An homage to the Bowery Boys movies of the 1930s! This is a wild, humorous and slightly chilling yarn that takes us through the alleys of New York’s Bowery as a group of young hooligans known as the Bowery Irish Clowns tries to stop a killer who seems a lot like a certain Jack the Ripper.
Adult Reading – Mature Content
The Ripper on the Bowery
“I got to get on safe ground before the Ripper hits the streets,” Shem fretted out loud as he made a dash for it as soon as the doors of the elevated train opened.
Clarence Darrow Shaw, aka ‘Shem,’ member of the Bowery’s Irish Clown social club and an infamous loafer of the Lower East Side of Manhattan, disembarked the 3rd Avenue Elevated Train at Canal Street. He had spent another fruitless day seeking an executive position on Wall Street; now it was time to get back to his real occupation: goofing off with the other Bowery’s Irish Clowns. The job-hunting façade was just a scam to keep his old man at bay in the Shaw family’s tenement apartment. He would do anything to keep his parents from yelling at him. It usually worked. After coughing-up the fare to and from the city Shem had just enough of the money he had bummed off his Ma for a coffee and piece of pie at “Hughie’s Bohemian Café,” the official hang-out for Bugs and the other Clowns. Hughie Kressin the ancient Yiddish-spewing innkeeper of the Bohemian Café, was an easy touch in spite of all of his ranting at the Irish corner boys who cluttered his place. Shem knew he wouldn’t feel secure until he was with the gang. The Ripper wouldn’t dare step into the holy grounds of the café. Hughie was particular about the quality of the people who stepped into his establishment.
“Gee, Bugs will understand why I can’t get my career off of the ground,” Shem said out loud as he descended the stairways of the station. His moronically bug-eyed looks and mumblings always drew stares. He just knew his folks would start harping on him about going back to his old gig at the Fulton Fish Market. “They’re both nothing but Irish harpies.”
Shem drew a bead on Hughie’s just down the block but his vision was blocked when his Dodgers baseball cap fell over his eyes upon his collision with Squirt Sheridan, the tough newsboy who worked the corner and who was a sworn enemy of the Bowery Irish Clowns. Squirt was known for carrying a switchblade knife.
A graduate of Ryerson Journalism, Mike Sauve has written for The National Post, The Toronto International Film Festival Group, Exclaim Magazine and other publications. His fiction has appeared in the humor journal Feathertale. His National Post features reveal a sardonic prose style that is unique and inviting.
In the Shade of the Allan Gardens Greenhouse
In the late 19th century George Street “caught the refined tone”* of Toronto’s noblest family mansions on neighboring Jarvis Street. Today it rots and rages with the bitter pulse of strong beer and crack cocaine. Inside Seton House, called Satan House by those in the know, live 600 homeless men. It’s an alternate universe created by the synthetic horror of cheap crack and all the foul additives irresponsibly mixed in. It’s the most dangerous street in Toronto according to police.
So many are high the air is charged with bizarre energy, almost always negative, excluding those heart-wrenching seconds after a crack-blast when euphoric peace blooms for a few seconds before vanishing like it was never there.
I am impervious to the persuasions of all clubs, organizations and religions. I’ve read the entire Old Testament and know that god has never spoken a single word to any living human being in history. I’ve been in terribly close proximity to Catholic priests for extended periods of time, argued with them and sat gritting my teeth through their best attempts at mass. You can burn all the bushes in my backyard and come down the hill with as many tablets as you like and I’ll know you’re a damned fake. So I can watch L. Ron Hubbard speak through all six parts of the interview above and have not the slightest fear of showing up in a Scientology storefront with my wallet out. However, I don’t really see anything terribly wrong with what Hubbard says in the interview. What’s all the Scientology warfare really about?
The Pothole is the latest offering from Well Told Tales, a blog specializing in the production of pulp fiction podcasts. They have recently transitioned from offering only their own audio productions to allowing users to upload their own audio stories, films and written stories. It’s an excellent idea.
I had a blast listening to The Pothole a few evenings ago. It’s genuinely disturbing and offers a unique perspective on its genre. I won’t tell you which genre it is because I don’t want to spoil the suspense for you. The writing by Kris Ashton hooks you immediately. His characters are vivid. The story is pulp fiction at its best. The narrator is John Wooley, actor, author, film teacher and columnist. His reading is superb, with a relaxed and gravelly voice that lets the story unwind with just the right touch of dread.
These guys are very accomplished and are making some of the best audio stories I’ve heard anywhere. Give Well Told Tales a visit.