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PARLAY
The second book in the Postal Child series, PARLAY takes you deep into the internal world created by Postal Child hero Whitey Whitlock to escape the horror of his own reality. Filled with pirate pigeons led by Captain Whitey himself, Parlay’s adventures are best left to the birds…
Postal Child
“Whitey Whitlock had an ear for the birds. He could whistle their songs as well as they could. He did so on his route. He talked to the birds.The birds talked back.
Whitey was a black man. He was called Whitey because the index finger on his left hand was white. A birthmark. His first name was Esmerelda. Middle name Torno. His last name was Whitlock because his mom’s last name was Whitlock.
His mom was high when Whitey was born. She was also high when she named him. Esmerelda was the name of her sister, the only person in the world who ever treated her decently, and Torno was short for tornado, because that’s how it felt when Whitey came out.
Whitey’s mom had a penchant for the cocaine.
She was a good mom though. Albeit an inconsistent mom.Whitey learned how to deal with her mood swings and her ever-present hangovers. By the time he was three he could make his own breakfasts. By the time he was eight he could get himself to school. By the time he was ten he was doing all the shopping and housework. By the time he was twelve he could do all the paperwork that allowed him and his mom not to starve or be homeless. On one of the pubescent days leading up to his thirteenth birthday he woke up to find his mom dead on the couch.”
Killing the Math
I started writing this book two weeks after I finished Postal Child. I don’t know why. I had always planned on writing it when I was too old to care and everybody in the book was dead. But I wrote it. I wrote it pretty quick. I now realize why. I used to have a friend named Gandalf, god bless his fucking soul, when he was alive he never showered regularly, but when he did he called it a purging, he would just build up all the gross and terrible things that human beings collect for weeks on end, and then when he couldn’t take it anymore he would hop in the shower and purge. And then, just like that, he would be back to normal, clean as a fucking whistle.
Killing The Math is a purge of sorts. Whatever horrible and wretched things I had collected on my body and my soul while writing Postal Child came sloughing off because of writing this book. And because of this, Killing The Math wouldn’t exist without Postal Child.
Postal Child is a work of pure fiction.The only truth to it is that I did indeed see a homeless man pushing a mail cart around with bags of trash in it while wearing a postal service uniform.
Killing The Math, however, is a farce, the people exist, that is true, and the places exists, and most of the actions exists, but what really happened, I don’t know. I have a horrible memory, but I also have an acute memory. I can remember the smell you make when you shift on a chair, but I won’t remember the twenty minute conversation we have afterwards.
What I mean is, don’t take any of this personally, it’s just the story of a boy growing up in a horrible place wishing for something more. I would change the names, but what’s the point, you’re the only one who knows who that person is.
I didn’t write this story, the story wrote itself. Blame the story, not me.
KinderRinder
Honor or suicide. It was a direct order. A choice to be made. And nobody but he could make it.
Gustav Heimlich was an inept Nazi. According to his superiors. He had failed in his duties to the Vaterland. He wasn’t exactly certain what he had done. He was certain he would find out. That is, if he chose honor.
Gustav’s job isn’t pleasant, and it definitely isn’t for the faint of heart. But is anything these days?