Surreal Dreams Two,Surreal Dreams, Horror Express all available at Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Amazon.com/Ron Koppelberger

Slob

Ron Koppelberger

SLOB

The possibility spoke of mongrel revolutions. A greasy shadow covered his wild growth of stubble. Consummated in the pasta and quickening stain of spilled bear, his recliner creaked as he moved his bulk. Chaperoned by the conventions of numerous pizza boxes and garlic butter stained foils his living space screamed for a maid, a loving touch.
The beige walls were stained with oily fingerprints and the remnants of smashed flies. He wiggled his toes in the remains of a half eaten bag of potato chips and belched. Empty beer bottles and soda cans littered the folding chair next to his recliner and the stain of dried vomit, milk and chunky chocolate covered the front of his shirt. He sipped a soda can and yelled, “ Six points booger men!” the doors were all locked and the dust caked windows were nailed shut, “Can’t get me booger men!” he whispered as a bubble of spit formed on his lower lip.
“Booger Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeecccchhhhhhhhh!” he screamed to the trash strewn apartment. The doorbell sounded an electric chiming promise, a promise of fresh supreme, absolutely supreme pizza and cold liters of frosty cola. He stood and shuffled through piles of wrappers, bags and food wrappers. Strangers, strangers and booger men he thought, “Booooooogggeerrrrrrrrr.”
He pressed his eye to the keyhole and peered out. The smiling face of a pizza delivery boy grinned back at him. Fumbling with the latch and deadbolt he unlocked the door and yanked it open. Terror and gibbering horror greeted him in screams of bound resonance. He stumbled, “Boooooooooooogggggggeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr, Booooooooooo…………..” he gasped as he passed gas uncontrollably.
The head of the delivery boy bounced among the plastic sacks and cardboard assortments of trash in a scarlet spray. “BBBBBBBOOOOOOOGGGGGEEEERRRRRRRR!” he gasped in breaths of hot suspiring fear. A fetid blast of air whooshed at him ruffling his hair and filling him with dread. The thing, a gelatinous mass of flesh and glistening Vaseline shimmer slid the pizza box into his shaking hands. “YIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, Booooooooooggggggggeeeeeeerrrrr!” he screamed as he waited to die. The beast grabbed the door and swung it closed as it left. Peeking in through the closing crack in the door the creature growled “Booger indeed, booger indeed my man!”
Passing out he would wake later to cold pizza and warm cola. He shifted in his recliner and through a gulp of pizza whispered, “ooooggggerrrrr men.”

Out And In

Ron Koppelberger

Out and In

The enticement was living and breathing beast in tandem between courage and the dominion of sin. He was in the flesh of the moment, the conception of apples for loincloths and thorns. Theodore Scullion was absorbed by his unsullied temptation, growling uninterrupted by sentiment or guilt, he thought of his desire instead.
He would unlock the secret realms of gold, gold and diamond gemstone, piles of crisp one hundred dollar bills stacked in perfect union and quiet whispering arrangements of fortune.
Theodore looked at the enormous wall safe and dreamed of divine pastures. He had scored small before now but this deal would suit him for life, hookers, hooch, and a flurry of Cadillac limousines; Theodore’s mouth watered for fresh truffles and filet mignon. In wicked compulsion he touched the door handle of the walk in safe. It was a cool platinum gloss. The suggestion of incandescent brilliance contrived the action. Theodore ventured a forceful yank at the safe door.
He had gotten the job as a security guard on a whim and a prayer for futures unbidden. Leo dens worth was a billionaire and an adventurer, Theodore knew he wouldn’t be back for months. He planned his attack and here he was pulling open the safe door just as easy as pie.
The whoosh of the door heightened his schoolboy desire at the simplest level; he stood back in shock as the door swung open. A deluge of ice and snow poured out onto the polished marble floor. Theodore’s shoes crunched and slipped against the white powdery snow. The cool air frosted the tip of his nose in a biting exclamation of the impossible. He stumbled over his ambition as he stared at the revelation the premium in ice and rare encounter. An array of masks hung on the cold metal walls of the safe and the cloying perfume of a ripe melon drifted out into the room. Apprehensively he covered his ears as an uproar of fire and brimstone ministry filled the air, inarticulate except for the persuasive warning, “……..out and out, the sleep of unwrought consolation beholden unto yer soul, beholden unto yer soul………” Theodore caught the door handle and sealed the safe with a frigid whoosh of relief.
His fantastic ambition unraveled as he wandered into the living room and collapsed into the comfort of an easy chair the gateway to hell sealed for now. He sniffed the air for a moment and the veil of reality lifted. The sun shown double and the moon cried blood over the frosted landscape. In an instant of understanding he knew the penance, the cost of his trespass, hell he thought, “Who would’ve figured, who would have figured?” In a flash he was frozen to the core and shorn from the world only to be absorbed by the darkest realms of desolation and sorrow.
The safe remained closed and Leo Den’s secret was safe for a while and in quiet silence the gate anticipated the arrival of another, bidden by the promise of easy lies and wonted passionate sin.
Theodore begged hell to advance the sin of life but the plea went unanswered as the flames of perdition melted the ice and seared him to the center of agonies unbidden.

Primitive Appeal

Ron Koppelberger

Primitive Appeal

The asphalt was hot against his hands, hot, aching, searing. When he pulled his hands away a chorus of befuddling, repentant exclamations poured from his grimacing lips, “ Oh Jesus, Jesus God!!” he gasped. The palms of his hands were inflamed and the skin near the tips of his fingers was burned. “ Jesus God almighty!!!” he whispered as he gently brushed the loose bits of gravel away.
The salesclerk had said the shoes were a perfect primitive temptation.
“ Tha ladies love the primitive look.” she had exclaimed. “ oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhoooooo, haw nice. He looked down at his burned hands and the crazy stitch of the leather and fur; He dreamed in that moment, he saw lions and tigers on the hunt and in quandary with the suns heat and the morning chill. He saw horseflies as big as quarters and dime sized mosquitoes. “ Ahhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaaaa.” he sighed at ease with the dream.
The fine spray of intimate incense blossomed before him like some grand unfurling cloak of sanctity. Rose blush and attar, perfumed in excellent attire, fine-spun gold hewn tundra’s and the love of nightfall baptisms, “ Wild man, wild,” he shook his head and the fog abated for a moment. “ Wild man, those are friggen wild.” The attractive teenage girl smiled slyly and winked. In that moment he forgot the trip to the hot asphalt and the badly fitting shoes became the temptation of primitive desire. He smiled back and said, “Thanks.”
Later that evening he would reflect on the primitive appeal of the shoes and the phone number of the young woman. Once again he thought of tigers, wolves and lions. “ Primitive appeal indeed.” he whispered in quiet reverie.

Live and let Live

Ron Koppelberger

Live and let live

The shrewd haul, the weatherproof asylum, the carefully exalted argument for universal gold. He saw evergreen nuance in the hundred dollar bill, it was perfection, a generous dollop of amazing art. He had spent a year perfecting the silver plates, a year of diligent dreaming in vagabond tatters. The counterfeit bill was perfect and the paper was in whitewashed unity with the fresh ink. From one dollar to a hundred. He had bleached five hundred one dollar bills and reprinted them with the silver plates.
He felt prosperous as he surveyed the clothesline full of money. “Ahhhhhhhaaaa!!!” the smell of drying ink, he sighed in quiet admiration. He inhaled the scent with profound measures of intoxicating glee. Benny Worthy was his partner in crime, he had supplied the ink and enough inspiration for both of them.
The oaken varnished veneer of the door rattled on its hinges. “Open up it’s Benny!” he went to the door and unlocked it, cautiously leaving the chained portion secure. Peeking into the hall he saw Bennies unmistakable figure impatiently shifting from one foot to the other. “Come on, open up!” he groaned. He opened the door to bennies betrayal and the end of their relationship. Benny pointed the 38 revolver in his direction. “Here…” he tossed a knapsack to the ink stained floor and said. “…put the plates and the money in the bag Hank!”
Hank filled the bag with the hundred dollar bills tossing in the silver plates last. “Thanks Hank…..” he chuckled. “Thanks Hank……for the memories.” he sang. Benny turned his back to Hank and walked toward the door. Hank had the semi auto 22 rifle in his hands a moment later. He aimed at the center of Bennies back and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, the gun had jammed. “Live and let live.” Benny chanted as he left the room. Hank sighed realizing he had no choice.
A single hundred dollar bill lay crumpled, unnoticed against the floorboard. Smiling he realized that would buy him an unsurpassable drunk.

The Natural World

Ron Koppelberger

The Natural World

The outrage of feeble dreams and ancient forerunners in portent, awe inspiring Slug Worthy thought. A magnificent, spontaneous style he thought; morose yet brilliantly perfect he considered. A concocted allegiance of puzzling stones and bone dust elementals in desire, he thought in deepening interest.
The photograph of Stonehenge lay before him in lurid gray granite and twilight horned moon backdrop. A portrait in the natural environs of an unabiding desire, a stolid proof one might touch, roughhewn in obelisk concentric, Stonehenge the purveyor of the impossible and all within the conveyance of a most natural conclusion. It was a mystery in the natural world, dark bidden horizons in time, in breaths of old taboo and modern dreams.
He considered one of the boulders laying atop the pillars. Slug saw himself in grandiose poise, perched atop, screaming to the heaven’s in wild rebuke to the natural world, to taxes, to bidden beasts of burden. He thought of screaming in revolt to the tall sky line edged in skyscraper stain and littered by the human debris of modern existence. He thought of screaming and a gulping gasp, a gorge of anger filled his throat.
“Stonehenge,” he said aloud “…come to me in stars and alliances of ancient wonder, vanguard of the shadows and asylum for the pilgrim….ohhhhhhhh Stonehenge!.” Slug caressed the glossy photograph and sighed. The natural world upset the ballest of dreams and dusty mists in legacy of what lay ahead, the myth of forever. “ Ohhhhhhh Stonehenge, “ he exclaimed in passion and tears, “…..what secret unbidden, what desire untold by the wishes of primitive wont and wild desire. Ohhhhhh great circle of gray and twilight, what compassion do you dare me, what compassion for the graces of my quest, my journey to the nights fray?” he questioned with flailing arms and tears, tears of need and lost lives in rendition of old times and the youth of a new world.
Slugs tears ran in rivers and eventually the picture became blurry and damp, paper and dimples of moisture. Slug somewhat overwhelmed by the illusion and his delirium passed out and slept for nearly two days. When he awoke he sighed deeply and thoughtfully; looking at the bottle of Irish whiskey he vowed the oath of reborn will. The picture of Stonehenge lay bare and stained, long forgotten in disregard to Slugs consciousness.
The desires of city streets and shopping malls called to him and somewhere, cuddled away, nuzzling his old desires, the warm cascade of whiskey tumblers and rhy thirsts awaited like a sleeping tiger.

The Reunion

　
　
　
　
　

Ron Koppelberger

The Reunion

Stone gabble was impatient in his concerns for the reunion, his snazzy labors of sealed admiration. He had fashioned a proof, a swift conspiracy of perfection, in fancy welcome ,in impressions of grandeur.
“Believe my success, believe my success, my patient pinnacle dear cousin, dearest wayward priest.” he whispered quietly to himself as much as the expectation of his cousins arrival. He went on “ Believe my success.” to the Rembrandt and Persian tapestries adorning his walls, “ Believe in my judgment, my tempered fortune, my good luck, my riches and my poise, believe.” he repeated.
Liberty Demitasse was his fifth cousin removed. His crest and admitted notable, his wealth rumored to be the birth of a grand ascendancy. Stone was determined to impress his cousin and the prospect of the reunion was an obsession. The wherefores of Liberty he thought. His kinship to liberty was unfettered by the usual bother of brothers in success; Stone, starry with flowing desires of pride, with esteem for what might be the advent of portfolios and profit, lordship and furrowed business squawk, waited in suffering patience for the outline of futures in fast track; a mantle in union he thought, in cologne, in tonic, in wishes deepest desire, the union of what will be a privilege unshaken.
Stone paused for a breath as the front door rattled in its frame. In custom he straightened his lapel and primed the escapade a la Stone. The door opened in revelation and utter disappointment. A beggar in burlap, a slave in sweaty rags and torn remains; he held his hand toward Stone in greeting.
“ Filthy tramp, sour lunatic dog, begone!” he exclaimed as he heaved the heavy oaken door shut with a solid rebuke. The beggar considered the lineage of stews and solitary wisdom, the turn in curves of fate. Liberty gave agreement, the lace and surrender of freedom, in oasis’s of prominent station and gilded excesses. The necessary salves of wounded burden and direct conviction were the evidence of ancient paths. In his triumph unto the grand brilliance of freedom Liberty Demitasse had arrived and his arrival was an acceptance of freedom, true freedom.