Frank appeared to be a recovering alcoholic of average intelligence.
Franko Italiano (what a stallion!) from San Francisco was a wino. He was a recovering alcoholic of average intelligence. His lady friend, Mary-ohh! from Chicago, was the captain leader of the jet fighter squad. Even though Franko had his personal defeats, she let him fly lead jet in the squadron because he was the best in bed of all the pilots she ever knew.
He brought his whole family to the retreat for the long weekend.
Alfred was a quiet man. He had many interests but few passions, and he kept those to himself. He had an old mechanics shack down by the quarry where he cultivated his most private dream. He would be the new God; he would make an entirely new creature to walk the earth.
After weeks of work he merged chemistry, biology and metallurgics into his new creation, whom he named Estella. She didn’t look particularly feminine, but he thought of her that way. It turned out that she had a very unladylike appetite. He hadn’t figured on that. He kept her chained up in the shed and brought her stray cats and dogs to eat and then graduated to feeding her goats. It was getting very tiresome and he wondered if the real God had as much trouble with its creations. He had read all those stories about God wiping out whole batches because they weren’t quite right.
One day he brought his whole family to the retreat for the long weekend. He had always told them he was going down to his retreat every Friday night, so they were very interested in seeing his special place. This was the easiest meal he had ever found for Estella, but he only had one family, and now they were gone. The chain wasn’t going to hold her much longer. Pretty soon people would notice their livestock missing. Sadly, like a real God, he would have to take this one down.
He took one last photo with her, holding her elbow. He was so proud of those elbows. But before he could begin the job of dismantling her, she grabbed him by the neck and ate him. Then she broke the chain and strode out of the shack, looking for more food.
The six levels of the Bardo have been characterized as stages or types of consciousness.
The six levels of the Bardo have been characterized as stages or types of consciousness. Did it pertain to life or after death experiences? They studied the ancient scripture for months until they had obtained the research grant to visit Buddhist monasteries in Nepal, Sikkim and Tibet. They had to have shots and vaccinations, then apply for visas and papers from each Temple they would visit. What an ordeal!
During their intellectual pursuit they had decided to stay together and get married in Italy. They postponed the marriage until they were on their way to Nepal. They were met by European relatives and friends and were made welcome. Now they could experience the Bardo together in a lifetime - well, after death, too, but they would cross the Styx when they came to it.
After a brief honeymoon in Europe and the Far East, they died in a plane crash over the Himalayas. Now they could explore the Bardos after death. At least they could continue the research together. It was a perfect situation and a marriage that truly was forever.
Jack wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up at the burning sun
Jack wasn’t exactly an adventuresome type, but there was once place in the world he had always wanted to go—don’t ask me why, because it seems the last place I would go—and we always went on trips together. I don’t know, I guess it’s because I don’t have a lot of regular friends, down under here (the Missus not counting, naturally). But, on the other hand, there’s not much to do for excitement either, except shooting crocks and dingoes. Drinking with the mates at the bar isn’t all that much, either, although when the dust blows in it does keep you in there, downing ‘em. So, I goes along with him.
Jack, as I said, is one of the regular types, very dependable. I don’t know why he had to go and get himself bummed up the way he did. No, it wasn’t crocks, because there ain’t any in Vietnam. There’s a lot of snakes, all right, but no crocks. That ain’t what got ‘em. You could say he died of love. Yes, she was pretty, I’ll give you that, but for God’s sake, living in that wet place, as he was contemplating—well, that was beyond the pale for any good Aussie.
Anyway, we takes off in her skiff, with her rowing, all happy like you would expect, on the way to see her father. It happened to be hot this day and it was a long ways to where she was going. You see, we had met her in the city and she lived in the jungle. I didn’t want to go, but Jack insisted. We was half way there, I reckon, when this bug bit him. I know because he slapped himself and swore, and then collapsed in the bottom of the boat. But this girl kept on rowing and smiling, like nothing had happened. Probably happens all the time to them, but they are immune. Why it wasn’t me I can’t tell you—just got a strong constitution, I reckon.
Anyway, Jack just lay there, not doing much. Me? What was I to do? Don’t know nothing about that sort of thing. Jack wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up at the burning sun. “Bury me out back on that hill,” he said to me, being melodramatic, as he is. “Where I can get a real good view,” he added. Then he closed his eyes and that was that.
Well, I did just what good old Jack asked. Put him under a tree for some shade, up on that hill. I didn’t know what to do with the missus, though. Oh, didn’t I say? Her father insisted that she come along. Seems that simply getting into the boat with her and consenting to marry her was enough. Me, I think the parents was very eager to see her off. Now, Jane, as Jack called her, spends most of her time down with the chickens. Sounds like they’re having a great time. Anyway, she’s still wearing the same smile, every time I come by. Damn, those Vietnamese love to smile!