Author: MNManmacker

Max Alleyman

Max is a beach bum and a former sailor. He lives in Key West.

Keeping a boat is an act of meditation. There was always something to be sanded, painted, tightened, weatherized or replaced. If you look at it as a tool like a hammer, you’ll be disappointed by the upkeep. If you look at it as a lifestyle to savor, you’ll appreciate it.
And since Max lived on his houseboat, he definitely saw it as a lifestyle. Work sharpens each moment, and a boat is an eternal list of chores. It kept him trim and firm, and it kept his mind both grounded and lofty. It also kept him sunburnt, his knuckles callused and his bank account empty, but nothing’s perfect.

From Max the Beach Bum

The Butcher Shop

The Vanzetti butcher shop was on Costenoga Boulevard in downtown Seaside Heights, near the ocean but far enough away the crashing waves were only barely audible at night. It was a tiny shop with a big window out front and a display case piled high with sausages, steaks, cutlets and premade beef wellingtons. A heaping jar of Vanzetti family ragu sat in the case as well. Everyone in the neighborhood swore it was the best.

From Rough Trade Italians

Signor Vanzetti

Signor Vanzetti, who was an arousing sort of man. He wore his butcher’s apron unbuttoned, so his curly black chest hair popped out the edges. His broad chest stretched the apron, which was stained with pale red meat juices, and his well-worked biceps were revealing by the sleeveless shirt he wore under the apron.

From Rough Trade Italians

Pizza King

The kitchen was a mess. A stack of pizza boxes had fallen over. A pile of banana peppers lay sprawled out across the floor. A mop bucket sat forlorn and filthy near the walk-in. A big bowl of spaghetii grew more and more crusty by the moment, resting on the shelf by the cooking station. A pan lay coated in extra-burnt charcoal near the stove — somebody had burnt something real bad.

From Rough Trade Italians

The Hunting Cabin

Anyway, they made it to the hideout spot, which was some old hunting cabin in the woods. All it got was a outhouse to shit in and some buckets to bathe in. Rico turned his frown on like a spotlight about that.
“Where is this cabin, the nineteenth century? Shit, nigga!” Rico stamped his foot, furrowing his handsome forehead at the buckets like they might turn into a shower somehow. He phoned out to see if he got a app that could build, deliver and install plumbing before his next poop.
But there ain’t no such app. Not everything’s a phone yet! Plumbers still out there making bank, y’all!
Rico’s phone ran outta bars, so he couldn’t even use it. He tried to charge it with his frowns, but that ain’t fix it. Then he hand-delivered a frown to the dust, the cracked windows, the spiderwebs, the buckets, the front door, the back door and the fireplace. He delivered his best frowns to Thumper though.

From The Ex-Con, the Prettyboy Thug and Gang Loyalty

Marquez Ranch

The Marquez Ranch was a dark and dusty expanse of land. It was scattered with rocks and arid grassless dirtstomps, and Señor Marquez done turnt into a bustling hotbed of activity. He and his men raised cattle and goats in their grassier pastures, and they prospected for gold in the creekbeds.

From Zeke the Cowboy

Goodman Ranch

Goodman Ranch was swathed in sunlight, its soil a burnished bronze. The ranch stretched far in every direction, cows herding and sheepdogs barking off into the horizon. The pasture-land this side of town was scrawny and hardscrabble, which was why Mr. Goodman’s ranch had to be so big — the cows ranged far and wide.

From Zeke the Cowboy

Angelo Cavollo

Angelo Cavollo was a middle-aged Italian, a capo in the Cavollo family. He was lean and long, hairy in the chest and limbs. He got a big rectangle of a face and a nose like a eagle’s talon. The cell was hung up with letters from Angelo’s wife. Rocky was embarrassed he ain’t got a wife.

From Rocky the Ex-Con