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American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
01-01-2015
Modern Tragedy, or Parodies of Ourselves by Robert Castle
01-11-2014
Totally Enchanté, Dahling by Thor Garcia
01-04-2014
Hastini by Rudy Ravindra
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 5 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
01-01-2014
Unexpected Pastures by Kim Farleigh
10-01-2013
Nonviolence by Jim Courter
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 4 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
07-01-2013
The Poet Laureate of Greenville by Al Po
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part VI by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 3 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
04-01-2013
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
01-01-2013
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
10-01-2012
DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
01-07-2012
Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
01-04-2012
Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
Patience by Ward Webb
The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
01-01-2012
Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
01-10-2011
When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
01-07-2011
The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
01-04-2011
Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
Someday Man by John Grochalski
01-01-2011
I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
10-01-2010
Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
07-01-2010
Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
04-01-2010
Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
Invisible by Anjoli Roy
One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
Storyteller by Alan McCormick
01-01-2010
Idolatry by Robert Smith
P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
They Do! by Al Po
Full TEX Archive
Side Photo for The Big Stupid Review

Two Pauls

By Warren Buckles

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The first Paul said he found the Bible in the Taos dump — no covers, Second Chronicles incomplete, some family data filled in. He showed up one night during a snowstorm and asked me for a ride. I talked him into staying the night, but that was all I could do.

It was an early snowstorm, water from the Gulf of Mexico driven into the Rockies, chilled to fat, heavy flakes that settled on my roof. I could hear the old beams groaning as the snow deepened, and I had begun to wonder if the whole place would collapse when Paulís knock rattled the door. It wasnít much of a door, just a few boards nailed together and hung on strap hinges.

He knocked again, this time more gently, as if sharing my fears about the house. I stood and picked up the lamp, moving slowly to keep the flame steady. The sweet kerosene smelled of bus stations and sleepless night-long rides.

Snow came in when I opened the door, the flakes making red spots on the dirt floor. The doorway was empty, curtained by falling snow. I watched it, trying to follow single flakes to the ground. Giving up, I stepped back to close the door when a young man appeared. His features were smooth, unmarked by life, and his eyes were wide open and bright, lit by something that outshone my lamp.

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He began speaking quickly as we walked toward the wood stove, continuing as I stoked the fire and fiddled with the damper. He was Paul and needed to get to Lama and see Ram Dass. He didnít know the way but he was sure they would let him in, now that he could explain. The words were all there, in the Bible he found in the Taos dump. He promised to show me, too.

The fire was starting to warm the stove when he paused. The black iron clicked and snapped as it heated, marking time in random intervals undisciplined by pendulum or Geneva wheel.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Too late to drive eighty miles in a snowstorm," I answered.

He gave me a disappointed look.

"I canít drive my truck in this,"I told him, annoyed at having to justify myself, "and it wonít start in the cold unless I crank it by hand."

"Oh, I can do it for you," he replied, moving his hand in a circle to demonstrate his understanding, fingers poking through holes in his gloves to curl around an imaginary crank. He smiled at me, his hand spinning faster, the frayed yarn blurring into a circle. I thought of him trying to start my International, those fingers gripping the cold iron bar, the balky engine misfiring and breaking his wrist.

"Yeah, maybe you could help," I said, "but Iím still not driving you anywhere. Itís late and Iím going to sleep."

Disappointment erased his smile and I decided to meet him part way. "Iíll take you there in the morning. You sleep here and we can go when it gets light."

The dirt floor was dotted with muddy red spots where water and snow had fallen from his clothes. He carried a lumpy bag, once perhaps a feed sack, the outline of book covers showing through the rough brown cloth.

I sat by the stove and pulled my other chair close.

"Sit down while you make up your mind," I said.

He looked at the chair, tipping his head like a bird to study it from different angles. Finally he backed into it and sat primly with the bag on his lap.

"Would you drive me tonight if I show you what I found?" he asked.

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"You donít have to show me anything. I already said I will drive you." His smile started to return and I added, "But not tonight," speaking slowly and separating my words with long pauses. "Your Bible wonít plow the road and it wonít get my truck out of the ditch. Wait until tomorrow."

"Why should I show you if you wonít change your mind?" he asked, petulance creeping into his voice.

I had long been immune to mysteries or secret truths and didnít answer, but he took my silence as indecision and began to expand on his subject, opening his bag and pulling out the coverless Bible. The stove was warm. I began to drift off, caught myself and jerked my head up. He took this as a form of assent and plowed on.

I finally resorted to a primitive sophistry and told him it must be after midnight and already tomorrow. Since I had promised to drive him tomorrow, and tomorrow was today, I would drive him today. But first I had to rest. He could read his Bible while I rested.

I blew out the lamp and lay down on my bed, a few boards and a foam pad. Paul sat by the stove reading his found Bible. I had given him my only flashlight.

He was gone in the morning. He had left the Bible and my flashlight. The batteries were dead.

It was a blinding bright day, blue sky, white snow. I started the truck, cursing while I fed it ether and strained at the crank. I drove up the road, following his tracks from the door. They ended by the highway in a little stamped down circle where he had stood before someone picked him up.

His Bible is on the shelf opposite me, between Aristotle, Selected Works and VanWylen, Fundamentals of Thermodynamics. I have read it a few times, but I havenít yet found the part that explains everything.

Paul got to Lama. I heard the story a few months later, third or fourth hand. They put him up for a while. Maybe they heard his secret, although, without his Bible, it might have gotten scrambled. But he didnít stay there long. He walked out in the snow one night and didnít come back. They found him a few days later, after the coyotes had stripped his blameless face.

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