October 9th, 2006

Peter Peter Covington with the Head of an Ass

Peter Peter Covington ate his inhibitions at an early age. By five he was tossing pigeons to the sky and racing coyotes across the steepled knolls of Buckingham Hills. By fifteen he was ten feet tall and made of granite and by the age of thirty he held the sun in his palm and shat balls of steel and fire. His ego grew in proportion to his stature so by the time he was thirty-five Peter Peter Covington had grown a head as big as a horse’s ass.

And the people they stared, boy did the stare. They stared and they stared and ClickClackClank went the whirl of their picture takers and the pictures grew sordid and soiled and people bought them by the dozens. No, by the hundreds. And millions and gazillions they came. A tidal-wave of stories colored brazen and brawn. Stories of Peter Peter Covington taming the sky and wrestling the earth. Stories of young woman subdued and poor people raped of their land and the stories were grand, just so God Damn grand.

He’d step on the spine of a musty virtue and the people would cheer and yelp and BuyBuyBuyBuy. Ten dollars will get you a shirt and an iron-clad excuse. Twenty, a promise of youth. Peter Peter Covington with the head of an ass lived in a tower of deceit and glass. And the people they loved him and ask him for more but, as it was, he grew tired and bored. So he sold them for a television station and the rights to his story and they loved him even more. Until he died. And they laughed.

With Jim Job Slagmonster, who had the nose of a birch and sold poisonous ideals while juggling grizzly bears. Such cute bears. Just look at them spin.