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!!! WARNING. ADULT MATERIAL !!!

If you are underage, or in any way forbidden by your government or religious laws from viewing X-rated subject matter, please do not read this salty tale. If, however, you are not restricted by any laws in your geographical location, by all means read on.

A QUIET NIGHT AT MISSION STATION
(a true tale from the castro; eat your heart out armistead)

© 2015 by Ezekiel J. Krahlin

Date: Wed, 22 Jul 2015 09:50:51
Subject:
The SFPD pranked me again!
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

Remember in my novel how they punked me outside of the Hole in the Wall Saloon? That would be in Chapter 9, "Dragon Fire in the Hole." Jump down to "the very moment" and you'll get right to it.

So funny, El! Happened last night, and I'm gonna put the tale on ePaper by tomorrow. I was really pissed getting suddenly arrested for no good reason...blamed it on Larkin.

Wasn't till this morning I realized they got me again. Brilliant pranking BTW, and the colostomy bag scene was friggin hilarious. I also got a new boyfriend outta this: Officer O'Doole.

I forget how well known and loved by the SFPD I am! I'm very good at my work, and make /their/ work so much easier. O'Doole is a rookie (thanks to expanded funding for the SFPD by Mayor Lee), and heard so many stories about "Notorious Zeke," he was dying to meet me. So a bunch of cops decided to arrest me and bring me to Mission Station.

I'm gonna go back there tonight, thank them, have some good laughs, and maybe hang with 'em on doughnut break. Can't wait to type out the whole piece, which I shall call "A Quiet Night at Mission Station."


Date: Wed, 22 Jul 2015 12:26:02
From: Eleanor Cooney
To: Zeke Krahlin
Subject:
Re: The SFPD pranked me again!

On Wed, Jul 22, 2015 at 12:26 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ Jeez. Be careful. }}

Over what? They showed me an absolutely hilarious time! Perhaps my synopsis did not convey the mischievous spirit as well as the full version will. Anywayz, I am so tickled pink you'd think I was spray painted with Pepto-Bismol!

- Zeke

PS: Wonder how soon the FBI will be knocking on my door. Seeing as I have declared (all over cyberspace) war on the United States government, accusing it of being a terrorist cabal. Of course I'll seduce this handsome agent over to our side. I got the idea after I saw Hollywood this morn to tell him about my faux arrest, and that Officer O'Doole's gonna be my next boyfriend. "Jesus, Zeke, you're stalking a detective, you got a cop for a lover; all you need now is an FBI trick."


Date: Thu, 23 Jul 2015 12:34:22
Subject:
It's gonna go viral.
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

The SFPD "colostomy bag" prank that is. I'm sure of it.

This will make me wildly popular, thus result in my book sales taking off. Bless their little blue-shirted souls!

- Zeke


Date: Thu, 23 Jul 2015 12:55:32
Subject:
Re: It's gonna go viral.
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

On Thu, Jul 23, 2015 at 12:40 PM, Eleanor Cooney wrote:

{{ You'll be a great rich guy! }}

"A minor consideration in light of everything /else/ that'll come outta this,"

I pronounce while holding up the infamous colostomy bag (autographed by Officer O'Doole and other uniformed boys and gals outta Mission Station).

- Zeke


Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015 12:36:42
Subject:
Mission Station Has Vanished!
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor Cooney

Magnanimous Muse Eleanor,

I never /did/ get to revisit Mission Station two nights ago, as the building they are in has totally disappeared! Now, I never get /that/ snockered so as to lose all geoposition! They are /supposed/ to be located on the corner of 17th and Valencia Streets. So after imbibing two vodka tonics at Toad Hall, I meandered on down to the station. But there was no cops' nest there! Strange because the last time I passed by that corner four months ago, it was!

Just to be on the safe side (and assume I was royally fukked in the head by righteous ganja and two pints of cheap vodka), I hoofed on up to 18th Street. No cigar. Then I stumbled on down to 16th. Still no Mission Station. So I gave up and loped on back hovel.

I fully realize that Mission Station has migrated some years back, to a building on Market Street, about a block east from the LGBT Center. But they have always kept the old location active, with no sign of shutting that branch down. Whatever may be the case, I take this as a sign to snail-mail and/or email them my "Quiet Night at Mission Station" tale, with a cover letter appended to the front.

My life is hilarious and beautiful any more, with Unbelievably Bounteous Love that has only begun to manifest. I have no doubt that you, Ellie, play a role in my victory, along with Larkin, my homeless amigos, and most likely many other folks in The Castro, San Francisco, California, New York, these disUnited States....and many other places across the globe. What an inconceivable honor to play this role of Eternal Savior. And not just for LGBT's, but for ALL MEEK SOULS! You have every good reason to celebrate, for you have numbered among the handful of generous souls, whether atheist or spiritual, who have boosted me into this astounding position of Global Supremacy.

You are an unsung hero, but not much longer. For I shall sing of your kindness to all the world. Along with other bless-ed folk who've guided me only to The Best Of All Possible Realities, with nothing but love and sweetness in their hearts.

In my egomaniacal fantasies, I often wonder if I'm just totally bonkers. But I realize now--with complete clarity and wisdom--that my very own soul is The Elixer Of The Flying Spaghetti Monster's Own Heartfelt Compassion. I will be worshipped, celebrated, revered and honored beyond this planet, and into the fathomless depths of an infinite universe.

Can't get any more famous than that! Why Goddess made me this way, and why She erased my memories to discover appreciation of the tremendous liberation I have achieved by ugly sacrifice...is something I can never more than partially understand.

- Zeke

--
"Oh milk me for all I'm worth!" moaned Clarita in a sudden burst of passion.
By the following day, Farmer Brown slaughtered her. "Talking cow, my ass!"


A QUIET NIGHT AT MISSION STATION
(a true tale from the castro; eat your heart out armistead)

By Zeke Krahlin

Last night (20 days after my birthday) I am feeling my oats over a satiating revenge soon to occur...a day or two or three from now. So I decide to take a break from my hovel and meander about the 'hood, drinking in the negative-ion scintillating breezes kicking off the Pacific Ocean. I am already inebriated: just enough to unwind and feel good about my modest-but-delectable wiener that so many gorgeous dudes have enjoyed in recent months.

For the key to unlocking the solution to Larkin's ousting me from The Castro bars over 2-1/2 years ago had fallen into my pocket just two days prior. When Sloan stepped up to me and shook my hand there in Toad Hall. She is barkeep at The Mix, and good friends with Irene who tends the mixology in the open-air patio of Toad Hall (who is also, by the way, a big fan of my novel "Free Me From This Bond)." I assumed that Sloan had just departed from a visit with Irene; for they are good friends.

[ Now, Chlamydial Reader, do note that I have no truly close friends yet, thus my association with Irene, Sloan or anyone else is more peripheral than intimate. In fact, I rarely see either, yet I now understand the divine purpose of my social isolation: that I grow wise in spirit w/o the distraction of chummy frippery that so many among us take for granted. For I serve a great purpose that shall manifest quite soon.

One evening in May of 2013, I stepped into The Mix to enjoy a well drink, never dreaming that Larkin would be present. Yet there he was, standing right before me at the bar to receive a second Budweiser from Sloan (back turned to me, which really means his patootie was almost to my chin, being so tall and leaning forward upon the varnished rail).

As I frequently do, I offered some quarters to Larkin, that he may play one or two more rounds of billiards. That is when he noticed me, and whispered into Sloan's ear: "He's my stalker, get him outta here, please!"

Before I knew it, Sloan reclaimed my second vodka & tonic, and tossed the contents away. "Leave!" she demanded. "Now."

She refused to let me defend myself, so before I exited, I declared: "Maybe I'll write a letter to the SF Bay Times about what an asshole you are."

Since then, she's denied me any communication. Rarely do our paths cross, but when they do it's like my drifting by an iceberg. Sad because I had recently befriended Irene hanging out at The Mix, who honored me with incredible accolades for my novel...and who thus could be a fantastic booster towards my opus becoming a bestseller. ]

The revenge I seek--and have now manifested--is a postcard I mailed to the five gay bars that Larkin frequents here in The Castro. On the front is taped a tiny printout which says:

NEW RULE: Do not allow Larkin to enter, or remain in, any gay bar, saloon, tavern or the like, without my company. Except for Moby Dick, whenever his roommate Zachary is tending bar.

On the reverse (address) side, I wrote by hand in metallic ink:

"Who wants to play Twister?" - the Elephant Man on his birthday.

Thus in sacred revery, I stroll the Castro, intending to return hovel in five or ten minutes. But that is not to be, as I find myself suddenly surrounded by three of San Francisco's Finest. Next thing I know, I'm seated and handcuffed to a rail in a holding tank at the SFPD's Mission Station. A terribly glamorous cop is tending the desk that looks into this room, which contains but one other fellow who is lying down against the opposite wall, back turned towards me. He wears baggy beige pants and a dark T-shirt. I cannot see his face or anything else of his identifying factors (including his basket, which may or may not be worth the ogle).

While seated there with my left wrist shackled by a steel cuff to the rail, I notice the door just feet away...albeit with a number pad. Though it doesn't occur to me in my stupor, that the door is most likely clamped down with four or more coded digits. So I figure:

"If I can squirm my way outta this handcuff, I can then jump to the door, open it and escape!"

What happens next is nothing short of a miracle. For somehow I manage to extract myself from the handcuff. (God only knows how, since my alcohlic phantasms leave me clueless.) But there I am, ready to jump up and leap the gate. Fortunately, common sense takes over and advises:

"You'll never get outta there without being chased down and possibly shot. So give it up!"

Which is prescisely what I do. Calling to the handsome blueshirt who mans the desk and possesses a glorious head of orange locks cut about two inches from the scalp, looking like the proper policeman he is. A ginger haired Adonis! Don't know the color of his eyes yet, but I'll bet they're sky blue. Or some other shade equally breathtaking.

"Look, officer, my hand is free!" I declare with raised (and formerly cuffed) arm in order to have him approach and shower me some of that sweet attention.

"How did you do that?" he queries while observing my left hand with his crotch less than 15 inches from this yearning cake hole.

"I don't really know, but it was not too difficult," I reply. "I'm not going anywhere, just wanted to point this out."

Which is a good thing, I observe with hindsight, as you don't want some dangerous arrestee unshackling his cuff and wreaking havoc before you force him into a docile state once more.

So the officer returns with another steel cuff and fastens both of my wrists to the rail. So that I can no longer lie down, but am forced to sit up. Such a compromising vulnerability inspires me to yell to him through the window about a half hour later, with right hand pointing to my loins:

"I need to piss, please? I really don't wanna urinate in my pants," I beg with puppy eyes. (After all, I just can't get enough of his attentive ministration.)

The darling flatfoot complies, and leads me cautiously to the restroom. "I won't be a problem, sir, I'll just take a whiz and return," I assure him.

But when he pushes aside the door to the lavatory, I don't see anything resembling a toilet or urinal, just a blank room; so glance back at him.

"It's there, it's over there," he signals to a gray divider that conceals the commode.

So I relieve myself (wishing like the devil I could whack off while he stares at me through the vertical glass plate) and kindly offer my wrists once resuming my person back to the metal bench positioned on the north side of this holding cell.

A few minutes later my unwitting cellmate begins to holler: "Look! I don't wanna be here all night. Move me to 850 Bryant NOW!"

The police stationed there for the night ignore him, so he yanks out a bag filled with brown fluid that wobbles in its soft-plastic case--obviously attached to his side by a snaking tube--and warns:

"This is my colostomy bag. If you guys don't move me to the city jail pronto, I'm gonna squirt this shit all over the place!"

Of course I panic (and you can't blame me), and squeal: "Officers! Please do something about this or I'll puke my guts out!" I'm yanking on my shackles instinctively, as I am most eager to distance myself from This Potential Upchuck Jamboree. To my relief they calm him down and resume their deskly duties. A while later, they remove his handcuff and escort him to City Jail.

"Are you gonna send me there too?" I call to the bodacious ginger, windowpane framing his face like a vitreous Mondrian halo.

He assures while looking up at the clock (not visible to This Unintentional Miscreant): "No, we're gonna release you in 15 minutes."

Yet some time before, I hear them talk about me: "He may be suicidal!" remarks a bald-headed Servant of the Law who gives me a quick glance. So I rage back:

"No, I am not suicidal! I figured out what happened! I don't want to talk to a lawyer, just let me speak with you guys!"

They all look up, but feign I don't exist. So I remain condemned to this Kafkaesque scenario a while longer, fuming at Larkin's latest horse hockey. For what I have figured out after some deliberation--on a cold steel shelf that I couldn't even recline upon--is that Larkin has retaliated in response to my getting him kicked out of Castro bars, thanks to my "New Rule" postcard. And that Larkin had whipped out his cell phone to get back at me, described me as "suicidal" (and worse I'm sure) to the SFPD.

Approx'ly three hours later they release me, with that uber-hot gendarme escorting me outside the police station.

"Just go there," he declares while pointing at a break in the cyclone fence (like we just had a sordid one-nighter and his lover would be home soon, or he's too ashamed to be seen with me, so he sneaks me out the back.) Which I believe leads to 17th Street just six blocks from my cozy warren.

He hands me a large, crisp and neatly top-folded paper bag, stapled and with my name artfully scribed on one side.

"Here are your things, including all your money."

"Money?" My ears perk up, for I know that my billfold is anorexic tonight; though mayhaps the kind and handsome O'Doole wanted to be extra nice and slip me a ten-spot.

Mr. Seraphim In Uniform lowers his head in modesty. "Oh, um, I mean 35 cents."

"Oh-ho!" I laugh, "don't get my hopes up like that!"

On our journey to the rabbit-hole exit only twenty yards distant, I quickly converse: "My ex-lover, Larkin, is PO'd that I just got him 86'd from all the Castro bars." Then as afterthought: "Probably all the gay bars in San Francisco!"

O'Doole stares back with a comely smile, eyelids drooped as if high on a strong aphrodisiac. I'd say he's 5-foot-11...and built most endearingly. Those yellow-red shocks of hair shine like spun gold, under these florescent ribbons of light. I feel like we've been the happiest of amours for a long, long time. And I am only now recovering from severe amnesia that left several blocks of forgetfulness in different--and scattered--parts of memory. Spanning some thirty-odd years, the blocks could be anywhere from five months to almost three years.

And they change: sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. Fortunately they have all begun to shrink, leaving erased memories restored once more, and fully intact. I have just begun to remember: anything.

(What angelic loves have I lost because of this? Is this affectionate cub one of them who still awaits my anamnestic return? Are there others so loyal? And what higher purpose has Goddess deemed to achieve from My Corinthian Tragedy? For if I really don't know anything else, I surely know one thing is certain, as if clad in armor: my rewards will be mighty!)

His look entices me to tell more (I think perhaps his hand rests on my forearm, though more likely it's wishful thinking and an alcoholic, ganja-laced memory. Plus I don't want to cause him any trouble at work):

"Oh we really get into it," I boast, proud to have such a tough guy for my lovebird, "Though wasting the SFPD's time is crossing a line. I can play hardball all he wants, and I won't back down, ever. But I refuse to fight fire with fire under such an unkind strike."

We're almost at the cyclone wormhole now.

So I look directly into those rapturous eyes, well aware that this may be the last time I speak to him...or ever see him again for that sad matter:

"Remember his name: Larkin Kelsey!"

The Kind Peacemaker does not respond, but I know he respectfully hears.

Just before I depart into the void, he states: "My name is Officer O'Doole."

"O'Dooley noted!" I joke, but with an arm extended for a beefy handshake.

He abruptly raises his right hand in rejection: "Oh, my hand's dirty with ink right now."

"Fist bump then?" I suggest in warm amity and appreciation.

With that, our knuckles touch and I skedaddle.

Standing a half-block up, I open the grocery bag to reclaim my USF hoodie gifted me by Gregory, military camouflage cap, my wallet, and 35 cents in change. But one thing is missing from the billfold:

The four business cards that promote my novel, "Free Me From This Bond." Each card includes the link to the gratis version, along with my email and land-line number. I am greatly flattered, TTTT (to tell the truth).

Now fully reassembled for my hovelbound journey, I deeply inhale the damp, chill night and holler with all my strength every half block:

"Fuk you, Larkin Kelsey, fuk you!"

My voice booms through the darkened asphalt byways: an echo you don't wanna mess with. Somehow I turn a wrong corner and don't realize that till ten minutes later. Thus I have to walk an additional five blocks to wend my way back to my dumpy SRO.

"Fuk you, Larkin Kelsey, fuk you!"

Almost home and crossing Church Street, here comes Hollywood with his large, fat sorta-pit-bull named Diesel. (Hollywood is, BTW, a really good guy living on the streets: heterosexual, dumpy appearance, dirty blond hair and scruffy beard. We have recently become closer friends; he's also my newest scout who reports back to me when needed, re. Larkin.) I run up to them:

"Hollywood! Hollywood! I just got outta jail. Mission Station. Larkin screwed me over again!"

Hollywood and Diesel stand there in calm demeanor as I rant further in beet-face wrath:

"What Larkin did is horrible, he went way too far this time, calling 911, telling them I'm a lunatic with a death wish!" I pause for deep breath:

"If I ever had any feelings for Larkin, they are now over, totally over! Kaput! Washed up like a beached beluga!"

Hollywood exhales one lone remark, "Uh-huh," then turns away from me to meander further east down Market Street, Diesel in tow. (And I do mean "in tow" 'cause that beast weighs 150 pounds and is possessed by a bold will of its own! Once halted, it's a Herculean task to get this quasi-mastiff up and moving again.)

I march off in a huff of extended outrage, seeking to track down Larkin and give him a piece of my brainpan while chasing him all the way back to his own residence just one block west of mine. Alas, he's nowhere to be found, thus I goose-step back hovel and sleep it off.

By late morning next day I'm ROTFLMAO (rolling on the floor laughing my ass off), realizing I've been punked by the SFPD big time. Knowing full well that Larkin, of course, had to be the mastermind behind it all.

His retaliation for my getting him kicked out of all the bars in The Castro, just two days ago...for that is when my "New Rule" postcard hit the booze halls like scat to a propeller.

I can see the lads in blue laughing their own arses off, immediately after O'Doole escorts me to the exit: "Did you see the expression on Zeke's face when you pulled out that colostomy bag?"

"Ha, ha, ha, yeah!" chortles another copper who played the role of my cellmate.


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