Belle Eva Unger
September 1 -- How could it be? The month of August has passed us by, my dearest sweat-drippers. Summer, for all intensive care and purposes, is over. All the kiddies are back in school, exception being my crack photo-journalist, SSS, who ran off with the carnie folk. Yes, my little man was so intrigued with the carnival here for the county fair, he helped them break down their equipment when festivities ended, and was somehow persuaded to leave with them for their next stop, that cesspool of a town known as Litterton. )-:
SSS has never been one to shy away from labor (I should know, not that I ever took advantage of him, not in my mind, at least (-:), but the poor thing is a bit naive, quite easily cajoled into performing certain tasks that others would prefer not to do. Most of all, and I hate to say it, he's not the sharpest tack on the bulletin board. Well, what's done is done. He's gone, and I am now the sole soul responsible for the Around Our Town column.
You better believe I gave Mr. and Mrs. Hiplicker a telephone call chocked full of my high-octane dosage of opinionated opinion. Told them I thought it highly irresponsible of them, allowing their son to drop out of school and run away with the riff-raff. Shockingly, rather than hand-wringing regretfulness, what I got back from them was an even higher-octane shot of bile than I myself had spewed. They accused me of being the abuser of SSS. Lashed out at me for sending him to do my dirty work, spying on people, taking pictures of them when they're on the toilet doing their doodie, and on an on. And the language! Merciful mother of miscreants, I do believe those people have created a new dictionary for curse words (some of which I might use myself, someday, but not here xoxo), and I truly did pity their telephone's mouthpiece. Could very well be that there are some very good reasons why the poor boy skedaddled from his mama and papa. Oh, well, I am not one to judge, so my only hope is that my little Super-Snooper-Scooper will come to his senses, weigh the temporary temptations of cotton candy against the benevolent benefits of his beloved Belle Eva, and return to the exciting world only I can offer him. A career, my dear boy, is here waiting for you. xoxo
Speaking of mamas and papas, Mike "Mayhem" Mayhew's parents are as dead as rats with ruptured innards. Poisoned by Mike himself in 1976. Remember? Well, my daily visits with him have been most entertaining. Gaining his trust took a couple of days, but he did finally start reminiscing with me about his childhood. Giggled like a goofball when telling of his cockroach village, which he built by hand using matchsticks and their boxes and attracting new dwellers with bread crumbs... until the day his father raised a ruckus wondering what had happened to all the matches for lighting their heat stoves, cook stove, fireplaces and what have you. Needless to say, upon finding cockroach village, papa's heavy boot destroyed every structure in the community, assisted by mama who danced a jig on the town, enraptured by her ever-present fifth of bourbon and a phonograph record blaring the twangy refrains of Flatt and Scruggs... Lester and Earl, that is, bluegrass gold, Tennesse tea (and North Carolina). Fortunately, all residents managed to escape back to the cracks and crevices of the Mayhews' rickety old house.
Anyway, today's session was a major breakthrough, as Mike told of "the event," meaning, of course, the murders. Needless to say, Mike was extreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (breath) eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemely animated as he dredged up memories of that fateful day.
It was his papa's fault. So says Mike. It was papa who transferred their kept-in-the-basement DDT from it's factory-made container (which had been soaked with water and compromised due to cracks in the house's foundation) into a new container. Actually, an old container once full of Morton salt. The foolish man had brought the container to the kitchen so he could lace some peanut butter with DDT for the rat-trap cages in the basement, and left the salt-come-poison on the kitchen counter while he took his PB-DDT concoction down to the basement. Now, don't you think he would have taken the peanut butter to the basement where the DDT had been and mixed it down there instead?
Lo and behold, poor Mike, who'd been the only cook their household had known since he was six years old, used the stuff while preparing their morning breakfast of bacon, griddle cakes and scrambled eggs. 'Twas the eggs that done 'em in. As Mike stood at the stove griddling a second round of cakes for his parents, they gobbled down the first round, and the bacon, and the (ARGH!) eggs. Hmm... didn't someone recently ask me if I'd like some scrambled eggs? tee-hee... clever man!
Anyhooze, end of story, or at least that was the end of mama and papa. There is much more to the story, convoluted as it already is, but Jasmine Finch decided Mike had socialized enough for one day. She told me this is the first time Mike has spoken to anyone about the incident since his trial. Isn't that incredible, dear ones? Doctors have been trying to crack Mike's shell all these many years, and it is I, Belle Eva Unger, who got him to, shall we say, scramble me some eggs. xoxo
I must say, my visits with Mike so far have been worth every face washing necessary afterwards. Mike's constant frothing when speaking makes for some sizable showers of spraying spittle, (courtesy of 30-plus-years-worth of highly-antipsychotic drugs, don't you know (-:). Rest assured, my curious cumquats, I will continue pestering our heroic home-town hallucinator until his saliva glands are all dried up. I must confess that Mr. Mayhew does give me the shivers... the shake-rattle-and-rolls, tinged with a tiny trace of tinglies, and unless I am mistaken, I do believe I have the same effect on him (although Thorazine has a much stronger effect on him, thank heavens!).
Oh, yes, the Labor Day Parade starts at noon from the Courthouse Square, et cetera, et cetera. Hey! Speaking of the courthouse, I need to get down there and peruse the files on Mike's trial. Unravel the history or hype of his hallucinagitorializations. Ta! Belle Eva Unger. xoxo
September 8 -- Well, my weary worker-drones, we certainly learned in dramatic fashion the truth regarding Constance Pending and her husband Patton, and Beatrice (Bea) Bethune and her husband Beauregard (Beau). Even though we had all assumed otherwise, the feud between the two (ladies, mostly) factions is far from settled, as evidenced by Bea's float in the Labor Day parade.
What a shock it must have been when the elaborately-decorated trailer was pulled down Main Street declaring Constance's Let's Get Metaphysical Club to be the spawn of Satan, along with an invitation to join Beatrice's newly-formed Let's Get Saved with Jesus and Bea Club instead. What an even greater shock it must have been when embers from the pit of burning coals depicting hell drifted onto the billowy clouds made of chiffon depicting heaven, thus engulfing heaven in the flames of hell.
Perhaps, Beatrice darling, you should have put heaven on the front half of the trailer instead of the behind!! xoxo
Within seconds, the entire trailer was consumed, what with the paper mache streamers and construction paper messages trimming its floor and edges. Fortunately, Bea and her four founding members managed to escape the trailer and join the wide-eyed crowd in watching the inferno. Unfortunately, those greedy flames weren't satisfied with the trailer. They also hungered for Beauregard's brand-spanking-new, Chevy Silverado 3500 HD (as in heavy duty, dually rear wheels, 397 horsepower, 21,000-pound towing capacity, very powerful and show-offingly expensive) truck. Those flames had their way with his powerful machine once Beau, who realized the trailer was afire, stopped his truck and got out to assess the situation. The situation was this: the bales of hay he'd loaded in his cargo bed to balance the weight for his drive train were just to the fire's liking, and from there all hell broke loose. Such a quandry. Should Mr. Bethune try to drive the burning truck and trailer off to a side street somewhere, so that in case the completely-full, 37-gallon tank of gasoline exploded, perhaps only a few would be killed, rather than dozens? Or should he leave it parked on Main Street and hope the fire department could get there in time to drive the fire away from his truck?
Smartly, Beauregard and everyone else lining Main Street decided to skedaddle into stores and alleyways, because the firemen and their two trucks were a mere three slots behind them, taking part in the parade! And so, our only genuine, we-know-they're-real-because-we-can-see-them-in-action-here-on-Earth saviors from hell, the Meddletonville Fire Department, saved the day by wetting down the quickly-melting paint and metal that once was Beauregard Bethune's mighty truck, stopping those evil flames dead in their tracks.
Now, time for another unsolicited Belle Eva observation and commentary: Constance Pending, and more specifically-in-need-of-adjustment, Beatrice Bethune, what have we learned from all this? Mind your own business. That's what. If you want to start your own club, fine, do it, but don't run down someone else's club, or more to the point, someone else's beliefs. If your club's any good, if your beliefs are any good, success will come of its own accord, and on its own merits.
I suppose photographs would have been nice, but the Sentinel thoroughly covered all events, including the inferno. Sad to say, but my SSS is still in a state of absencia, and as for me, I skipped the parade, opting instead for my daily visit with Mike "Mayhem" Mayhew at the Wheeler Home.
As you know, Mike accidentally killed his parents when he was sixteen years old by mistakenly sprinkling DDT he thought was salt onto their scrambled eggs. Being a paranoid schizophrenic (undiagnosed, of course, and not even likely his parents knew the meaning of such a phrase), Mike panicked when his mom and pop suddenly spewed and sputtered and writhed and expired with blood spurting from their noses and mouths.
According to Mike, his first thought was that the sheriff and his men would beat him senseless for doing such a foul deed, and then either cut his throat or throw him into a dungeon and torture him whenever they needed to get their jollies. No, calling the law was out of the question. Mike's solution, his second thought, was to consume the evidence.
Dragging the corpses, first his mama, and then his papa, to the top of the basement stairs, he kicked them over the edge, and down they did tumble. Their hulks were one by one laid atop his papa's work bench and cut into edible packages by use of a chain saw. It was difficult work, Mike said with eyes sad and mouth happily frothing. Took him well past noon before arms, legs, heads and torsos were carved up into pieces that would fit into his cast iron skillets. The worst part for Mike was that their blood spraying in all directions utterly ruined his favorite shirt, but he did press forward, eventually climbing the basement stairs with his mama's forearm ready for the frying pan.
This is where Mike ran into a few problems. It seems no matter what agent he used in his skillet, the aromas simply did not suit his appetite. He tried cooking her in butter, bacon grease, vegetable oil, even lard, but voices in his head continuously told him something was amiss. Told him his mama was seeking revenge against him, and that to eat her would mean his own gruesome death by way of poisoning. Knowing his papa would be even more agitated with him, Mike abandoned his plan. He tossed his mama's well-done forearm down the stairs, closed and locked the door. From that day forward, Mike pretended his house had no basement. He survived on food-stuffs from the well-stocked cabinets, refrigerator and freezer in his kitchen, while building anew his cockroach village. With no more fears of punishment from his parents, Mike's village became a metropolis encompassing three rooms of his house, and that is exactly what he was working on when, thirteen days later, the sheriff and his men broke down the door in response to complaints from neighbors of the awful smells coming from the Mayhew place.
And so, dear hearts, thirty-nine years have passed, and Mike Mayhew has finally retold his nightmare. To me! All of which I have confirmed with records at the courthouse. Since then, he's talked to me of his life at the Charlie T. "Free" Wheeler Psyche Clinic and Terminal Happiness Home. Even showed me his head where the skull cap used for his electro-shock therapy has left a memorable scar.
I am not one to judge the methods used to help Mike, but just think, had Belle Eva been on the case way back when, perhaps some of the more extreme measures could have been avoided. Anyway, Mr. Mayhew is always happy to see me, and for a special Labor Day treat, Head Nurse Jasmine Finch let Mike and me conduct our visit in the day room. Jasmine's sister, Florence, who (wo)mans the day room, then allowed Mike to present me with a gift, something he made over the weekend.
Yes, it's a little stick man made from pipe cleaners, perhaps skills he learned when building his cockroach village so long ago.
Mike was quite proud of his accomplishment. I told him his man was very handsome, and he said it was hard, and I said that, yes, I was sure making his little man was a difficult task, but that he'd done a wonderful job. Oddly enough, I misinterpreted what Mike was trying to tell me, until he changed his little man's little arm and presented him to me again.
With his little hand in closer proximity, Mike's little man explained Mike's little message, and Belle Eva saw the light, albeit through glasses spattered with Mike's spittle.
Smitten? You bet I am! That adorable little man now has a permanent home on my nightstand.
Until next time, this is your Around Our Town editor, Belle Eva Unger. xoxo
September 15 -- Well, my well-wishing wishers of wellness, based on the many letters mailed to me via snail and e, and the plethora of phone calls my ear has entertained from cell and land, I know you know that Mr. Miller has temporarily (or perhaps foreverly) poop-canned your Belle Eva from her editor's position of the Around Our Town column. I suppose I should have seen it coming. What with SSS no longer available to snap photos for me, plus my neglectful lack of eavesdropping on my fellow Meddletonvilletonians while feeding my unseemly addiction to the wonderment that is Mike Mayhew, I must admit that the focus of my snooping and scooping has deteriorated into slackness.
The good news is, I shall neither remorse nor repent, because I do believe, my petulant purveyors of pagan pea-plucking, that I have found my life's mission. Proof came this past weekend when Jasmine Finch informed me Mike's medication has been gradually lessened to half the strength it was when my visits with him began. Now, she didn't say so, probably couldn't say so, but you should insightfully suspect, and I do without-a-doubtedly know that the source of his betterment is... ta da!(-:) -- ME! xoxo
I'd figured out early on that Mike's fascination with Belle Eva goes far beyond the therapeutic. Confirmation came during my Monday visit with him, after my visit with Mr. Miller, when he dropped the ax and cut off my Around Our Town, keyboard-pecking fingers. For once, Mike was forced to sit and listen to me spill the beans. Oh, so low did go the woe! My pathetic self-pity spewed forth in stages, from initial wrath to ego-bruised lament to... surprisingly, terminal glee.
Yes, my incessant rambling brought me to the realization that the burden of poking my nose into the dark and dank crevices of rank and file others has been lifted from me, and now I can devote one hundred percent of my energy, my (if I do say so myself) mind-soothing good-naturedliness, to my besieged-by-bum-brain buddy, Mike Mayhew. Throughout my unconscious travels from PO'd-ville to Contentment City, Mike sat quietly and patiently, with his adorable half-grin-minus-most-of-his-teeth (serious drugs of the mind-bending variety do play havoc with bones, dear ones )-:) staring back at me.
When I'd finally run out of breath and saliva, Mike thrust forward a metal ring and indicated I should accept his gift.
At first, I was unsure what to do. After a giggle or two, I explained to my psycho silly-kins (that's the pet name I use on him when I want to make him giggle!) that his ring was much too big for my finger. My goodness gracious, I could nearly put my entire hand through the thing, but then Mike said it was for his little man.
Curiously purring with kitten-like smitten-ness, I examined the diameter of my gift, determined his little man must be more like a massive monster, and then did some frothing of my own!
My fantasyland soiree to the precipice of trip-erotica was rudely interrupted by Mike asking me if I liked nuts with my scrambled eggs. After a few seconds of deciphering his dialogue of the demented, after another giggle or two to give myself time for analyzing his oddball offering, I, Evangaline "Belle Eva" Unger, your once-upon-a-time-imprisoned-for-thrusting-a-pair-of-scissors-through-the-eye-and-brain-of-her-cleaning-lady-but-now-again-living-amongst-you-like-it-or-not neighbor, your now-ex-Around Our Town columnist, violently yanked off my glasses so I could focus on Mike without peering through speckles of spittle, and hungrily sprayed saliva of my own while startling man and beast, normal and ab, with my reply:
Anxiously frantic and in such a dither was I that my inability to hold steady the camera did produce a horrendously out-of-focus photo of my extremely-focused self, a journalistic fax pus for which I probably should apologize... but... SORRY! I ain't a-gonna do it. Don't feel like it. Belle Eva is far too gone on a Mayhew-induced high to feel anything but euphoria. What can I say? I told you I needed a MAN, and from all appearances I predict Mike Mayhew will fill the bill, so to speak. xOxO... O-:
And so, time to start wrapping my present to the past: Mr. Miller, I will forever be grateful to you for the opportunity you gave me. Writing for your Meddletonville Weekly Sentinel has done much to help me forgive myself and begin to forget my mistakes, thusly stepping bravely on the road to positiveness. Mainly, your compassion and generosity, in a roundabout way, brought me to Mike, and I intend to never look back. I better not look back. I better look directly at Mike whenever I'm in his presence. After all, he's still a psychotic killer. Just because he's my man doesn't mean he can't have a freak out and crush my pretty little neck (no longer pretty, thanks to flab; no longer little, thanks to gab) with his pretty big hands. xoxo
All right, my dearest of deer-in-the-headlights dear hearts, I've got a million things to do and but a few weeks to do them. Mike wants an All Hallow's Eve wedding at the Wheeler Home, since that date will mark the thirty-ninth anniversary of his parents' ghoulish demise. Isn't that romantic?
Right now I have to speak with Jasmine Finch about arrangements for Mr. and Mrs. Mayhew's wedding night. My tingles border on shingles, as I hypothesize some sort of participatorial role for my over sized (or is it?) engagement ring come Halloween.
Until the next, whenever and from wherever that will be, ta. Belle Eva Unger xoxo
4th week of September
How do you like the heady, mock-up mast-head of my proposed newsletter? Jasmine Finch is still debating as to whether the Wheeler Home residents and staff actually need a newsletter, but if she decides it's a go, I'll be the go-maker.
Won't be happening this month, that's for sure. Making plans for our wedding has me running around like a headless chicken. My first priority was to find a suitable ring for Mike, since he already gave me mine. It should come as no surprise that your ex-columnist is on a rather tight budget, and therefore an extremely thrifty shopper. After wasting my Thursday by pilfering through the junky-looking trinkets stocked at Flor-Mart on the edge of town, I wised up on Friday and visited our own down-town institution, Rothenhofenwicz-Cohenleviberg's Little Shop of Shinery and Finery. So much glitzography bedazzling me that I was most proud to have whittled my choices down to three in less than seven hours. At closing time, I promised the owner, Paul Smith, such a patient and considerate man for at least a couple of those seven hours, that I would return on Saturday to make my final choice. After he danced a jig of which some might have construed as sarcastic but I interpreted as good customer relations, Mr. Smith informed me he would be out of town for three weeks beginning that evening. Instead, I could speak with his assistant, Peter Jones, who Mr. Smith said would be happy to help me make my choice.
Around noon I had it down to two rings, and at 5:59:56, I asked Mr. Jones to model those two for me so I could photograph them, study them on Sunday and return on Monday to make my purchase. Such a gracious man, he proudly displayed for me the final two.
There you have it (them). I was so giddy that holding still the camera became next to impossible. Anyway, today is THE big decision day. My beloved Master of Mayhem, my spittle-spewing husband-to-be, Mike Mayhew, will wear one of these rings (at least for the ceremony... after that I'm sure staff will take it away and lock it away for his safety and keeping).
Whew! At the pace I'm going, Halloween will be here and I'll still be deciding what color of panties to wear. (Hint: they're a shade of Halloween! o-:)) Ta for now. Belle Eva Unger for now. xoxo
last week of September
A special treat awaits my fateful followers. I have recorded for you a very special message and made it into an MP3 AUDIO MESSAGE.
Your ears will be abuzzin' from my fidgetin' and fussin'... and for those of you who care not to hear my voice, or for whatever reason my mp3 will not play for you, here's the little speech I jotted down in my notebook, so as to not too terribly screw up my audio by forgetting to begetting out pertinent information:
Thank goodness I brought my little tape recorder with me. Yes, my precious petunia petals, Belle Eva still uses tape... but thanks to what is known as an Internet Cafe, I am transferring it to mp3 so I can upload my recording for your listening pleasure.
Things have changed quite dramatically since last I wrote to you... thanks to information provided him by one Ethyl Veral, judge Walter Cronkletonkite has determined that I, Belle Eva Unger, am in violation of my parole requirements. Never has my heart sunk so low as it did when I received the subpoena informing me I was NOT allowed to enter the Charlie T. "Free" Wheeler Psyche Clinic and Terminal Happiness Home... nor was I to ever again speak to my beloved husband to be, Mike Mayhew.
Well, bust my balloons, but I am truly afraid that this little decree did make your Belle Eva quite belligerent... so much so that... well, not only did I enter the Wheeler Home... not only did I visit with Mr. Mayhew... but I finagled him out of his room, out of the home, and into my automobile... the vehicle which we then used in taking flight.
So, here we are, Mike and Belle Eva, holed up in a motel room, the name and location of which I dare not speak... even though I am sure Sheriff Rausch and his boys will track us down sooner than later... but never you fear, dear ones... Mike and I have devoted much time already to, shall we say, consummating our marriage... a union of which, it seems, will never officially take place.
Uh, Mike... do you have any messages for... whoever might eventually hear my little recording?
I like Belle Eva... she purdy... ha, we made scrambled eggs.
Yes, my darling man, we certainly did...
Well, I don't suppose we can stay hidden here forever, now can we? I intend to take a more pro-active tact... so maybe... just maybe... we can find our way out of this predicament I... or should I say... Ethyl... has put us in. Rest assured, dear ones, I will keep you up to date on our progress best I can, when I can... until then... ta.
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