09 October 2015



And her Etruscan goddess yellow eyes gleamed the yellow corn back as signet pupils of dark brown reflected saffron bits of weeds and winter wheats as flecks in yellowed, called in America, hazel Umbrian eyes. This was another of Dore’s laws, no, I would avoid the blue eyes of the National comics product, even though I had them myself as I was related to presidents  and governors and nominees of parties, but even with that, like the Romans I  was sure I came from, as was Veronica sure she was not one of the sleepy silly big haired and yet mayflower poverty, as was around her sleeping and lounging and laying and being laid upon pickle barrelled porches, I was convinced she and Captain Magus would have Italianate eyes, black as night or in her case, as yellow as a Tuscan cape. Either way no blue, maybe green as that was a colored eye that Shapiro gave all the Jewish monsters and villains of his comics, as that was a color too simple for him to use. Even  though the old German and his now in jail Italianate partner had little more than the cereal box printing machines of a sold warehouse of general mills, so fine work was left if at all, to the writers as much as any White or Franzetta who he could con into not Levant for Anvils better dental plans.

What would Veronica Villa, that was her baptismal name she now knew as the old bat had, let her leave the drawings and the less than Walt Kelly tree tops of Dagwoods for the glorious city as the old bag had relented and told the brunette how much she loved her and how, now that Daisy the blond hag had stolen her drunken husband, ah the thing that pushed her to the truth as  it always does,  how she owed this transfiguration that Franzetta  afforded to Veronica as something as she was owed.

A dying woman since 1962, the old bat has seen her back wards country life been defamed and disfigured by the relentlessness of Robert Moses and his pushy Jewish need to allow, as she was convinced he was the end of the glorious city of car 54, and world fairs and expos and blimp moorings  and the Latin Quarter as was Capote,  for mobility from the blacks who were getting more uppity by the day. Mammy was certain that not being in any blood line that her son Hank would marry her daughter, and not Daisy at all, who she despised but kept up a front to make sure the Lutherans didn’t find out how much she despised the American hicks, not Patsy or any other Julie Numar image or woman who came trolloping through the swamps. And that both children stolen as healthy human brunettes would cart a new line for her dying family,  as with all woman such as she, he was barren and stole Hank as a boy too to bring them here and away from the encroachments of papists, niggers, yids, even though as happened before, juts from their looks, one could see that Old Louisa, a perfect name, had stolen her children from Italians and Poles,  how even the beloved Adolf thought both made a damn good sets of brood mares, after all.

The old woman told Veronica her name, Veronica. Such like the biblical, actually Roman name, aren’t they all, like Maria sued by Jewish writers who had no sense of copyright, as after all, the story of Jesus birth, down to mothers name was taken from Livy’s early history of Rome, down to the stable, the vestal virgin, and a mad king amend Marcellus who damned all children under five, this is Rome after all, be slaughtered lest the true son of mars take his right full placed as ruler of Saturn’s Italia. The old  hag in black and white, as a bigot she liked the idea of things being not so mucked up with shades of anything, why in fact all the dresses she had given Veronica since a little girl had all been black and tattered, a kind of Grimm’s fairy tales thing, but too, she knew that the brunette lovely even as a little girl word the tattered black well, something when seen by Frank when here to draw a strip  as a ghost, sent him into orbit like none of the other girls who posed for him ever did.

The aging fruit bat she was, Louisa told Veronica everything, how she was stolen at a train station, how she didn’t recall who her starlet mother , Verna Rizzo, even was, how she had been taken from New Amsterdam by a biddy who as a witch woman and a laundress in the cat laden city and who as really as 195o, amid the gorgeous  city of apartments and gray flannel suits and the black and white movies of that era, she was sure of the end of America coming, and this old cunt knew that there was little to do than to wait for the apocalypse need by bigots long before her as the new Rome would fall, she was sure, and this only Red Rose  in the tenements of the underworld would survive as even as far back as then , her ilk knew the end was nigh. With the child of Italians, and the boy she stole for his already seen robust hood, and with others she took off and answered an ad to be in a comic strip about hillbillies and shed live her cartoon life there, away from the crime and grime of the city of immigrants having stolen as many she said to veronica her favourite, its is all very Grimm’s. I thought many things as the girl sat before me, at a table and recounted this story as a natural story tellers and all heroes must be, as she recounted this to me at a Chinese restaurant, The Hong King Gardens near the sons of Italy, as it always is, her first, that Mammy had taken as many as three hundred chortle away to live the unpolluted good life that Jefferson would call agrarian and noble.
Veronica hated it and as she heard this, took a amazons meaty hand, and hit the old buddy so hard that it used comically as would happen before in strips, for the old ladies teeth to come flying ahead and out of this time, an extremely  bloody mouth.

Veronica reared back, the name meaning literally a girl born in Verona, her giant tits flew out of the bat like black dress she had been made to wear since a burgeoning  girl, and with aplomb she took her tits and flung them back into the white bra that held them and as Mammy yelled and screeched and growled, a long thick curvy dancers leg took off and kicked the old bitch right in her gut, in a comic go around perfect for this strip, but which with the insecure egress of Dore Duvall into the magic and fairy kingdoms, had been made different and in a way as seen in old Roman books whose mammy ilk told immigrants if they wanted to be American they’d burn, but of course and again, don’t burn the pizza pies, the only non criminal work you’d might be allowed.

11. With the gate of a goddess, But one now owned by the pantheon of newsprint skid row, as Simon and Shuster called the comic kingdom,  Veronica came to the edge of the small hamlet made famous in cartoon strips read in various news papers by various northerners. Like the Milanese with Sardinia, who were sure these southerners were beneath them all, even on those days when northern cites had just burned as magnificent out Rome’s, or at least radiuses burned with raging fires, and white families abruptly left as the pompous lecturing newsmen at CBS had left for Yonkers long before. What would she say, she,  the little girl stolen from a sophisticated mother in this last golden age when she showed her fake mammy, her fake mother, her user and her abuser, her steal-er and her conniver what she had now become. What would she say to the old biddy. The Minerva from the comics pages stood there in the glaring sunlight, in the American   Sicily, as a sky the perfect colour of a blue ink and almost painted streets were in this true imagining of this old strip, …she stood there and gleamed with Parnassus shine, aspect woman in every-way way, especially, I thought, as she had the yellow eyes of the Agnelli, of whom that I wasn’t patricianly fond of for any other reasons.

In her elastic belt, a reasoning of the girdle that I recalled  knew from Virgil’s magical, her every exemplar and her model in all ways to him, Veronica held a Gun she had bought from a gumba hanger on at the Copa when she first went and caused the blonds on arms of gangsters to fume when they saw this creation \fore them. Amerigo Vespucci Ginsberg the mixed race king of the underworld adored her on first sight and gave her the gun for a paltry 100 bucks which eh sued to buy stolen furs and expensive candies he’d sue to woo her, showing both side of his family constricted to his various thoughts. Still, it was  a gun, a piece as they said in Guys and dolls land. To get even with this crow, for good. She stood and felt its steel rascality through the blue bodice, glad to feel its being there. It Made her feel more powerful than she already was. She was glad to have it. There was the comical almost cartoonist house she grew up in, where Hank had made her assuredly not a virginal Minerva.

But she had gotten there in the nick of time, as she saw through giant pretty lemon cello colored eyes that men dressed like astronauts, this the beginning of the fear of germs that would enrapture the American empire, men in dehumanizing armour were burning it to the ground. Her red mouth gapped upon, again comically as she was at heart a comedienne from a strip. The hot winds blew back her assured shined thick hair as she stated to smell soot and brimstone, and flames took over the small house. I hope she’s in there, V said, positioning her one pieces leg holes around her cunt, and spoken to no one. As then in this four color world, she saw an old railroad sign upon which Murray the buzzard, no fool, nor Skeltonesque dimwit came to perch there, as he had before. A sign was made and posted, and Murray read it to her, caint yew reeed, honey chillld, beware, it shouted in script all red and governmental, Stay away, this means you! The last days of the golden age were coming to and end, and a ww2 fallout shelters age was closing. Oh hunniechiiiild, the crow said, Dagwoods was dun gone, sho nuff,…and dey all there were dead, the buzzard told the gorgeous girl.

Exuding the sort of sex appeals that always had enticed and enumerable the boys of the dying empire, VERONICA Villa, soon enough to be added by the sad pin  ups of to which describe  show ex wives, or so worse than that, she was a remand at of the Raquel Welch age, and soon enough that would be recalled by many with the elites dishwater cows going from the gym.

12. Here there was a coated man, a detective of the sort adored by Roland Sattler’s boy hero, Big Hank, who by now, she learned was dead. Excuse me, sir, the bodacious gal asked the stele eyed hard lantern chinned cop, Nose Darcie,a hero and an accomplice of her boss here at the comic land,, without her knowing it, what had happen here. You’re Veronica right…?, he said to her massive eyed amazement, though not many girls even in this  vulgar and hee haw like holler in pieces would dress in so blatant aways, he said, thought seeing her in this old wonder suit. Although this as nothing compared to the strange cross between Gahan Wilson witch and laugh in dancing girl she used to dress as. Yes, do I know you, she asked sweetly, as the winds and the heat caused her think blue onyx hair to whip like a cat o nine tails in the warm air. No, he said, I came down here to do a favour for Dore, he said And he thought you’d be coming this way to…even things out. You are too late, dearie, the black haired super cop said to her, looking her over like Patton did a similar looking pin up in the great film just out.

 Exuding the sort of sex appeals that always had enticed and enumerable the boys of the dying empire, VERONICA Villa, soon enough to be added by the sad pin  ups of to which describe  show ex wives, or so worse than that, she was a remand at of the Raquel Welch age, and soon enough that would be recalled by many with the elietes dishwater cows going from the gyno exam of the stapled navels to the police blotters when their way ward suit case pimps  were caught and or found in the newspaper double murder suicides that that magazine had a penchant to create. But still in really seventies, still with a prettiness and a breeziness and a chained heat men imagines sexuality that would be put out of business by those self same magazines that found interviews with Norman Mailer and such would make them seem all the more intellectual and hip, she walked with a radiating sexuality as  close to the burning shore as she could get.

Mammy Louisa, or whatever that cows name was, that baby seller stealer was dead, he told her. Veronica pressed her lips and looked ahead, placidly, at the orange flame she roared from the squalor of that holler house. He, the Cop, in impeccable Chester Gould black suit, silver shield,  and a yellow coat worthy of a world war 2 Paris foreign  correspondent stood there, with his cracker jack and cheap seeming star on a billfold hanging on his lapel. I, he said, came down here to find out what was going on, as it seems Dore was right and the whole kit and caboodle here were wiped out by a CIA experiment, Gone bad, he said making air quotations, but all knew what that meant, expect maybe Mooncalf now Veronica who was  as it showed as as truly pretty girls are, but was better off than the equally stolen Daisy Lu who had been more accountable to the monstrance out of Grimm’s or maybe it as Gasoline Alley, when comics still mattered. But, who was loved as was the little girl with black hair that Mammy Louise Cantata, had stolen as she escaped the dreaded emerald city of Jews and pestilence  and niggers and cheap shot artists and all that acre music playing in tenements. Carnata…?, Veronica asked with astonishment, You mean, that old biddy wasn’t even a white trash Huck, she was an ethnic from the five points…She was your mothers cousin, the cop announced which made the statuesque girl in a heroine suit wince and almost double over. She walked away, as near her, as this Rose red of the turn pike she had become, the birds with sentience as if they had come from the worlds of Ariosto or Hepsa had followed her with intent.

13. The girl sat on the stones hewn there, and seemed to cover her long renaissance painting like stomach as it seemed torn with pains, as that she found out this old crone had been a family member who has stolen these children and brought them to some hick comics strip done by a fascist for white trash, a comic enjoyed by both Klansmen and democrats, Kennedy’s and knight riders, as it all seemed so horrid and mean and worthless.

But, the cop said with perfect clipped Jack Webbian astuteness, I spoke to the local sheriff a real red neck, real MACON COUNTY Max Bear studios sort of thing, and he told me, that gun you have hidden in your girdle dear is useless,…The bouffant wearing headed girl sat back and pretended she knew nothing making not a signal at the gun. I have to tell you, Veronica, the greying temples cop said, It turns out you weren’t the only one true to your kin, dear…He said, Big Hank, when he heard that the whole place was infested with some kinda disease, one that was tried out on the rush hour platforms at New Amsterdam’s subway lines, When he heard this, he came and found old Mammy, the old bitch who I have come to hate in writing this as like aforementioned  Virgil try to keep my sensibilities to believe in sympathies to a minimum.

He flew into a rage, sure his beloved girl as gone, gone with Frankie to the city that gleamed as a real Gotham as Jack Paar once said, an eldorado in the night, a city that the awful Ratman has tried to demean and depose into being a squalid hell hole, which of course is its charms,as the great Fran Lebowitz would in intone, as it had  never been before like an only noble man like an Agricola in a depressed and beaten and broken town of thieves, but wearing a suit stolen from Bill Fingers tepid imagination, this judgments all mine and not the cops, if that isn’t clear, and is, as they say, another story. No, Hank, hick and dirt bag and laughable coon harming hillbilly fool moron, raged at the blond wife and the old hag, and he beat her senseless, and then took Daisy Lu and pretty much fucked her over too. They are setting fire to whole dump, the super cop said, corpses sand all, as the crow tsked. The divine woman shook her head, sad to know that a bit of Sardinian love of revenge wasn’t going to allow her to completely find herself all the way back home, ever again.



Post a Comment

<< Home