Sunday Comix

An Easy Decision


Written by Patrick McNulty
Illustrated by Philip McNulty (Philip McNulty Illustration Blog)

May I use Your Toothbrush

I would wear your panties,
if I could,
but I’m not a frills and lace kind of guy,
and I couldn’t strap on your bra
because it just doesn’t offer me proper support.
I would walk in your high heels,
but I have already broken the high of your heels
one too many times.
Your skirt wears like Larry Bird’s shorts
and I bust your blouse like the Hulk does his shirt.

But your bathroom is a playground of
eyeliner, lipstick, and blush.
In the morning,
when we wake, tangled together
by our legs, our arms, and your sheets,
and I see my toothbrush next to yours,
you in the bedroom,
shimmying into your dress
explicitly exotic,
unknowingly erotic,
I reach for the toothpaste
and pick up your toothbrush.

Communists are Bacon Lovers, Too

This is a snippet of the story I'm trying to get published right now.


There's something I should tell you, comrade, so let me start from the beginning.
I offered Vladimir a cigarette, but he did not take it. He showed me a Lux. I offered him a light, the least for which he took graciously from me, and it pleased me immensely. A small, red glow ignited the grey, ashy tip of his Lux as he drew in a deliberate and sensitive breath. I asked him if he could recite some of his poetry, some of my favorites, from "Morning" to "Night," "To His own Beloved Self." He began with the latter and I sat there like a dumb child. He read it with such depravity, such contrition—just so disconsolately—it made my eyes well with small tears. But there was such a freshness and sincerity to it all. It was simply magnificent.
"Were I as quiet as thunder," Vladimir said, "how I'd wail and whine!"
I lifted the loose crimson mask dangling over my head above my nose and pursed my lips. I raised the cigarette to my lips as Vladimir continued to traipse the delicate lines of his poetry over the small curves of smoke in the air. I should apologize if my words become too whimsical at times. I'm not particularly a poet—a far cry from one, actually—but it's hard to ignore the temptations of poetry's waters when such a great artist is sitting next to you. I don't know. I feel a little embarrassed even trying. But, it is Mayakovsky! Mayakovsky!
"If I were as dim as the sun, night I'd drill with the rays of my eyes."
I laughed heartily and mightily, and I'm sure Vladimir thought me insane. But he didn't stutter in his reading. He didn't even look at me crooked. What a true comrade!
I took another inhalation of cigarette smoke as Vladimir recited the last line. "…by what Goliaths was I begot—I, so big and by no one needed."
I know that particular poem ends with a question, but every time I hear it or read it, it always sounds more like a statement to me. I lifted my mask and took a mighty inhalation of the cigarette and breathed it slowly out into the air. My mask fell carelessly over my mouth and I felt disrespectful when I turned to Vladimir and, with a smile, nodded to him. I felt badly about it—not letting him see my smile, that is. I assume he didn't. I should have lifted my mask to show him how enlightened I was—even after hearing that poem for what amounted to an insurmountable number of times. It is refreshing to me every time I hear it, like a cool breeze on a lukewarm day. I'm sure it went without mentioning to Vladimir, of course. But oftentimes, it is necessary to hear. I suppose I'll tell him tomorrow.
I dug into my coat pocket. I grabbed an ancient, eight-times folded poster with the intentions of unraveling it in front of Vladimir and telling him the story behind it. It was a fascinating story, one I wanted dearly to tell Vladimir, but everyday was the same. I'd be interrupted by a knock on the train car door and I'd never tell him the history behind the poster.
Today was no different.
A knock on the door abruptly stalled my story before I could even begin it. Bogolomov, who was a small man in height and stature with a grey bristle ring of hair surrounding the completely hairless, polished tip of his head, entered the train car with a fair amount of trepidation.
"Is it prepared, Bogolomov?" I asked.
He nodded, and his nervous, antsy eyes stumbled into their natural frenzy. He was quite fidgety, so I always felt compelled to be stern with him, which is why I asked him if it was ready rather coldly. You must know he is quite a good man, a man I trusted my life with during the War. He is also a confident man, but he hasn't shown it since we made our journey to America. He is the kind of man who needs to be treated with a fair firmness. It's all to build him up, to remind him that—no matter where he is—he is still the same Bogolomov inside; the comrade I relied so heavily on in Russia; the comrade who was fearless, dignified, and self assured. But it has taken longer than I had hoped. And watching his pupils dance in his head like that, it's unnerving.
"Yes, Comrade—"
"No." The grey tip of my cigarette burst red. "It's Captain, Bogolomov."
Bogolomov's uneasy, nervous eyes fluttered rapidly. He avoided my eyes—my only facial feature unhidden by the deep red cowl—like a ship avoiding the onslaught of a hurricane. "Of course, Captain." His cheeks became rosy. He shook his head in disgust and a wavering, uncomfortable smile took shape on his face. "My apologies."
I took one final inhalation of the cigarette and released its smoke slowly. "You were saying?" I flicked the edge of the cigarette with my thumb violently. Ash crumbled into a thousand small, irrelevant pieces, its descent hardly noticeable.
"The new poster is ready," Bogolomov said.

He Walked on Down the Hall

He Walked on Down the Hall

Pictures, like time frozen,
two members of Victoria
take sips from small, icy glasses.
Another
of the same two
hold hands in a field
ghostly
like the world were none
but made for two,
like a table set with
one candle
two plates.
There
in the musk of a
café past
a slow song
—
bellowing voice
barely electric guitar
nervous symbols
—
a soft insanity
of
ambiance
of
him who
dropped them gently
and
lost
them
in the
entangle-
ment
of her coarse
brown hair.
He who
walked on down the hall
alone.

The Tragedy of Hedonism

Here's a small vignette for you all, entitled:

The Tragedy of Hedonism

The corridor stretched beyond comprehension as I was led down the dark, despondent hall by two husky goons. They didn't tell me much of the what or the why of their actions. In fact, they didn't even gasp or sigh or moan as they waltzed into my house and marched down the basement to apprehend me. They just did. It was, after all, Stalin's Motherland.
A light bulb on a single string of dim lights down the hall flickered as we approached it. I watched, as it consumed moths and mosquitoes, repressing and extirpating the life of the insects, swallowing them whole in the flashes of darkness. I searched for remnants of them, something that could prove to me that they were once a part of life, but any signs of wings, antennas—even their charged bulbous eyes—were gone. Either lost to the tight, thin air or hidden by the dust and cobwebs coating the cracks in the concrete floor and the musty brick wall.
The large, intimidating guard jabbed me sharply in the back and pointed ahead. I stumbled over my feet as I continued down the tedious hall. I looked back at the other guard. He, too, pointed ahead.
I ran through my mind the events of the days, weeks, even the months before. I internally wondered who I crossed, what I had told people, either in passing or when engaged in deep conversation. I tried remembering to whom I smiled or frowned upon. I questioned what song I sang in the shower last night. My mind could not raise one damned red flag. Nothing about me was unordinary or out of line. Nothing.
An iridescent green glow at the head of the hall made me nervous. We were approaching the conclusion of this path and I immediately wanted to turn back and watch more bugs sizzle in the light behind me. My knees shivered and my legs became instant goo. A darkness slowly enshrouded my vision, a blindness induced by fear or the want for comfort. I shook my head rapidly to regain sight. The green light was brighter, more vibrant, and the large Russian behind me placed his hand on my shoulder and forced me to turn the corner.
The light was blinding, burning my retinas and singeing away all of my sensations but fear.
"Sit down," a deep voice said.
And, when coerced by my new comrades, I did just that.
I squinted in an effort to look through the green light at my mysterious captor. I could not decipher much of the man not two feet in front of me. I caught only a glimpse of a Russian army cap and shoulder pads. Otherwise, I discovered he smoked Herzoginva Flor.
"I imagine you are intrigued as to why you are here," he said. "Well, my friend, the answer is relatively simple and borderline cliché: you have something we want."
I raised my arm over my eyes to shield from the ever-persistent green light.
"Please," he said, "keep both hands on the table."
I did as I was told. My heart pounded.
"I have been told you are a simple man versed only in the pleasures of butchery. Skilled with a knife, unafraid to mutilate the dead, undeterred to wear the blood of your victims on the whites of your sleeves."
"Well," I said, "technically—"
"In times like these," he said, "you know, with the Americans threatening, we could use an assassin with your talent."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Please, please, do not be so modest, Mr. Konev."
"No, "I said, "it's not that. I'm not Mr. Konev. My name is Konon, the owner of Meats Meats Meats at the corner of Vetoshnyy pereulok."
"Oh, really?" His toned changed and his voice cracked slightly, like a prepubescent school child. "Oh. Then this is an awful mistake."
He waved his hand next to his head and the green light switched off. The room's natural light exposed his face—for the worse, I might add. His face was scarred by deep, inset wrinkles and his eyes bulged like a warped beast from a Kafka story.
"This is most embarrassing," he said. "Clearly…" he paused and chuckled in a most uncomfortable way. "Clearly, you are not him."
He dug into his pockets and rummaged about in a fidgety way.
"Here." He removed a crumbled, seemingly sandy pack of Flor from his pocket and pushed it into my chest. There was one cigarette left. I was curious as to why there was more sand than cigarettes. Nonetheless, it was still a Flor.
"Take this as an apology," he said, forcing the pack more deeply into my chest. Grains of white sand trickled from the open sores of the bottom of the pack and formed a relatively large ant hill in front of my feet. "It's so…" he said, shaking his head, "just so embarrassing."
"Please," I said, "it's alright." I took the unscrupulously handled pack. There was still a perfectly fine Flor remaining. "This is more than enough."
"Perfect." He tapped both of my shoulders twice with his large, bristle hands and smiled. "Let me light that for you, Comrade."
I nodded, and plucked the cigarette from the pack and pursed my lips. He raised a pistol from his hip and shot the end of the cigarette. The bullet must have pierced my neck, or grazed my Adam's apple. I must have impulsively grabbed for my neck as I fell to the floor. To be honest, I didn't even feel the blood on my hands. I just saw it, and sort of rubbed it inquiringly with my thumb into my forefinger.
"Dispose of the body," the man said casually to the two goons who brought me in.
I looked at the cigarette, which was still intact and smoldering. I was surprised at how well it was preserved after receiving a gunshot to its head. I figured my captor must have been a horrible shot.
My eye sight was slowly fading, and everything was become hazy and arbitrary. I couldn't even feel the men's hands under my armpits, couldn't feel my heels sliding in staggered zigzags to the hall where moths had received the same disparaging end. And then, there in front of my face was the swaying, sensual smell of the cigarette smoke.
I raised the cigarette to my lips. Hell, it was still a perfectly fine Flor.

Take a Seat, Have a Drink

Absinthe Hour used to have a ubiquitous definition. It was a place where artists, poets, and writers gathered to enjoy the company of friends, a time that had no time frame, and a drink that fortified a culture.
This is Absinthe Hour. I do not claim to be an artist. I do not feel comfortable enough to call myself and poet or a writer, but I am hesitant to even think that I am not one. There is much to feeling and sensation, but at their roots, there are the very core essentials that are cemented into the ground. I know who I'd like to be, and I know what I'd like to aspire to be. I know that I would very much like to tell you, fine readers, I have unraveled the mysteries of my own future and the gold bridge I see before me will lead me to my prosperous destination. But I would like modesty to be the legs that lead me across it.
The future is unwritten, as are the writings that will follow this post. I simply know what I desire. I know that desires are simple, and I know the means to reach those aspirations can be treacherous, aggravating, and frustrating. The process itself is a blend of hot riot and steamy satisfaction. But, I most certainly know that there is no better reward than the entirely new emotion created for you when you succeed, and when you create.
I want to sit at an old table at a café. I want the euphoria of a cold drink in a glass sweating the endless beads of a never ending cocktail. I want to laugh with the jokers and weep with the weak. I want to throw myself at the wind and see how far it takes me. I want to pass out in an alley with a pal. I want to wake up, and do it again.
I want the essence of Absinthe Hour today. And I'll have a drink again tomorrow.