The Feet of God

60 - UP AND AT ‘EM I heard Yeller Tom whistling Reveille .  “Wake up,” he gave me a smack to the head. I rubbed my eyes awake.   The effects of knockout gas and dope and booze still lingered.  He handed me a small pack of seeds. I didn’t disguise my disappointment.  “I was kinda hoping for an omelet with bacon or French toast or something more nourishing.” “It is not for you.   Feed le pigeon , Gertrude.” The smell coming from the cage below my seat was getting kinda rank.   “Ain’t you gonna clean this bird’s cage?” “ Non .”   Yeller Tom’s nose flared.   “Now we fly.” I ripped open the bag of seeds and threw ‘em below my seat. Yeller Tom pulled on levers and knobs and dials again, and his little blue biplane started with a huge discharge of smoke.   As we taxied down the bumpy path I knew there’d be no in-flight meals served but I could sure go for some breakfast.   Even a lousy bagel without the cream cheese, but I didn...

61 - THREE DEAD MEN As we smashed through fluffy clouds, I questioned the wisdom of starting my day with a tequila gargle.   Yeller Tom decided to take us on some sort of mad victory lap.   We went straight up and rolled over and over again.   All the trash and shit that was loose fell out of the plane before we straightened out and headed in for a final approach.   Upon landing, we wheeled along a gravel pathway till we pulled up right behind the wreck of a black hearse. Yeller Tom held up his long-barreled pistol, “ Le coup de grâce .” He hit the ground immediately, with me following right behind as quick as I could keep up.   Yeller Tom ran to the twisted hulk of metal and examined the insides.   Over his shoulder I could see two men in black suits strapped into their seats, hanging upside-down.   An ominous squeaking came from the tires that, amazingly, still rotated.   Without gas masks they looked like any two guys in black suits. ...

62 - MAMAN’S BOY We banked off in a southerly direction as I glanced back at smoke rising from the flaming remains of the hearse.   After flying for hours without exchanging a word, we begun another descent.   Yeller Tom pointed below to a community of homes and buildings next to a small airfield, where I could see a yellow sock fully extended at the top of a rusty pole.   After yet one more perfect landing, and a speedy taxi to the hangar, he shut down the engine of his little blue biplane. A huge bear of a man in grease-stained coveralls emerged from seemingly outta nowhere, wiping his filthy hands on an oily rag.   “Well, if it ain’t the world-famous Yeller Tom,” he reached out a blackened paw.   “You done catting around?” Yeller Tom shook his hand and winked, “Think you can gas me up?” “Think you can pay this time?” the big guy winked back. Yeller Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, some of which was mine, some belonged to de...

63 - THE ROAD TO PERDITION Well, the girl in the doorway wasn’t completely naked, but that delicate little see-through-thingy she had on was all clear through except for the fur at the edges.   Her long blonde wig was draped over voluptuous brown shoulders. “Fuck zee ducks!   Zee John, heez credit card does not go through!”   The girl desperately held up the small plastic culprit. “Oh, mamaaan,” Yeller Tom rolled his eyes at this pretentious display. “Shut up, Thomas.   I want my girls to sound like they are femmes from New Orleans.   She cannot help it if she is from De- twa in Michigan.   I thought, De- twa , it is French too, non ?   But her accent is not so good.   She is not working out, I think.” Yeller Tom chuckled.   “ Maman , Detroit is a French name, oui , but it has not been that way for a long time.” The girl addressed Madame again with her fake accent, “So what do I do weeth theez?”   She impatiently waved th...

64 - HATE TO EAT AND RUN I watched Madame and Yeller Tom grow smaller and smaller until they vanished through the swing door back of the pastry counter.   My head rolled backwards and my eyes saw above me countless holes in ceiling tiles moving, breathing, expanding, shrinking...damn, this was some kinda special cream cheese. I then heard a voice, “Jeebus, how much didja eat?”   It was the bear of an airplane mechanic, Chuck.   He’d entered the bakery shop and sauntered over to the coffee stand and poured a cup.   “Here, drink this, it’ll help pull you together.” I fought to stay focused as I held the hot mug.   “You’re no barrel of laughs,” I cracked myself up.   “Mr. Grease Monkey.”   I doubled over laughing. “Just drink,” the huge man ignored my convulsions of idiotic laughter.   He grabbed a folding chair and sat down beside me.   “You’re gonna be stuck in that plane with Tom for hours, y’know, and you don’t wanna be flying high...