Lifting A Curse (Part 1)


As you know, at least if you’ve been following my blog, I’ve had any number of setbacks this past year. Many self-induced, others that were visited down upon me by a capricious and cruel fate.

But then I began to wonder, was all this bad luck the result of a malignant force? An unknown foe opposing me? Perhaps through schemes, such as those played by “confidential informants” and wiley snitches?

But then I began to catalog the variety and pervasiveness of my misfortunes, and it occurred to me that this could be…no, HAD to be…the work of a curse. The evil eye, malocchio. An imprecation. Hex. How else could I go from suffering the typical indignities of upper middle age, and replacing them with the unrelieved series of legal, medical, interpersonal, moral, ethical, parental, familial, maintenance, and pet-related problems? Just thing after thing after thing after fuc7ing thing. I mean, on the one hand things are good, but I have to work harder than ever just to keep even. There is this constant head wind. For example, I still get a ton of pu$$y (note 1), but my prostate is acting up. I eat and drink same as ever, but I’m fighting this stomach bulge I never had before, not to mention the gout (note 2). I still have work, but don’t have the same uncanny luck that’s followed me around; easy cash and extra cash and small inheritances and old debts unexpectedly repaid. And when things go to sh1t, they truly go to sh1t. I realized that this was no simple downturn, or even well-deserved come-uppance.

So I resolved to break this curse. To smash it. I’ve been to priests (Catholic and other), pastors, preachers. Visited Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah after midnight. Stopped by to have a frank talk with an old woman in New Orleans. That was in part the reason for my visit to Willow Thunder’s place (as relayed in my story, Deja Voodoo). But none of that really seemed to work, so I began to consult with palm readers, mediums, snake handlers. The usual. However, while this seemed to have alleviated some of the issues, nothing brought me back to where I need to be. So I decided to call in the big guns, and see a well-reputed Hexenmeisterin recommended long ago by an associate of my third ex-wife. The card was still in the original Crown Royal bag I had stuffed it in years ago, in a dresser drawer under my Colt .45.

It was a curious card, hand-written in a striking calligraphy. It provided a name, title (Hexenmeisterin), and a number. Also the curious instruction, “Let the phone ring until it is picked up”. The back side of the card was in some barbaric and bastardized Teutonic slang, and said much the same thing, at least to my long-rusty German. Just a lot more detail. I rang the number, and let it ring, over and over and over. Finally, nearly ready to hang up, I heard the line engage as someone picked up. There was nothing but breathing on the far end.

“Ah, Gruess Gott?” I felt the need to slip into German and a bit of Bavarian slipped out.

“This is the Messenger,” came the answer, “Tell me why you wish to speak with the Hex’nmeisterin.”

So I laid it all out, with the Messenger filling pauses with non-committal grunts and “Uh-huhs”.

When I finally paused, the Messenger said, “Look, sounds like you have a serious problem here. The Hexmeisterin will meet with you, but there are some things I expect you will need. First, she can’t see you until the Full Moon. That’s the best for breaking curses. Next one is the 29th this month. Saturday. She’ll need suitable payment. No cash. Gold, silver, or something that can be sold easy. Like a nice watch. Don’t get cheap here. She’s breaking a curse, and that’s hard work. Tricky. Her motivation is going to drop if you try to do her dirty. You understand?”


“What did I say?”

“Full moon, Saturday. Pay her well, but no cash.”

“Glad you’re listening. So here’s some things you’ll want to do. If you have some enemies, try to bring something of theirs. A prized possession, or something physically from them. Like hair, an article of clothing you steal off a clothesline. Something they touched, especially something they’ve had a long time. Ideal things are pages from a diary, or an undergarment, or a favorite pen, or fuzzy dice they’ve had in their car forever. You can go through their trash to find something if you can’t get in their house. But don’t bring trash, if you know what I mean. Just something to help re-direct the energy.”

“Got it.”

“You know much about Pow-Wow? About Hex?”

“A little.”

“Then bring some backup stuff too. Like favorite clothes, graveyard dirt if your family cemetery is nearby. A family memento. If you have a knife that’s tasted blood, bring it. Anything that feels right might be useful. Any questions?”

“What’s the address?”

“OK, you’re gonna meet me at a public place, and I’ll take you to see the Hexmeisterin. Is this your cell phone?”


“What kind of car do you have?”

“I got a couple.”

“Which one you driving?”

I thought about it. No reason to be surreptitious. “Toyota Supra. Yellow. 1999.”

“OK, so go to the WalMart parking lot at (NAME OF TOWN REDACTED) this Saturday, and park way out in the aisle by the Outdoor Living section. I mean, way out, with no cars around you. Go into the bathroom at 7 pm. Sit in one of the stalls. Doesn’t matter which one. I’ll call you. Got it?”


“Then tell me what you’re gonna do.”

“WalMart in (NAME REDACTED). This Saturday. Seven pm. Drive the yellow Supra. Bring something from my enemy, and some things that mean something to me. Sit in the bathroom and wait for a call.”

“Good. Talk to you Saturday, 7 pm.”

And with that, he hung up. Looks like I had some homework to do.



Note 1. A Ton of Pussy is a formal measure of sexual activity, and is the Minimum Recommended Monthly Allowance for male sexual encounters. The Ton is calculated by multiplying the estimated weight of the female lover by the number of penetrative acts that end in male orgasm. A Ton is reached when you have had 2,000 pounds of sexual gratification. For example, if you picked up a 100 pound woman and had sex with her once, that is 100 pounds towards the 2,000 pound total, or 5% of the monthly requirement. If you had sex with her twice, that counts for 200 pounds (or 10%), even if completed during the same encounter. Similar calculations hold true for larger women. Please bear in mind that this measurement is not an exact science, it’s an approximation of total depravity. Hence the greater score reserved for larger women, because the assumption is they do more impressive and unusual acts, to retain your affections.

Note 2. Per Steinbeck, in “Travels With Charlie”, prostate trouble and gout are the only two maladies that a French gentleman may admit to. I’m Irish, not French, but I can certainly understand the sentiment.


6 thoughts on “Lifting A Curse (Part 1)

      1. It could be contested that exaggeration & mythopoeia, in its post modern (whatever that means) manifestation, have some similarities. i think another word is poetic license.
        What do you think the appeal is to the American Don Juan (Donald John?) character? Do you think it still has a place in this society of millennials who don’t over indulge so much, have become more sexually conservative & cautious?

        Liked by 1 person

      2. DPM, as usual you can be counted on for thought-provoking comments.

        The appeal of Don Juan is the love of the rascal, the man who does what everyone wants to do but is unwilling or unable.

        And yes, of course there is a place for this character. The most timid millennial man is pleasantly shocked by the enjoyment of his first time at target practice with a .357 magnum, or the thrill of pulling a tarpon over the side of the boat.

        The young ladies themselves have been known to fall all over even a wreck such as myself. Living in such a sterile and imaginary world, they have little defense when presented with their first whiff of Macallan-and-testosterone tinged sweat, properly mixed with Drakkar and a non-organic laundry detergent. Perhaps on a hot summer evening while holding onto my back on my motorcycle as we roar down a desert backroad at 105, my wallet full of their boyfriend’s cash, a fool didn’t understand that a flush beats a straight.

        I could tell you more, but gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, and this is a family-friendly establishment.

        Liked by 1 person

    1. Madam, I’m sure I’ve played a role in that equation on many an occasion. Yet it is up to one of the feminine persuasion to quantify the standard. So I humbly defer to you or one of your sisterhood to expound further.

      Liked by 1 person

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