Greetings from the Front Zetta Lover,

                                                                                                                FEB2006
As you have become accustom to the infrequency of these communiqué’s, one must ask oneself as to the ...DANG!!! I so dislike it when those blasted back
country lizards dive bomb me and then just crack me with their tails and laugh amongst themselves Not that I don't believe they have every right, but that tilt of the head and slowly winking at me afterwards is what gets my hair standing in a quiet escalating rage. Damn those lizards and their back country ways. I tell you if I wasn't such a distinguished officer sworn to uphold all that we hold dear up here at the front, I'd, man just once I like to just call a lizard a lizard, you know!
Anyway, as I was saying, I was commanded...Jeez...you know lizards and I go way back. Back before you couldn't refer to those slimy, umm, uh Lee Zards as lizards. Sorry, got off track again, but I remember most definitely as your sister and her soul singing parrot she brought back from St. Lucia back in 1952 used to sit around on Thursday nights slinging back the ole stink with the whole crew from under the boardwalk back there off highway A1A listening to the surf and the snap/pop of the fire and not one of those back country jim artists to be seen for miles. That would really tick them off and they would shake, crack their tails and think of ways to exact revenge. Man, those memories are fresh whenever one of those decadent little slant eyed...you know they used to spit in my coffee right in front of me?
Anyway, I hear tell they took to gambling pretty heavy having a load of losses to flash around and now have to deal with some angry hell-bent devil dogs on a daily basis which kinda makes you feel a little... aw jeez, what the fuck am I rambling on and on about? Those little sham shysters have a trick snack way of infiltrating the ole grey matter and setting up squatters rights damning the torpedoes straight to your helpless numbed screaming floundering aimless soul there, moonbeam, …check please Doctor.

Well, I have to go fill up the injection bible chapter 11, verse 21! I was commanded to… pass along these …to you. Oh nice, I now can’t even find them. I seriously hope I didn’t throw them out like I did the tank last week. Man, try explaining accidentally, unknowingly throwing out a TANK! I swear it’s those pounders inside those…those… I’ll keep looking and pass them along at a much later date. Yours in the Darkening Mist & Bamboo Affair

Basil Fassad
Fifth in Command


P. S You know there sunshine if you are caught, this will self destruct in less than.....poof...poof…………psssssss..POOF!

Greetings from the Front Lizard Baiter,

JULY2005

This communiqué finds me under heavy fire wishing for some Hare Krishna’s with bullhorns on high shouting peace at the brain of the world, and incense. More on the matter at hand though. My question to you is, would you go in the bathroom and converse if there is a genuine moron in the stall next to you crying for Jesus and reciting the names of all the most devastating bomb attacks east of the Mason-Dixon Line south of the 33rd parallel from the mid-1860’s to the present? The only reason I ask is this happened to me recently and the poor fellow thought I was being rude for making a quick exit. He found me later sitting at my table dining in between the dogs, lizards and chickens just trying to peel some meat away from the bone and keep my bread close when this mad savant approaches blathering about me not showing any respect for not engaging him in conversation about bomb blasts and Jesus. “You’re going to Hell!” sez this mumbling madcap at which all the dogs started to growl and show some teeth. “Don’t you realize the Cuban Missile Crisis wasn’t actually a crisis in the real sense of the word? Kennedy and Khrushchev to keep that guerrilla Castro and his like poor, hungry and under their thumb drew it all up. They were all pissed about all the casinos and nightclubs being smashed up and closed down. Even Khrushchev called him an unshaven stupid jungle commie. Everyone knows it was Che Guevara who was the true revolutionary and Castro sentences him to Bolivia. Those weren’t even nukes under those tarps heading for Cuba back then, they were hundreds of Scandinavian socialites who Castro seemed to have a hankering for. Therefore, the theory just doesn’t pan out. They already had all those history books printed and the publisher wouldn’t give a refund, so they just let that story go out and stand. I’m telling you these poor excuses for bombs they kept dropping all over this sacred soil that was blessed by the Pope through his web site has me itching to go rough somebody up,” he rambled. “What the fuck are all these goddamn lizards everywhere!? What goddamn good are they anyway? I can see the chickens being here ‘cause hell, they’re food and they give you eggs, and the dogs eat the food you don’t want. However, the damn lizards! What do the goddamn lizards do for you? He started moving his tongue in and out of his mouth in a hysterical movement that I began to chuckle at. Just then, we took some incoming startling the chickens that haven’t given eggs since but didn’t seem to bother the dogs any who jumped at my plate and divided my meal amongst them. One of these bombs exploded right in front of this poor fool who got blown to Montserrat in the Lesser Antilles landing on his back with a lizard falling out of the sky right smack dab on this blithering idiots head. Odd too, it wasn’t the bomb blast hurling him skyward that killed him, it wasn’t even the fall and landing with a crumpled thump. It was when that lizard came hurtling out of the sky dive-bombing onto that heretics head that did him in. The lizard just rolled off slithering his tongue in/out sashaying on its way like nothing happened and it had been living there all its life and was glad to be home. Anyway, do you think I was rude for not talking to him when he was ranting in the stall? Now there’s more incoming and the chickens are clinging to my legs so I had better take some cover. Fax me the invitation and I will pass it along to Willy over at the Dew Drop Inn when he comes back with the next shipment of weasels and nut pickers. Keep those coupons coming. We should be out of here, what of us aren’t killed by then, by 2024. I’m going to need a warm bath.
Yours in Bamboo and chickens.
Fifth in Command, Basil Fassad

take me home to beznes

weird magoo and tally too went looking for

the farm. when just then a pig happened by

wanting to buy ole tally's arm. if i do that

explained tally, i will melt like cheese;

be served up in the middle of the road like

some forgotten slut, now please. suit

yourself the pig replied, then swaggered on

his way. turned and hollered over that curled

up tail, you know i'll be back one day. mark

my words you little brain, you will sell me

your arm, as sure as you're standing knee

deep in mud out here on this farm. then the

pig crested the hill, snorted and vanished

from sight. leaving weird magoo and tally

spoiling for a fight. let's go get that

little sucker, poke him good and roast him

'til he's done. naw tally, let's just rip

open his belly and leave him to rot in the

sun.

now while all this was taking place miss

pearl had them both in her sight, squeezed

the trigger and blew them away claiming it

served them right. some hair floated down, a

boot fell here, tally's arm hit the pig in

the head. 'what the hell' the pig exclaimed

as he snorted and fell over dead. when just from

the opposite direction a bullet caught miss

pearl by surprise. making her squeal and

holler, nailing her smack between the eyes.

'stay off my farm' the small boy screamed to a

bunch of dead. tell all your friends if they

come here, they can speak with mister lead.

he laid down his rifle, picked an apple and

started to chew. a bolt of lightning erupted

from the sky, struck the boy and split him in

two.

now the moral of the story, the lesson i can

tell, is don't throw all your love and money

down the wishing well. don't be so quick to

turn down a pig when he is so serious. stay

out of the sight of anybody who believes you

are delirious.

thanks for the time

(now i want the money)

yours in the wall,

weird magoo magaw's pa

number dream seven

...so he gets up checking his watch, asking Rubin “where are the buffalo Rubin? aren’t they late for their appointment.”

through the swinging gates a gypsy comes. fortunes, fortunes, your fortune today? Rubin wants to know where the buffalo are.

gypsy looks toward the sky and flashes Rubin one of those what buffalo looks. poor Rubin.

secretary with the horned rims cracks her gum and answers the ringing telephone as she tosses some silver gypsy’s way. “i know where the buffalo are” says horned rims, “want to talk to them Rubin? they’re on the phone.”

“ask them where they are!” cries Rubin, trying to satisfy his brain.

“they say they will be here shortly, one just got hit by a train!” answers horned rims smiling, looking lost in her own space. (crack)

“jeez, come on Rubin!” he says, studying his watch.

i interrupt “excuse me, if maybe i could use the buffalo’s time, they can use mine when they get here.”

Rubin, the gypsy and horned rims all turn looking at me. gypsy’s cymbals and bells slowly begin to fill the silent void. up through the stairwell flies a large crow, fluttering around horned rims never ending stack of red hair. Rubin leaps over trying desperately to shoo the bird back down the stairwell. gypsy starts laughing this ungodly laugh that howls, and begins twirling, cymbals clanking away.

by now i have to get their attention again. “excuse me, Rubin. you think the timepiece would give me an audience for just a few minutes?”

“where you from?’ Rubin inquires, “you know the buffaloes?’

gypsy’s howl has continuously grown louder. now she is spinning faster than the birds wings are flapping. the watch throws his hands in the air and points toward the door, looking at me. i get up glancing at Rubin. horned rims spills some words between cracks like, don’t use the ash trays until after noon. the buffaloes hate ashes. crack. the watch follows me inside. right away he is talking faster than a twirling gypsy. grudgingly i realize all his questions are meant for the buffaloes.

“excuse me please, watch,” i break in, “buffaloes couldn’t make it. i am here to present myself for the position you had advertised in the kansas city star.”

through the door gypsy flows, howling, twirling, bells, cymbals, fortunes and all her hair black as flying coal, and just as shiny. Rubin is at her heels. the crow races in for the ceiling trying to bang its way through a window up in a dusty corner surrounded by spider’s webs. spiders commence dropping like unwanted rain. watch is uncontrollably asking questions at the top of his voice, horned rims runs in with her pencil and pad struggling to take down every word.

that’s when i felt it. the walls i mean. the floor, desks nervously rumbling. shaking. moving. chairs growing faster with each word, pushing everyone but bird against the back wall. not wasting any time, i quickly run out through the door, pick up my hat and head for the stairwell. step, step, step. the rumbling turns to a violent roar. steps feel like water as they stretch away from the walls. i try grabbing for the handrail; it bends in my hand feeling of hot soft saltwater taffy. just outside the gates i see gypsy dancing; and the buffalo stampede the stairwell. i can hear Rubin hollering, “the buffalo are here!”

me and the gypsy disappear.

Greetings from the Front Twisted Skirt Fire,

February 2005

i know you caught that one in the glow of yonder moon last tuesday there weasel cultivator. no matter how times that little nexus search peanut pusher jams his finger down his own throat to pummel glory and the tiger sisters to oblivion, he won't get my share of the peace puzzle or the combination to the historic dwarf sights and counting whiskey resolve for mind numbing mornings that end at 5 o' DUCK.

no, i am not going to be articulated into the corner of their web with my juices sucked just for the sheer ability to immobilize any prey into a drooling stare like a school girl on her first date with a true lame idiot in a dizzy pair of pants and short on wallet. no, not even those shadow dwellers you so richly remember from the last communique can exist in the fringes of the campaign. if the uppers ever realize that it is they who have lost the whole freaking mission on bad tips and shaky interconnects, the last thing anyone will want to slack is their own eyelids there weasel hoarder. in them we trust? well, they lied.

remember, if you don't play the tune you were told to practice those many years ago under the BIG bow, you will forever bleed from the constant friction of the perfect song.

after they plastered the whole tribe with lizards and breadfruit knowledge enough to fit in between all the wrong treaties that scattered the mighty nation to smithereens, then and only then did they bomb the closest lackey that was helpless to figure out what happened until he was the last one standing, then he fell.

anyway, i was ordered to pass this picture of the suspect along, so your ragtag group of pistoleros could finally get some necessary coveted sleep; and look for the elusiveness of love, not war?

back to the misty fog of war by the misleader of justice gone terribly backward into bamboo of boo. who sees?

twist a joke, choke the smoke. hang up if there is no dial tone...

Fifth in Command,

Basil Fassad

Greetings from the Front Terp Few Donella,

May 2004

That's weasel speak which you should understand, weasel lover. I saw your favorite gas bubble hanging around the touch and go, just basically being a giant pest and drinking too much dirty water, which everybody knows isn't too smart of a trick when you are thin as a broken weeping willow tree branch and calling for a mercy shunt to take you to the promised land, there weasel lover. Don't think me and my friends aren't savvy to your tricks. Me and the skeletons were dancing up a storm and rattling a few bones to ' rock the casbah' down Juarez way next to the juke joint along highway 41 by your best friends sisters phone booth heaven. Remember that story?

Well anyway, that's when your helicopter girls dropped in to pretty much steal everything they could grab that wasn't attached to someone or something, which means they grabbed my little monkey friend, Fredo. Fredo and I have been through a lot of mud and wine together and his daily shot of whiskey, toe and temple rub. I tell you he gets agitated if he gets knocked off his routine. I do not want you to be responsible for the loss of any monkey's juice, so my advice to you would be contact your helicopter friends and tell them just let Fredo go. He has a tendency to start gnawing on womens kneecaps when he's without for too long and really doesn't care who he offends or pisses on.

You could just stuff him in the nearest mailbox that you don't need a key to open. I know what you are thinking, but don't worry about Fredo, he won't suffocate; he's part Belgian waffle, so he has a little toaster stuffing in his genes. My advice is let Fredo free and your helicopter friends will have that small debt from 1972 erased from my memory, and I won't mention any of this to the command in control.

A word to the wise here, weasel lover, don't disappoint your next of kin who love you more than rags rubbing chicken breasts on a Mexican holiday for those hair challenged bobo's. Got it, get it!

Remember me to your cork sniffing friend, Humpo, and tell him I still have the greens from the Saleno's bakery counter that he passed on last Tuesday afternoon when it was raining horned frogs from hell and dolls, yeah dolls.

Love to all your plastic friends and barn mates,

Fifth in Command,

Basil Fassad