“James, I have been following your work, and, as a writer myself, am sure you have many unfinished outlines frustrating your mania to empty your brain—which, my friend, shall not work, as you keep refilling that thing! Considering my own backlog, I thought to ask you, 'What is the story that you would write today if you had the time?' What is your favorite unwritten story, and why?”

-Anton

Thanks for the interest Anton, and no thanks for opening the floodgates of my swamped brain now, as I stand a week behind on my fiction work due to the recent festivities in Harm City.

I would have to say that story is The Legend of Lesbo Jones. This is an East Baltimore character that is a composite of two lesbians I worked with and another that I took the bus with. She would be a darkly humorous antihero.

The two lesbians I worked with, one white and rural, and the other black and urban, sought me out as an ally at work, where the men hated them for monopolizing so much of the female companionship. They were both Harem builders. Denis, who looked like Mike Tyson with breasts, had a different woman drop her off at work every night. Both of these girls preyed on dissatisfied wives and amassed herds of sex slaves. They both had a dark sense of humor as well, which eventually infected me. In fact, I trace the evolution of my sense of humor to Denis [Denise], the black dyke, and Jones, the white dyke. I was a dark, brooding, morose man until age 35 or so, and knew these women between the ages of 30-32.

I was once on a bus load of felons headed out to the courthouse to have their plea bargains heard. These were some hard men. The hardest was this black girl who looked like Denis but had no sense of humor. Much of the discussion had revolved around how they dealt with snitches and terrorized witnesses. She horrified all of us when she began describing the every nuance of raping another woman with a steaming curling iron.

She wasn’t just the ‘badest bitch’ on the bus, but the ‘baddest’ person. I envision Lesbo Jones as having that evil streak, but not as a primary trait like this fiendish woman. I much prefer Denis, who would sit across the lunch table from me while I nodded off to sleep on my break and whisper stuff to me to torment my attempt at rest, things such as:

“I get more pussy than you.”

“If you could eat pussy like this bitch your scrawny ass wouldn’t be so tired.”

“Son, the way you drollin’ you definitely no pussy eater.”

And her favorite little rap, which was ever changing and not loud, but generally figured these three lines:

“Wife takin’”

“Bitch makin’”

“Pussy quakin’”

So, one day, Lesbo Jones might make her nefarious appearance here, where the ghosts battling to escape from my battered mind find their rest.