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Frank-ly Speaking

No true compendium of Comstock lore can be considered complete without an introduction to some of the more interesting denizens of our bestiary. I am not as you suspect, referring to Malice or the unholy brood she fostered, but some of the more colorful individuals generally invited across our doorstep, in the same vein as vampires, by Matt or Dan. The distinction between the subgroups is negligible. As each of these fine card carrying members of the Whiskey Tango set deserves their own story, this shall focus on the sisters Frank.

How these two were first introduced to us is lost to the mists of forgotten lore, or is remembered and no one really cares. I suspect they fall into the subclass of people Matt met attending ECC City Campus, as neither him nor his student colleagues had yet reached the level of sophistication necessary to be admitted to the suburban counterpart. All I recall is that suddenly, and with no warning, they appeared in our living room, liked what they saw, and continued to make our pad their home away from home at every opportunity until the final straw almost a year later.

The sisters Frank, respectively Cary and Mandy, came as an unmatched set; one rarely seen without the other. It was never clear to me who was the elder, if they were fraternal twins, if they were even really sisters, and which of the two attended a class with Matt and was impressed enough to strike up a powerfully bizarre alliance.
Cary was the shorter of the two, with light red hair cut short and boyish, and more curvaceous of form. Her attire was grunge chic, although I suspect though no conscious intention. She was definitely the more personable of the two and very protective over her sister in the finest of Springeresque fashion. Mandy was slightly taller, slighter of frame, and presented an attractive brunette package. Her mannerisms, to my recollection, ranged from slightly annoyed to royally pissed off, either at Matt or the boyfriend she was cuckolding.

Directly affiliated with the sisters and undeserving of solo entries into this log were a motley collection of ne’er-do-wells, bottom feeders and affiliated scum. Most of whom occupy only the shadiest memories of times, but for the singularly interesting Kris Klausen. Kris was an old school head banger complete with patch embossed denim jacket and Motorhead inspired hair. He was a large fellow and presented an intimidating figure; until you got to know him that is. Though the year that he insisted on frequenting our place, he arrived each time with a new and exciting injury with accompanying story. Fitting his profile stereotypically, Kris was a brawling enthusiast. Contrary to expectation, however, was his predilection for losing each and every scrape he found himself in. His crowning achievement and greatest shame occurred in his epic battle with a pregnant Mandy Frank in which he lost a testicle to an unblocked and well placed kick from the tiny slip of a girl he dared to offend. His aggression halved following the incident. I imagine that in his likely career scrubbing out dumpsters, he is known by co-workers as ‘Lefty’.

While I do not well recall the first meeting with Franks et al, I do recall the first party they attended in the first attempt by Matt or Dan to merge their clan into ours. Mandy’s presence at that event was negligible and likely consisted of fighting with Matt in the basement.
Cary, however, arrived as bell of the ball, her fiery noggin crowned with a high chef’s hat, upon which was lovingly hand stitched ‘Chef Motherfuck’. I spent more time than advisable that evening attempting to secure the ineffable answer to why, but failed in my quest for knowledge. I find it probable that my interest was more in that she was an available woman in a typically male dominated party than the hat which made her so approach able. My persistence was not rewarded as when I took some time to mingle, she took the opportunity to demonstrate her oral skills to Rocky Horror Chuck, who is no longer with us and whose last name escapes me.

Our alliance with Clan Frank continued though the winter of the first year and well into the succeeding summer. We brought to the table a place where revelers of all ages could party free from fear of reprisal, and Matt, whom Mandy was content to bone in the absence of her mysterious beaux Pat. They in turn brought to our abode the only individuals with mammaries a plenty with the exception of Fat JP in a tight shirt or Dan’s flavor of the week who had not yet thrown up on the premises. For the most part, it was a good arrangement. It made for interesting times, more parties, exposure to people we could feel morally and socially superior to, and had the valued trait of irritating Jason. I recall one evening; having walked home from Collectors, coming up the drive to find
Cary and Mandy building snowmen in our driveway and the snowball fight that later ensued. The snowmen were soon destroyed by the might of Knaus’s brown ’79 Cutlass for the sheer audacity of existing in his parking space.

The best of times were the summer parties that manifested in our yard all those glorious nights in ’93. These were always impromptu events that began with Dan or Matt stopping by and drawing, like powerful magnets, all manner of wretched folk. During winter parties it was common to have our doorway darkened by some particularly heinous looking individual, asking if Dan was present and drooling on themselves as the criminally insane are wont to do. Our general reaction was a hasty “Nope!” followed by a hard slammed door. Dan would later lodge protest that ‘Violent Fred’ was really a good guy in outraged insincerity. During the summer though, all were welcome and the L&T grew fat with beer sales to Guy’s delight.

On many occasion we would climb the back fence and use the boost to shimmy up the steeply sloped garage roof and perch ourselves in a row to enjoy the night air. It became particularly more enjoyable when it was determined that Matt lacked the stature to make the journey successfully, and that we could pour all manner of concoctions on him from above, safely out the reach of his defenses. One neighbor, around the block from us, was particularly offended by our climbing ventures for the danger it posed to both our health and the roofing shingles. Having little regard for either, our responses were provocative. Resolution came though Klausen threatening to kick his ass, and thereafter he kept silent, glowering at us at a safe distance behind the chain link.

The most historic night was a planned party to which the whole extended clan attended, including Mandy’s hereto unseen beaux Pat, who had been sequestered away in the Marines, prison, or some combination thereof. I had previously described the situation as Springeresque and it was at this event that the term proved most apt. Mandy, in some ill conceived moment of honesty, let slip to Pat her dalliances with Matt, which had reportedly recently ended, possibly due to her soon to be announced pregnancy. As expected, Pat did not take either piece of news with the calm philosophic demeanor she felt appropriate and declared with great fanfare that Matt was a walking dead man. We, having caught wind of this, eschewed doing the wise thing of cancelling the party and instead invited even more people to enjoy in the spectacle. In our best crisis management planning, we discussed trying to keep them apart if at all possible.

Matt, possessing a full two and a half times less body mass than Pat, may have briefly considered staying home that night or spending it at Putt Putt, but perhaps also drawn to by the prospect of a good ass kicking, came anyway. I was in the kitchen talking to Ann when Pat came barreling in though the side door expressing his keen interest in finding the elusive Mr. Schultz, who at the moment, was hiding in the bathroom. When Ann heard why he was sought, she helpfully volunteered the information freely and without coercion. Matt, in all his vaunted squireliness, managed to slip by the bespeckled juggernaut and make it into the backyard. It was on. Sort of. What followed was the most pathetic showdown ever witnessed by my jaded eyes. Pat would lunge in Matt’s direction, declaring loudly “I’m going to kill you!”. Matt would bounce away. Pat would stop. People would try to talk to Pat. Repeat steps 1 though 3 a good 15 times. Finally, and perhaps to break the monotony of the situation, Sean B opened our screen door in front of Pat as he made his trademark lunge. Predictably, he barreled into it damaging both his hand and the door. Thwarted at last, he grabbed Mandy, got in his car, and sped off to be seen by us no more.

During these times I struck up a very decent friendship with
Cary and came to enjoy our talks as we found a common interest in lying back on the warm hood of Knaus’s Cutlass, looking up at the stars and pondering the universe. I had resolved to make the difficult endeavor to begin transitioning things to a ‘more than friends’ level when it was announced that Dan was one step ahead and thereafter they officially became and item. As with any group comedy or drama, real, televised or other, all it takes is one sustainable intra-pack romance to spell the beginning of the end. As the summer wore on, the happy couple came by less and less, as did a now visibly pregnant Mandy who chose to stay with the lummox who conceivably could have been the father. Anything is possible I suppose.

Came the time for ties to be broken irrevocably. Shortly after the grand rumble,
Cary asked it would be possible at some time to host a similar event sans violence and we agreed to consider the request. Six weeks later, the request was well forgotten, having been brought up not once since. It was overcast Friday afternoon and I was taking a summer afternoon nap with plans to catch a movie with Dave later on when I awoke to furious pounding on the door and a heavy finger on the bell. I crept to the stairway landing where there was a stained glass window partially open from which I could covertly peer out of to see the driveway. Assembled there like an invading army was Cary Frank resplendent in her not oft seen chef’s hat, and about 30 followers. On that particular day I had no interest or patience for their continued presence on the property, and being the only one home, decided to ignore the lot of them until they grew tired and went away.

Half an hour later they had not moved. Listening in, I could hear Cary attempting to explain to her party hungry crew that the path had been cleared for the gala event and that I, yes I, was deliberately screwing her by not being present to back the story. This of course made me determined that they would not cross our threshold over my rotten corpse. I decided to clear them from the drive before Jason came home and foolishly let them in as he tended to do whether he knew the visitor(s) or not. I decided to call a solid ally in arms for moral and physical support as an inebriated Klausen was present and had not yet been de-testicled. I was on the phone in the upstairs study, explaining the situation, when suddenly I heard a tremendous crash. Cursing loudly, I slammed down the phone and flew down the stairs.

Like some grotesque beast being born was Cary emerging though our kitchen window, being pushed though by Klausen and tumbling down our bottle collection to crash on the floor. Her eyes met mine in wild surprise at my presence, and as my face must have bespoke the danger she was in, she retreated back though hastily. Declining to wait for backup, I burst forth from the side door, like Moses from the mountain upon seeing the golden calf and flung forth the stone tablets of my fury. Not comprehending the depth of my agitation, she feebly argued her point and even had the audacity to attempt conning me into letting her go forth with her plans in my absence and leave change to Dan when he arrived hours later. I made it clear, albeit with no small amount of filthy language, how unacceptable the idea truly was. She put forth her best pout. Unmoved, I stood firm. At her command the grand exodus began and had departed from my sight in little time.

Turning back up the driveway after verifying the return of my solitude, I was startled by the screech of tires right in front of the house. Fearing a drive by reprisal, I ducked and turned to view my certain attacker. The engine still running, the door to the Bronco flung open and from it emerged Dave, his Full Metal Jacket war face at its fierce finest. Mullet streaming from his neck in the warm summer breeze, he charged forth, crowbar in hand raised high above his head like the first crusader crying out in a loud bellow, assured of breaking some Saracen ass. My jaw dropped in shock and awe at the scene. I flung up my hands as he came toward me, so wild of eye and hair. “Where are they?”. Gone, I replied, he was too late. Furious at the speed limitations of his conveyance, he slammed the crowbar into the dirt with unabashed shame and disgust.

Suffice it to say, I was able to get him calmed down and coherent again. Hearing my cry of rage over the phone and being suddenly disconnected, he feared the worst and resolved to come to my rescue or avenge my death. I still feel he was somewhat disappointed to find me there alive and in surprising good health. I explained to him that these were just a bunch of misguided and overgrown kids who would have, at worst, drank all my beer and staged a petulant sit in. I shudder to think of the carnage had this well intentioned knight errant exploded into the crowd, swinging the bar with wild abandon. Those punks would have handed him his ass, with the crowbar likely though it. Sometimes things end in the best possible way they can.


5 Responses

  1. Kris Klausen, before losing half his manhood often began his losing fights with the cry, “Step up to the plate!” During the bulk of our time with Klausen he lived in his car and had sex with his under-aged girlfriend.

    Shawn Burns stuck his foot out, sending Pat into and partially through, our screen door. I tried repeatedly to get the month to replace th screen door from both Matt and Pat, each declaring “I’ll pay when he pays.” In the end I retrieved no money, and we had to pay landlord Don for the damaged door. As usual, in the end the entertainment proved the cost of the replacement door a penny in a bucket.

  2. You know for someone who claims to have this old-time nostalgic feel for love unrequited you might spell her name right. It’s CARRIE, not Cary.

  3. Carrie didn’t have red hair either.

  4. Another comment about the damaged door. I gave Arron, Pat’s number to call and get his money. Pat, for some reason, was extremely pissed at this and called me up screaming all of this garbage, as was his usual modus operandi. Between his screaming and cursing, and my laughing, i never found out what the trouble was, as he had offered originally to pay for the door.

  5. Sean did not open the door. What happened is that Patrick ran by us (I was standing very close to Sean) and Sean stuck out his foot. Patrick tripped over Sean’s leg and Matt simultaneously opened the door. Patrick did a faceplant into the door, then promptly looked around and shouted “Whose house is this! I’ll pay for your door!” then ran inside after Matt.

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