by James Hanna

In “Call Me Pomeroy” (Empty Sink 1), Edward Beasley, a towering street musician on parole for statutory rape, joins the Occupy Oakland Movement of 2011. Edward, whose street name is Pomeroy, does not join for political reasons but to get on television, land an agent, and score a million dollar recording contract. In a tussle with the police in Frank Ogawa Plaza, Edward knocks down half a dozen cops with his guitar before being arrested. This earns him the admiration of Charlemagne, Limey leader of the Black Bloc Anarchists, and Pocahontas, his transsexual girlfriend (not their real names). Having filmed Edward’s tussle with an iPhone, Charlemagne posts it on the Internet. He also makes Edward a “two star general” and says his father, an executive with Apple Records, will give him a recording contract for his marathon anthem called “Ants in My Pants”. Edward’s manhandling of the cops is so embarrassing to the City of Oakland that his parole officer, Jessica Jimenez, drops all charges to avoid further publicity.

In “Pomeroy and The Rights of Man” (Empty Sink 6), Sam the Poontang Man, an Iraqi veteran turned street hustler, talks Edward into shanghaiing the San Francisco Bay Ferry and sailing it to Sacramento to protest the treatment of veterans. As they pilot the boat up the Sacramento River, they pick up an assortment of right-wing radicals with signs that read “Where’s Our Country?” While Edward performs a concert on the sun deck, harbor patrol officers storm the boat and start arresting everyone in sight. Jessica Jimenez storms aboard also, but the right-wingers start shoving her around because she’s “a Mexican stealing American jobs.” And so Edward, carrying Jessica on his back, leaps from the boat and escapes. Now off parole, Edward is invited by Charlemagne to come to England, join another protest, and sign his contract with Apple.

* * *

Ol’ Pomeroy’s headin’ off to London. Gonna see Big Ben and them beef beater guards. Gonna sample me some of that English cuisine. And shag me a few of them birds. That’s what they call spinners over there—birds. Which is kinda appropriate when you think about it. ’Cause when they get a dose of ol’ Pomeroy, they’re gonna be shriekin’ like starlings.

Now I’m also goin’ to London to sign my contract with Apple Records. That’s why that Charlemagne fucker sent me an airline ticket. He says I gotta get there quick if I wanna be as famous as The Beatles. Time and tide wait for no man, he says. And if I beat up a few of them bobbies for him, he’ll make me a three star general.

Since I been to prison an’ all, I decide to get a letter from my parole officer. A letter sayin’ I’m off parole and my ass has been rehabilitated. In case some fucker in airport security tries to take away the passport I just got and report ol’ Pomeroy to Homeland Security. So I phone Jessica Jimenez at the San Francisco Parole Office and ask her to write me a letter. Even though I’m off parole, I still drop in on the bitch now an’ then. ’Cause after I carried her offa that ferry, ol’ Jessica done me a favor. She told the police it was Sam the Poontang Man what masterminded that ferryboat heist. She told ’em ol’ Pomeroy was workin’ undercover so the cops could bust that fucker. But the DA didn’t press no charges on Sam. ’Cause the dude’s an Iraqi war vet who dusted some towel heads for the government. And he can’t get no disability pension even though he’s bat shit crazy.

Now since ol’ Jessica done me a favor, I’m gonna make her rich. Gonna talk her into being my manager so she don’t have to mess with parolees no more. ’Cause some of them fuckers are crazy, and I don’t want the bitch gettin’ hurt. Can’t have ol’ Jessica gettin’ beat up—her tits are too damn fine.

Well, I’m sittin’ in Jessica’s office on Mission Street, tryin’ to hide my woody with my hands, when she looks at me with them smolderin’ eyes of hers. The bitch looks ready to fall to her knees and whip out ol’ Pomeroy’s Big Ben.

“Head-ward,” she says to me finally, her voice all smoky and raw. “Why do you keep insisting I be your manager? I’m not even in charge of you anymore.”

“Ya done me a solid, Miss Jimenez,” I say. “And Pomeroy takes care of his own.”

Ol’ Jessica, she just shakes her head and shuffles herself some papers. She don’t get mad at them jokes no more, not since I got myself off parole. All she does now is give me food vouchers and tell me I’m full of shit.

When the bitch is done shufflin’, she picks up a pencil. Like maybe she needs to occupy her hands so she won’t be grabbin’ my crotch. But I can’t be screwin’ her anyhow—ol’ Jessica don’t wanna share. A dude can’t have no groupies if he’s humpin’ himself a Latina.

Well, Jessica starts nibblin’ the nub of her pencil like maybe it’s Pomeroy’s schlong. And then she looks me straight in the eye. “Head-ward,” she says. “I have written you that letter. You’re no longer a ward of the state, señor—you can go wherever you want. But what on earth do you know about England?”

Ol’ Pomeroy just sits there and grins like a fat cat. Hell, I seen every episode of Upstairs Downstairs when I was workin’ in the Library at San Quintin. So I know all about them ladies and lords and how ya gotta talk to a butler. Gonna buy me one of them English mansions when I’ve made me a million or two. And once I’m as famous as The Beatles, I’m gonna shag Penny Lane.

“Gonna get myself knighted, Miss Jimenez,” I say. “Like ol’ Mick Jagger done.”

Ol’ Jessica kinda sighs, but Pomeroy’s got a point. If Mick Jagger can get himself knighted—just for screamin’ and wavin’ his arms around—then any ol’ fucker can do it. Even if he’s been to prison.

I notice ol’ Jessica’s shakin’ her foot like maybe her pump is too tight. Whenever the bitch is fed up with ol’ Pomeroy, she starts to shake her foot. “Mr. Beasley,” she says, her voice all suspicious now. “Just why did that culo send you an airline ticket?”

“’Cause I’m gonna sign me a contract,” I say.

“A contract to do what? Are you going to put on a diablo mask and beat up policemen again?”

“Gonna beat off some groupies is all,” I tell her. “Don’t need no mask for that.”

Well, the bitch just sits there and looks at her nails. Like maybe she’s washin’ her hands of ol’ Pomeroy. “Why do you want to be rich?” she asks me. “You seem very happy to sponge off the city and sing your ditties on the street. Head-ward, you never even change your pantalones.”

“Gonna make you wealthy too, Miss Jimenez—just like them one-percenters. And then you can fiesta and siesta all day and bust yourself some piñatas.”

Ol’ Jessica frowns and her nostrils start flarin’. That’s how she gets when I’m pissin’ her off. “Mi amor,” she snaps. “You’re lucky I didn’t bust you.”

“It’s them anarchists what need bustin’,” I say. “’Cause I can’t sing for shit when they’re hollerin’ and all.”

Ol’ Jessica, she starts rollin’ her eyes like maybe her contacts are hurtin’. “They want you to dance to their tune, Head-ward. They want to take advantage of your brawn. Can’t you see that, mi amor?”

“Gonna have me a dance with the Queen, Miss Jimenez. And shoot me some quail with Prince Charles.”

Ol’ Jessica just keeps shakin’ her foot. “Really, Head-ward And what else are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna see Piccadilly Circus,” I say. “And throw me some peanuts at the elephants.”

Ol’ Jessica, she don’t say anything more. She just opens her desk drawer and reaches inside. Then she gives me the letter for my trip.

* * *

I pick up my General Assistance check on the same day my flight’s gonna leave. So I cash the check quick at the Wells Fargo Bank on Market Street. I collect my money—all four hundred dollars—in hundred dollar bills. “Benjamins,” I call ’em, ’cause that’s who’s on ’em—that kite-flying fucker who went to France and balled more bitches ’an Pomeroy. Then I catch me a cab to the San Francisco International Airport. ’Cause I ain’t got time for no slow-ass subway—not when I’m goin’ abroad like ol’ Ben.

When I get to the airport, the cab driver gives me a second look. Seems he ain’t sure I can pay him no forty dollar fare. So I slip him one of them Benjamins and tell him to keep the change. Now that I’m gonna be famous an’ all, I gotta start tippin’ big.

Well, the airport’s so fulla soldiers that it’s hard to move around. Guess them dudes are headin’ to Afghanistan—or maybe they’re comin’ back. And there’s towel heads struttin’ all over the place, like they own a big piece of the country. Like Obama done traded it to ’em for their oil. But that ain’t no skin offa Pomeroy’s side—I’m still gonna rake in the cash. ’Cause them towel heads don’t know what their women are for—they dress ’em like nuns. Hell, them bitches are gonna be gushin’ like oil wells when Pomeroy gets himself famous.

When I’m halfway through the security checkpoint, I’m already gettin’ the eye. A coupla Muslim women are standin’ in line behind me. And they’re watchin’ me with cock-starved eyes, like they don’t wanna stay in no harems owned by fuckers named Abdul. Not after seein’ ol’ Pomeroy’s crotch. But I don’t say nothin’ after I clear the checkpoint—I just grab up my guitar and my Army surplus rucksack. And then I haul ass quick. Hell, them bitches look ready to rip off their burqas and fight for ol’ Pomeroy’s schlong. And Pomeroy don’t mess with another man’s harem.

After I find me my terminal, I sit down and wait for my flight. And while I’m waitin’, I whip my guitar out and strum it like a motherfucker. It’s harder to tune than ol’ Betsy, the guitar I smashed on the heads of them cops, but it lathers up the twats just the same. So I compose some new verses to Ants in My Pants and I sing ‘em like Willie Nelson.

Well, I’m off to jolly England.
Gonna fly from shore to shore.
Gonna show them Limey strumpets
What they never seen before.

And when I’ve given ’em their jollies
And the shaggin’ of their dreams
Gonna catch myself a trolley
And have crumpets with the Queen.

Now before I can sing out the chorus, this redheaded counter attendant leans over me. And she starts speakin’ to me in this twangy Aussie accent. “You a veteran, Clyde?” she snaps. She’s starin’ at my military rucksack like maybe it’s got a bomb in it.

The bitch looks kinda old to be on the rag, but ol’ Pomeroy’s gotta be careful. Ya don’t wanna piss off no redhead if her hormones are outta whack. So I answer her in a soft-ass voice.

“Served two tours in Nam.” I tell her. “Shot me a big ol’ mortar.”

The bitch wrinkles her nose then she draws a deep breath. Like she’s plannin’ to blow a didgeridoo. “A lot of veterans are flying these days,” she says. “And we’re happy to have them on Virgin Atlantic. But usually they fly standby on the military flights.”

I give the broad the ol’ Pomeroy wink, but I don’t feel no juice in my spruce. ’Cause her tits look kinda dried-up and her hair looks kinda dyed. And Pomeroy don’t screw prune twats.

“Fuck flying standby,” I say to her. “That’s like stirrin’ sloppy seconds.”

Well, the bitch kinda gasps and starts waggin’ her head. And she looks at me with these wide-ass eyes. “You trying to be a rock star, Clyde? You seem a bit old for that.”

“Gonna be bigger ’an Jagger,” I tell her. “Ol’ Pomeroy sings from the heart.”

The bitch bites her lip then starts lookin’ around. “Sir, we’re happy to have you on the flight. But please put away that guitar.”

“Ol’ Pomeroy fought for our freedoms,” I tell her. “That’s why I went to Nam.”

The bitch shakes her head like she knows I’m talkin’ trash. Hell, Pomeroy didn’t free nothin’ in Nam—nothin’ but his Willie. But it don’t hurt a veteran to raise the ol’ flag now and then. Damn good way to score beer and pussy. As long as you don’t tell folks more ’an they wanna hear.

“Sir,” says the bitch, her voice sharp as a tack, “please put away that guitar.”

“Fought for ol’ Glory,” I tell her. “Fought for motherhood and apple pie.”

The bitch squares her shoulders and glares at ol’ Pomeroy. “Sir,” she says, “put away your guitar. People don’t want to hear you sing.”

She looks about ready to phone security, and I don’t wanna miss my flight. So I shove the guitar back into its case. And I give her my boarding pass.

* * *

While I’m buckled into my seat, waitin’ for that big ol’ Boeing to take off, a coupla passengers thank me for my military service. That’s like thankin’ a hooker for spreadin’ the clap, but ol’ Pomeroy don’t say nothin’. At least I scored me some pussy in Nam. At least I had me some fun. In Afghanistan, a dude can’t even wet his whanger. Even though them towel heads can’t fuck. Even though their women are hard-up. Hell, a woman ain’t cum in Afghanistan since 1492.

Well, there ain’t a whole lot to do on that jet, so I look at this pamphlet ol’ Charlemagne sent me. The dude’s real name is Brian Hines, but he uses the name of that Renaissance fucker. Now Brian ain’t no sword-wieldin’ king, but the dude can write his ass off. That’s ‘cause he’s been to Oxford and has a degree in the classics. So while we’re taxiing down the runway, I read that pamphlet again.

April 20, 2014

A Message from the People’s Movement

Who among you would a debt slave be? If so, speak up, for you we have offended. Who among you would have your e-mail intercepted by the Government Communication Headquarters? If so, speak up, for you we have offended. Who among would be made impotent by chemically altered foods? If so, speak up, for you we have offended.

Those who are not offended, those with the blood of Guy Fawkes in their veins, are invited to join the People’s March on May 1, 2014. On that day, all true patriots will march from Clerkenwell to Trafalgar Square. On that day, the rage of the people will crash like a tsunami upon the pillars of greed and avarice. On that day, the one-percenters will tremble in their stolen mansions and rue their politics of deceit, murder, and subjugation.

Know that we are Anonymous. Know that we are legion. And know that we are joined by the mightiest 99-percenter of all. Some call him Samson because he brained forty Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. Some call him Crockett because he shattered Old Betsy upon the skulls of the centurions. Some call him Pomeroy, a street name he uses to thwart the spooks of the National Security Agency. But by whatever name he’s given, he is the very embodiment of John Adams and Benjamin Franklin, men who warned us that oligarchs steal republics.

No longer will we be crushed by the heel of the New World Order. No longer will we be duped by Barack Obama and his flunkies in British Parliament. No longer will we sail obediently to our doom like the ill-fated crew of The Pequod. On May Day, our voices will rise loud and clear.

I guess ol’ Charlemagne’s still full of shit, but it don’t bother Pomeroy none. ’Cause I don’t mind bein’ a man of the people—not if it’ll help me sell albums and score pussy. But I can’t sing my songs on no candy-ass jet—not without being arrested by some air marshal. So after I’ve had me a snack, I punch up an in-flight movie. It’s a lame-ass flick called Lost in Translation.

* * *

When I get to Heathrow Airport, I head for the passport gate quick. ’Cause some Muslim women are followin’ me—spooky-ass bitches in burqas and veils. And Pomeroy ain’t mountin’ no bitch he can’t see. But it ain’t much improvement when I get past the gate and see Pocahontas waitin’ for me. I told you about Pocahontas—she’s this fudge-packin’ chick who had Pomeroy fooled ’til I grabbed me some of her crotch. The bitch may look like an Indian maiden, but her schlong is as long as a donkey’s. And Pomeroy don’t fuck trannies.

Well, Pocahontas, she tells me the May Day March is on. She says ten thousand marchers are rallying in Trafalgar Square: union folks, students, and tree huggin’ fuckers. She says they’re protestin’ apartheid. She says they’re protestin’ empire. She says they’re protestin’ the drone strikes in Afghanistan. She also says Charlemagne just got himself busted—that’s why he ain’t at the airport. ’Cause the fucker threw chicken blood on a coupla English cops. And called ’em Gestapo pigs. And after the cops threw his ass in jail, they snatched that pamphlet with Pomeroy in it. Pocahontas says the cops wanna bust me too ’cause they don’t want me stirrin’ up the unions. She says I was lucky to get through customs and I gotta leave London quick. And she hands me this bus ticket to Ireland.

I follow Pocahontas down this long-ass subway tunnel and we hop on the London Tube. And we get out at Piccadilly Circus ’cause I wanna turn my money into pounds. And maybe see some elephants. But as soon as we leave the subway station, I know I done made a mistake. Hell, the street is so crowded with union-ass marchers, I can’t even find me a bank. There’s fuckers blowin’ whistles. There’s fuckers poundin’ drums. There’s fuckers with signs that read, Stop the Cuts and Vote Socialist. Don’t know what the fuck votin’ socialist means. If votin’ made a difference, folks wouldn’t be allowed to do it.

Now except for the fish shops and double-decker buses, ol’ London seems kinda like Oakland. I even see the cops lookin’ over the crowd like they’re tryin’ to spot ol’ Pomeroy. So as soon as I see me a money exchange, I duck through the doorway quick. And I trade my Benjamins for a buncha Lizzies. That Limey money got Liz all over it—back when she was a piece of ass. And once I got my money, I follow Pocahontas to Victoria Station.

Well, there ain’t no cops in Victoria Station, so I whip out the ol’ guitar. And then I start singin’ like Johnny Cash.

Well, I’m off to bonny Ireland
Gonna see the emerald isle.
’Cause them Irish eyes are smilin’
And I won’t get thrown in jail.

And before I know it, I’m sittin’ alone in the back of this big-ass bus. And I’m headin’ for the land of the leprechauns.

* * *

Turns out ol’ Pomeroy’s ridin’ on a tour bus. And the bus is fulla dowager bitches with punk-ass bladders. ’Cause the driver keeps stoppin’ every fuckin’ hour to let them bitches piss. So Pomeroy, he takes himself a long-ass nap. And when I wake up, we done crossed the Irish Sea on a ferryboat. And we’re parked at the castle of some feudal-ass chieftain.

Blarney Castle,” the driver calls out, and Pomeroy takes himself a look. Guess they call it that ’cause the owner was fulla bull. But that don’t mean shit when you’re a feudal fucker. Ya still get to drink mead all day. Ya still get to attack other fiefdoms. And ya still get to fuck any woman ya want. And ya don’t need no NSA to keep folks in line. If a fucker starts talkin’ smack to ya, ya just gotta chop off his head.

Well, ol’ Pomeroy decides to kiss the Blarney Stone. Get me the gift of gab, as they say. ’Cause I need some new verses to Ants in My Pants—I only got a hundred and fifty-two of ’em. Gonna need more ’an that if I’m gonna stay famous. So I walk on past this big-ass dungeon that looks like Batman’s cave. Damn good place to torture fuckers that won’t stop talkin’ smack. And once I find my way into the castle, I walk up these narrow stairs. And I find me this deep-ass pit where they got the Blarney Stone hid.

Now kissin’ that stone kinda pisses me off. First, I gotta stand in line with some tourist hussies who oughta be kissin’ ol’ Pomeroy’s stones. And then I gotta bend over backwards like some limbo-dancin’ dude. And listen to some bossy fucker tellin’ me to keep the line movin’. It ain’t worth the trouble, if ya ask ol’ Pomeroy. So after I kiss that grainy-ass stone, I head on back down the stairs.

As soon as I get my butt out of that castle, I see some old geezer laughin’. He’s sittin’ on a bench, holding his sides, and laughin’ like a goddamn banshee. He’s laughin’ so hard he can’t hardly draw breath to speak. “Oh my,” he says. “Me lad, me lad. Locals pee on that stone, you know?”

Now that riles Pomeroy up for sure. So I unzip my pants, whip out ten of the finest, and take me a piss of my own. Right on the side of that jive-ass castle. Shoot me a stream so goddamn tall that it’s throwin’ off a rainbow. And that rainbow don’t even start to fade ’til my pecker is back in my pants.

It ain’t long after that ’til some frog-face fucker comes runnin’ up to me. A loud little dude with a whiskey-red nose and a security badge on his chest. And the dude keeps yellin’ in this squeaky-ass voice. “Your pee don’t belong on our castle, guv. What you think you’re doing, hey?”

“Spendin’ a penny,” I say. “Ya want me to give you change?”

The dude don’t even answer Pomeroy—he just starts shoutin’ into a hand radio. Repeatin’ some kinda code. Didn’t know they had no code for pissin’ on mossy-ass rocks. Then he looks at me with this Clint Eastwood squint. “You that Yank they call Pomeroy?” he says finally. “The bloke who beats up cops? I saw you once on the news, I think.”

“Gonna be more famous ’an that,” I tell him. “Ya want ol’ Pomeroy’s autograph?”

Well, the dude lifts the radio close to his mouth, like he’s plannin’ to give it a kiss. “Yes, yes,” he keeps mutterin’, all impatient-like. “Calls hisself Pomeroy, but that may be an alias. And he looks like a South Sea islander.” When the fucker’s done listenin’, he lowers the radio and sticks out his scrawny-ass chest. “Guv,” he says, “you’re famous enough already.”

“What you mean by that?” I say.

“You got a police record, guv—fifty bleedin’ arrests. You’re on a watch list of political undesirables. Who allowed you into this country, hey? Some bleedin’ heart liberal write you a hall pass?”

Damn if ol’ Pomeroy don’t shake his head. Hell, a fucker don’t get tagged quick as that ’less he’s pissed off the New World Order. And his record has jumped to the top of the charts.

Well, it looks like I gotta get outta there quick. So I run on back to the tour bus and grab my rucksack and guitar. And after I find me a road with some signs, I trot in the direction of Cork.

* * *

When I get to Cork City, it’s almost dark. And ol’ Pomeroy ain’t too impressed. It’s a jive-ass little town fulla churches and pubs and old-ass architecture. But ol’ Pomeroy’s ready to soak in some culture. So I find the town square, buy me some fish an’ chips, and grab me this skinny little newspaper called The Corkman. And damn if ol’ Pomeroy ain’t in The Corkman. The article don’t say nothin’ ’bout Ants in My Pants or how I’m gonna be on tour. It just says some transient bum done pissed on Blarney Castle. And he oughta be hunted down and jailed for desecrating a shrine.

Well, that paper’s also talkin’ ’bout Edward Snowden, that tattlin’ dude Obama wants to bust. ’Cause that fucker told every swingin’ dick in the world how Obama’s been interceptin’ e-mail. Just like Joseph Stalin done. Now that makes Pomeroy madder ’an shit. Ol’ Snowden ain’t even made himself an album and he’s got three pages of press. So I call up Pocahontas on this cell phone she done gave me. And I tell her some whistle-tootin’ fucker is gettin’ more publicity ’an Pomeroy.

Pocahontas, she tells me to keep my pecker up. ’Cause the New World Order controls the newspapers. And the New World Order controls the politicians. And the New World Order wants to smear ol’ Pomeroy, not make him a goddamn star. She says I gotta keep singin’ my songs so’s to drown them one-percenters out. ’Cause Charlemagne’s still locked up and government goons are everywhere. They’re roundin’ up anarchists left and right. And puttin’ ’em in jail with IRA fuckers and whacked-out soldiers back from Iraq. She says Obama ain’t no better than that feudal fucker whose castle I pissed on.

When I’m done talkin’ with Pocahontas, ol’ Pomeroy looks around for cops. Then I crack me a big ol’ stiffy. ’Cause some hot Irish babe is ooglin’ me from across the square—an earth mother type with natural red hair and tits that are bigger ’an grapefruits. A bitch like that deserves to be fucked. And no one fucks better ’an a redhead. So I whip me out the ol’ guitar and make up more verses to Ants in My Pants.

I’m a hero of the people
And I got Obama foiled
’Cause he ‘s got no use for fuckers
That he can’t sell out for oil.

So he’s roused the New World Order
And he’s put ’em on my trail
But I’m gonna play my music
And I’m gonna score some tail.

Now it ain’t too long ’til ol’ Pomeroy’s drawn himself a crowd. Folks are standin’ all around me, clappin’ their hands and singin’, Rig un du rum da while I’m beltin’ out the verses. ’Til some wild-eyed asshole with a bushy beard points his finger right at me.

You’re the one,” he shouts. “You’re the bloke wot tinkled on Blarney Castle.” And he holds up a drawing for everyone to see: a picture of some big-ass capitalist pissin’ all over little folk. The caption reads, Trickle Down Economics.

Well, Pomeroy keeps strummin’ his ol’ guitar, but can’t sing no more verses. ’Cause that bushy-beard dude is yellin’ his head off and drownin’ ol’ Pomeroy out. He ain’t even a man of the people and he’s stealin’ himself my crowd. So I walk over to that supple-ass bitch who’s been givin’ me the ol’ eye. And I ask her, “What the fuck?”

The bitch, she just starts gigglin’ like maybe I done goosed her. “We call him Ezekiel, luvy,” she says. “Some call him Zeke for short.”

“Don’t no one call me short,” I say and I give her a big ol’ wink. Bitch makes me think of Sweet Molly Malone—that fish peddlin’ tramp in that old Irish song. Where she’s hollerin’ out, Cockles alive alive-o.

“Zeke thinks he’s a prophet,” she laughs, an’ her teeth are shiner ’an pearls. “He makes a bit of sense, he does, but he does drone on and on. When he’s not stiffing people for drinks, that is. Or dressing up like a woman.”

“How about I stiff you for nothin’?” I say.

The bitch just arches her eyebrows. “You trying to shock me, luv?” she blurts. “I’m a barmaid at the Commons Inn, you know.”

Now before ol’ Pomeroy can reel the bitch in, ol’ Ezekiel starts blowin’ a whistle. And then he starts scoldin’ the New World Order.

When the students complain about fees,” he shouts, “does the government offer them help? NO. They blind them with pepper spray and place them under arrest.

When our soldiers come back from Afghanistan, do they give the poor chaps a hand? NO. They toss them in jail if they don’t toe the line and leave them there to rot.”

When we catch Obama spying on us, does he issue an apology? NO. He calls Mr. Snowden a criminal and drives him into exile.”

Well, the fucker keeps rollin’ his eyes like they’re dice and bellowin’ louder ’an a fish wife. And that kinda shit gets on Pomeroy’s nerves.

They call themselves statesmen,” he howls. “They call themselves the government. But they’re coming for your pensions. They’re coming for your rights. They’re coming for your sons to fight their bleedin’ wars. And our real statesmen, blokes like Edward Snowden, they drive into exile and toss into jail.

The dude draws a deep breath, like maybe he’s a blowfish. And then he starts shoutin’ even louder.



Ol’ Pomeroy decides to get his ass out of there. Hell, it ain’t gonna be long ’til the New World Order comes after that fucker and snatches up Pomeroy, to boot. So I pick up my rucksack and ol’ guitar and throw Molly over my shoulder. ’Cause the bitch been talkin’ like maybe she supports that fucker. And I don’t want to see her get dragged off to jail. Not ’til I’ve slipped her the ol’ shillelagh, I don’t.

* * *

After I haul my butt outta that square, I head down Patrick Street. And soon I spot me this rickety-ass pub with a sign hangin’ over the door. The sign says “Bleary O’Leary’s Hole.” So I put ol’ Molly down ’cause her yellin’ is hurtin’ my ears. And I invite her to join me for a nightcap. Bitch’ll be needin’ a stiff shot of whiskey to handle ol’ Pomeroy whole.

Ol’ Molly, she just looks at me and her eyes are kinda hard. Like she’d just as soon kick ol’ Pomeroy’s balls as join him for a drink. But then she starts gigglin’ all over again, like she’s lookin’ at a circus clown.

“I saw you on YouTube,” she hoots. “Knockin’ down cops with a guitar, you were. You’re a bit of a cheeky one, aren’t you, luv?”

“They call me Pomeroy,” I tell the tart, just to keep things straight. Can’t have no piece of ass teasin’ ol’ Pomeroy. Not when I’m a two-star general ’an all.

Well, the bitch cocks her head like a parrot and shrugs. “Is that what they really call you?” she asks. “Or is that what you call yourself?”

The broad’s got a mouth on her, that’s for sure—hell, I oughta make her my manager. But I flex my muscles like Spartacus ’cause I gotta put her in her place. “I’m a man of the people,” I tell her.

The bitch just shakes her head. “Really, luv? Is that what you are? You do seem more manchild than man.”

Now Pomeroy, he’s startin’ to get pissed. If that hussy wants her potatoes plowed, she better stop talkin’ smack. But Molly, she puts her hands on her hips and sticks out her melon-sized tits. And her eyes are clearer ’an emeralds.

“Luvy,” she says, her voice bossy as hell. “Your mum know what you’re doing?”

“Lookin’ out for one of the people,” I say. “An’ scorin’ me some ass.”

Ol’ Molly, she just scratches her head like she’s tryin’ to get rid of some lice. But she’s gotta be drippin’ for Pomeroy’s schlong. Hell, there’s no surer way to nail a bitch than to save her from the New World Order. Shit like that’s gotta work every time.

“Luv,” she says, “how often do you score? You don’t have much game, do you now?”

“Ten on the slack ain’t no game,” I tell her. “Not when I’m gonna be a rock star, it ain’t. Once I’ve signed me a contract with Apple, I’m gonna look after your ass.”

Molly keeps on studying me and her face gets kinda soft. Like she spotted herself a puppy in a window. And all the time she’s sizin’ me up, I hear music comin’ from the pub.

“It’s a veteran’s bar, luvy,” she says to me softly. “You’ll need to be careful in there. Lots of bars won’t even serve veterans. Don’t want those blokes liquored up, do they now?”

“Pomeroy’s a veteran himself,” I tell her. “Fought to protect our freedom.”

The bitch reaches up high, straightens my collar, then takes me by the elbow. “You have too much freedom if you ask me, luv. Someone needs to look after you.”

She’s coverin’ her mouth with her hand while she’s speakin’, like she’s tryin’ to trap herself a kiss. But her eyes are sparklin’ like dew on grass and her tits are heavin’ with lust. And so, with Molly Malone on my elbow, I walk into Bleary O’Leary’s.

* * *

It’s sorry as hell in Bleary O’Leary’s, and Pomeroy feels kinda depressed. It’s a dimly-lit room with an old splintered bar and a buncha dirty tables. And there’s six or eight veterans at one of the tables: hairy fuckers with military hoodies and Army insignia patches. They’re lookin’ at this stage where some skinny-ass fucker is strummin’ a ukulele. The dude’s singin’ a song about Blarney stones.

Oooooooo, why don’t you kiss me Blarney stones. Come kiss me Blarney stoooones.”

The veterans, they’re laughin’ and gulpin’ down beer like they got nothin’ better to do. Like there’s no place else they’d rather be. So that’s when I think me up a plan that’ll keep my ass outta jail. If I entertain them dudes, like some USO fucker, the New World Order won’t bother me none. ’Cause you can’t be jailin’ a patriot fucker who’s keepin’ the veterans happy. Dudes who helped snatch up the oil.

When I tell ol’ Molly I got me a plan, she looks at me kinda funny.

“Gonna pull a Bob Hope,” I tell her. “That’ll keep us outta jail for sure.”

Ol’ Molly, she just chuckles and chugs herself a beer. “Luvy,” she giggles, “there’s hope for you yet.”

Well, Molly keeps on laughin’ while I unpack my guitar. And I wait for that skinny-ass fucker to stop singin’ about his balls. But the dude’s got more verses ’an Pomeroy does, and he keeps goin’ on and on. So I watch me this fuzzy-ass television that’s sittin’ above the bar. The local news is on and some talkin’ head dude is babblin’ about Afghanistan. About how Obama is pullin’ out troops to bring the war to an end. And damn if that don’t piss ol’ Pomeroy off. If there’s no troops left in Afghanistan, I won’t get no chance to perform there.

When that ukulele dudes’s finally done with his song, he goes to the men’s room to jack off. And while he’s in there floggin’ his log, I hop on the stage, strum me some chords, and start singin’ The Ballad of the Green Berets.

Put silver wings on my son’s chest.
Make him one of America’s Best.

I ain’t sung no more ’an two fuckin’ bars when one of the veterans starts talkin’ smack. “What are ya, guv?” he shouts. “A cheerleader for the fucking politicians?”

“Oye,” shouts another. “He’s trying to make a killing while blokes are getting killed. Just like Halliburton, he is.”

“They shoulda let us finish the mission,” shouts a third who looks like he’s drunk as a skunk. “They shoulda let us finish the mission.”

“Fuck the mission!” the first one shouts. “If ya ask me, Basil, we pointed the guns in the wrong direction!”

Before I can sing me the tag line, them veterans have started up a chant. And their liquored-ass voices are fillin’ the whole damn bar. “Hey, hey. Ho ho. Brothers died for Amoco. HEY HEY. HO HO. BROTHERS DIED FOR AMOCO.” And then they start booin’ ol’ Pomeroy and bangin’ their beer mugs on the table.

Well, Pomeroy strikes a coupla more chords, but those veterans keep drownin’ him out. An’ their beer mugs are bouncin’ offa the walls and shatterin’ on the floor. An’ one of ’em’s shakin’ his fist at ol’ Pomeroy an’ growlin’ like a bear. “BASH THAT WANKER,” the fucker shouts. “HE’S A SHILL FOR THE NEW WORLD ORDER.” So Pomeroy starts singin’ Fortunate Son to shut them fuckers up.

It ain’t me. It ain’t me.
I ain’t no senator’s son, son.
It ain’t me. It ain’t me . . .

But that don’t make no never mind at all—them veterans start smashin’ up tables and chairs and shoutin’ up a storm. “BLOODY HEY, BLOODY HELL! NO MORE DEATHS FOR BLOODY SHELL!” An’ a pitcher comes flyin’ through the air an’ explodes on the stage like a bomb.

Well, Molly Malone, she’s halfway out the door already. An’ she’s motionin’ me to follow her quick. Guess she can’t wait no longer for a dose of my schlong—not after hearin’ me singin’ an’ all. So I crack me a woody the size of a log and go limpin’ towards the door. The woman got an ass to die for.

The bar is louder ’an a mortar attack and the walls are startin’ to shake. And a voice like creepin’ thunder is fillin’ the whole damn room. “BEEEE THE CAUSE NOT GOOD…” An’ damn if ol’ Ezekiel ain’t standin’ up on the stage. The fucker is wearin’ a long gingham dress an’ he’s quotin’ from Henry V.


“HO HO,” the veterans shout. “NO MORE BLOOD FOR AMOCO!!”


Now all that yellin’ an’ furniture smashin’ is makin’ me lose my woody. And I don’t even hear the police sirens screamin’—not ’til some cops burst into the bar and the veterans start peltin’ ’em with their medals. But when one of ’em cops shouts, “There he is!” I grab my guitar by the neck. “It’s him,” shouts the cop. “It’s Pomeroy! That Yank wot pissed on Blarney castle!” “Grab him first,” another one yells. “We’ll kick his arse back across the pond!”

Well, I can’t let them cops put no bracelets on me—not when I’m on Obama’s list. ’Cause if I get my ass shipped to Guantánamo Bay, folks’ll never see Pomeroy again. So I lift my guitar above my head and start swingin’ at their heads.


Now the room keeps gettin’ louder as more cops keep pourin’ in. And after I’ve brained four of five of them fuckers, my guitar ain’t nothin’ but splinters. So I sing a cappella to have me an encore, and damn if that don’t strain my throat.

I done pissed on Blarney Castle.
I done dissed a feudal lord.
But I ain’t no fuckin’ vassal
And I got a ten inch sword.

* * *

A few of ’em cops are still clingin’ to me as I shove my way out the door. So I give ’em each a head butt then shake ’em loose like fleas. But now I hear a helicopter over my head, an’ it kinda reminds me of Nam. And Ezekiel’s shoutin’ “MARTIAL LAW!!” while the cops are draggin’ him from the bar. So Pomeroy, he starts runnin’ like a motherfucker.

I ain’t gone more ’an two or three blocks when a Volkswagen bug stops beside me. An’ ol’ Molly is grippin’ the steerin’ wheel like maybe it’s a snake. And Molly, she looks like she’s kinda upset: her blouse is disheveled, her hair is unkempt, and her face is glistenin’ with sweat. But that don’t stop me from crackin’ a stiffy and grinnin’ like a possum.

Hsst,” Molly says, her voice all husky. “Luvy. Get inside.”

The passenger door is open wide so I manage to squeeze my ass in. But there ain’t much room to pull in my legs and that kinda gets me riled. If that bitch wants to rescue me properly, she oughta be drivin’ a Mercedes.

After I slam that tiny-ass door, ol’ Molly guns the engine. And next thing I know, the car’s squealin’ ’round corners and hurtling down narrow-ass streets. And Molly, she looks over at me and gives me a cut-the-crap look.

“Keep your head down, luvy,” she hisses. “And your mouth shut.”

Well, there ain’t much to look at anyhow—nothin’ but churches and cheese shops. And them kind of sights don’t snow no one but tourists. So I duck my head below the window and take me a big ol’ breath. And since Molly’s drivin’ like a bat outta hell, I start singin’, Go, Lassie, Go.

I will raaaaise my love a tower
By this big ol gushin’ fountain
And on it I will pile
All the flooowers of the mountain . . .

But before I start me a second verse, ol’ Molly stops the car. “No time for serenades, luvy—we’re here.” And when I take me a look through the window, I see me a harbor with ships.

Molly, her face is mellow now and her eyes are softer ’an shit. “This is Cork Harbor, luv,” she tells me. “Immigrants left for the new world from here. During the potato famine, that was.”

“They shoulda ate your cockles,” I tell her.

Ol’ Molly points towards the dock. “Wait on the jetty. Me brother has a fishing boat. He’ll be picking you up and taking you to Bristol.”

Well, the water is blacker ’an ink and the whitecaps are whisperin’ like ghosts. So Pomeroy ain’t in no hurry to get in no shaky-ass boat. But Molly, she looks like a dame in distress, so I puff out my chest like ol’ Sinbad.

But Molly ain’t lookin’ at Pomeroy no more—she’s starin’ out onto the bay. The look in her eyes—like she’s listenin’ to distant music—reminds me of that spinner wife in Joyce’s The Dead.

“Me son had a fine Irish voice,” she says softly. “Until he came back from Iraq. The smoke mucked his lungs up, didn’t it now?”

Ol’ Molly starts hummin’ Danny Boy an’ then she pats my cheek. “Bristol’s in Wales, in case you don’t know it. You can’t get there on the ferry, you know. The coppers will nab you if you try.”

“Ain’t nobody takin’ down Pomeroy.” I say. “Pomeroy’s built to last.”

“You’ll last a lot longer in Scotland, luv. Hitch a ride to the Highlands, if you can. It’s hard to arrest a bloke if he’s hiding in the hills of Scotland.”

Before Pomeroy can explore ol’ Molly’s hills, the bitch starts singin’ The Green Fields of France. A song about graveyards and playin’ a fife and bangin’ a drum too slow. The bitch oughta be bangin’ ol’ Pomeroy—not singin’ some spooky-ass song.

“Already got me a caber,” I say. “And I don’t want it splittin’ my pants.”

Ol Molly, she starts laughin’ out loud and she gives me a poke on the chest. “Luvy, I’m not going to shag you, you know. You’ll have to take care of it yourself. I imagine you’re rather good at it by now.”

I guess the bitch is abstaining from meat if she don’t want ol’ Pomeroy’s schlong. But Pomeroy likes ’em brassy, so I’m still gonna hire her butt.

“Gonna let you schedule my groupies,” I tell her. “Gonna let you be my manager.”

“Really, luv? Is that what you’re going to do?”

“Gonna make you so rich you won’t have to sell cockles no more. And your son’ll be proud of your ass.”

Ol’ Molly, she just shakes her head and then she starts hummin’ again. “Luvy,” she says to me finally, “he died in Wandsworth Prison.”

* * *

It sure didn’t hurt ol’ Pomeroy none to kiss that Blarney Stone. ’Cause after I watch ol’ Molly drive off, I hear some new verses to Ants in My Pants. So I sit my ass on the dock of the bay and sing ’em out loud an’ clear.

The New World Order’s got us covered.
They say our future will be bright
If we give
’em all our money
And we give
’em all our rights

If we let ’em grab the planet
If we let
’em sell their wars
But they ain’t a jivin’ Pomeroy
‘Cause my pecker’s twice as large.

Ol’ Pomeroy, he’s singin’ without no guitar, but I’m still gettin’ lotsa support. I can hear me the blarin’ of freighters. I can hear me the clangin’ of buoys. I can hear the shrieks of seagulls all pleadin’ like groupies in heat. And I can hear the drum-drum-drummin’ of the police helicopters overhead.

Guess the New World Order’s still huntin’ my ass, but that don’t amount to shit. They ain’t catchin’ Pomeroy—that’s for sure. I’ll be hidin’ somewhere in the Highlands.


    Song Credits

Sweet Molly Malone
Written by James Yorkston, 1883
Popularized by The Dubliners

Kiss Me Blarney Stones
Written by Mike Nugent and Ted Rypel, 2010, 2011, 2012
Popularized by Mike Nugent and Ted Rypel & The Pop Tarts

Ballad of the Green Berets
Written by Robin Moore and Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler, 1966
First performed by Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler

Fortunate Son
Written by John Fogerty, 1969
Performed by Credence Clearwater Revival

Will Ye Go Lassie Go
Written by Frank McPeake, 1950
Popularized by The Clancey Brothers and Tommy Makem

Danny Boy
Written by Frederick Weatherly, 1910
Popularized by Elsie Griffin

The Green Fields of France
Written by Eric Bogle, 1976
Popularized by The Furey Brothers and Davey Arthur

Ants in My Pants
Written by Edward Beasley, AKA Samson, Crockett, Pomeroy, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014.
Popularized by Pomeroy

James Hanna, a four-time contributor to Empty Sink Publishing, wandered Australia for seven years before settling on a career in criminal justice. He spent twenty years as a counselor in the Indiana Department of Corrections and recently retired from the San Francisco Probation Department where he was assigned to a domestic violence and stalking unit. James’ short stories have appeared in multiple journals. His first novel, The Siege, is currently available on Amazon. The Siege depicts a hostage standoff in a penal facility. James’ second novel, Call Me Pomeroy, will be published in March and will soon be posted on Amazon for pre-orders. The book chronicles the misadventures of Pomeroy, that infectious clown that was first discovered by the editors of Empty Sink Publishing.