*THIS IS A LONG POST SO HERE’S THE SHORT OF IT: A very funny and wise fellow named Don K’ Shayne has generously volunteered to be an advice counselor on this website. Ask him any question you want HERE. You won’t regret it. To see examples of recent questions and his answers click here. If you want to read more about the whats and whys of this, keep reading.

This month Fourth Night offers readers a unique online service. For the rest of this month, a noteworthy guest named Don K’ Shayne (aka Big Don or BDK) has volunteered, free of charge, to serve on this website as therapist, spiritual minister, sex mentor, online confidant, royal jester, and whatever else you wish him to be.

What kind of question? Perhaps you seek meaning in the giant chicken nugget rampaging through your dreams; perhaps you’re Buddhist and fear it’s in your karmic cards to reincarnate as a dung beetle; perhaps you’re an End Timer who wants to know, since consensus among pamphleteering soothsayers is divided, whether the Apocalypse will occur on May 21 or in 2012; perhaps you wonder if it’s abnormal that your nipples harden whenever the Pillsbury Doughboy is poked in the belly; or perhaps you’re just looking for a new stew recipe for your crockpot. Nothing is too strange or mundane.

Think about it. Why drain your bank account on an overpriced conventional psychotherapist when you can tap for free into the mythological wellspring and maniacal intellect of BDK? Why waste minutes scrounging for stamps and printing letters addressed to some magazine column hack when you can streamline the process at this real-time, one-stop wisdom shop.

I first received an email from Big Don on March 25 but passed over it in my bloated inbox, assuming it was spam. He sent me several more in the following weeks, all of which I passed over without reading for the same reason. Only upon glancing over the words “Con Man” in his latest message one evening did I go back and read the correspondence from the beginning. I instantly realized that something strange and hilarious and diabolically ingenious was going on.

So who’s Big Don? For one, he could be a she. But who am I to go snooping in his backyard? If Fourth Fiction taught me anything, it’s that truth isn’t always what you assume it to be – and if and when you do ever put your finger on it, it’s already gone and transformed into something else. So I take the BDK at face – or actually faceless – value as the BDK. You will too, I’m sure, when you get to know him firsthand. And to that effect, I’m appending below all of the emails he’s sent me. This is a good time for you to now go brew a pot of coffee.

As with Finnegan’s Wake, Big Don’s writing best coheres when read aloud and when given the right accent. Don’t be timid. Put some mustard on it. Perform, don’t read. If you do, you’ll enter the world of BDK and will soon be carrying his turns of phrase like contagious song lyrics that can’t be shaken off. You’ll be the weirdo talking and laughing alone on the street. And you won’t care.

After you read this, don’t hesitate to write in a comment to Big Don. He expects to hear from you. If anything, do it for the rest of us. If you want privacy (say, for instance, that the earlier Pillsbury Doughboy example applies to you) just comment under a pseudonym. I’m sure Big Don is an equal opportunity advisor when it comes to questions of identity or lack thereof.

In his first March 25 email Big Don had yet to fully come into his own, into his lilting literary voice. I initially intended to leave the email out of this compilation but changed my mind. His intro, while tamer in style, does wean one into his diction, something which he may have intended.

On occasion I interject commentary between the emails to clarify the context. And for those more intrepid readers, I’ve also inserted links, videos and photos that relate to some of BDK’s cultural references. If by including them I’ve robbed you of the joys of self-discovery, I apologize, but you can be sure there’s plenty more to dig through on your own.

So here he is, the one, the only, the big, Don K’Shayne:

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Don K’Shayne to me – Let me introduce myself – Mar 25

Con Man,

Dig this…

Now..what I gots to say may be hard to wrap yo mind around at firss, but you gots to hit the ground runnin an fall-in, cause I ain’t goin to short bus this shit for your sore ass. Dig?

No remedial motherfuckers allowed in dis here Cad-lac. Dig? Alright, sit yo ass down and hole on.

Now lookie here…

My name is Don K’shayne, but anyone, or anything, that knows me past a good morning knows me as the Big Don.

Ya welcome.

You more than anyone should know the sticky power of the un-clever nickname.

Everyone’s always grateful once they know me, not just Mister Wayne Newton. Dig?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUryeDLpY_c

Now lookie here…

I am what you call Inspiration. If I were to take on female form, I’d be wass you call a Muse.

Now, I pride myseff on my work anna I ain’t goin nappeal to your sorry ass through mere sexuality. Nah man, that shit’s too easy. I take pride in my craft so I likes to make my work more of a challenge, so to speak.

Ya see, I reside, currently, in your mind.

Dass right.

I have made my home inside that rocky calcium deposit you call a skull. I say currently, because I do not obey the laws a time or space as you do.

My tomorrow could be your yesterday or your day after next, dig? I can bounce around to any time I want since I am not bound to your seemingly linear eggsistanss. I come an go as I please.

So if I feel that my message ainna coming through yo hifi, I just FedEx my ass to the next mutha who may have a more welcoming ear. I needs a comfortable bed, ya dig?

I ain’t above sending yo un-listenin, un-interested, un-equiped ass back to the Sleepy’s store.

That being said, I on’t upack my bags til I know my word will be heard. Follow? Mind you, I don’t have belongings in the knick-knack paddywack sense of the word, I’s just making an example.

Now, keep up, son, I get deeper than this so take a deep breath and less dive on furrer.

Nah, look ahear…

I’ve been trying to get thru you, but damn if you don’t pay attention to the signs, man. Now, I know’s yous been awkappied with yo impenndin move and all, so I been trying to be payshunt.

Now, I think I should ansah your biggest queshun… why does my Imagination speak like an East St. Louis Pimp?

Firssafal, I ain’t YOUR muthafuckin Imagination. I AM Imagination, I am universal an shit. I come an go as I please. I blong to da people, you entiled muthafuck.

Second, I speak like I do cause it is entertainin as HELL to talk like this and I know for a damn fact it is fun as three hos in a bagga Jello to read. Am I right? Shit! How else am I to capture yo attenshun.

So. To my point, cuz I do have one.

So yeh ask. Why have I not juss appeared to yo ass?

Muthafuck, I tried! But issah hard as a mutha to compee in dis ere day un age gainst tellvision, innernet an all that. Dig?

You juss wern lissn! So I got this gee mail to tawk yo ass. Plus, muthafucks won’t let a muthafuck do dah twiddah.

So. My poin is. Be receptive. Keep an open mine. Lissen! An maybe, I’ll decide a sticka rown an help yo assout a bit mo wi

Till next time, keep an I open.

Big Don K.

You’re welcome…..

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo skull. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Con Man! – Apr 7

 

Geevenin and shit…

Con Man, why you gots to make an abstract consepshul mutha like Supreme Maj-Nation work so damn harr fo yo abstrack inteleckshuns, man?

Eyes juss tryin elighten you an ennertain myseff, biggun!

That was one mutha offa prank with all em fo-letter karrackers writtin yo ass off! Fo sho.

Ennway. What’s goin on?

I’s juss inneressed inne gowins on o yo grey matter. Wass on yo mine my vertical brutha? Enquirrin mines wanna kno!

Man, diss aumatic spell check makessit a pissah to type like a muthafuck wanssa muthafuckin type!

So…. whirr muthafucks wasseye?

Rite! So looka hyuh!

Affer my lass temp at reachin fru you, I cided take a high 8uss from envadin yo mine.

So looka hyugh ….

Sin lass we spoke, rect that, sin lass I spoke to you cause I ain’t a gotten blip one on da gee mail, I susessfla iffultrayded tha mine offa lil mongrill mutt I sawr and I convinss it ta proseed an nestroy da signer shoes offis ownas gurl.

I dont say master n account I fine it be naproprat.

Enway….

Inner rage, she nugletted a see that er shoe dee-bree wa stroon bout inna eggsact replica uh Fra Fillipo Lipi’s Da Annuncia Shun.

Iss unnerstanble…  who looks forrat shit?

Fo reels…. dass how untouchable my shit is…. Werd.

Now… Magine iffa had axess to a human mine! Dig?

Think bout it… juss think….

Yous an I cood reck sum havoc on the unsuspecktin minds offa masses!

So… eyesah gone give ya seven days an accept my creativ invite fore I discard you an moov on.

Dig?

Respects!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Sev mines one’s six – Apr 8

Snarky Marky Mark the Con Man!

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sj3joGzdyqk

Yessum. Wassup Issanbull?

Dis ere is day one. The begin o da end. Dee-a numero ooo-No.

Sept jours et tout c’est fini! Dig?

Lass chance to jump owna nite train to Magicville…. yessum, da countdown isaapawnuss!

Diggit Foo!

So looka hyuh, Con Con!

I caint compurr-end yo callous an contrariun stance to da magicul happenstans dat be my kolosall an cosmic colishun dat beelies common supahstishun!

WOOOOOO!

I bees legit man!

I ain no tiny dansah, Tony Dansa, Sancho Panza!

NAH surr!

I’s Voltron, Megatron, Optimus Muthafuck Prime all in one disembadeed concep!

I’s da Rocketman! Man! BALLAH!

Dig?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GAKOLOnfV4

I’s one hunned puhcent stone cold co-fuckin cane fo yo ninja brain!

Bruce Lee dis shut! HuWAHHH!!!

I juss wawnna Hoodini you mine open an break yerass free a awl dat edcashun dass keepin yer ass from truly goin Kraka-fuckin-Toa on dees muthas.

Ya kno? Co-labrate!

NO BULL!

I juss wanna work wiff yews, Istanbul not Conssansinopull!

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gi0Rt0slfy4&feature=fvwrel

Fo sho!

Sadly affur danite, I’s retirin da pimp voice, alees as fah as yer ass is concernt.

I gots six days a get thru you. An I gots to try all means nessary. Malcom X diss shit.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4DlfEQ7cyk&feature=related

Dats incluein droppin ma favrit modality a ma tonality an possibly speakin like a genlman.

It’s possible, but I find it strictly appalling.

DAMN! That even tayssed blan as fuck ritin it!

Doen gnore me fella! Less work agether!

Fellater!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths a yo imagination.

Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Five Oh! McGarrett! – Apr 10

Anuffa day dat passes issa notha day without hearins frum da Con Man.

Iffa eye had feelins,  I’d be hurtin like a mutha.

Butteye ain’t sad. No not a bit.

Evens tho wees on McGarrett Five O on our countdown!

Nah I’s readying myseff fo nutha mutha offa missaventure.

Dassrite! Yurrs truly, the Big Don, has ackwired surrin innellekshal propahtees.

Dass rite baby!

The Big Don is doin it like the Jeffersons! An I ain’t tawkin bout stickin it to Sally in Monny Chello!

Hell No!

I’m talkin MOVIN OWN UP, baby!

TO A DEElux APARMEN in a sky high brain dass gone ennertain ole Big Don an my suggessionatin an resonay-tin.

Dig?

Ya see-  I had hurrd dat der wassa vaycansee at the house of Sheen not too longs ago, ya see. But if ole Miss Chief hadunna planta her fine ass in señor Charlie’s head fore Big Don culda inffatrate!

An lemme tell you she’s ain’t no angel for that Charlie and he’s a got it bad got it bad got it bad, he’s a red hot for teacher, baby!

Hoooo-wee!

Any a ways, ole Miss Chief hassa deecide to cum to Big Don hissef an ax fo sum cunsultin work as it be.

So I’s gone be occupie fer a hot ass minute. Miss Chief can be damn purrswaysuff. She’sa got de damn finess ass I ERR seen!

An Big Don’s a seen em all Baby! Dis ere ass issa purrfecly circular.

I means it baby! Damn Mursaydees Benz enginears could kalabrate der insrumentation on dat ass!

Fo sho! Youssa coulda derive pie to seven digiss jussa lookin at it!

FREE poin Wan fo Wan FEYE NINE Too!!

Aw hell! All eye know issa there’s got to be GOT TO BE a fine sissynine in that pie fo ME!

Hoooweeee!

So I’msa sayun chow fo now. But I ain’tsa forgots bout da Con Man for a secon.

No mo worrin bout dees lass few days leff on the seven I said youssa had leff. Enjoy yo seff!

Want SUM? Get SUM!

I’ssa be back, beleev dat!

Knows it!

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Only upon receiving the above email did I realize that Don K’ Shayne was the real thing. I decided to respond in kind, and since Big Don reminded me of Fido, I emailed back in imitation of Fido’s style:

Constantine Markides to Don – Re: Five Oh! McGarrett! – April 10

a big dunkeschöen to the Big Don K’Shayne! are you my brutha from anutha mutha or my mutha from anutha brutha or maybe just my sista from anutha mista or more like my muse who’s here to abuse? damn yo, this mangy mutt is trippin’ on the depths of your imagination cuz he didnt browse his houndsnout through the first messages and thought he was just gettin’ some green eggs and spam, but now he knows you be the real ham, thank you ma’am! cause yo know about fido and his fellow fo-letter karrackers and about my being awkappied with impenndin moves and so on… damn, this blind ol’ dog is bitin’ at his chomps to find out who’s flashing these pork chops at him, at who’s the trickster conning the conman! i’ll tell you, yo, i’m glad you’re not hurtin’ like a mutha and dont take no e-ffense at my e-gnoring your e-mails cuz this ol’ mongrel has been yowling his words into the ragged night for twelve lousey years and all he’s gotten back is his Echo. and you can take that straight to your bedside Psyche. but even so, yo, un grande dogeyed pardonemwah for not responding earlier, i got outtrickstered that’s all, and that’s what makes the world go round and the big bang go boom so don’t retire yourself yet, my mind is open like you asked, i accept your creative invite, you’ve got my dogeared attention even if I’m missin’ the signs. so I’m just gonna curl up here with my bone at the doorway, listenin’ and waitin’ for your FedEx return.

p.s. and what’s this about the mine ya successfully iffultrayded? speakin’ of grey matter, you’ve got mine goin’ pop goes the weasel. e-word!

______________

Don K’Shayne to me – Apr 11 – I’s Been Discovert

Atlass! An I dont mean that big mussel mutha holin up the planet.

I means finelee! At lass!

Whitney Houston the Eegull has muthafuckin landed!

Done expeck this ere respawnss by fedex, man.

UPS, Con Man!

You PEE-ess! What can Brown do fo yerass?

Dig?

Now lookie hyuh!

Iss answa time!

As far as ma ginetick linage. I’s whatevess you needs my ansessree a bee.

Brutha, cousin, whassafuckevah! Tho all evidens says I’s a real mutha!

Whoooo!

Brutha’s good tho… fo starrers. No nee fo no Big Don, SuPREME Maja nashun jussayet.

Henneway, no nee fa pall gizin. I’s unnerssan sat na-days yews gossahav eyes like a, like a ka-million. Caint be too carful deese days, baby.  Dig?

Nah looka hyuh!

Henneway…. the mine I’s iffultrayded turnsoussabee a reel lame ass mutha.

Damn unimajnive reepubcan peessa shit.

So I’ssa goen Hall an Oass it an Say No Go!

Hells Naw!

Dat an that Charlie turn outta be a stray po-lah mutha! No helpun that.

So…. colabrashun! You goss sum ideeus or ar youss ready a rap yo surbellum rouns the Mine-a-mite dis ere Alfreh No Bull’s gown lawnch acher ass?

Dig?

Fo sho.

-The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – small fava – Apr 12

Con Man,

Lissen… howsa bouts you doos Ole Big Dons a solid fava?

Sis kine uff mbarassin an all… buh here goes…

Iss cozee as hells uppin hyuh in yo skull an all but… well.. I’s tryinna warch my Dominikan novelas onna TV an all, but syo foe-ludge sis innerfurrn wissa reecepshun, chief!

Parsah wha caughts ma- tenshun bow choo was yo verricality brotha!

Yo melons a good spot furra nareul antunna. Dig?

So howsa bouts you do me a solids an gets you legs a displace yous a nearess barber?

Juss a trim ya hyah? Nussin drassic!

Issa Fo o Fo now. Iffa you cans get it fo 8 I’d preshate it. Dat Josefeena sho is a site ta see!

Mo affur ma novelas! Oh, an I’ds awso preeshate iffa you keps ma viewun habiss to yoseff, please.

Don’t git sassy…

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

______________

I replied, once again staying in character with Fido:

Constantine Markides to Don – Re: small fava – Apr 13

da-amn, don k’shayne! ya better live up to your name and tell your korean girlfriend marcy bo koo to also send me some lovin’ thanks my way cuz i done gone what you begged of me. you better have savored yer dominikanation fannylicious pootang cuz this ol’ mongrel’s tossin’ and turnin’ and yearnin’ for his mutthairs back. shee-it, homey, I’m tellin’ you and every mr bo’ diddly fo’ diddly mutha out there that my poor little corpus is itchy as all hell and on fire like them sorry ass souls stuck down there in hadesville behind old three headed cerbie. see, coupla hours ago i stuck my snout for too long into a vat of rye firewater and then got all misty in the head for what big ol’ don k’shayne asked of me and I went to a polish barber and just told him “yo bro shave me dawn just like i was the juicebox of a 21st century pawnstar” and now I’m just a bald little chihuahua whose burnin’ and turnin’ under the sheets. shee-it, without my furry flesh I’m just as naked and miserable as when my mamma squeezed me all blind and hollerin’ and drippin’ out of her udder. but shee-it, at least I’ll be able to swim like a muthafucka manana! sent to you live bedside from my bald ass depths of my epidermis nation. word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – Re: small fava – Apr 13

Koreens!? Whedju gits dat eyedee-us Con Man?

I likes er name tho!

Not dat Big Don dont dig on ayshuns, iss not data tall baby!

Issa juss dat ayshuns tenna be onna smalla side, an dey done calls me Big Don fa nuthin baby!  I nees a woman who can hannels hesseff rounsa creecha of sirrun mass.

Dig?

Wiff ayshuns Ole Dons gots to double up! Yunnersan?

Lass time I’s wiff ayshuns wassin Hon-loolass. I’s der soekin up da rays, yunnerssan, an deese two fine sissas star flirrin wiff Ole Don, ya see?

Dey wurrn sistahs inna Foxy Brown sense. Nah. Dey were sissas inna gin-neck mutha dawtah sissah sense, dig? Deys famly,  yunnerssan?

Hennway….. I done member days names… but I calls em Mooch Ass n Grassy Ass onna count one wassa hoola dansa an otha wan took ma favra sunglassa un daint giffum back! Dig?

Hennway…. I hain seen the new cutta yo foe-ludge owna counss I’s hain been ousside aday.

Big Don dones do rain baby…. an I curr hears dat thunners lass nite.

Ole Thor’s an I’s gots a grudge goes ways back. Lass thing I wants issa boltsa litenins and thunners frum Ole MaJoelamurr ruinins my nite.

Tho I ains bleevin you gossa lots a herrs cut owna counts da rucepshun own ma novelas wassa cepshunlee grizlee lass nite. Tho it cudda bins owna counts a you drinkin dat derrs farrwaters dat made thins fuzz up.

I’s diggin yo Sirrbus reffunce. Tho, dass wan uh ma innervenshuns dat got outsah cun-troll, ya see?

Issa nots errdays yous russponsible fo starrin a ho metholojuss.

Ewassa cup thousun years go, ya see, an I gots diss ideus fo a new arrissic mooment. I’s bin drinkkin heffalee backssen yunnersan? I ain’ts prouds offits, but dass wha whens down.

Henneways, I’d juss polish offa cuppa dozun botulls o lowcull medtrainin wine, ya see, an thins starr gowins fuzz like. Immajuss dublin and tripplin up in my mine’s eye, yasee?

I’s drunkass I’s err been.

I’s seein thins frum multpull purspeckiffs awla wonce, yunnerssan?

Juss enn, dis lil mongrull doggie no bigga yo arm came un starr likin on Ole Don’s face. He wussa sine mentsa keeps Ole Don’s in chek!

Hennaway…. ness day, I’s awokes witha one mutha uffa headayk….

Dat vurr day, I swo off gettins drunk. So…. to co-memmarays ma new soburr-eyeatee I’s cided a co-mishun an artissic repsentashun a whasseye saw. The artiss was purr good, buttee juss cudn acuralee potray wasseye’s sayin. So the harmluss lil doggie came a multi-heads monsser.

An a rest assay-say is hissaree..

It tooks me nutha cup thousun yurrs a finelee gets my vishun reelize.

 

Issa call cubissum deese days baby! How you like?

So… I’s hopes I’s enliesens you a bit…. esspannen yo whirl view….

Keep up yo howlins intoos a nite baby. It mites souns likes a eckos, but iss juss otha dirry ass dogs howlins back atchuse!  We’s juss farraway…. yunnerssan?

Keep dat leash loose baby….

-The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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Don K’Shayne to me – da wethurs – Apr 16

Con Man!

I cided a venshur outta yo mines a bits ons wessday an agins yesseday an enjoys sa nice wethurs. So I apollo geye fo nah been pressen a hewps wicho tasses, yu procrasinay lass minah mutha! Serrslee!

HoooWEEE!

Henneways… looka hyuh!

Assalway happuns onna firss day a nice wethurs, awlsa gurlies acided a sho a lil skin, yunnersan?

Sho wuss a seye dasee! Ains nuthin lika seye a fresslee shay legsa gits a creeaff juices a flowins!

Evwhars Ole Big Don turns darwarsa fine yun ting a struttin like sheessa puttin soussa fires!

I tell you wass! Da ladies aparels is come a lone ways since hot pants, Fuh reels!

Con Man, lemme tell yous, dis citiss chainge! Datsa downseye a bein a neeternuls ennitee a createevatee, da peoples an places da matters an arr nears an deersa yo harr starsa issapurrin!  Iss sad man!

But I ont gits chokes ups baby! Too muchsa do agits sadsabous times passin.

So withsa wethurs beinas nice sitiss I wenns walkabous lika hossrailyun!

I wenssa fines my ole somppin grouns.

I wens lookins fo Unner the Volcannus wers I ussago wiss my bud Maccoms whens hes visstins frum Vankuvass. But it was gones. Ginger man wasill crossa street, tho.

I whens lookins fo da Nackerr Narwall whers I gav ole Herma da ideus fo Queeweh,  but sa Nahwall’s gone too! I mussa done sonem rite do, cus deres Stahbuss errweres! HoooWEEE!

Thins chane too fass suhties fo Ole Don’s a hannel. Buh lika says, canssa get too nossagic, ess yu miss da magics o da pressen! Werd!

So… I’s juss wrinin a lets you kno, keeps yo eyes opens, an neff let yo creatif side go astrays, baby. You ne’ers kno whensa wethurs goins gets rainna an clouss yo vishun, dig?

Like tonite… diss wethurs da Suck!

Werd.

- The BDK

Ya welcome!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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I warned Big Don that I’d be able to search his IP address if he posted a comment directly on Fourth Night. This was his response, in a comment on my website no less:

______________

Fido then jumped in (this time the real one, not just my impersonation of him):

Fido to Don – Comment: “Go For a Swim, Qaddafi” – April 17

da-AMN, the dankeschoen is in da dank house and s/he aint scared of no beware of the dawg signs! s/hee-it host, big don just dropped a big ol’ dookie in a plastic bag by yer front door and set her afire, and then don done gone pushed the ding-dong! easy there, host! don’t go turnin’ yer porch into a poopstoop! but here, since sniffin’ out troubles and snuffin’ out fires is right up my messy little alley, let me check her out… peeYUUU! smells like big don’s been eatin’ some big ol’ chile dawgs and i aint talkin’ bout my street slinking brothas and sistas down in that long suramerican pais, pah-lease! hellz, no point in checkin’ no IP addresses with the big don cuz he knows how to get all up and tweaky in yer head. he’ll just leave you insane in the membrane and barkin’ up the wrong bark.

now, Big D, you lend me your dogear and listen close, cuz this ol’ mangy mutt’s gotta tell you that last night i was out hangin’ with hairy host and his sassy sissa vassa visa and some hobolicious homies and HOOyah we were singin’ all yer emails out loud and laughin her up so hard that we near busted a coupla ribs and windows. da-amn, host can’t even keep up with you, yo, tho we gotta cut the brutha some slack cuz he’s sick right now in all sortsa ways, little sick in the heart, poor fella, little sick in the head, tho he’s always had a touch of that, and a little sick in the good ol’ fashioned flemmy way if ya dig what I’m hackin’ up. but really what I’m coughin’ here, big DK, is that you’re up in all kinda sistas and bruthas heads right now, ya hear? mr. dalvin klein, dig it or not, you’ve become some cult indie celebrity, or maybe i should say cult injun celebrity seein’ hows you yap like my ol’ misssissippi trippi granpy hucklyberry and jumbalaya jimbo except more blackface. hellz, yer so up in the broke ass depths of their minds that a coupla brothas think ol’ fido here is big don! cause you know how this here hound’s got a drop of cunnin’ stealin’ troublemakin’ blood in him, just like my bro coyote and loco loki i know how to subvert the moral code and pervert the oral code like doggone big dong, if ya doggie-style what i’m sayin’.

but shee-it i’m no big donkey. i mean, hellz, yeah, i got some chameleon blood mixed in with my dogblood so i know how to bust it out like the BDK if I wanna but the big con is from the big don, if you can double up what i’m sayin! Causa looka hyuh, lemme tellee, issa truth dat dis ole dog can sounda lika Ole Big Don if hes gots da yurnin fo it. Issa like in my geneticks tadoo dat, yunnerssan? Taint fa nuthin dat deys call me da tricksta, if ya ketch ma drift. Issa not dat fido is da ole don, issa not data tall baby! Fuh reels! Henneways…

whooWHEE! who needs wheaties when you got the early bird Special K! just one bite and yer down the K-hole, yo! hellz yeah, don’t call me fido no more, call me lazarus or shee-it call me hermes melville cuz i’m feelin’ resurrected as ishmael when he come whooshin’ out all smelly n’ jizzed up with whalejuice from the belly of the beast. it’s like i just come crawlin’ out of hibernation and am alive once more. free at last, free at last, thank dawg almighty, i am free at last!

whooHEEE, feels good, yo, to be howlin’ again into the moonnight! next time some questionarrio asks me to talk bout my personal hero, I’m puttin’ down Don K’Kong. hellz, I’m almost in the mood to go scramble up the empire state building like King D’Kong and start singin’ “Will the real slim k’shayney please stand up, please stand up, please stand up” except i aint gonna cuz i like my shady characters layin’ low.

word out from the BK. WOOF!

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After several days, I received the following email from Big Don. It turns out he had posted a comment but, as the website filter had flagged it, my approval was needed:

Don K’Shayne to me – Post ma Post! – April 20

Con Man!

I gossa cup a quessins fo yerass. Firssafal, how lons you gotssa takes sa gets my commens possed on yo commens on yo intermess page? Issa lie been fo days o somen! Moderashun? Diss aints drinkins an drivins baby! I dain’t reelize dassa fourthnight ments how longs issa take-a pose on you’s interness page!

Wha? Are yous all hungs ovars fromma passova sayda? Or is you is all flemma still frum yo illnassus?

NESS QUESSION!

Wha the fukisup wiss da weathus in dis city, Con Man? The weathus is da true con man coninuss awl!

Hots cold hots cold!

Issa maykin Charrie Sheen look wella jussed!

Why, I’s luvin the ladie’s leggie leg leggie show, fo sho juss da otha day! Now issa cole an gray as a golen gurl ree-runs!

Am I’s rite? Damn stray!

Nah, looka hyuh! Anna paya closa senshun cuz I’s abousa gess com-catus on yo ass.

Curran evenss.

How you feels bouss tha news outsa NASSA dass theys gots photos of a black hoe swallwins a star innis dyins lass momens? Coo photis too! Iss notta furss time dass happens, an idaint’s juss NASSA gots photiss like dass eitha. You rememmers Divine Brown anna Hue Grant?? HAAA! Dass right baby!

Alrigh Con Man! I’s goinna leave you bee fo now.

All this curran evenss hassa gots me a mite sleepa. I’s a gowenna curr up inna creviss tween da two hemsphurs o yo melon. Dig? I’s gonna nap.

Ya welcome!

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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I received the above email on my phone while heading to an evening Arabic class. I said I’d approve the comment once I was back at my place. His reply:

Don K’Shayne – Re: Post ma Post! – Apr 20

Kool and da Gang!

Say hi to Aladdin and da ayatollah fer me.

That turbo headed mutha still owes me a harrum a hoes fer some ghosswritin I did fer his OPEC ass backina day.

Werd

______________

And here is the comment which, for whatever reason, I had to approve:

Don K’Shayne to me – Comment: “Go For a Swim, Qaddafi” – April 18

Dayums fo reals. Con Man! Dis houssisa danka danna chursh baysamens owna…owna ka’sina nite! Fo reels! Opens a winnahs or sumn.

WHOOO!!! Bingo!

Is you issa tryinna gro da mushroos in diss ere place? Truffuss sho are spensif!

I thins sombaees leff a rottin corrs in hyah!

So! Arr co-mewnikays issa owna vurge a goins veyeras? Coo! I’s ready fores a Don K Outbrakes!

Whip oucha paniceilins!

Gladda hear yowes kin foke apurrshate oursa co-mewnikays! They mussa be peepas a cepshunaw quawltees an inneleck.

Con Man, you gossa sassy sissa? I figurrs yo parens gave ups affer ey had you! No senn makin dat missake twice!! HASSARYE! HAAA!!!!

I’s juss playin wichoo Con Man! Shurree she a luvly hueman been like you.

Assafars as cuttin you slack. No wurrs baby! Big Don knows yous is all kines sa sick! Fo sho!

Remembess do, dass essacly the storrs you shoes be writins bouss baby! Ders aint’sa been a singa sickna a da hueman harr da hassen been worthiss a pen to papah. Dig?

So… reersa back… takes a deepass breff ans yous ee’rs had, and lonsh a biggus wads a flemmuge on the page baby! Lets it oussayewe! Coffit UP! WHUTHAW!

Let sat spitooey an illnuss fills up da page baby!

Fo reels. I aintsa goin a judge… naw! I hase a judge.

Tay you time. I’s a bee rouns.

Werd!

-THE BDK

ya welcums.

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Fido then replied to BDK’s post. You can read it HERE

After a lull, BDK emailed again:

Don K’Shayne to me -- Tornaduss -- April 29

Conn knee chee wah Con Man!

Done tinks you’s in da cleahs juss yet baby! The Big Don ain’tsabowssa figgeta bouss you yets!

I’s been busys. That Josafeenas really owdid heseff diss week on my novelas. She an Marias gotsintoo a scuffa ovah a tall tan rasclee mutha offa dude name a Faleepay. Those gurls really gots intos it too. Dey letsum do a lots a dem’s owns stunn work in tv derr in da Dee-Are.

I’s seen youssas poesed a notiss one yo innermess site nouncin a lil sum’n sum’ns goinssa go down owna forf a dis upcommin.

Whachu gots cookins Con Man? Is I is or is I’s ain’ts a gowenns a be surprised?

HOOOOOOooooo!!!! Didje see da messes made down Sout lass few days? Dats whass happens when Loki and Miss Chief bote gits loadeds on muscadine wine an corn watars, djesee?

Now, looka hyuh!

I’s tell you what Con Man… I’s gots to make dis ere brief. I’s gots ta broker a release fo ole Miss Chief. Seemsa while she n Lokis was owna tare, deys bussed up a cabnet o chochkiss an niknacks at Thor’s crib. I’s goinssa gots a lobbiss wit Odin hisseff!

Good thing I’s used to babe sit his ass backinaday.

Dass rite.

Laters on Con Man!

Stay juicy.

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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On April 29 I wrote to Big Don asking if he’d let me post his writings and if he’d offer his ministerial services to readers. His reply:

Don K’Shayne to me – Re: Tornaduss – May 1

Con Man!

I’s honors an shit dat youss sallow me a make a mess ah yo innermess site.

It’s on baby! I’m down!

Ain’t no worries bout findin out who I am. Cause I ain’t lied to you. I’s the BDK! I’ve knowed yer ass since your verricality was floor bound an yous crawlins round on all fours baby!

I’s there whenchoo graduated from pickin yo nose wiff yo index an starred usin yo thumb!

Dass rite!

So done go fryin yo melon figren out who’s I be. Iss poinless.

Relaxan joy da ride!

Caint waita see ma posts!

Walk tall baby!

- The BDK

Sent live, bedside, from the broke ass depths of yo imagination. Word.

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If you’ve made it this far, you’ve got a comment or a question in you. So go ahead. Juss ass da Big Don HERE

Recommendation #1: Do not make eye contact with customs officials.

-Can I see your passport?

I handed it over, along with the customs declaration form. The man was stocky, thick-necked, and sporting a buzz cut.

-What’s your profession?

-Journalist. Well, writer. Novelist. Actually aspiring novelist to be precise because I haven’t yet—

-Please step over there, he said, while writing down the misspelling “aspiaring novelist’ on the form.

Recommendation #2: If possible, avoid telling a customs official that you are a writer or journalist. Above all, never say you are aspiring to anything.

After asking me if I had brought any cigarettes, alcohol, etc., he began searching one of my bags. I assumed he was looking for undeclared goods but he spent most of his time leafing through my notes and random bits of paper. It seemed an outrageous (although legal, as I later learned) invasion of my privacy but I put on a cheerful face. I had packed one of the military uniforms from my Cypriot conscription and I didn’t want to get on his bad side.

-What’s this?

He held up a glass jar inside which furry insects, or at least what looked like them, were packed in oil.

-It’s something my mom made… for strengthening hair. It’s a concoction of olive oil and fiddleheads (my mother later told me it was burdock root).

He held the jar up to the light.

-It’s what?

I repeated myself.

-What are fiddleheads?

-Green plants with curled heads. Edible. They’re good steamed.

He continued to stare at it.

-Is your dad bald?

-Not at all.

-Then what are you worried about?

-I’m not worried about anything. But, anyway, baldness comes from the mother’s side.

Recommendation #3: Do not correct customs officials unless necessary.

He didn’t answer right away.

-We may have to get this checked out, he said finally and set the jar aside. You grew up in Maine?

-Mostly.

-Where?

-Stillwater… Old Town. It’s near Bangor.

-How’d you end up there?

-My dad came to the states to study when he was 18. He eventually got a teaching position at the University of Maine in Orono.

-What does he teach?

-Sociology.

I could imagine the rigmarole he would have put me through if I’d mentioned that he teaches a class on political violence and terrorism.

-I’ve been to Orono a few times. It’s boring as shit. I went to UNH.

Life clearly was more exciting in Logan Airport, where he had the privilege of prying through arriving passengers’ belongings and life details while defending the Homeland. To be fair though, I can’t say I wouldn’t have enjoyed it myself.

He glanced at a few folded up newspaper cutouts on Sarah Palin. He may have interpreted them as fan clippings (which may have won me brownie points with him) because he asked no questions. It’s hard to say how he would have responded if I told him they were for some satires in which I had compared Sarah Palin to the Virgin Mary.

Next he retrieved a stack of cards bound by elastic.

-What are these?

-Frequent flyer cards.

-How many have you got—?

-Too many, I know. From now on I’m sticking with American Airlines.

Recommendation #4: Avoid saying things like “From now on I’m sticking with American Airlines” when two of the hijacked planes on 9/11 were American Airlines and when two of the planes also happened to depart from that very airport.

-Where did you say you worked as a journalist?

-In Cyprus. Nicosia, the capital.

-Are you Cypriot?

-Yes.

-Do you have a passport?

I’d hoped this wouldn’t come up. I’d always taken my father’s advice to never show my Cypriot passport in the U.S., not necessarily because one can’t be a national of two countries, but to avoid any hassle or trouble.

-Yes.

-Can I see it?

He didn’t seem to be at all bothered by my Cypriot citizenship. My army exit permit was also in a side pocket of the passport wallet but he never checked that. It didn’t really matter though since he’d be getting to the army uniform soon enough. In fact, the next thing he examined was my army boots. He pulled them out.

-Are these comfortable?

-No, not really.

-So why do you have them?

A number of possibilities flashed through me: “It’s my Halloween custom… It’s camouflage for duck hunting… I’m into the fetish scene.” But I knew that if he got a whiff of deception, I’d be in for it. Hence the most essential piece of advice, unless of course one is a criminal:

Recommendation #5: Do not lie to customs officers unless your lie is irrefutable.

-They’re my army boots. I had to do a three-month stint in the Cypriot National Guard.

I emphasized the mandatory nature of the conscription. I had once read online that anyone who has served in a foreign military could in certain circumstances be stripped of U.S. citizenship. Once again, he didn’t seem at all bothered. In fact, the questions he asked me in regards to my time there seemed more out of personal interest than procedural. I even seemed to have gained some respectability in his eyes. He took a brief look at my army pants, jacket and cap.

-I brought them in case I ever go hunting, I piped in, a bit too hastily perhaps. Although I suppose these are more suited for the dry tan-colored terrain of Cyprus than the dark green of Maine—

-Makes no difference. Camouflage is camouflage.

That I had served in the armed forces of another nation and was bringing my boots and fatigues to the U.S. apparently did not seem to even warrant a single question. It was my writing that concerned him.

-What’s this? he asked, pointing to a piece of paper in which a number of lobster claws that resembled the number four were sketched out.

-It’s for my website. I’m trying to put a logo together.

-Website. What for?

-I post monthly essays.

It was the start of the darkening of our relations. He apparently felt he was on the scent of something, because he started reading every note scrap he found, obviously trying to make sense of a possible Cyprus-hatched plot to attack America. This wasn’t just any old customs official. This was a Homeland Security Agent of the highest order, a Beautiful Mind of airport customs. It was entertaining enough. And what eagerness to read my work! Most publishers and agents lacked his good taste.

His demeanor and attitude grew increasingly severe the more he explored my scribbles. Apparently my writing seemed suspiciously seditious to him. He was coming across scraps of paper upon which I had been brainstorming novels and characters with phrases like “kill em off at end.” At one point he handed me a piece of paper upon which a red pen had leaked, giving it a look of violent subversion.

-What is this? I can’t read it, he said.

I could barely read the terrorist scrawl myself. It must have been about ten years old. It read:

we ingest we fornicate we expire

we eat we fuck we die

we dine we make love we pass away

such are the ways of the world

select your preference.

-I don’t know, I replied. Pseudo-poetry gibberish I wrote a decade or so ago.

My answer only seemed to intensify his distrust. His expression had hardened.

-So what work will you be doing in Maine?

-Oh, random jobs… maybe lobstering, carpentry, roadwork, anything to support my writing.

Recommendation #6: Do not tell customs officers that you do “random” jobs. It suggests vagrancy, shiftlessness, a questionable background. Pick one line of work and stick to it.

He held out a large plastic bag of ground tealeaf.

-What’s this

-Black tea from Western Kenya. Some kids were selling it on the roadside, it cost me 50 cents or something like that. I went there last year for some articles on the Archbishop of Kenya—

Recommendation #7: Never volunteer information. Brief responses translate to fewer questions.

-What kind of a newspaper were you working at?

-It’s called Cyprus Mail. It’s the island’s only English-language daily.

-What did you write about? Sports?

-Sometimes tennis. But mostly just daily Cypriot news stories—an army helicopter crash or a neighbor shooting a priest in the head or a cabaret scandal, that sort of thing—as well as national politics and—

Recommendation #8: Better to say you write about sports than politics.

Were you writing any editorials?

-No, not really. Just a few on the lack of public transport in Cyprus.

I’d also written some opinion pieces on European perceptions of the U.S., which I adapted from my Fourth Night essay, The View on America, but thought it best not to mention them. Ironically, they were primarily on misperceptions of the U.S. and the self-exonerating tendency, at least in Cyprus, to project blame outwards and see an Anglo-American conspiracy at the source of all trouble. But I had my reasons. I was slowly realizing that dealing with customs officers is like running coal stoves: the less you meddle with them, the smoother the process will be.

Recommendation #9: Anything in Customs that requires elaboration and/or even the slightest amount of intellectual application is best left unsaid, even if it seems to your advantage to voice it.

He paused to enter some data in his computer and then resumed his search. He soon brought out another piece of damning evidence for me to corroborate.

-What’s this mean?

He was pointing to the word “Creed,” which I had circled, under which was written “To hell with going to publishers – let publishers come to you.”

From the moment that Cypriot conscription proved to be no concern to him up until now, I had primarily felt bemusement at the entire process. Exasperation was now taking its place.

-Look, it’s nothing more than an idea for a project. You get fed up after a while with rejection letters and with publishers when you see what’s printed every year. It’s for a novel-related project I plan to initiate through my website to raise attention to it.

I was starting to lose respect for myself for even acknowledging his questions.

-You’re not going to be starting some underground thing are you?

-No, I’m not starting an underground thing! I snapped.

The craziest thing is that he was actually serious. In his mind he saw angry newspaper editorials in Cyprus denouncing the American infidels, he saw Greek Cypriot mullahs (who must have forgotten that they were Orthodox Christians) issuing fatwas to kill Americans, he saw shiftless “aspiaring novelists” coming to the U.S. to start movements with Credos that called for god knows what underground actions against so-called “publishers.” This guy could crack the terror codes. He knew what I was up to, all right. He had surely already checked my history for any connections to Bill Ayers and other such notorious ringleaders of international evil.

The search did not last much longer. The last thing he showed me was a list of the various publishers to whom I’d sent my fiction.

-What’s this? he asked, pointing to the word “Milkweed.”

-Milkweed? It’s a publisher.

He looked again at the sheet of paper. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

-You can pack your things back up. I’ve just got to go get this checked out and I’ll be right back, he said, holding up the jar of olive oil and burdock root.

As he was walking off he turned around.

-What did you say this plant was again?

-Fiddleheads. You’re welcome to confiscate it. You’d be doing me a favor. Look at it. Would you want to rub that in your hair?

He walked off.

It was then that I realized what he had been getting at with “Milkweed.” It was the ‘weed’ that had caught his interest. He was trying to flesh out a potential terrorism / drug trafficking connection. If the mujahideen had funded terror operations with opium, then did it not logically follow that I might be funding my underground subterfuge with grass?

I have been told that Logan Airport Customs is especially strict as it does not want to find itself with another catastrophic breach of airport security. But the outlandish search I underwent also surely had something to do with eight years of Bush. The wiretapping, the surveillance, the expansion of executive power, the jingoist and xenophobic paranoia, the undisclosed seizures and internments, the abuses of detainees, the Inquisitional approach towards interrogation, all of these have left their corrosive mark. The question, now that Bush and Cheney are leaving, is how long that mark will remain. One can always get rid of rust so long as one catches it before it’s too late.

The customs officer returned after a few minutes with the jar in hand. I had already loaded my luggage back into the cart.

-I’ve got some bad news for you. I’m sorry to say you’re going to have to take this with you. Here you go.

His delivery was deadpan. I took the jar and headed for the exit. The rust hadn’t gone through all the way, after all.

Constantine Markides