The Cerebral Catalyst

On October 4, 1967, around 11:00 p.m., a UFO some 60 feet in diameter was seen hovering over the water near the tiny fishing village of Shag Harbor, Nova Scotia. The UFO, which displayed four bright lights that flashed in sequence, tilted to a 45-degree angle, and crashed into the water's surface.

She had rolled up in a Brazilian cab real easy, and caught the attention of a fisherman (fisherboy, really), off the dolly. Now folks around here, my friend Terry included, were not fickle with women of Jesus or whatever, when it came to quality. There wasn't any particular major export with farming or fishing. Just the odd Mary Jane plot, and hepatitis garden that showed now and again, afterwards. (Where you fertilize it with vaccines, and keep it quiet, until the next cute daddy's girl comes down with it). Onion-bulbs. The spiciest thing around, that quickly went to the chopping block in most individual homes.

Now, out of this yellow hotshot ride, this señora wandered across the Clifton, Gibson highways, and into one particular roadside restaurant (fish-and-chips place called Smacky's). Inside, any odd asshole would notice the look of her dress with the strength of an empty stomach, or a full one. One being a little less eager.

This joint, of course, was indeed a stop along Terry's course of the day, and he naturally noticed the spicy smell of something out of place.

But now, the girls around here were just as capable as the boys, when it came to hitting it off.

You could go get wasted, and go for a thrashing swim in the sand, or whatever it is they do. (In fact, on this particular October night, there were probably a few.) Anyway, Terry was a reasonable fellow, and had certain needs; fully, naturally, and completely.

The restaurant leaned over the side of the water on stilts, which for some reason had orange life preservers tied to them, and they looked like earrings at low tide, but during the high seas, they would bounce back and forth into the stone, making a hollow tube sound that would echo into the restaurant above.

The sound was a big fucking misunderstanding, and well understood by the locals.

It was translated as galloping little leprechauns, attached to chains, that crawl out of the ocean, and who attack the lost and drunk patrons.

This blue silk Armando señora was not aware of it, but it doesn't matter because she's seen it all.

(Seen it all in the sense that someone might try and use a story like that as an introduction, I mean).

Of course, Terry did. It worked, and he and the señora fucked up a storm back at his place. And it wasn't a question of money or property either. This was, as far as both were concerned in their own separate ways, a common reaction to reality. A fling from some purpose that will never talk to, or see each other.

The Brazilian woman's black hair smelled of pineapples and sour apples, just as he had assumed, until the police burst into his little bedroom, taking the two of them into custody after a neighbor called about a noisy siesta going down at the old Terry place.

(The cops knew what an upstanding fellow Terry was, and knew the simple and only way he could be with a woman that good-looking.)

All along the back seat car ride, she whispered in his ear to be a man. "Take his gun."

"Show him what you think of him," she would whisper. "Show him you got the right."

And so, as Terry exited the car, he hit the dreary small-town officer with his knuckles, taking his gun from him, and then he started to feel better. For you see, only a week earlier, Terry had been arrested on rape charges stemming from a series of cackling accusations from the local girls, and now the cathartic wave blew through his nostrils, as he felt that this dog was due.

Terry left the officer by the side of the road, and he and the chica walked back into town, where he suggested he introduce her to his friends and family (or, rather, introduce them to her). So when Terry shows back up, of course the beautiful woman has conveniently wandered off again. He stands there in front of his pals, with his hands shaking. (Those October nights by the coast are a bitch.)

After the police get a hold of him once more, he explained he was only a patsy.

Only a stooge under foreign orders of murder from this beautiful, dark-silk señora; but it was a likely story, telling from the fat, he'll-plead-diminished, bullshit look on the officer's face.

His poor mother of course attested his tale, and that it must have been the hot Brazilian fucking that gave him the confidence to commit such an act.

And that's why it's important to always fuck exotic women. So they can be used as bullshit alibis, whenever foreign objects crash into your harbor at all hours of the night.

______________________________________
Chris Baribeau is a 20-year-old professional greaser, who will keep on writing poetry until he has enough to claim it in a book. He was recently published in the SaucyVox with the short fiction "Gynaecologist Vs. Dentist", and has some forthcoming work in Zygote in My Coffee. Currently, he's working on a revenge novel about runaway wives, mermaid breast milk, half-pregnancies, and the would-be draft. He lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

posted 02.13.06.

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