icicle.

Quickly he started to do a mad crawl toward the shore…He didn’t look behind him.

Before he knew it, he felt the pull of the Atlantic Ocean and then the huge wave crashed over him. The power of the wave was shocking. It spun Paul like laundry until he felt the ocean floor. Immediately he pushed off. Disoriented, but sure that he needed to get back above the water’s surface…

He did that finally and gasped violently for breath.

Fuck! Oh my God. I’m in BIG trouble he thought as he turned his head.

He was still very far away from the shore. But he knew he had to recover quickly and keep paddling desperately toward the beach all the while sensing a new, even bigger wave approaching.

At this point he felt he might end up drowning.

But he was way too scared to scream for help.

It would have terrified him even more.

No one could help him now. He was too far out.

He was a small pink dot fighting against a roaring dark green swirling ocean with no concern for his life or his survival.

Paul decided he would try a risky maneuver. Instead of trying to body surf the wave forward and then be sent somersaulting under the water again…he would dive right into the wave at its middle and then swim underwater for a few seconds until he reached the surface.

As the large wave came up upon him, Paul took a quick gulp of breath and hoped that his gambit would work as he felt the awesome power of the water pull him toward the wave…he extended his hands in front of his head and dove for the middle of the wave. If it worked he might just survive this awful ordeal…if he had miscalculated that would be it.

He was done for

As it turned out he had made the right choice. The strategy worked. He avoided getting tossed head over heels underwater again and after using the same technique two more times on slightly smaller waves he felt the sand and pebbles of the shore line. Never had he ever felt such relief before. He made a mad sprint for the beach and was knocked down one more time by a wave. Paul laughed at the Ocean’s final message…don’t EVER fuck with me kid.

He collapsed on the beach in the sand with seaweed wrapped around his body and salt, sand and mucous pasted on his face as he blew bubbles of snot and gasped for breath. His friend Bram ran toward him and asked

“Dude, are you ok?”

“Yeah man… (Cough, cough)

Paul could taste the salt and sand in his mouth…his body was sore all over and he started to shiver…

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Paul leaned over and puked out some salt water

“Are you ok? Should I get a lifeguard?”

“No man, I’m cool… (Cough, cough) …just need a beer.”

Paul was neither cool or thirsty…what he was and what he would never forget, was that he was VERY lucky…he was a survivor. Sure…but more than all that he was a lucky son of a bitch.

Sure he felt invulnerable that summer. He was in his physical prime and he was getting laid and life was good.

On this day, however, he discovered first-hand just how unpredictable and tenuous life could be. He’d think twice from now on before he would wade out too far on anything. Leave the lunar fringe for those with a suicide wish. He’d get his kicks before the whole shithouse went up in flames but he’d exercise a bit more caution too.

Some rebel.

Red eyed and shivering Paul made his way up the beach on unsteady legs until he got to his beach blanket. Then he crumpled onto it and starting to puke out more salt water. A reggae song was playing on the tape deck and Paul could feel the warm sun caress his aching, shocked body…he lay there recovering, until he felt something cold and wet tap his shoulder. He slowly turned over and squinted into the rays of the sun as his pal Bram handed him a cold can of blue ribbon.

He felt like a new man. Like his past sins had been washed away. Like he had looked death in the face and survived. He had been given a second chance. He had guessed right in the face of disaster.

The summer was almost gone …and that beer tasted pretty damn good.

Later that Summer Paul would be living in a beach house with some other friends. One housemate named Werth was a deadhead and introduced Paul to shrooms. They had a keg party and Kathy was there…somehow Stephany heard about the party too and she came by to say hi…before you knew it…Paul hopped into her car without his shoes on and was off with Stephany. She kidnapped him and brought him back to her house on the edge of town for a hellacious boning session.

When he got back Kathy was gone…He made it up to her by fucking her the next night and then taking her to dinner at an Italian restaurant near the movie theatre. The film they watched later starred some English actor who would die years later at a bar in Malta.

There were other chicks that summer as well…there was a hostess at a restaurant where Paul worked part-time as a dishwasher…she was petite with black hair and she wore a lot of make-up. But she had a fine little body and she was always eager to tease Paul. Paul was lucky the night he drove her back to her place from the dance club. They were both pretty lit and when a cop asked Paul if they had been drinking. Paul admitted that he had had “one beer” but that he wasn’t drunk. Luckily, the cop was cool and let him off with a warning.

Paul almost backed up over a cliff shortly thereafter, but again luck was on his side that night…when he finally got the hostess back to her house for the bone, she got him so worked up with foreplay, that he shot almost on contact. Three strokes and that was it. Pretty embarrassing. He did his best to take care of her after with his hand. But the magic flirtation was over and that was the end of that.

Tom, a friend from the restaurant, always looked up to Paul because Paul was older and once rolled him a joint. Paul had a nice supply with him from Belsam’s, enough to last a few weeks. Anyway, out of the blue, while they’re smoking a joint after work behind the restaurant… the kid says,

” my younger sister wants to fuck you…”

Paul was surprised but interested and asked,

“Are you cool with that?”

.”Yeah, totally”

“I don’t know man. That could be kind of weird…you know”

…”dude, she won’t stop bugging me about it…will you just fuck her already?” or at least say hi to her?”

“Sure dude, bring her by…I’ll say hi.”

Paul felt like a rock star.

When she came by later that week, Paul was hanging out in his room with some work friends…a couple of guys and girls passing around wine and a joint.

“Hi, I’m Tom’s younger sister…Penny.”

“Hey Penny…nice to meet you.”

She had red hair and a nice little figure. Paul guessed she was almost sixteen.

Paul introduced her around and looked her in the eye from across the room…he recognized that look in her eyes.

Before long, she had worked her way over to where Paul was standing.

While obstructing everyone else’s view she casually reached behind her and grabbed the bulge that was starting to form in his shorts. Penny kept talking to the guy in front of her while at the same time she held firm to Paul’s now rock hard cock.

For a young girl, she was pretty bold.

Paul liked that about her.

When everyone else cleared out… she stayed.

Paul closed the door and turned around. Penny was already on her knees. She pulled down Paul’s shorts to his sneakers and then proceeded to give him a world class blowjob.

He didn’t fuck her though. That way, things never got weird with Tom for the rest of the summer.

Adam Kluger (and Dreck)