By Jef Otte
Here comes Tony Cecil driving his pride and liability, a shitty sea-green DeVille amply
rusty, trunk strapped shut with a bungee, and it clatters like a diesel.
Here comes Tony Restreppo who used to run a chop-shop in Terra-Cotta, WI. Now he socks hot
sex to a Russian plus-size model called Katja. Look at that motherfucker chomp
kalamatas. Later he jerks off to autopsy photos.
Here comes Tony Classic with a wallet made of plastic, a plastic bag that formerly hosted a
Here comes Tony Sellers pell-mell on shaky-wheeled ten-speed down Alamo hill. He’s got six
sweaty dollars for pall malls & hot fries. He spots Rhonda and runs out the store yelling
and smelling the smells of going broke: engines that run rich, cook-stink and garbage, blunt
breath, dry-rot, wet-rot, overgrowth, weeds gone to seed, and heat. Corner store clerks
behind glaciers of plate glass. Cockroaches that bank and scoot into the dark.
Here’s Tony Bologna sweet-talking. He’s going to talk you into growing pot in your cellar. He’s
going to get you rich quick slinging energy drinks, skin revitalizers, dehydrated fruit
rehydrators with high-rated pliable fibers.
Here comes Tony Two-Time. He’s pulling on his fingers. A News 4 helicopter cuts across the
Jef Otte used to write journalism for publications like Westword and the Village Voice but sold out and went into marketing. In an effort to maintain “street cred,” he now publishes trashy art writing in a variety of publications read by no one except people published in them. He also holds an MFA in fiction from Western Michigan University, but remains a corporate tool.