The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

 Jack Spratt's more mainstream social media accounts show that he actively followed a number of pro-vegetarian and vegan pages and actively posted comments regarding the positive outcomes of such a life choice. While less militant than some, he - at least publicly - expressed disdain for those who did not prioritize their health. This stood in sharp contrast to his private communications, particularly those with @JoanEats. DIRECT MESSAGE LOG (EXCERPT)  Platform: @JoanEats Recipient: @LeanLifeJack Status: Top Tier Subscriber @LeanLifeJack:  I'd love to feed you a tub of chocolate pudding slowly with a big spoon. @JoanEats:  Will you make a mess? @LeanLifeJack:  If I do, I'll clean you The direct messages frequently described staged encounters, rich in detail but consistently transactional in tone. Spratt outlined scenarios involving specific settings, wardrobe, and food selections. Recurring elements included high-viscosity or ‘messy’ foods: pudding, barb...

Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean; And so, betwixt them both, They licked the platter clean. Jack ate all the lean, Joan ate all the fat, The bone they picked it clean, Then gave it to the cat. Jack Sprat was wheeling His wife by the ditch. The wheelbarrow broke, And in she did pitch. Says Jack, "She'll be drowned," But Joan did reply, "I don't think I shall, For the water's not high." Everyone has a secret. Some are quite tame; some can lead to shame - or worse. Here we look at the case of a young man, Jack Spratt. He's been a practicing vegetarian for years. Extremely conscious of his health and appearance, he nevertheless surprised those who knew him in that nothing aroused him more than large, obese women. The thought of a scantily clad woman weighing 300 - 400 pounds could drive him wild. But he kept this side of him relegated to the world of fantasy - and the internet. As is often the case, t...

“There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children, she didn’t know what to do. She gave them some broth without any bread, And whipped them all soundly and put them to bed.” No one lives in a shoe. That’s just what the children call it. The building curves inward in a way that doesn’t feel right. Hallways narrow toward the ends. Rooms taper off like something was trying to make space where there wasn’t any. The youngest are kept at the “toe.” The older ones, what few there are, closer to the “heel.” It’s not official terminology. But it sticks. The woman assigned to the ward isn’t as old as she looks. Forty, maybe. Fifty at most. Hard to tell under the weight of it all. Too many children. Not enough staff. Not enough food. Not enough patience left in the world. She has charts. Protocols. A schedule that says what happens and when. Morning: broth. Afternoon: quiet time. Evening: correction. They don’t call it whipping anymore. Not out loud. But the marks tell their o...

It was as good a town as any for semi-retirement.  On the surface, Linden looked quiet. But like most small towns, it buzzed with characters. The sheriff was known as Beer Belly - “Beer” for short - and he answered to Judge Pee Wee, a man so fond of drinking he required a police escort more often than not. By nightfall, I wasn’t new anymore. I hadn’t introduced myself. I didn’t have to. Somewhere between unloading my bags and walking into town, I’d already been named, placed, understood.  New fella from up north. That was enough. Privacy wasn’t exactly the local currency. Neither was surprise. Not anymore. There was no bar, but the gas station did double duty. Picnic tables out front for beer, gossip, and weather reports. Shopping options were limited: a Food King, a video store, the B&H diner, The Rusty Hook if you wanted catfish—and Crazy Fay’s, where you could buy Confederate memorabilia and black velvet Elvis art in the same transaction without anyone batting an eye. ...

2:40am, and he was lost in the sounds of Zufälligen Einbildungskraft. The rest of the world was asleep. He knew it wasn't his fault - at least not this time. However, he had a nagging feeling. The closer he was to achieving his goal, the further away it seemed. He'd read, studied, conjugated and codified - yet he felt no closer than when he began. The world was drowning in a sea of poorly corrected pitch, and he was helpless to do anything about it. The vibrations of authenticity and originality were growing fainter by the minute. It had been over thirty years since the last explosion, and even that had been a hollow replica of days gone by. His heart broke a little when he realized Waits was little more than a Partch fanboy with delusions of Satchmotic wailings.  Bones was a killer - with strings.  The legends had become just that. Forgotten mythology rotting on a shelf, waiting to be rediscovered by academics and weirdos. The day before, he'd sent pleas in multiple lang...

 It was late February 2002, and I was getting ready for my first trip overseas.  I had lucked into a handful of gigs, and I was thrilled by the chance. I grew up watching lots of Hammer horror films, and almost any British show I could find. Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, Dave Allen, and Tommy Cooper were regular viewing thanks to public television. I spent plenty of time reading British literature, especially Arthur Conan Doyle. My maternal grandfather’s family was British, so it’s fair to say I was an Anglophile. I thought I had a pretty good understanding of “the Queen’s English.” I was well acquainted with terms like spanner, lorry, telly, and most hilarious to twelve-year-old me, fags (or cigarettes, for those unaware). I was under the mistaken impression that “wanker” could be used as a term of endearment, not unlike jagoff. I later found this to be…not quite accurate. I was admittedly concerned about the food. While I occasionally consider myself ad...