“New York City: A True 8th Avenue Tale” By Bob Heaney.

My friend Bob works as a bouncer on the doors of The Tempest, a great little dive bar on New York’s 8th Avenue. A few days ago, Bob had this utterly jaw dropping story to tell…

A true 8th Avenue tale. Apologies in advance for the use of profanity and one particularly offensive term, but the story wouldn’t be nearly as interesting if it wasn’t quoted verbatim and uncensored:

It was a typical Friday night at Tempest and the evening had thus far been uneventful. We were expecting a decent crowd to file out of the Knicks game and into the pub, but until the final buzzer sounded in the Garden we would have to settle for the slow but reliable business from the handful of regulars and the odd passerby that stopped into the pub. Hoping to kill some time, I stepped out front for a smoke. Within moments of me lighting the cigarette, an unusual-looking fellow approached me. His clothes were far too big for his body (although his build was anything but frail) and he had a manic look in his eyes that was unmistakably the gaze of someone who wasn’t, as they say, “all together”. Far younger and more spry than the usual derelicts who mill about on 8th Avenue, I kept at an arm’s length as he made eye contact with me.

“Yo man, I need two dollars and sixteen cents” he announced with the trademark specificity of so many of the beggars and con men that practice their trade around Penn Station.”I don’t have any money” I replied.

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a Discman that had to have dated to the mid-1990s.

“But my motherfucking batteries is dead, man! I need to listen to my jams!”

“I’m very sorry, buddy,” I reiterated, “but I don’t have anything for you”.

At this point his glare went from crazed to menacing. His eyes assumed a steely clarity that was unsettling, to say the least.

“Is that how we going to play it, motherfucker?” he snapped, the inflection of his voice rising and becoming noticeably louder. “I just got out of motherfucking Rikers, asshole,” he continued. “Do you know what that means? Do you know what that makes me, motherfucker?!”

I took a step back and squared my shoulders, keeping my arms to my sides but otherwise assuming a fighter’s stance. I fully expected him to attack me at that point. Although his dress made him appear comical at first glance, he was nonetheless powerfully built. Just when I thought he was about to swing, however, he began gesticulating wildly to himself.

“It makes me a faggot!”

I looked at him with an expression of utter bewilderment.

“I got fucked in the ass every day there, and now I’m a faggot! Yeah! I’m a faggot! I’m a faggot! Whoooooo!”

He repeated the phrase over and over again, each repetition louder and more enthusiastic than the one that preceded it. As quickly as he had approached, he turned around and began walking away from me into 8th Avenue’s perpetual tangle of traffic. He raised his arms triumphantly above his head and continued to repeat his new mantra:

“I’m a faggot! I’m a faggot! I’m a faggot! Yeah!”

Halfway across the street, he approached an off-duty yellow cab that was sitting in traffic. With one abrupt motion, he grabbed the handle to the driver’s door and swung it open violently. The terrified driver cowered in fear as our hero leaned in and screamed into his ear:

“I’M A FAGGOT!”

Without another word, he calmly walked away from the cab with his arms still raised skyward, sauntering down 30th Street like the heavyweight champion of the world.

You May Also Be Interested In…
* New York Diary: Part IV
* Keep The Meter Running
* The Statue Of Liberty’s Bum

Books That Are Better Than The Bible…

There is hope for all of you rubbish aspiring authors yet!

All of those classics of literature and more can be purchased from Abebooks which is HERE.

You May Also Be Interested In…
* Make Mine A Harlot
* Happy Birthday To Me?
* The Alternate Mr. Men Books

Al Cook’s “Necropolis”: Cut Loose (Complete Version).

Good evening.

Originally intended as a 2 parter, my long lost and even longer awaited Necropolis horror comic strip installment “Cut Loose” is now available in its entirety and you can only find it by clicking right HERE.

Here are a few cropped images to temp you…

Al Cook’s Necropolis Memories.

My comic strip Al Cook’s “Necropolis” is about to change and so, I thought I’d share some memories.
…Ahh, memories.
…ARGGHHHHH! MEMORIES!

Last month I decided that my strip was over detailed and I had a good mind to make it really scratchy and quick but just as I was about to do that, Christmas arrived and Anna presented me with a rare Glasgow comic book called “The Bogie Man” and that changed everything.

A while ago, I mentioned “The Bogie Man” HERE but I had no idea how detailed it was inside and how good it looked because of it.
So that’s that. Next time you take a look at Al Cook’s “Necropolis”, things should look pretty different.

Dead Flies.

A couple of weeks back I came home to find one of my favourite books lying on the floor with a fly mushed across the lovely dust jacket.
Yep, if a fly is unlucky enough to fly into my house and Anna is home then the fly can flaming well just forget it.

Me,the good guy, always takes the time to put flies and spiders under glass and then I walk down the 8 flights of stairs in my building and let ’em out!
I can frequently be seen at my door with my Outstanding Services To Wildlife medals on, shouting: “You’re free my friends!”

A Catholic upbringing was only useful for the guilt it forever brings me.
Anyways, some people don’t even give flies the quick death a hardback book will bring.
No, some people don’t even leave flies alone even after they’re dead…