Brothers Mine: As Told by Lucifer

© Copyright 2012 Jesse Edward Corralez.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4122-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4124-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4123-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909916

Trafford rev. 07/16/2012

www.trafford.com

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CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Afterword

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Afterword

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Small ditty from the author

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

DANCE TO THE MUSIC

Foreword

I have, in the past, taken pen in hand and written about myself. Then I followed up by tellin’ you, again in writin’, of the life of an exemplary being—my son, Uriah.

In doin’ that writin’, I began to see, to realize how truly blessed I am in sharin’ life wit family and friends… beings both immortal and mortal.

I can never say enough about any of them to even begin to paint for you a complete picture of what each represents to me in terms of The life and times of.

Most meaningful is that I learned from them all. Learned to laugh, to cry, to love, to grieve, and to forgive. Also to hope and to dream.

This then will be but a brush stroke on the expansive canvas that makes up The life and times of my brother… Big Mike, the Archangel.

Keep in mind that when ever we, the Immortal Beings, were upon the earth we appeared as outright humans.

Chapter 1

Big Mike’s notoriety, as far as I am concerned, began in Heaven. Upon my startin’ a war… yeah, I did. Started a fuckin’ war in Heaven, I did. Not a huge-ass war, mind you. Never had a chance to get past a pitiful skirmish, man. Uh-uh, nope. My Big Kahuna, Jehovah, recruited Michael to put an end to that nonsense. He did.

Fuckin’ kicked ass until his shoes were shitty, man. Big Mike is one ferocious warrior. You sure couldn’t tell it just by bein’ around him, though. He be laidback and mellow—until provoked. Shit, Superman and the Lone Ranger ain’t got nothin’ on him, man… Okay, okay, for those of you who can’t figure out why I threw that in, back in the 70’s a cool dude by the name of Jim Croce wrote and sang a song—YOU DON’T MESS AROUND WITH JIM. It says: YOU DON’T TUG ON SUPERMAN’S CAPE, YOU DON’T SPIT INTO THE WIND. YOU DON’T PULL THE MASK OFF THE OLE LONE RANGER, AND YOU DON’T MESS AROUND WITH JIM. You don’t wanna fuck wit Michael—no way, man.

But you know what? I love him anyhow and he sure as shit don’t hold nothin’ against me.

He had a job to do, he did it, and let the four winds blow, man. That be Mike all the way.

Way back then, music wasn’t what it is nowadays. In Heaven, one could hear music alla da time, sure, but hey man—and not to knock it or badmouth it, man—but it was like fuckin’ elevator music. You know what I’m sayin’, Vern? No voices, just soft, easy-listenin’ instrumental kinda music.

But it was enough to get Michael movin’, man. He would find a rhythm in it that would set him to swayin’ to and fro… Now, I don’t fuckin’—to this day—know what the fuck to and fro means. I mean, is it swayin’ from left to right, front to back, round-n-round… what, already? Don’t matter, Michael was inta alla it, man. Right to left, too.

Michael digs music, man. And then he discovered dancin’. At first, dancin’—as far as I am concerned—sucked. I’m talkin’ sophisticated dancin’—you know, like the kings and queens and alla their subjects used to do when they threw their funky parties. Boriiing, man. Fuckin’ capitol B—boring.

Was Michael there? Fuckin’-A he was. He had no problem mixin’ in, man. Even back then, wasn’t no one gonna walk up to him and say, Who are you and what the fuck you doin’ here? I don’t think so, man. Not only is Michael huge, but back then, humans tended to be somewhat short by today’s standards. Had to do wit their diet and shit.

In the 1920’s and inta da 30’s, Michael went totally apeshit. We be talkin’ da Charleston, Hot-footin’, and a whole lot of other then wild-ass dances, man. He was surely in his element.

Oh yeah, quite a few years ago—probably centuries in your time—Michael discovered BEER. I think it was when he was backpackin’ through Egypt. Maybe before that, but it was so long ago that I don’t remember exactly when and where. It ain’t like I got nothin’ ta do but keep an eye on Big Mike, man. I gots a fuckin’ job ta do.

Michael fuckin’ digs music, dancin’, and beer. Not necessarily in that order—if you really want ta know, you’ll have ta ask him.

Oh, by the way, my name is Satan. For reals, though, it is—or was—Lucifer. After my fuck-up in Heaven, me-Lordship, God, changed it ’cause he was just a wee-bit miffed at me. Guess he also figured that the name Satan went better wit the fuckin’ non-union job he dropped on me. For eternity,? I asked. He said, Or until further notice. Jeez!!!

Of course, it only took one individual to alter the word of the Almighty. It’s been so long that I am now not 100% sure if it was Jesus or Michael who done it. But, if I was to be cornered on it, I’d have to say that Big Mike is my number one choice… Shit, even my Kahuna, my Lord and father, who decreed my name change, has deviated and calls me other than Satan.

So now, to my celestial family, I am known as—and don’t you rat-fucks ever do it ’cause I’ll smote your asses…

LUCY is what they calls me. Fuckin’ hates that shit!

Brother Mike… heh, heh, sounds like some kinda monk—or a black guy, huh? Anyway, he also digs cars, man. I do, too, but I’m inta street rods. Customed-out vehicles, I’m sayin’. Michael likes big vintage tin, man—Lincolns, Cadillacs, Packards, and Rolls Royce. All totally restored. Fuckin’-far-out shit, man, but not my style.

I asked him one time where he keeps ’em all. He gave me what I took for a puzzled look and then he grinned. Aw, Lucy, you’re funning me, huh? he said.

No, I ain’t, man. Where the fuck do you stash ’em? I’m serious here! ’Cause you don’t gotta tell me if you don’t wanna. I was just wonderin’, man, I says to him.

Jesus, Lucy, he throws at me, "you really need to take a refresher course in angelism…

I conjure them up and I conjure them down—you know, Lucy, I need one, I make one. When I don’t need it anymore, I put it back."

Yeah, okay, says me, it’s that where you put it back to that I’m askin’ you about. Why you givin’ me such a hard time, man? Fuck it, don’t tell me!

You know, Lucy, that’s a very good question. Where do you suppose they come from and where do they go when I send them back? Probably the same place, huh, Lucy?

You’re drivin’ me fuckin’ nnnuts, Michael.

Chapter 2

I have a lot of brothers—sisters, too; all of them great. Each in his or her own way, of course, because all of God’s creatures are unique. However, they—my brothers and sisters—are all angelic. Yup, folks, there be angels and angelettes. Two among the brothers are absolutely my favorite. If for no other reason, ’cause they took the time to hang out wit me when I needed it most. (Fuckin’ took me some time to get used to my new look, my assigned task, and last but not least—my fuckin’ shitty kingdom. You ever seen Hell?)

Mike, the oldest of the two but younger than me, was and is a pip. Michael is big and he be fuckin’ invincible… kicked my ass all to hell, man. But you just gotta love Big Mike. He ain’t an Archangel for nuttin’.

The other brother is J.C. I’m talkin’ the J.C.—Jesus Christ. He is one smooth, cool dude. Got himself hung on a cross, thorny crown on his head, stabbed… killed dead and a whole bunch of shit before that but was calm and collected through all of it. Don’t even hold a grudge, man.

The three of us do a lot of things together, with or without our ladies. Well, me and J.C. gots what you might call permanent attachments but Michael has no trouble arrangin’ for female companionship as calls for it. Big Mike is a fuckin’ babe magnet, man.

Anyway, I’m gonna share wit you some of the life and times of and wit Big Mike as comes ta mind. Probably won’t be chronological but what the fuck, man, you won’t know the difference, huh?

First off—and a huge-ass mystery to me and all of us, I guess, except Lucinda ’cause she is in the runnin’ wit all females other than my dear Abby—chicks dig Michael; think he smells like cookie dough. The rest of us all think he smells like beer.

I once asked Abby what she thought he smelled like. Duh, she said, beer, of course!

Michael likes… no, he fuckin’ loves beer. He sure as hippo-poop can conjure up his own recipe if he wanted to. But, he don’t. Just conjures up whatever appears in his grasp when he wants. That when translates into 24-7, man. And heck yeah, man, Michael can tell the difference in taste of beer and appreciates it but to him, there is good beer, better beer, and fuckin’ great beer… period.

No sweat though ’cause he don’t get drunk. He can’t get fat either—which is good ’cause Big Mike is big, man. He be 247, give or take a few pounds since I can only guess. And he stands like six feet, two inches. Maybe more… six-six—like that, man. The dude is large, I’m sayin’.

I think my Kahuna, God, made him massive so when the time came, Michael would chew me up and spit me out. Fuck, man, he did that alrightee. The little war I started up in Heaven didn’t last very long.

I’m of a mind even now that Jehovah had alla that shit planned out, man. He’s a hell of a great plan-maker. Says he can’t see inta the future but… I don’t know, man, he be knowin’ all alla da time.

And, fuck yes, I uses 4-letter words. Words is words, man… They’re expressive and to da point.

With one exception regardin’ the word fuck. Think about it—when somebody tells ya ta get fucked, does that imply a bad thing or good? Should you be thankin’ that person or sayin’, well, fuck you, too? And, are you then puttin’ somethin’ good out there or… see what I mean, man? That’s a tricky fucker, huh?

Michael is really a sweetheart. Now, man, I don’t mean ta imply that he be gay—although he is certainly one happy, happy dude, man. What I do mean is that he be kind, gentle, and caring.

Check it out:

One day I was out and about lookin’ for him. Found him in a park in Vancouver, Washington. Not a big city park—kinda small but cozy. He was there because in the spring and summer there are music concerts held there on a certain day of the week in the evening.

Other cities and towns do the same and sooner or later Big Mike hits ’em all—just happened to be there at that one that day.

I know you are gonna fuck wit me if I didn’t take time to clear that shit up, huh? Yeah, I know… you be sayin’ What the fuck, why Vancouver, Washington? So, you fuckin’ happy now?

Anyway, listen up ’cause this is righteous shit, man. Mike was sittin’ on a park bench talkin’ to a little kid of about 4 or 5 years old. The kid had tear streaks on his cheeks and Michael was tearin’ into a box of somethin’.

I strolled up and said, Hey bro, whassup?

Yo, Lucy, he came back wit, plunk it down and say hello to my friend, Stevie.

Lucy! Fuck, I hate that shit, man.

I reached out and shook the little hand that was extended to me.

Hello, mister, said the boy through a quiverin’ lip.

"His mother asked me to keep an eye on him while she went to the ladies room—long line. She did not want to leave him alone too long.

While he was off playing, Michael went on, "on the swings and slides, a couple of bigger kids came along and were roughing him up, trying to take away his bag of candy. Hey, Lucy, little guy was doing a great job defending but was outmanned. So I went over and put an end to it. By then, Stevie’s bag of candy had been torn up and candy spilled all over the sand.

Little-big guy here was pretty shook up. I asked him what kind of candy he had, told him we could go to the snack shack and get him more. When we got there, he asked if he could have anything he chose instead of candy and I told him yep. He chose this box of cookies. Said that they are Oreos and that they always make him happy. He said, too, that nobody can be sad while eating Oreos.

Well, shit, I thought, that’s what I’ve always said about Milk Duds, man.

You want to try some, Lucy? my bro asked.

Yeah, says little Stevie, try ’em mister, make you happy.

Sure, says me, give me one. And I held out my hand.

Uh-uh,—that from the Stevie dude as he shook a finger at me. You forgot to say the magic word.

Fuck, I was stumped. What in tarnation was he talkin’ about, man? Like abra-cadabra, shazzam—what the fuck, man?

Good olde Michael… his mind to mine, he clued me in. Please, Lucy—say please.

I smacked my forehead (fuckin’ ouch, man) and said, Oh yeah, please.

Big-ass Michael snatched the box away and said, Say pretty please!

Gimme that, I hollered and yanked it outta his hand.

Oh no you don’t, he yelped, and the tumble was on.

Me and him was rollin’ on the grass and in a flash, Stevie was on top of us. Man, that was fun.

Stevie was laughin’ so hard that tears again was rollin’ on down.

His momma showed up. Stevie, she let out wit, leave those poor men alone!

All motion ceased immediately.

Hey, Emily, says Michael. Meet my big brother, Lucy. That’s short for Lucius.

See, see! I told ya Michael’s a babe magnet, man. Emily was gorgeous and, of course, single or Mike wouldn’t have nuttin’ doin’ wit her—other than bein’ friendly.

I stood and picked up Stevie and sat him on the bench and handed him the box of Oreos. Pleased to meet you, Emily, and I held out my hand to her. She took it and, lookin’ over at Michael still sittin’ on the grass, she said, "Big brother, huh?

Your mother must have fed him better and much more, Lucy (I fuckin’ flinched, man. I hates that shit… fuckin’ LUCY. Shit, shit, shit!) he is twice your size.

Meaner, too, I told her, he was tryin’ to take away Stevie’s cookies. Me and him was workin’ on gettin’ them back. Huh, Stevie?

Yup, mom, we sure were, Stevie said through his little fists at his mouth and through his giggles.

I reached down and picked up Mike by an arm—hey, I gots powers, man.

Whoa! Emily let out. You must lift weights.

Outta curiosity, I says ta her, what do you think this here lout smells like?

Umm, she paused, cookie dough.

Jeez, man. What’s wit da chicks, anyway?

Stevie says, Mr. Lucy, try some. He was holdin’ the box up ta me.

LUCY? I’m fuckin’ thumpin’ on Michael when he ain’t lookin’, man.

You know what? The kid was right… Oreos rock, man. He said they’re even better dunked in milk. Better even than splittin’ ’em and scrapin’ off the fillin’ wit your teeth, man.

Chapter 3

Michael is very, very special; big and strong, sure as shit, man, but so sensitive and in some things so child-like.

Again, another time I’d been lookin’ for him, I found him at a friend’s house in Salmon Creek, Washington. As I shows up, I heard him talkin’ but there was no one else in sight (Michael, I think, has taken to the Pacific Northwest… must like it a lot ’cause he been spendin’ a lot of time there).

Yo, Mike, who you be talkin’ to, man? I asks.

Hey, Lucy! I’m sure glad you are here. I need to talk to you, he said as he clapped me on my back and dang near knocked me down.

I stumbled forward a coupla feet and was able to stay upright. No need ta say anything to Big Mike ’cause he don’t mean to be so brusque—he is just fuckin’ big, man.

So who you been talkin’ wit, Michael?

Mr. Ivy, Lucy. Come on over to the porch.

Is Gary the gimp home? I asks.

Naw, he had to go out of town for a few days. Don’t call him gimp, Lucy.

What the fuck, Michael, everybody calls him Gary the gimp—’cause he is and he don’t mind, man.

Well, he throws back at me, maybe he does but is too polite to say so. It might hurt his feelings, Lucy.

I looked him in the eye and asked him again, Who were you talkin’ to when I showed up, yourself?

Naw, I was talking with Mr. Ivy.

What Mr. Ivy? I didn’t see no one around, man.

Michael held up a finger to his lips and said, Shh, he might hear you, Lucy. Don’t talk so loud.

Michael, says me, there ain’t no one else here. Who the fuck is this Mr. Ivy, anyway?

He took me by the shoulders and turned me around to face the area of Gary the gimp’s backyard and pointed.

He is right there, Lucy. So please keep your voice down.

I turned back to look him in da face again and gave him a slinky-eyed look. Did you fall on your head, Michael? I held up two fingers and asked how many he saw and I reached out and touched his forehead feelin’ for heat.

Okay, okay, let’s go sit down and I’ll tell you from the start. You want a glass of wine, Lucy?

Is Jesus here? I asks.

No, Lucy, he is not. But I can do wine, too. Look at this.

He held out his right hand—his left already had an ice-cold beer in it—wit a bottle; 1963 vintage Portuguese Port.

How’s this, eh? Can I do wine or what, Lucy?

In my right hand appeared a cut crystal wine glass.

Jesus Christ! I said wit a huge-ass grin.

Okay! I’m in, he stated as he materialized. That is certainly some fine wine.

J.C. likes wine, man.

We sat at olde Gary the gimp’s patio table and popped the cork… don’t need no steenkin’ corkscrew or puller, man.

Then, Jesus and I turned our full attention to Big Mike.

Well, he began, "I dropped in on Gary with the intent of staying a few days so that we could take in the Mount Hood Jazz Festival over at the college in Gresham, Oregon—you know, across the Columbia River.

"He was called out on an emergency, and had to fly to Boise, Idaho posthaste to perform surgery. Guess that is what happens when you are the best brain surgeon around, huh?

"Anyway, I told him that while he was away that I would trim back the ivy over there along the rear fence. It was creeping over too far into the grass.

"So I’m just going along snipping away when I heard him. He said:

‘This is so disrespectful. How do you know that you aren’t causing me great pain?’

"I stopped snipping and looked all around.

Huh? I said.

‘You people do not know what you want, do you?’

Again I looked all around. I even stood up and was about to walk around to the side of the house when the voice said, ‘Down here, you big ignoramus. Down here… me, Mr. Ivy’.

You’re talking! I stammered as I sank back down to my knees.

‘Not so as you would see a mouth move, but, yes, I’m talking. Now, listen up. You guys want ground cover, so you turn to me. Why? Because you want the ground covered quick-like and you want the best. Then when I’m doing my thing—duh—covering ground… you come along and chop away at me.

‘Now I ask you, is that a way to show appreciation for a job well done?

‘I’m the best and it is about time that you people acknowledge and start to show some respect. R.E.S.P.E.C.T, I’m sayin’.’

"It took me a while to accept that I was being chewed out by a plant but I began to see its point of view. I said;

Mr. Ivy, we do appreciate you and I was merely giving you the equivalent of a haircut. To keep you looking neat and well-maintained.

‘And how do you know that it won’t harm me?’ he asked.

"I had to study on that for a bit. Then I remembered the great Montana sheep wars.

"Well, sir, it is a known fact that trimming and cropping promotes growth and good health. Many years back, in Montana, as well as in other places, cattle ranchers were blaming sheep ranchers for their sheep ruining cattle grazing land because the sheep ate the grass right down to the dirt.

"Fighting broke out and a lot of folks were killed or injured until one smart individual took notice of a place where sheep had grazed. What had appeared to be bare ground, now had sprouted healthy, vibrant, new shoots of grass. He watched it grow into a luscious pasture.

It took him some time and a lot of effort but he was able to prove to the cattle ranchers that sheep were doing a great service and one that caused the vegetation to flourish by means of cropping.

‘So you say!’ he retorted. ‘So you say!’

"If you are in doubt, I told him, put out the word. Get in touch with the grasses. Surely the sheep incident is remembered.

Mr. Ivy—I was saying at the time of your arrival, Lucy—we mean you no harm, believe me; just giving you a well-manicured look and wellness.

Both I and Jesus gave olde Michael the over-the-

readin’-glasses look. Then I glanced over at J.C. He looked at me, looked at Michael, and then back at me and he shrugged.

Could have happened, he said. I suppose that we could go over there and confirm it with Mr. Ivy.

Yeah, Big Mike says.

Could work, says me.

Not necessary, said…

All three of us shot a look towards the ivy.

I heard you, Mr. Ivy said, and I’ve checked it out. The big fella knows his history and I’m satisfied. Now if only the folks in the southern states would learn to appreciate cousin kudzu…

Now I asks you, who but Michael would get into a conversation wit a plant—excuse me, Mr. Ivy.

But you know what? I did hear a voice… in my head, of course, ’cause we all know plants don’t talk.

Do they, man?

Chapter 4

Hey, Lucy, when’s the last time you went to a casino? Mike says ta me sometime after J.C. left us.

Long time, Michael. Why?

"Let’s call Abby, Jesus, and Lucinda and I’ll take you all to a new one up above Seattle—my treat. Heck, Lucy, we are in Washington State now anyway.

We’ll meet here and I’ll drive us all up there, okay?

Well, Mike, I’m certainly game, man, but I can’t answer for the others.

Abigail appeared at my side and said, I think that sounds like fun. We haven’t done much together lately.

No we haven’t, said Lucinda as she and Jesus also arrived.

Michael was standin’ there wit a grin from ear to ear and his eyes reflectin’ the morning light.

Abby and Lucinda rushed over to him and hugged ’im ’til I thought he would burst like a squooshed balloon.

Jesus, ever the cool and elegant gent, waited ’til them women folk let ’im go and then he walked up ta him and offered his hand, sayin’, Great idea, Mike.

Mike, three shades of red, took J.C.’s hand and pulled him in and bear-hugged the bejesus outta him. Made olde Jesus grunt.

Say, Michael yelped, you don’t suppose Jehovah would go with us, huh?

Naw, I says, He is in da middle of a serious domino tournament bein’ held all this week in Central Park in New York City. He ain’t about ta walk away from that, man. Maybe next time.

You think, Lucy? That would be so great, huh? Mike said.

Michael deeply loves our Lord—father… my Big Kahuna.

So, I says, ‘Mike, what we be ridin’ in ta Seattle, man?"

Michael’s eyes lit up again and he sang out wit:

WE’RE GOING RIDING ON THE HIGHWAY OF LOVE… IN A PINK CADILLAC.

Cool! exclaimed da chicks.

Oh, no, says me.

Jesus smiled.

We all walked around Gary the gimp’s house to da front and there at the curbside, parked, was a 1959 pink Cadillac two door hardtop Coupe De Ville.

Oh, I’d seen and been in it before, but fuck, man—picture it… me, Satan, da Prince of Darkness, da mighty fuckin’ devil, man. Ain’t dignified! So don’t be tellin’ anyone, okay? Probably fuck up my image, man, if da word gots out, huh?

I gots ta admit, though, other than the fuckin’ color, that’s one fine highway vehicle, man. Smooth ridin’. Not worth a shit wit the gasoline consumption, but hey, Michael’s good wit keepin’ da tank topped off. We never had ta stop ta gas up. Know what I mean, Vern?

Bein’ an angel’s got its fringe benefits, man. Snort, snort!

Another thing about cruisin’ wit Big Mike; he always has some far-fuckin’-out tunes, man.

You just names’ it—he gots it. Disco, even.

We pulled inta da casino parkin’ lot… cain’t tell ya da name of da place ’cause it ain’t for me ta do no free advertisin’ for anythin’ or anyone. But if ya drive north up past Seattle ta a town named Marysville—ya cain’t miss it. ’Course, if ya be drivin’ south from up above, ya gonna hit Marysville before Seattle.

Either way, man, ya won’t miss it. And if ya do take a drive, take along plenty of Milk Duds. Those little fuckers will make ya feel good and you’ll enjoy da music and da ride twice as much. Trust me on this, man. Milk Duds rock!

Anyway, da fuckin’ casino… man! Far-out water features outside, roomy and well setup inside—attractive, even.

I heard tell that it is da largest casino in da Pacific Northwest—but what do I know, man? Might could be or perhaps whoever said it is naught but fulla shit, huh? (Interestin’ word—NAUGHT. Wonder who the fuck made it up?)

My dear Abby and Lucinda took right off to da slot machines, gigglin’ up a storm.

Jesus, Michael, and yours truly walked around ’til we found some small tables and chairs in front of a fast food joint right inside da place—can ya believe that, man? I looked around ta see if McDonalds or Wendys also had a place in there; maybe Burgerville?

Burgerville puts out some fuckin’ far-out fish-n’-chips… halibut, I’m sayin’. Check ’em out, man.

And hey, I mean it, don’t be tellin’ no one that I inadvertently mention any names—watch my lips, I DON’T DO NO FREE ADVERTISIN’, man. For that matter, ya can’t pay me ta do it either.