THE RAINBOW HORIZON: Imaginary Introduction – Two Minutes to Midnight
THE DISCREPUTABLY FETCHIN’ CHARMS OF GABRIELLO “BEAU HOOTER” SANCTO – A NOSE ONLY EBONY MAGAZINE LOVED, ABOVE A BODY DESIRING MERELY THE ONE NON-ARCANE FORM OF HUMAN REPRODUCTION:
“MY ENCHANTINGLY PRE-AQUILINE proboscis emanates from the central hill country of South Carolina. Which is deep-most emerald green, dankly lush, and rapturously beautiful in huggable feels. And it’s cleverly marked along windy roads with little white crosses. Along subhumanly narrow, shadowy twisting back roads, crosses that indicate 1,113 deathly auto wrecks.
“Isn’t that screamingly humorous? As you are already well aware, it’s heavy, humid and stifling there. Leastwise in mid-summertime. Makes you want to die on those gorgeous tinker-toy hills.
“An odd place to find either localistic Indians or Hispanics. Yet a few are still there, still…si, I know Eros if Eros. And my grandmother lives in an isolated, indisposed tiny coastal Spanish town laughingly called Iberia. A quaint cool blue-green back water eerily hidden under barrowing gray-white cloud sweeps. In a tragical series of dried-out mounds, dying rushes, and awesome lonesome blousy beaches. Sharp on the feet, with the brisk, goals-crying suctioning and stinking salt sea ocean.
After all, what is North Carolina, next to Puget Sound and Eternal Forest Fires?
“It’s God in paradise as usual. Clear, fetid, misty and terrible. Especially in early spring. It smells. Reeks of tourists, acid rain, messed up silent living.
“That’s why I reside, currently, in the Pacific Northwest. In a hidden-‘way farmland buried, lurking, sanely. Unbelievably, it’s far nicer here than I’ve ever experienced it anywhere in the heartland Carolinas. Better, bigger and realer mountains too. That occasionally actually contain snow on ‘em for runoff. We’re luckier’n we know right now. Gulp. Yeah.
“My turgid and dinkus name is unknown, torpidly kinda. But they say I went by “Beau” for several long, nasty, altruistic, and eventually individuated lily-lazy yars. My father’s name is Sancto. Never for me. He doesn’t warrant it. And it’s thought my truer moniker “es” circa Gabriello or Gabriella. But nobody’s sure, Somebody, ‘cause I’m missing my state-ordered birth certificate. Reet! I’m certifiably Unknown. It’s Gabe. I like “Beau,” though. Maybe.
“Colloquially, it means ’fop’ as in Beau Brummel. Or it means, well, ‘good.’ Beau the Bum? I work. Sort of a harmless ne’er-do-well, a chap ‘bout town, a modern-day Gatsby. Non-extant seeker of nonessential truths. I’m not a psycho, a thief, or a homicidal maniac. I don’t bite, smoke, or play twenty questions or Trivial Purse-Snatching.
“I’m built, happy, modest…you are now stuck with me.”
The Halcion Times of Gabe “Beau” Sancto
and his Townie Crowd
THE Who Are Sent Forth character list:
Gabe “Beau” Hooter: 5’7”, 24, Latinofine | Chicanoesque | Hispaniman. Collects insects, sci-fi blobs and condoms; laborer
Saragina DeSorto: 6’3”, 22, Hispana and Afribibble, often wears last year’s cornrows; nutritionist
Artie Blend: 6’1”, possibly taller as he slouches, 42 white “MF” years of age. A worrisome drunk; multi-skilled laborer
Caza Zooweiler: Caza, the Unknown and unknowable, 36, “like Babylon,” hippie. Bookskeeping seamstress who’s certainly dying without really trying
Robert Goneschlaw: he’s not deaf, he’s Jew Polish. “Maybe a bit dumb—you’ll see.” Mouthless Ameslan-wielding bartender, excellent with a sword
Ned England: the Queen is dead—no, it’s his mum. Black, 17, looks it; prep waiter
Jeannie Ontermeyer: an adult of the café; teenaged, redheaded, an able waitress
Cloadia Tager: wears cowboy boots daily, plays “helicopter pool,” 31. Strawberry dishwater happiness, prays to Poseidon; waitress from out of town and cocktails
Sharone Bitters: has an important parent, is black-thin, 5’6”, “a slip of monetary poetry.” Registered nurse with non-imaginary brothers and sisters
Harmin Boole: 79 and looks that, widower, owns several local children; retired
THE RAINBOW HORIZON#####A TALE OF GOOFY CHAOS
There are also appearances by Gabe’s divorced parents. Artie’s Montana relatives. The mental patient Gabe rescues. Suzette, a fairy child. Phoebe Sommers, an earlier elder passionfruit of Gabe’s. The so-called Mr. Jones, a man in an address with a deadly story to tell. Chandover, a French composerary of Beethoven’s. Emilia Bitters, Sharone’s mom and a Krakatoan on weekends, bartending. Ed Bitters, a litigant itinerant for a hopeful cause. And the other weekend ‘tender, a young man named Dan Nuts who thinks he’s gay.
In addition there are Gramma HeLouise, “Beau’s” gramma. Dame Gretchley, a character/minister with brown hair, blue eyes, a Viet/Korean face, and a bulldog mentaility. Thomas DaLieken, an Italian, sympatico to the severely impressed and OTHERS. Mabel “School” Jones, a nice middle-aged plump auteuse who writes history novels “pretty good, for a boat-owner,” also tending bar. Dave Velasquez Velasquez, a handsome young Latino man, “dead” at 29, temporary Prince of the Air. And one Fred, of Wabash, WA, whose major life’s goals are to walk and drive fast again without another accident—and to eat Rocky Road.
He’s a drinker, like Artie he needs a good woman to date, and better housing. Habitat for Humanity has nothing on Fred and his dark-hued designs. Which will all be fulfilled someday, if things go naturally right and not infernally wrong.
Fred is the heart of this Entire Matter…him and his Manual Wheels.