Lifting a Curse (Part 2)

OK, Creepers. The saga continues. If you didn’t read Part 1 of this series, scroll down first. it’s just a few posts below.

So The Messenger had given me my marching orders, straight from the Hexenmeisterin. I had to get something personal from whoever was cursing me, and bring it along. And here’s the problem. Enemies, I got. Lots of ’em. Earned many of ’em fair and square, being a right selfish ba$tard. So I had to run through the list, and it was a doozy. But some could be scratched off. The ex-wives have plenty of reason to hate me, yet we all rise and fall together unless one of them hits it big. Wins the lottery or whatever. So they might gloat on a personal level at my misfortunes, as long as they are just personal to me. Like getting the clap, or crashing one of my fun cars, or getting non-fatally stung by a swarm of enraged ground bees. They wouldn’t want me arrested or ruined or killed.

I’ve got some business associates who might hold a grudge, but these guys don’t do curses. They would just pull the Italian Rope Trick on me and drop my body off at a friendly funeral parlor for an off-the-books cremation. Maybe mix the ashes with baking soda and using it to cut an unexpectedly strong batch of heroin.

There have been a number of fist fights over the years, but generally those people had no idea who I was even before I pummeled them into a concussion. And I make a point of getting the hell out of there to avoid the inconvenience of a long conversation with the local constables. Guys whose women I had taken, then cast off when done with them? They would have done something long ago if they really cared.

There were a few stray cats here and there, people I had crossed years ago back in Youngstown, but somehow curses don’t strike me as things that work long distance. This goes all the more so for people overseas. I seem to recall that black magic can’t cross salt water. There were some other possibilities, but they were just to remote to be worth following up on. If some random person were obsessed with me and wished me ill, then there’s not much I can do about figuring that out, much less getting a personal object from them.

So this exhaustive cataloging led me to three suspects. Number one, an assistant county prosecutor who would book me for conspiracy to commit felony jaywalking with a minor, if she could. Number two, a t1tty bar owner who put knockout pills in my drink, presumably in an effort to rob me, and ended up making himself look really stupid. Number three, a harmless looking librarian who has been hauling me into court for civil charge after civil charge, all stemming back to a very good deal I got at an estate sale when I first moved down South. Apparently the item I purchased wasn’t supposed to be sold. She claimed some sentimental value, but wanted to simply refund me the price I had paid versus the amount I could (and did) get on eBay. And that quick two grand was some hard earned cash, based on all the hassle it’s bought me these past few years.

So yesterday I started on my trek to obtain personal items from these three. Thursday was an auspicious day for me. You see, I normally fast the last Wednesday and Thursday of each month. It’s a long story, but years ago I fell into this after a chance reading of “The Spiritual Exercises” by St. Ignatius Loyola. It provoked a discussion with Milton, the defrocked priest who was the business manager at my sh1tty little newspaper, The North Coast Free Press. One thing led to another, and he finally double-dog-dared me, and I was on a two day fast from everything but water and medicine. No booze, no tobacco, no food, no weed, no coffee or juice, no non-prescription pills, no sniffing glue, nothing. By agreement, I could still have sex though; the prohibition was on putting things in my body, not a prohibition on me putting things in someone else’s body.

And I loved it. At first, there were headaches and irritability from stopping smoking. And hunger pangs. Light headedness from low blood sugar. And even on occasion, I believe some mild delirium tremens. I would just obsess about a certain song, playing it over and over, while Milton or someone would try to talk to me and I ignored them. I’d laugh, I’d cry, I’d rage, I’d rant on some obscure point for hours at a time. I felt somehow wild, and strong, and brilliantly powerful. Then I would go through a low, and sometimes shake, and think about gin and tonic, maybe cry a little; until the high hit me again and I was belting out the lyrics to “Anything Anything” by Dramarama over and over and over again. (Reference 1).

And by time Friday morning rolled around, I’d be ready for a ceremonial breakfast. It was always the same, and remains the same. I whip up a four-cup espresso pot of Cafe Bustelo with sorghum sugar, have a tin of kippered herrings laid out in a cross-hatch pattern on a heavily buttered piece of toast, follow up with two eggs over easy (salted and peppered, naturally), and then end it all with a dessert of two Dunhills and a shot of Fernet-Branca. It is a clean ritual, one that helps affirm that I am the master of my own destiny. Sure, I can be led around by the nose the other 28 or 29 days of the month, but on the last Wednesday and Thursday, I am master over my needs, desires, predilections, addictions and afflictions. And then I return back to the filth, and it starts all over again.

But on Wednesday and Thursday, I was on the top of my game. The assistant county prosecutor was in theory an easy mark, a divorced lady about town who eats out nearly every meal, and on a predictable schedule. The same breakfast at the same diner, lunch at one of four places, and dinners generally dictated by the guys she meets on {DATING APP FOR CASUAL HOOKUPS}. So I hit her up first at breakfast. I put on some light disguise; a gray wig, farmer clothes, and replaced my typical glasses with wire-rims rocking some tape around the frame. I sat at the counter, as did Fat Danny, but further down.

The assistant prosecutor was with her friends, or should I say her posse, a mix of women that were in part bound to her by affection, and in part by the possibility that one day she would be State Attorney General or even Governor. They were talking loudly, ignoring everyone around them. Classic attention whores. (Reference 2).

Well, the diner was a bit hot, and my mark took off her jacket and draped it over her chair. Seeing a likely chance, I gave Fat Danny a pre-arrranged signal, wiping my face with a red and white checked handkerchief. Immediately he stood up, grabbing his throat, and making dramatic choking and wheezing noises. Suddenly this sleepy diner became attentive, all eyes on Fat Danny as he staggered back and forth, everyone expecting someone else to make the first move. Suddenly a man jumped up and grabbed Fat Danny from behind and began to thrust, for all the world looking like a frantic prison rapist working his way to orgasm on the new fish before the guards can run back and save him. I mean, this motherfuc7er was motivated!

As soon as he jumped up, everyone else followed, and soon there was a crowd around Fat Danny, who had wisely put a huge piece of country fried steak in his mouth, and his savior. Danny hammed it up, rubbing his throat and gushing thanks upon the man, who was actually humble in a completely authentic manner. I took advantage of the excitement to go over to my mark’s table, and pull a long blond hair off of her jacket, and pack it in a Mason Jar. “Gotcha!”, I thought.

The librarian was dead easy. That was my next stop. Since we had been battling in court for years, I had studied her and knew that she visited her parents’ graves at the end of July each year. They had died in a car wreck in the early nineties, and were buried next to each other in an Episcopal cemetery. She always brought flowers, which were left to dry out and go to seed until the cemetery cleaned up at the end of summer. I pre-empted this cleanup, and by noon had some epic desiccated roses in a Mason Jar. They reminded me of the cover of “American Beauty” by the Grateful Dead. (Reference 3).

Last was the strip bar owner. He was a tough nut to crack. The strip bar was an old converted warehouse, with his office up on the second floor. The stairs were almost like a fire escape running down the inside of the building, and could be seen by everyone from the dancers to the patrons to the bouncers. No luck getting in there while the place was open without doing some major external B&E. His house was out in the suburbs, and nothing special, but the cars were locked in the double garage, and he had a wife and kids. There was the soft glow of the television visible from the back yard, as it was tuned to “Jessie” and several other Disney shows one right after the other. And no luck on the clothes line, apparently he and his family had entered the nineteen seventies and used a clothes dryer.

After some time fruitlessly sitting in the dark, I remembered that he had a trailer set aside in a park that was in between this suburban paradise and his hellhole of a strip bar. He used it fairly often, to “audition” young ladies who were new to the area and considering a career in the exotic dancing arts. They usually passed after half an hour, at the most, and he was clearly quite attached to it.

So well after 2 am on Thursday night (or, I guess you could say, 2 am Friday morning), I snuck up on his place in a Ghillie suit, a claw hammer in hand, and pulled a nail out of the decrepit wooden steps running up to the trailer. These stairs were falling apart as it was, and would hardly be less structurally sound if I liberated one thirty year old nail from the rotted wood. It didn’t seem like the kind of place where you would want to run a security video, but it amused me to no end to image him reviewing security footage of a clump of grass rising up with a hammer, yanking one nail, and then fading away into the night, never to be seen again. That would be the kind of sh1t that would give most people nightmares, if they had any inkling it was going on.

So here I sit, with something personal from three very determined enemies. I have also grabbed some items precious to me. The first is a belt that I was wearing the day my first child was born. It still fits somehow, even with the muffin top it makes around my stomach. I have a rosary that used to belong to my great-grandmother, and possibly came from her mother before her. It’s dark wood, and is worn from decades of prayer. I had my youngest daughter use it this afternoon to pray a rosary, to renew its power, on the theory that the good lord listens to the prayers of virgins. And there is more, to include a knife that belonged to my Dad, a shot glass that my Grandpa brought back from Okinawa, and a Gideon’s Bible that I stole from an hourly rate motel the night I lost my virginity at age 13. It’s unlikely that many people would have had the presence of mind to grab the Good Book at a moment like that, but I am proud to say that I did, and have had the sense to keep it ever since.

And I have payment; pure gold and silver bought in ingots at pawn shops and online. As I said, this has been a terrible year. If the Hex’nmeisterin can help me break the curse, it will be funds well spent.

More to follow soon!



Reference 1. This song is worth listening to.

Reference 2. Information on Attention Whores can be found at

Reference 3. Many of you may not know about the Grateful Dead due to your age. Overview on Wikipedia, link to music on YouTube:


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.