A crowd had gathered.
Henry Winkler and Penny Marshall were beating each other senseless over the second half of a bologna sandwich. Winkler’s face was scratched considerably, and Marshall’s clothing was torn in at least three places. Both had bloodshot eyes, and a bloodstain was beginning to spread inside Winkler’s left pant leg. The sandwich lay in the dirt; dust from the canyon winds now swirling around it, coating it with fine, brown silt.
“It’s mine!”
“Fuck you!”
This went on for days. Nearby roads were paved, elections came and went, a mini-mall had been erected. Local authorities had expected the two to simmer down on their own, shake hands, and walk away from it all like the old friends they were. Sheriff Clemson, desperate to placate the townsfolk, consulted the authorities and once an agreement had been made, dumped both Winkler and Marshall into the shark tank at Sea World, during feeding time. The Sheriff looked skyward and mopped his tense, wet brow.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
About the Author

Hear what the critics are saying about Harris Tanner:
“...a sea of floating garbage...idiotic...” – New York Times
“Tanner successfully pukes into the face of American letters.” – Publisher’s Weekly
“Runce Pepsi is a miserable, stupid son-of-a-bitch.” – Kirkus Review
Monday, July 04, 2005
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