TyKE JoHNSON

The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov in To Be A Jester On Halloween

        “Fear not Mother, if I find a razor in an apple I shall not only refrain from eating it, but I’ll find the culprit who placed it in my sack and tear them limb from limb,” yells twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov, lifting a drooping jester hat from his face.  The bells that hang at the end of the red and gold and green points jangle near his cheeks and he blows them from his face like a woman at her hair.  “And if these bells shall jingle and jangle all night, can I at least be spared the embarrassment of being slapped in the face with their gold-plated urethras?”  Vladimir yells aloud to an unresponsive matriarch, stomping his feet and stabbing the hardwood floor with a dazzling cane of mercury red and Iceland purple.  Tassels hang from the handle, shimmering the light of energy-saver lit jack-o-lanterns that dance shadows across the Dostoevsky shelves.
        Vladimir takes his pail and nods to his mother dressed as Dorothy and his father dressed as Scarecrow.  “And you two with your fairytale match of twisted desire, are you unaware that Dorothy did nothing more than kiss Scarecrow?  That she did nothing more than kiss?  Or is that all it takes at your age?  Is that all it takes to fulfill?  A kiss from a girl in red pumps, dazzling but prude, dazzling red heels, but prude!” Vladimir stamps his blue slipper-adorned foot on the floor and acts if to spit, disgusted with the topic he has brought up.  “Speak not my seniors, my elders, my consenting adults, for I can’t handle such disappointment with age.  Please let me believe I’ll need Dorothy’s skirt lifted high when I’m older.  Made of straw or not, I’ll want that skirt lifted high!”
        “You know where we’ll be, so meet us there when you’re finished.”  Vladimir’s mother has her hair back in tails and he struggles hard to refrain from calling her a horse, while his father dances a straw moving jig and spins in the air with a kick.
        “You spin like a top made of wet oak, drooping and weighed down by the water, slow and moving like a yawn.  And you Mother, what of this low-cut blouse?  What of this blue dress that pulls at your breasts and shoulders that reveal like pears?”  Vladimir brushes the tassels of the cane over her shoulders and down her shirt to her waist where she pushes it away with a scowl.
        “I will dress how I please Young Man, now grab your flashlight and go.”
        “Good luck Old Man, for this one will not be tamed, her breasts are moving already.  And if the apples are spiked and the wine is free, you’ll need a lock and key to keep them in.”  Vladimir puts his chin high and puffs his chest out in deep breaths. 
        “I said grab your flashlight and go!”
        “And go I shall.  Out into the night to search.  And not for candy of chocolate twist delight, but of pleasure cries and sweating thighs that swell and thrust and swell!” Vladimir turns without another word, his bells jingling high and tassels reflecting low and tights holding back the show.

The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov in The Sporting News

        “Pass me the sporting news, father, it’s high time I brush up on the local competing factions,” said twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov as he sat at the breakfast table drinking an espresso while reading over the previous days market report.
        “Sporting news, Vlad?  Why, we get no such section,” his father said, puzzled, causing Vladimir to cough up his most recent sip of the dark brew.
        “We get no such section? What do you mean we get no such section?”
        “I mean, we get no section on the sporting news, local or otherwise.”
        Vladimir sat in astonishment.  “And how, pray tell, Father, am I to be an honorable man in this world of dodge ball and jai-lai if I can’t check the box scores?  For as you may or may not know, the market report does little for me socially or sexually.”
        Vladimir’s father took off his glasses and sat them on the table between the two Karlovs.  “But Vlad, you’ve showed no interest in athletics ‘til now so I’ve never deemed the sporting news necessary.”
        Frustrated, Vladimir continued his argument, “And how is one to show interest in sports, organized or otherwise, if one has no patriarchal figure influencing him to do so?  For, unless I’m mistaken, you Father, have done little if nothing at all to promote my athletic side.”
        “I was unaware you had an athletic side, Vlad.”
       Vladimir jumps from his seat offended and yells with resentment at the emasculating accusation, “How dare you make such a claim, Old Man.  Why, I know no other with as much athletic prowess as I.  You have obviously forgotten the time I carried all the groceries, eleven bags total, up eight flights of stairs because the elevator was out of service.  Or the time I moved the couch to vacuum under it while we were in flux of cleaning ladies.  Yes, Father, your son is quite athletic indeed.”
        “It seems I’ve forgotten those events, Vlad.”
        “Do your research, Old Man, before you make such allegations so that future defamations can be avoided.”
        “Duly noted, Vlad.”
        “Now, hand me the leisure section until this abomination of news has been remedied.”
        Vladimir’s father did just that, then put his glasses back on as Vladimir took another sip of his espresso.

The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov: Valentine's Day

        “To tell you the truth, you pock marked swindler of sweets, I have little, if any interest at all in your chocolates, cherry filled or otherwise,” said twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov to a black girl dressed in uniform.  White shirt, blue cardigan, and kaki pleated skirt. 
        “But it’s for a good cause.  My school is trying to raise money for new books,” the high school girl pleaded, cardigan spreading just above the buttons.
        “Why bother?  For your new books will do nothing more than teach you a life of yearly chocolate sales and proper condom application.  No thank you young miss, for I don’t prescribe to such fascism.”
        Vladimir had meant to move along, his point, he believed, well made, and his careless degree of interest just right, but the high school girl’s cardigan had opened a bit more and the white shirt covering her dark flesh below began to reshape his perspective.  He turned back to the busty high school queen and stood with one leg forward, his chest puffed out as if just having bested a foe, their body lying helpless at his feet.  “May I taste your chocolates before purchasing?” 
        “I promise you they’re good,” her breasts breathed in reply.
        “And I believe you my African princess, but for me to purchase I must be guaranteed that both the flavor and texture are to my liking so that I’m not up late in bed wishing I had purchased another piece of chocolate more suitable with my predilection.  You see, I’m a man of sophisticated taste; quick satisfaction and fleeting expectations mean nothing to me.  I desire long term arousal, something that I can taste again and again.”
        “These chocolates have cherries and almonds and dates.”
        “And when I eat them will they fulfill?”
        “They’ll fulfill you till you’re full.”
        “But I know I’ll never be full.”
        “Then you’ll have to buy again.”
        “From you?”
        “From me.”
        And Vladimir pulled out his wallet, while her breasts beat effortlessly.  “I’ll buy two boxes and your number so that I may call and assess your guarantee.” 
        As Vladimir stepped closer, he took out a pen and a small pad of paper from inside his sports jacket, looking seductively at the salesgirl and running his hand through his dark hair, which was still parted perfectly to the right just as he had fashioned it hours earlier in front of his Louis XIV mirror.
        “I cannot give you my number, you’re a stranger from the street.”
        “A stranger I am not, for I am Vladimir Karlov, triumph of the Caspian Sea.  All women know my name, though few have been so lucky to know my body.  However, seeing as you’ve enticed me long enough for me to stop here at this corner, breaking me from my busy schedule, I feel you deserve the right to witness such a marvel.”
        The girl turned to look away, just as Vladimir had unbuttoned his shirt.
        “Do not turn your back on Vladimir Karlov you chocolate dealing harlot,” his shirt and coat blowing open, revealing a pale chest, “for I have no time for such teases that muse over the likelihood of a late night rendezvous but sell short the bait, which she has hooked, for I am no fish of easy persuasion, I am no child of campfire pursuits.  I am Vladimir Karlov and your breasts, yes conniving streetwalker, your breasts, are all that I am after.”
        Vladimir spits in her direction and flees the scene with fists clenched, the blood below his belt rising and the wind carrying the tails of his sports jacket like dust.
   

The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov: Part 5

            “Looks like it’s a night for theater, Vladimir, looks like it’s a night for song.”
            Twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov faced himself in the mirror and combed his dark hair. It had been months since Vladimir had made time for the stage. He had been so bogged down with the luring and chasing of the female that he had almost forgotten his love of musicals.
            “You’ve had enough Vladimir; you’ve had enough for ten men, you’ve had enough for ten men and more.” It had been years it seemed since Vladimir last gazed upon a bare set of d cups. So long in fact that it was not uncommon for him to be heard talking aloud to himself as if in a dream, “I’ll take b’s, I’ll even take b’s.” In one such day dream while walking near the docks, he said this aloud causing a man with a wool hat to stop him in place.
            “What’s that you say, Vlad?”
            “Why I say nothing at all, Stranger.”
            “Why yes you did, Vlad, you just said you’d settle for b cups, you just said you’d settle for b’s.”
            “I said nothing of the sort, Fisherman.”
            “Why yes you did, Vlad, you just said you’d settle for b cups, you just said you’d settle for b’s.”
            Now red-eyed and awake, Vladimir lashed out at the man, tearing the wool hat from his head.
            “Be gone, Stranger, you smell of fish and bile, you know nothing of what I want or need. You know nothing of me settling, for Vladimir Karlov does not settle.  Vladimir Karlov does not give in.”
            He spat and threw the hat into the water, as the stranger, though twice Vladimir’s size in both height and weight, turned quickly and scurried away.
            “Vladimir Karlov will not settle for b’s or even c’s, Fisherman, Vladimir Karlov will never settle for them!”
            Vladimir Karlov sighed aloud, knowing though not yet accepting, that the fisherman was indeed right. He would settle for c’s and even b’s, and as he looked out to the floating wool hat in the water, as dark and gray as pollution, he whispered a cloud of breath into the salty air, “I’ll even take a’s. By god, I’ll even take a’s.”
            

The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov: Part 3

            Several days a week Vladimir Karlov can be seen strolling through the many parks that design his postal district. Some parks have playgrounds with tire swings and brightly colored monkey bars, while others are just long expanses of grass overrun with Frisbees and dogs. Others still, are simple “bench parks,” as he came to call them, where people, usually new couples and the elderly, sit and quietly converse about things Vladimir is much too busy to care about. Still, he listens all the same and though he is uninterested in many of the topics, he looks at the eavesdropping as a way of expanding his world view by learning about the mindless habits, hobbies, and holidays of the strangers.

            On one such occasion, while wandering amongst the benches and their chatter, he thought to himself, “Vladimir Karlov, have yourself a seat.”

            So, twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov did just that.

            He unbuttoned his coat, crossed his legs, and looked up just in time to gaze upon the new savior of all his ailments and creator of all his heartache.

            There before him, filling white cotton, was the ass of a woman that curved and crushed the skinny black cushion of a bicycle seat, whose springs bounced and played under the teasing weight of her gifts, as she rolled by, legs flexing each cheek, one after the other, casually passing him by, flowing but firm, sexual but chaste, pure and full and aching. Vladimir Karlov knew nothing more.