Archive for the ‘The Compound’ Category

Rage of the Screaming Fire Demon

May 14, 2012

fire demon

I may have mentioned this before but the lands just Northwest of the Compound’s borders are rumored to contain an ancient Native American burial ground. It just so happens that that is the same area of my land best suited to what we sometimes call the Bad Craziness Bonfire.

If you hike out northwards from the Compound and slowly head west before you reach the edges of Bear Brook State Park, you can climb a small ridge that, when you crest it, reveals what looks like a crater in the side of the hills where, some tell me, a meteorite smacked into the rocky New Hampshire soil one All Hallows Eve in the early twenties. Killed about 17 nudists and left one hell of a snazzy impression in the rolling landscape that I, for one, am happy to take advantage of. The upper eastern rim is a great spot to chill out and look out over the ponds and the river to the sun setting over the distant hills of Dunbarton and Weare. Nice spot to relax and burn shit.

With that in mind, while I’m landscaping a proper woodland hangout up there, I like to pile up all the old brush and deadwood I can into a big mound and, when it’s big enough, invite a handful of the local ne’er do wells and light the fucker. It’s a BYOB event and, if you know the right people, you can get past security and guarantee yourself one hell of a night. Put it this way, you’ll see the sunset and the following dawn and, in between, the sort of blazing party that would terrorize the fuck out of anyone present during the fall of Saigon.

The main concern is, of course, accelerant. 5 gallons of gasoline, all the used motor oil we can get our hands on form the local farms, that half-can of gunpowder from the 4th and a backpack full of defective fireworks bought cheap. Propane torches, lighter fluid, 4 months worth of the Times and Globe and an issue or two of Barely Legal. Seven finely dried Christmas trees, a seven foot stack of old pallets and that case of Duraflame logs that fell off that truck in Londonderry two weeks ago.

To start.

Pile it high. Light the damn thing. Back. The. Fuck. Up.

It’s a good time, I think. Never heard anyone really complain. Even Dabney Chigger, a Pharmacist fired from over seventeen CVS and Walgreens’ in four states, who was almost wrestled into the coals by Chad Greenlough’s epileptic Russian bride that night in ’09 when we had that pipe bomb making contest. Bernie Dillinger once burned all the hair off his own genitals with a hairspray flamethrower and he was still laughing about it three days later in the infirmary.

Not much holds a candle to what happened Saturday night however. Maybe it was Sketch Lowrie’s moonshine or maybe it was the presence of Pete Nickelsson, last living descendant of a supposedly cursed Maine logging family, on the grounds. Maybe it was the fresh blood we spilled when Cal Deeter said “fuck it” and had his brother Ernesto do an impromptu wisdom tooth extraction on scene with nothing more than a six inch multi-tool and a butter knife. I don’t know for sure. All I know is things got weird fast.

The fire went up with the kind of whooshing roar you’d more expect at a Shuttle launch and the damned flame was forty feet high before the glass from the molotov cocktail even settled in the kindling. Six or eight of us lost eyebrows right off the bat and Linda Deuterrie went spinning down the embankment slapping at her North Face like it was riddled with bees. Glen Johnson was screaming but it’s possible he’d been doing that for hours, I don’t know. Never really got over the lukewarm reception to Ovations, I don’t think.

Then we saw it. Stig Marmoset’s face was scarlet and stretched out in horror as his arms flailed and waived and I looked up above the fire and saw it, a raging, screaming demon of pure flame come to burn us all in terrible judgement. A wave of air pressure like a giant slamming you backwards and the sound of a thousand screaming guitars on feedback and we all fell to the ground, dead eyes raised to the towering flames like the mortal doomed that we truly are.

And then it was gone.

After a good twenty minutes of wordless quiet and only the steadily softening crackle of the fire as it died down to less apocalyptic levels, I suggested we maybe move up the start of the after party and drinks were on me down at Pasties. Most folks agreed, nodding their still smoldering heads slowly. We’d just got Last Call From The Seventh Circle and we knew it.

Anyway. Checked back in at the spot this morning and it was no worse for wear. Spotted a couple aging, dried out pines that need to be put to rest. Think I know just where to drop them. Start building a new brush pile.

I’ll let you know when it’s ready.


Hunted By Freaks

April 2, 2009

Something or someone is after me. I don’t know who, I don’t know why, but I know they’re out there in the darkness, just beyond the range of my vision. Waiting.

I hear the scratchings late at night when I can’t sleep, like the sound of a trapped cat pawing at a closed door, trying to get out. When I do sleep, I awake suddenly with that certain dread that someone was just in my room, standing there watching me while I’m unconscious. There are foreign smells in The Compound, weird odors that don’t belong and I’m not just talking about that half-eaten italian sub I left under the pool table in the east wing basement.

The other night I stood naked in the rain at the edge of the woods behind the property with a flare gun and some hedge clippers from 2 a.m. until dawn waiting for something to show itself. Whatever it was stayed just out of sight at the edge of the brush. I heard breathing. I saw the glint of yellow eyes. There were even some amorphous footprints in the mud that I could not identify the next morning but no measure of screaming taunts would draw it out.

I’ve got a connection in black market military surplus who says he can get me some old Vietnamese ordinance that might still be in working order so I’m going to rig the property up right; land mines, trip wires, motion sensitive search lights, deadfalls and covered pits full of sharpened sticks.

Unfortunatley The Valkyries, my all female militia security force, have left me. When I began to suspect one of their member of being compromised and made my suspicions known, they stormed out in protest. They know as well as I do that anyone can be gotten to, though. Anyone can turn when the right situation presents itself. All people have weaknesses, even six foot tall, gun-toting, leggy blonde guerilla warriors.

Even Dave The Bodyguard is unavailable right now after breaking both his ankles in an ill-considered, ill-practiced performance with Cirque Du Soleil last week. It was all for charity, so what can I say, but dammit, Dave, you should know that 300 pound guys are just not built for the aerial cradle.

My phone calls to Darkfaulker have been met with naught but a recorded greeting from Fong Qui Fang saying, “I’m sorry but Doctor Darkfaulker is interdimensionally unavailable right now. Please leave a message or a psychic emanation and he will get back to you.”

In contrast, I’ve been reluctant to call Gonz O’Lager for help because there remains a fifty-fifty chance in my mind that he could be the one responsible for this and I don’t want to play right into his diabolical hands.

So I’m all alone.

And someone or something is hunting me. I’m trying to get ready but it’s not easy without any knowledge of my foes and, as time goes on, I start to lose my edge. Lack of sleep and an overuse of various stimulants are taking their toll on my mind and body. But I need to remain vigilant. I have no idea when the attack might come or what form it will take.

I’ll do what I can but even I have my limits. All the homemade explosives and fireplace tools in the world might not protect me if things go really pear-shaped here. Luckily, if it comes to abandoning my post, I know the woodlands around here like the back of my hairly toes and it wouldn’t be the first time I had to go John Rambo out there.

So what I’m saying is this, motherfuckers.

Bring it.

Christmas at the Compound

December 24, 2008

Well, ’tis the day before the day, here, and preparations are well under way for the Making of Some Serious Merriment. I’ve decided this year, in lieu of the usual KSWNO Christmas Party, which is always fun, admittedly, to host a more traditional, rural gathering here at my snowed-in Northeast Compound.

Meaning, it’s cheaper and I don’t have to drive anywhere.

So me and the Valkyries have been cooking since yesterday morning to get ready to host tonight’s festivities. Mostly, it’s Italian food, the traditional fare for a Socrates family Christmas Eve (which, considering my French, Irish, Scots, German mongerel ancestry, makes perfect sense). Chicken Parm, Stuffed Shells, Lasagna, Meatballs, Sausages, Pasta and Garlic Bread. Tons of hors d’oeurves, shrimp, calzones, pepperoni and pepper jack cheese. Deserts piled high, cookies, candies, cakes and “special brownies“.

Maybe a cheerful beverage or two, who knows.

Everyone is invited, of course. Some have already arrived and have been here for days enjoying the snowy country ambiance and the free drinks. Ozzy McGurt showed up last friday and, thanks to his presence alone, the local food delivery service guy, Tim Brainbooth, has made enough money in tips alone to finally buy all new amps for his death-metal band, Sludge Parade. I’m going to need some sort of crime scene clean-up specialists to clean out the room he’s sleeping in.

Gonz O’Lager and his “friends” have been sleeping out in Garage #4 for two weeks, which is no surprise. I shouldn’t even mention that in case any federal authorities might be reading this. After the plane he was on had to make that emergency landing in Buffalo when the Pilot was alerted to the fact that a good two thirds of the passengers were naked and frolicking in the aisles, many of them screaming incoherently. God himself only knows what he slipped into the complimentary coffee they served.

Chippy McGuinness, in Boston for the last little bit covering the resurgent, magnificent Bruins, is due to head up here today. I’m not sure if she’ll be bringing the four or five B’s rookies that she’s been entertaining in her hotel room nights. No one gives a 22 year-old hockey player more Life Lessons than Chippy. And you guys thought a body check from Dion Phaneuf left you bruised and sore…

I’m still trying to reach Joe Hawaii & Gaylord “Ra” Fondue but they’re not answering their phone. I hope they won’t use the weather as an excuse again. These warm climate guys think anything north of the Carolina’s is pure Arctic Tundra. C’mon guys. you don’t want to miss out on this year’s Yankee Swap. I bought all my stuff at an Adult Novelty Store this year.

Darkfaulker will arrive after Midnight, as usual, slipping in through some crack in the nether realms. I’m told he doesn’t celebrate Christmas as we do but that, after a long, drawn out battle with some rampaging Frost Giants in Luxembourg, he might need a little break to relax. He does like to leave some very interesting things in our stockings before he slips out just prior to dawn. The talisman he gave me last year worked wonders on that nagging lower back problem I had.

I guess Dave The Bodyguard won’t make it thanks to those half dozen broken ribs. And the strained biceps, cracked vertebrae, dislocated shoulder, windburn and frostbite he suffered on his fingers, toes, nose, ears and eyelids during that recent snowstorm at his house. Also, apparently, he has family over there for Christmas Eve , too. Whatever.

Most of the rest of the usual cast of irregulars should be on hand, though. Gorman Moloko will be here late tonight, driving up after hosting some sort of corporate holiday wine-tasting event at The Four Seasons. What fun, Gorm. Melma Frankengibson is coming down from Quebec City where she was investigating that Celine Dion Pact With Satan thing. Pimplton will show up in a limo, I’m sure, so drunk on Chivas we’ll need to wheel him on on a dolly. Shalla, the Edgy Intern is riding up with Stig Marmoset, if he can get a jump start for his El Camino. Just watch his hands at all times, Shalla. Willie T. Sherman, I’m told, just got his pardon from W. for those obscenity charges so theres a chance he might show. Dwight Cooter won’t, thanks to that all night, all you can eat buffet at the Corn & Chicken Hole.

Hopefully, there will be other friends and borderline enemies dropping in for a pop and a laugh. Crispin Glover, George “The Animal” Steele, Wanko The Pornographic Contortionist, Mike Eruzione, Dave Sim, Michio Kaku, The Stedgie Brothers, Grandma “The Blizzard” Cakestandish, Ivan and Kelly from the Rosebuds (who will be performing in Cambridge, MA at the Middle East on January 17th. Hope to see you there). Maybe a Baldwin brother or two will stop in, so there’s a good chance to see a fight, if you like that sort of thing. I think Melma will be channeling Carl Sagan to say a few words at some point, so you won’t want to miss that.

All in all, it promises to be a wonderful evening here. Friends, family, celebration and madness of many sorts. It’s an open house policy for the night and all are welcome, which is unusual for the Compound, so if you’re curious about what lurks behind the electrified fences, sandbags and watch-dogs, this is your chance to see.

Come on over, folks.

And, hey.

Merry Fuckin’ Christmas!


November 24, 2008

When you see the words “joint” and “compound” in association with me, admit it, the first thing you think of is Reggae Night at the Bunker.  And it’s true, the Party Wing, as we call the southwest section of the Compound, which features three bars, a heated indoor pool with jacuzzi, a mini-soundstage and dance floor, full home theatre and various comfortable “conversation” suites, has seen it’s share of smoke filled, bass and drum thumping, dreadlocked free-for-alls but, in this case, it’s not what I’m referring to.

No, this is that other sort of plastering I’m talking about.  As you might know, The Compound is always in a state of ongoing renovation.  It’s never quite reached a state of construction that I’m completely satisfied with so I tinker and adjust and add and remove all the time.   Recent example, the combat cage I assembled in the basement in what is now the Thunderdome Room, which those of you who attended that post-apocalyptic, post-punk theme party in August are probably still having nightmares about.

What you might not be aware of, however, is how much of this work I do myself.   Yeah, it’s not easy, I know, considering the near limitless demands on my time as writer, editor and manager of one of the world’s most powerful, influential news organizations, but there are times when a man just has to get in there and get hands on with his shit.  So yesterday, before I ever sat down to compose a single line of text, ol’ Ken had the putty knives, the drywall saws, the joint compound and plaster and all necessary implements out and was bearing down on a remodel of one of the common dining rooms here.

What it will be when I’ve finished, who knows.  Not a dining room, that’s for sure.  Possibly a room full of shelves for the various collectables I’ve accumulated in my years of world travel.  Gorman Moloko tells me that, if it looks good, I can put his entire action figure collection on display.  Fuckin’ fabulous, Gorm.

Anyway, it’s not that I don’t trust contractors to do the work.  Sure, they’re overpriced, lazy, most of them are addicted to prescription pain-killers and would otherwise be hopeless indigents if they didn’t know how to pound a nail, but they’re essentially good guys.  No, it’s just a matter of pure Ken Socrates pride.  The feeling of doing the job yourself and getting it done right is almost as good as publishing the latest scathing expose on another Republucan internet porn scandal.

It was about 11 pm last night, then, that my helper and I finally finished grinding out our workday and only then, after most of the dried spackling was washed off, was I finally free to sit down and put pen to paper. 

And you wonder why I’m essentially a hunchbacked, worn down, pain wracked nub of a human being these days.