Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Askrrigth (293)

Askrrigth, Alabama was not a place that you found on a map. Very few people knew of its existence until they came upon it, and then they never left. Askrrigth couldn’t be found unless it wanted to be- unless it was hungry for new citizens. Askrrigth couldn’t be found unless, son how, you knew to look for it.

It had the appeal of an old fashioned town, a nice old place full of nice old things. There was a main street, and a small park in the center of town. The mayor knew everyone’s name and everyone helped everyone else bring in the crops.

The men were all big and strong, and the girls were all pretty, smart, and fun to talk to. The children were all sweet and courteous- except for some that weren’t.

Hogarth arrived at noon and started to look for anything, anyone who could tell him about his brother Randall.

Edward D. Studamire

Name: Edward D.  Studamire

Alias: Mr. Roboto

Background Information: Studamire has a strong background in robotics. The majority of his formal education is from Blott State Community College were he received his associates degree. He was expelled from Harvard’s robotics department for reprogramming a swarm of micro robots to attack a professor who belittled and made fun of him in class.
    After his expulsion from school, he executed a string of bank robberies using micro robots to make copies of keys and access codes. The money was filtered from one bank into multiple accounts at different banks.  His money laundering robots were so adept at their job they were not discovered for fifteen years. All the while, Studamire held a normal job using the filtered money to expand his robotics research in his spare time.
    Studamire used his micro robots to attack the IRS, the New York Stock Exchange, Def Jam Records headquarters, and several Fox affiliate stations.

Current Status: Assumed alive. Location unknown. 


On the sidewalk in front of Cecil Burger lies their competitor’s mascot, Jolly Roger, beaten within an inch of his life. Blood pours out of his head, the oversized pirate hat having fallen into the street. The green, plastic parrot stapled to his left shoulder is barely holding on. As Jolly Roger scrapes his fingernails against the pavement, grasping out, hoping someone will help him, the door of Cecil Burger opens. Sheriff Cecil, a larger-than-life cowboy cliché, complete with oversized boots, chaps, vest and ten gallon hat, brandishes a lasso as he exits his restaurant. His red, white and blue outfit lights up with tiny, flashing strobe lights while he hog-ties Jolly Roger where he lies, facedown. After an impressive seven second hog-tying, the Sheriff lets out a "yee-haw," then celebrates by urinating on the pirate.

Rain pours down and mixes with blood and urine, the whole concoction finding its way down into a nearby sewer grate.

Sheriff Cecil zips up and pulls his hat down hard onto his head, admiring his handiwork as the mascot from Dante’s Bar-B-Que, decked out in a blood-red devil costume, creeps up behind him with a sharpened pitchfork in his dark hands.


Tuesday, October 30, 2007

You know I got Seoul(294)

He was so much better than this once. Once upon a time, he was hopeful, young, and smart.

He met Minka at a small coffee shop across town. As he sat there staring at her monstrously huge chest, he realized that he may have made a mistake. No one that saw them together would forget this woman. It was only a matter of time until Ava found out that he was seeing Minka.

He didn’t want to lose his wife just for a fling- nay, an experiment with this balloon-chested freak.

he knew that he needed to break it off. He couldn’t chance ruining all that he had, not this time. But as he opened his mouth to try and explain to Minka that it had all been a mistake, he couldn’t speak. He was paralyzed- he found this woman so bizarre in her appearance that he had to have her.

He knew that it was a mistake, but he had to be inside this woman.

They paid for their coffee and headed towards her house. Once there, they were going at it as soon as the door closed. She tried to talk to him in English, but he told her that it wasn’t necessary. All he had to go by to determine if he was doing his duty was a smattering of Vietnamese phrases, moans, and groans.

It was rough, dirty, and raw. It went on for about an hour, and then they passed out. An hour later, they were at it again. When they finally made their way to the bedroom, he noticed that they were surrounded by mirrors. He could see himself thrusting again and again violently into the wild Vietnamese porn star with the freakish chest. He watched himself as his fucked and realized that he was not a horrible person- merely the victim of a horrible world. Everyone around him had convinced themselves that their silly little rules- no kissing, n men, girls only, no missionary- had released them from the hell they lived in and allowed them to have real relationships. They had convinced themselves that it was all just a job.

But it wasn’t a job. It was Gomorra. They lived in hell. Any vow he had taken with his wife had gone out the window the first time he allowed some man other than himself to ejaculate on her face. This was not just a job. It was a violent, sad, suicidal life.

As he forced himself into Minka’s distended hindquarters, he began to cry. He didn’t know how he’d survived this long, but this was the last day. Today was the last time he’d allow himself to be a part of this horrible world. when he finished, he was disgusted at her and himself. she had never even asked him his name. she probably thought that he was a producer; she probably thought that he could do something to further her sinking career.

he left without saying a word

Two days later, Hogarth would receive a call- his brother Randall was missing…

Oswalt Applesworth

Oswalt Applesworth was a normal man. He was normal man who was a little shorter than average, but normal nonetheless.  He worked at a midlevel bank, in a suburb of a rather large city. Not large by New York or L.A. standards, but comparable to Atlanta or St. Louis. Oswalt, or Mr. Applesworth, as he was known to everyone, but his closest of friends and family, was a little thin on top and wore glasses.
He was a mortgage banker. He helped people get into new houses, helped them find the best interest rate, and he wrote a finical blog that was partially hosted and subsidized by his bank. What people didn’t know was that he was quite the adept hacker. He would find ways to up peoples’ credit rates. The media found out about it. They didn’t find out about him. They did find out about someone fixing people’s horrible credit. Oswalt didn’t do it for the credit. He did it because he knew some people deserved a second chance.


     He hits hard, you know. Harder than the meanest slap from the girl you cheated on. Harder than the worst bar brawl you’ve ever been in. It’s one hit and if you survive, your entire body, top hair to toe, is black and blue for three days. But on that fourth day, you come back from the brink a new person. They call it the Wakening.
     It’s not a vengeful thing, you understand. Old Testament was mostly fable. If and when he slaps you, you’ll understand immediately what was true in the good book and what wasn’t. Wakening will do that for you. Eyes wider than you ever thought possible.
     Problem is, once you Wake, you’re never going back to sleep. You’ll see the evil in everyone you encounter, from the Crips to the priests. People you respected, those you adored, who you never found fault in, those are the ones you won’t be able to look at the same way again.
     And this is why it’s not the evil who must be punished, but the good. For once the evil of the world gaze down upon the grotesque, backwards atrocities that have befallen the good, they will realize what we are capable of. 
     If the Wakening can break the necks of the weak, are not the strong next?


Monday, October 29, 2007


     It’s been raining nails for the past week and a half, and it’s starting to annoy me. It was one thing when they were ½", but now they’re up to that inch size and that’s just inexcusable. First it was tacks, now it’s practically drywall nails. Those kind they put in nail guns? Yeah, those. Where does it go from here?
     Most of the nail manufacturers folded outright because of the downpour. And that’s just after three days of rain. Nails are now readily available all over the street. Construction companies haul them out of people’s yards and have already begun dragging rivers, lakes and sewers for them.
     Oh, and the fatalities are, of course, at an all-time high. No work is being done. People are afraid to leave their homes and most cars have been so dinged up that they’re undriveable.
     And who benefits from this? I mean, besides the building contractors and car dealerships. Otha Palmerdale, that’s who. This guy inherited Palmerdale Fabrication from his dad a year ago and has steadily driven it into the ground ever since. That was until three days ago. As the nails pierced the skulls of his factory workers, he instinctively grabbed a slab of unprocessed metal from the shop and made it to the safety of his office. In under an hour, he had constructed the Palmerdale Metalbrella out of that slab and became a savior to a nail-beaten nation, for a price.
     Some say it takes a lifetime to earn your millions. For Otha it took less than a day.
     The initial prototypes were a little bulky. The only people who were able to even open the Metalbrella were younger males with intense upper body strength. I hear that Palmerdale’s making some lightweight models for kids and older people by next season. Hopefully by then the nails would have stopped and Metalbrellas will just clog the landfills like so many 8 track players.
     Still, I’d rather take a nail to the forehead or simply stay indoors for the rest of my life than pay $49.99 for one of those hideous things. I mean, they don’t even come in blue. Although I’m sure the choice of colors will grow as demand does.
     This wasn’t in the Bible. Raining blood, frogs, sure. But not nails. This wasn’t how the world was supposed to end.


Don’t our Heroes sometimes disappoint us

Don’t our Heroes sometimes disappoint us? They get Lost on their way, and do something bad. That in turn requires a Prison Break.  Or, when we were younger they were just sent to the Office of the principal. I have seen all of these, and its just plain band when they wind up in Night Court.

Space is the place (295)

Everyone in the pant stared blankly at him. He was trying his best to keep his cool behind the Richard Nixon mask, but it was all falling apart. All because of a stupid slip he’d made- an ill advised attempt at comedy that was random, obscure, and just plain dumb. He’d only been in the bank four minutes, and already he’d undermined himself and confused all the people he was there to rob and kill.

His partners were stunned, but quickly tried to get things back on track by threatening to kill anyone that didn’t immediately drop to the floor. Regan mask even shot the old security guard in the leg to prove a point. It was futile. Slowly but surely, everyone started to laugh. The robbers fired into the air, but it did no good. Everyone in the bank was laughing. Realizing that this was a bust, Jimmy Carter mask shot Nixon and the robbers fled.

As he lay on the floor, bleeding from his side, Nixon wondered why he’d ever thought to yell “Give us all of your earth money.”

He wondered this for his 25 years in prison…

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Tomorrow I’ll be you

“Tomorrow, I’ll be you!” an angry young man called out to the businessmen in suits walking down the street.
“What did he mean by that?” one of the suits asked another.
“Probably that he will soon be out of college and after our jobs,” another answered.
“I bet I know what he means,” a third replied.
“What?” asked the first suit.
“That he will be an asshole,” the third said.
They all laughed, and started to cross the street. As soon as they were half way across the intersection a truck caring broccoli hit them.


GUNNER - I can’t believe this has never come up.

FAB - Me neither. What are we, going on 10 years here?

GUNNER - Sounds right.

FAB - And we never talked about this. You sure?

GUNNER - Pretty sure.

FAB - Fucked, that’s what it is.

GUNNER - Gang-fucked is what it is.

FAB - Fuckin’ A.

          FAB and GUNNER sit on their couch. A long period of silence invades the room as FAB finds an old
          Rubik's Cube underneath the couch cushion and starts where he left off, trying to solve it.                              


FAB - Huh?

GUNNER - So? Mine is "Bad Lieutenant." What’s your called?

FAB – Oh! See, that’s why we never talked about this shit. I don’t really have a name for mine.

GUNNER – You serious.

FAB – Hardcore.

GUNNER – See, that’s just goofy. You need a name for your cock, man. Not having a name for your dick is just plain un-American.

FAB – Fuck that! I’m 100% patriotic, Gun. I don’t spend my time shitting on flags, but I also don’t spend it coming up with dumb Harvey Keitel references for my dong. I mean, "Bad Lietenant?" Why "Bad Lieutenant?"

GUNNER – Are you kidding me? Keitel takes not one bit of shit from anybody in that flick. He’s a mean, lean, hard mutherfucker in "Bad Lieutenant!" That describes my cock to a ‘T.’ And it’s the only cool name I could find out of all of his movies. What else do I have to choose from? "Mean Streets?" "The Piano?" Those dick names don’t even make sense!

FAB – What about "Mister White?"

          GUNNER sits, stunned. It’s clear that this choice never occurred to him.

GUNNER – Look, it’s been "Bad Lieutenant" through four girlfriends. I ain’t changing it. You’re such a fan-fucking-tastic name genius, why don’t you have one for "Lil’ Fab?"

FAB – Fine! Fine! I have one, okay? But it wasn’t my choice and I certainly don’t work it into foreplay like some people. (doing a GUNNER imitation) "Open wide for the ‘Bad Lieutenant’!"

GUNNER – First off, I have never said anything that queer. And what do you mean it wasn’t your choice? C’mon, make with the give-give!

FAB – Carla named it, alright? And she isn’t the kind of person who wants other people to know about our sex life, so this stays between you, me and the garden gate! You dig me?

GUNNER – Yes, garden gate, yes. So, what does she call your dick?

FAB – Kevin.

          GUNNER’s mouth gapes open.

GUNNER – ‘Kevin??!!?’

FAB – Yes. Kevin. Do not tell her I told you this, or I swear to Christ . . .

GUNNER – Why Kevin?

FAB – I don’t know! She just likes that name! What do you want from me?

GUNNER – I want to know where Kevin enters into the picture!

FAB – I told you I don’t know, alright? Jesus!

          They both sit there for a while. GUNNER is lost in thought, while FAB goes back to the Rubik’s Cube.

GUNNER – Kevin.

FAB – Yes! Kevin! Yes!!

GUNNER – Shit, say what you want about "Bad Lieutenant." At least that sounds cool as cock names go, but Kevin. That’s not even a real name.

FAB – Of course it’s a real name. There are millions of Kevins all over the world.

GUNNER – No, I just mean it has no lineage as a name, Fab. There were no Kevins on the Mayflower. None of the names on the Ellis Island log books have Kevin in them. It’s a made-up, fakey name like ‘Hoyt’ or ‘Creed’ or . . .

FAB – ‘Fab’ or ‘Gunner.’

GUNNER – At least those are interesting. ‘Kevin?!!??’ That’s just sad.

FAB – Well, whatevs. You wanted to know my dick name, now you know.

GUNNER – And I wish Kevin and Carla the best of luck.


Randall dies (296)

When he got to the motel, he looked for room number 73. He had been meeting his mistress here for weeks, ever since he’d fallen out of love with his ugly wife.

His mistress wasn’t ugly at all. She was 20 years older than him, and even though she was a short woman, her legs seemed to go on forever. He’d met her at an art show, and he’d immediately been attracted to her. She was just the type of womn he would have tried to be with if he hadn’t married his attempted murdering, butter faced wife.

She waited on the bed for him, dressed in nothing but high heels and an evil smile.

“We can’t do this anymore.’ He said, trying not to look at her.

“Why not?” she asked. “Is it your wife?’

“It’s everything.” He said, then turned to leave.

She called after him, but he got into his car and left. He didn’t go home, though.

He kept driving until he was in a different town. One where he could date the type of girl he loved; A town where he could be away from ugly wives and mistresses.

The next day at around 3, he stopped a diner and ordered a diet coke with no ice.

This was the last time he’d be seen for a while.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

War all the time

Thomas had made it though middle school. High school loomed on the horizon. College is barely a fuzzy thought on most children his age, but Thomas is different. He knows that high school, much like middle school, is hell for a gifted child. He knows things will be different once he reaches college. Brains and talent outside of sports are appreacated more at that level. It is only a matter of time before he makes it there. He will succeed at everything he will do from here on out. Thomas is a talented little boy, after all. He starts high school tomorrow, the day after he turns six. For now, Thomas the Train is on and he loves that show.


The blue church bus hangs in mid-air, the front of its chassis pointing down at a 45 degree angle. By the time Tet-7 gets there to run a series of tests, a crowd has begun to gather. Tet-7’s chief sci-op, Cash Nolan, is the first to speculate.

"Mid-level tachyon field," he says. "Is everyone out of that thing?"

Maren Toddy, Tet-7’s resident weapons expert and only female team member, disperses the crowd.

"Yeah, it’s empty," she says, turning back to the on-lookers. "I know this sounds impossible, but there really is nothing to see here."

Field-op Shuck McKone begins a full sweep of the bus with a large metal wand that almost dwarfs him in size.

"What’re you picking up?" Cash asks.

"It’s weird. I’m not getting anything. It’s like there’s no field around it. No subatomic particles, no readings at all. The only thing this piece of crap is telling me is that it’s a bus."

"Really helpful, Shank," Toddy remarks.

"Hey, what do you want from me? I told you guys we couldn’t trust that Acres guy. He really dicked us with this junk."

"Toddy! Shank! Put the tech back in the truck. I’ve got an idea."

With that, Cash removes his gloves and walks up to the church bus and places his hands on the bumper that floats before him. His fingers tighten. He closes his eyes and begins to sweat as he furrows his brow. He suddenly falls to his knees. Shank and Toddy drop their gear and run over to him.

"Cash, what is it?" Toddy asks. "Are you okay?"

Cash shivers and puts his gloves back on at the front of the bus.

"It’s Goddamned magic," he groans.

"Shiva," Toddy says, knowingly.

"She’s back," mutters Cash," and I think she found her twin brother."

At that moment, every car on the block breaks loose from the pavement and floats up, tilting downward at the same 45 degree angle as the church bus.

Shank races towards the Tet-7 truck, which is the last of the vehicles to start hovering. He stops as he realizes he can’t make it in time.

"Shit just got random," he says. 


Randall dreams(297)

He had a sex dream. In it, he ended up stealing his roommate’s girl while his roommate was in the other room. He and the girl went back to his room and had all sorts of dirty sex. They covered up the sound with “Sultans of Swing”.

When he was jarred awake, he was a bit disappointed. The girl had never really existed. He couldn’t even say that he had mat the girl from the dream.

He rolled over and kissed his not-too-pretty wife.

“Where are you going?’ she asked

“I have things to do.” He replied

“Nothing good can come from doing anything at 4.a.m.” she said, and went back to sleep.

She was right.


Friday, October 26, 2007

The photographer

The photographer is always behind the camera. A simple statement, but due this little fact photographers are rather mysterious creatures. Reclusive by nature, they compensate by overactive personalities. They live their lives secluded from photos. They have no physical record of their lives just the memories of those lives he touches by taking their photo. He touches their lives by stealing their soul. The Native Americans were right he is a soul stealer. Not in an evil sense of the word, but he steals those happy moments in others’ lives. He then in turn shares that moment with others. A persons soul can’t be stolen, just the soul of the moment.


     Shiny spikes cover the wall and ceiling of the metal room.
     "Okay, great," The Lurker thinks, lighting a cigarette. "Could be worse, I suppose."
     The spiky walls begin to close in with a mechanical whirring sound. The ceiling starts ascending.
     "Right," he says out loud, pulling his turquoise mask off as sweat drips from his forehead. "Light, light, light, light! Where’s the light coming from?" He scans the retreating ceiling and finds a small set of fluorescents. "Wanamingo!"
     Lurker quickly climbs the spike up to the ceiling, punches out the light, removes it and hurls himself up into the hole. As he gets up, he hears the room below him slam shut with a metallic crunch. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and examines it.
     "Still got it, kid," he bemuses.
     Gears and motors suddenly move above him. He glances up and spies three automated laser rifles getting a bead on him.
     "C’mon, man," he yells.
     He flicks the cigarette butt after a long drag. One of the rifles zaps it out of the air. He tosses his mask at that particular gun, covering its motion sensor and takes out the other two with his batons.
     A door slides open from the wall. Lurker lights another cigarette and is immediately swarmed by hooded henchmen as he enters the next room. After punching two, sending them to the floor, he doubles back into the laser room as the henchmen follow. He grabs his batons from the floor, tosses one up and knocks his mask off the motion sensor. One barrel roll out of the room later, he closes the door behind him as he hears the shreiking of henchmen being fried to bits.
     The cigarette dangles from his lip as a large rumble shakes him from the soles of his feet. He scans the room. Ceiling? Walls? No. He crouches with a baton in one hand.
     "C’mon! What? What?" he boasts. "Bring that shit!"
     The wall in front of him begins to lower, revealing 30 members of the superhero community, all in full, garish costume. Daedelus, in the center of them, dressed in charcoal gray garb, holds a cake with candles and the number "42" on it.
     "Happy 42nd, Lurker," they shout in unison.
     The Lurker stands upright and stamps out his cigarette. "You fucking guys," he shouts up with a smile. "This was all for me?"
     The superheroes on the screen all laugh and nod.
     "They made me hold the cake," Daedelus mutters, begrudgingly.
     Lurker begins to bend over with laughter as the last of the henchmen are being dissected by lasers in the next room.


Randall (298)

She wasn’t the ugliest girl alive, but she wasn’t all that pretty- at least by society’s standards.

Still he loved her. He’d had loved here since they bonded while waiting in O’Hare airport 5 years ago.

They had sex in the men’s room, and were nearly caught. Since then, they’d been inseparable- except for when he left the house. He didn’t want to bee seen with her- she wasn’t too pretty.

He told her this when she tried to kill him for his insurance money. He yelled at her that he only dated her because she’d let him do things to her that no normal girl would.

He felt really bad about this later, but eventually got over it. She’d tried to kill him. Plus, she was kind of ugly…


Thursday, October 25, 2007


The creature had no eyes, only bright shimmering holes that gleamed white like the nothingness of pre forever. Its brain was visible, and seeped from either side of his head. Around his neck were small slimy writhing tentacles that wrapped around his exposed brain and darted in and out of the holes where his eyes would be.

This was the face of the thing that Hogarth saw in his dreams.

He knew that it meant something, and more, he knew that it was the key to finding his brother.

In the dream, with the thing, he could see written on eternity the word “askrrigth.”

This was the key.

After some research and many sleepless nights, Hogarth set off-

To Askrrigth, Alabama…

The studio lights are bright

The studio lights are bright, almost blinding. Mario squints in to the black trying to make out the camera lens. He attempts to bring his hand up to shade his eyes, but the shackles prevent him from doing so.
“Mr. Mario please don’t struggle with your restraints the show will begin shortly,” a voice from the dark said.
“Why am I here?” He asks.
“Did you have another black out?”
Mario starts to mouth something, but the voice silences him.
“The people want to know why before you are sent to the chair.”
“Why what?”
“Why did you kill all those people on your way to Bowzer?”
A different voice called out, “We are live in five, four, three … …”
“Mr. Mario,” said the first voice, but in a deeper voice, “why did you kill all those individuals on your way to Bowzer?”
“I didn’t kill any one.”
“Then what do you say to all these koopa kids who don’t have parents any more? Or, these goomba widows that are all due to your negligence. We went after this ‘princess’ who was nother more than an abused crack whore. She left you because you beat her. Bowzer the true king of the Mushroom Kingdom.”
“I didn’t…”
“Mr. Mario you are a pusher, and a user. You weren’t saving her you were endangering everyone you came in contact. Seriously, mushrooms that make you super? Come on, stars that make you invincible? Mr. Mario you were high the whole time.”


     BioMecha, he called it. Fusing genetic material into machines. Its origins must’ve been honorable, I’m sure. Infect a robot with an incurable disease. You fail, you lose a robot. No human lives lost, no animal testing. You succeed, Nobel Peace Prize, billions cured. Quite an accomplishment, some would say. Not me, though. The only thing this guy accomplished was bilking the government out of $70 million for research and development. He lived on the fringes of the supervillain community for more than 20 years and suddenly he’s fucking Madame Curie? I didn’t buy it. The government did though. They ate that shit up like ramen. Boy, were their faces red when they realized their 70 mill went to a guy who set 1,000 diseased robots loose on the American population.
     That’s some serious egg on your face there.
     Here’s a joke for you:
     What’s worse than a cold, heartless robot? A cold, heartless robot with the will to live.
     Yeah, I won’t be doing stand-up anytime soon. I’ll be too busy killing robots that beg you not to shoot them in the face and manage to gurgle out a scream when you do. Then, when they’re all gone, I’m gunning for their Maker, Nobel Prize or not.


Wednesday, October 24, 2007


I was on set with Ava when I met Minka. She was a 37 year old half Vietnamese, half French woman who could just barely speak English. Her build was fairly slim, slim but for her 56 kkk breasts. She had had the now illeagal “string” implants. These implants kept growing as they took on liquid from the body. They were freakishly large, very dangerous, and almost comical. But I couldn’t look away. As Ava performed on this odd freak of a woman, I found myself entranced by her. All that she could manage to say with out sounding silly was “ohh yes” and “More, more.” She had to hold her large breasts up when she was on her back, and when she switched to her knees, she looked as if she were trying to carry two turkeys.
Minka was indeed a sight to behold. I did not find her attractive in the least, but someone did- there was someone for everyone I guess.
That night when I made love to Ava, I couldn’t finish until I thought of Minka and her grotesque breast.
“More, More.”

waiting on her

    The sun cast an orange glow across the snow-covered field. It looked like a field of fire. There should be heat, but cold is the only thing that penetrates Javier’s parka. Julia had promised him they would meet here ten years ago at this exact time. They had been best friends all through high school. On their senior trip they said they would meet here in ten years time should they ever separate, and loose track of each other. He had loved her ever since they met in freshman English, but never had the guts to ask her out. He preferred the opportunity to be safely by her side as a friend than risk everything by attempting to cross that line.
    In the past ten years since high school, he had kicked himself repeatedly for not asking her out. They went to different colleges, and lost track of each other. He had dated girls through college, but his thoughts always returned to Julia. He would wait for her. He sat down on the edge of the road, wrapped his arms around himself, and thought of her as the sun set in front of him.


How many we got in the house tonight?

Um, seven.

Seven reservations?!!?

No, seven walk-ups. No reservations at all.

Shit. What about tomorrow?

No reservations tomorrow night or Sunday.

Goddammit! What do we have to do to get butts in the seats?

Produce a show that doesn’t involve a guy taking it in the ass for two hours, maybe?

C’mon, there’s more to "Chocolate Factory" than that!

I was talking about you.

It’s symbolic, Carrie! Obviously you don’t get symbolism.

Symbolic or not, you’re literally have a guy getting ramrodded for most of the show. I have gay friends that won’t even come to see that.

It’s an homage.

Just because the guy getting boo-fooed is dressed like Willie Wonka doesn’t make it an homage.

It is when the guys screwing his ass are dressed like Oompa-Loopahs.

Are Chuck and Kevin dressing like Oompah-Loompahs tonight?

Okay, remind me to tell them about that before you call ‘places.’

In front of seven whole people? Quite a risk you’re taking there.

Theater is risk, Carrie.

As one of your investors, I’d have to agree.


Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Heaven only knows (301)

“Another day, another tale of another unrequited love.”
“I think the problem is that, possibly, you’re placing too much stock in this idea of love you’ve come up with.”
“Yeah? What do you think love is?”
“A useless emotion that some who we’ve developed over the last million years. Honestly, I’m surprised that evolution hasn’t taken care of the whole useless notion.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Sad, angry, and really pitiful. Don’t you- haven’t you ever loved anyone?”
“Of course I have.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think happened? It all worked out. I’m happily married with two beautiful children, and not in fact standing here with you in a trash dump.”
“Don’t sigh at me. You asked, I told you. the love thing didn’t work for me. People told me to stop looking and let it find me. That was a very long time ago. here we are. In a trash dump.
“Well- I…
“I said, I love you.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”
“you’re welcome.
“I- love you too, okay? Now shut up about it and shoot him again so we can clock out.”
“Sure thing, pal. You got it.”

The 2008 Home Electronics and Plumbing Expo

    It is the 2008 Home Electronics and Plumbing Expo, and the crowd is awash in excitement. Krugaur was a giant in the plumbing business before the fall of the Iron Curtain. They haven’t had a product on the open market since the early 90s. It was a self cleaning toilet that used -1.2 Litres.  No, I know what you are thinking, but it didn’t work on cold fusion. That’s what they lead the rest of the world to think, but during a NBC Crack The Technology special it was proved that it recycled water from the showers and sinks. It was quite a crafty trick. The fraud backlash caused several major chains to with draw support and orders. I say if they put it out today they would rake in bookoo bucks due to all the wacky tree huggers.
    After that embarrassment, they with drew from the public eye. Some say they laundered money and technology through LG. How in the world do you think a brand like that appears over night? I knew you would see it my way. So they have been using the LG moniker to try new technology and funnel money back into their labs for further research.
    I have heard a few rumors floating around this weekend. First, they are rolling out all new product lines with the Krugaur name attached. I am almost positive they are doing that. Why else would there be all this Krugaur SWAG? Second and third are both toss ups you be the judge.
    Hear me out. Self-wiping toilet paper. I know it’s a step out side of their box, but think about it. This would be a prime product for nursing homes and fat camps. Well, what if you come home drunk and nobody is there to wipe your mouth? Krugaur paper to the rescue! The other is this toilet based on the negative flush model from the early 90s, with a twist. It would be equipped with USB ports, a nine-inch LCD display, and a port for your Ipod. Yes everything should have an Ipod port. The suits think it helps sell stuff. They are going to call it the DD2100. Get it, Doodie Data. You’re right it might be a crappy idea! HAHA! Ok Well, I will catch you later. I have to go meet a few more vendors. Let me know how it all comes out! BAHHAHAHA!


     My morning coffee is very important to me. I order the same thing each day: tall latte, 2%. This routine has made things much easier since the accident.
     Today, I drive up to the Cup’A’Joe’s and notice the lights are out. Fucking terrific, I mutter between my teeth. I press my face up to the window, directly under the "open" sign and see that there’s movement inside. No customers, but the three baristas I normally see in the morning are prepping for the day. I think Karen’s the one who comes up to open the door for me. I don’t know, some ‘K’ name.
     "What gives?" I ask.
     "Oh, power’s out," she says, "so instead of closing, we called the manager and she said that everything’s on the house until it comes back on. You want your regular?"
     "Uh, yeah! Why not, right?"
     Karen begins making my latte. It’s then that I put into practice what my therapist has been harping on me lately. "Take advantage of life," she’s been saying.
     "Hey," I mumble to Karen, sheeplishly. "You said everything’s on the house, right?"
     "Register’s down. We kinda’ have to." The shrill hiss and whir of the espresso machine stings my ears, so I raise my voice.
     "Okay, I’ll take that bag of dark-roasted, the cushy armchair over there, that wall of cruddy oil paintings, the espresso machine and, oh, I don’t know, a couple of these stools over here."
     "Yeah, funny," Karen replies, bringing my latte to the counter.
     "I’m serious," I say. "You said everything’s on the house."
     "Well, within reason."
     "Who’s reason? My reasoning is pretty much all over the map at this point in my life. C’mon. I’ll help you with the chair and stools, but I don’t have all day."
     By the time we’ve loaded the last of the oil paintings into my truck, it starts to rain. Karen and I run back under the awning of Cup’A’Joe’s.
     "So," she says snidely, "is that all you want?"
     "Actually, I could use a nice blow job."
     Karen slaps me across the face.
     "Fuck you, asshole," she screams, shutting the door and locking it.
     Yeah, maybe I crossed the line there. Too bad. I always really liked Karen, if that was her name. So much for taking my therapist’s advice all the way to the hoop.
     As I pull away, I realize that I forgot my 2% latte. I start to turn the truck around, but think "fuck it" and peel out of the parking lot. The rain stops to a light drizzle as I floor it onto an off ramp and into oncoming traffic.


Monday, October 22, 2007

(The Ballad of Richard Nixon (302)

He was a sad, sad person. He didn’t know how to clear his internet history, so I was able to read all of his Craig’s List entries in which he called himself “punk and a gentleman.”
I would imagine he thought he was punk because of the recent discovery or The Cure, or the one time he painted his nails black. 
Keep in mind, I was not a snooper. I have the highest respect for a person’s privacy, but I also see this as a two-way street.  Many times I would return home to find things missing from my room and obviously tampered with. He would do all these things, then just stroll around, or at least, slink around as if nothing was wrong.
When he was away, I took a look in his notebook as revenge for him constantly going through my things. I wish I hadn’t.
He kept handwritten records of every text message he’d every received, then favored each entry with a note… he kept text message commentary. To top it all off, he drew a nice little shadowed box around each entry so it looked like the message was COMING RIGHT AT YOU!!
It was hard to believe that I had loved this person once. Now, in hindsight, I was lame by association. People had made fun of him, and I’d defended because he was my friend. Now, for some reason, he was “tough and no nonsense”. He was, like so many other un informed mama’s boy’s before him, confusing being a dick with being manly.
Sometimes I’d hear him yelling about his nonsensical philosophy outside my window in the middle of the night, and my anger would turn into pity.
The world was going to destroy this guy.
Maybe, when he moved to L.A. to be an actor, he’d get to do the high priced gay porn, and not just the raunchy bottom shelf stuff.
Honestly, though, he was too old for either.
Again, I can’t believe I once loved this guy.
What a dick.


Blood.  Blood as far as the eye could see, a sea of blood. The squeals had long been silenced. I am wearing a heavy leather apron. It is covered in blood. My thick leather gloves are covered in blood, but the blood has started to dry. It flakes off as I flex my fingers. I see a figure walking toward me in the distance. I start walking toward the figure. My boots slosh in the inch deep tacky blood. The figure calls out, “Hey Matt! Did we get them all?”
“I think so,” I call back.
“I tell you. I didn’t think pigs had that much blood in them, but its gonna make some killer sausage!”


70,000 filberts

A tanker truck of vodka, a tanker truck of Kahlua

One dodo (we know for a fact that they are not extinct and the government has been breeding them)

The Elephant Man’s bones in a glass casket

A eucalyptus tree

The release of Bob Acres (Plaid Hood) from Starlin Correction Facility

The eyelash from a palomino

Blueprints to the White House

14 bags of circus peanuts

A copy of the Koran

A working replica of the robot butler from the 80’s TV show, "That’s My Motherboard"

Two oil drums of bear grease

The ponytail from 70’s action hero Hud Gamble

The first draft of the screenplay to "Lucifer’s Tarantella"

All of the B-Rad Boyz’s solo albums

     When all of these requests are met, the President’s husband will be returned. If the list is not followed to the letter, things could get unusual.


Sunday, October 21, 2007


The time machine looked nothing like you’d expect, if your expectations were determined by what you’d seen in movies. It wasn’t a car or a chair or some sort of chamber that you walked into then emerged amongst the dinosaurs.
The machine was, in fact, the most difficult machine ever created- a human being.
Joe had realized that the only way to traverse the 6th dimension was to somehow do it through the memories of others, then to materialize in the realm that had been created in the mind. This meant that some details were off. Time travel was, it turned out, determined through the minds eye of the beholder.
Joe traveled to the early eighties by asking someone to try and remember their 5th birthday party, then leaping through the portal that it created. This was not as easy as it sounds. Once there, Joe realized that he could only go to places that the person remembered going that day. Once the memories ended, Joe was flung back to the present.
He went to the 1940’s through the mind of a WWII veteran. He was almost shot by a Nazi storm trooper!
This was how Joe traveled through time. Soon he’d discover that there were more convenient ways, though they were so much more dangerous.
This was year five of his lost time- his self imposed exile.

stupid story

    “You see there were these two cherubs who got drunk, and accidentally shot two guys with love arrows,” Mr. Norris said.
    “Are you sure that’s how people turn gay? I have an uncle who said he was gay when he was born,” Alex said.
    “Alex,” Mr. Norris shouted, “go to the back of the class, and write one hundred lines of ‘God does not make people gay.’ on the blackboard.”
    “I didn’t say that. I just said that cherubs shooting people, and making them gay is a stupid story,” he mumbled as he walked to the back of the classroom, and began his lines.


     To stay awake, Davanni had drunk seven Blue Bear energy drinks over the span of two hours. He’d popped Hype-R tablets and gotten into the habit of controlling the succession of blinks that he allowed himself.
     He’d seen what had happened to all those that had fallen asleep and he was scared shitless that it might happen to him.
     It had been almost five days and he was sure he would be able to beat this thing.
     He was starting to hallucinate by day three. Concentric circles of color appeared before his eyes, twisting into each other and blending like some kind of demented Spin-Art. By the daylight hours, the sun seemed to bounce in the sky, while at night, the moon appeared to be growing rows of sharp teeth.
     He walked the streets, trying to find somebody who was still awake. Nothing but reclining bodies as far as he could see down Chaing Street. The snores were absolutely deafening. They all seemed so peaceful, but he knew what would happen when they awoke. So, he kept another six-pack of Blue Bear in his satchel for future use.
     As he scavenged through Brunhills Shopping Center, grabbing whatever new sneakers or CDs that caught his eye, hands, fingers and legs of the sleepers began to move around him. The high-pitched shreiks were starting again, not just in the mall, but outside as well. Chaing Street echoed with them.
     He finished lacing up his new OffTrails, tossed several B-Rad Boyz and Sippy Cup CDs in his bag and ran as fast as he could as the shrieks got closer.


Saturday, October 20, 2007


“You know what makes you great, Joe?” Hillary said, wiping the things blood from her hands and onto her shirt.
“You let me have fun. It doesn’t feel like a job when you’re in charge.”
Joe watched as the six foot five Amazon of a woman transformed back into the 14 year old girl that she was most of the time.
“Well, not all jobs are fun, but you should always have fun doing them.” Joe said, and sat on the curb next to her. Across the street, Trent was zapping the remains of the last few tear-jerkers that flinched and groaned from Hillary’s work.  It was his turn to clean up the mess that they left, but he didn’t mind the work. Since Riot Act had been reinstated, there were strict rules that they had to at least attempt to abide by. The main ones being try and keep the collateral damage to a minimum, and the second- clean up after yourselves.
Joe looked up just in time to see Johnny yelling after Trent-
“Save one of their heads so I can study it!”
Joe shook his head and had a cigarette.
“We’re a superhero team that has to clean up its own messes.” He said, and looked at Hillary who was looking down and studying the mess on her Keds.
“Well, at least they don’t make us wear costumes anymore.” She said.
“Good point.” Joe answered.
Trent took the last remaining head from the tear-jerker battle and tossed it in a Rubbermaid container.
“I’m hungry.” Johnny said, and looked over for Joe’s approval.
“Yeah.” Joe said, nodding.” Let’s eat. Dinners on the government.’
 “God bless the U.S.A.” Trent said, not having a full understanding of the concept of God, but knowing that the phrase was a good thing.

We share our mother’s health

    I walk out of the building into the blinding light of our mid-day sun. Like the white hot fingers of a migraine, the sun’s light is so bright I squint until I put on sunglasses. Even then, the light penetrates the dark lenses of my glasses.
    I watch as the sun arcs across the sky. It rose two hours ago, and it will set in another two. It is amazing that the day has been reduced to four hour spans. Our increased rotation has caused the plant life on the planet to grow exponentially, while at the same time wreaking havoc on animal life. Mainly it’s sleep cycles that are off, but scientists say that gravity is changing. There is something like a tenth of a percentage in negative change over the past ten years. Not a whole lot you say? Guess again. Birds are already flying higher than they use to. When they fly to high they pass out from the lack of oxygen. Some regain consciousness before they hit the ground, or run into something. Most don’t.
    What will happen when it accelerates enough for people to jump and leave the surface of the earth? Yeah it will be like flying. Real cool. That is until you fly out into space. I guess that’s why the plants are thriving. They are getting a good grip on the earth so they won’t be thrown off.
    Think about that!


"The deal looks like it’s going down in the courtyard. Everybody stay frosty. I don’t want anybody going in until I give the signal."

"What are we waiting for? We should grab him now!!"

"Hold your positions, I said! That’s an order!!"

"An order?!!? Fuck you! You’re not team leader, Midas. I’ve been in the Committee since I was 12. I got seniority. I’m pinchin’ this lousy fuck!!"

"Razor? Razor, come in! Shit, there he goes."

"Midas, what do we do? Razor’s screwing this up!"

"Chill out, Daedelus. Let’s see what he does."

"Listen, Midas. We don’t even know if Dr. Brainstorm has the stuff. If Red Razor nabs this guy, it could be for nothing."

"Well, I don’t know if it’d be for nothing. He’s got a sheet as long as my leg. But I want to catch him on that anti-matter rap. That’s why we’re here, for God’s sake."

"What’s Razor doing now?"

"Maiden, you see him from your side?"

"Affirmative. Razor’s hanging out on a fire escape about two stories above Brainstorm. Wait! Oh, shit!"


"Silver Maiden, come in. What is it?"

"Brainstorm’s got the anti-matter. He’s opening the box!"

"Jesus! All units move now! Maiden, hold back in case we need back-up!"

"It’s like some kind of black flower, but it’s glowing."

"What’s that, Maiden? I didn’t get that!"

"It’s so beautiful. So bright, but not hard to look into."

"Shit! Maiden, enough of the play-by-play! We’re going to need you down here after all!"

"Midas, wait!! Don’t touch Brainstorm! It’s a tra-"



Friday, October 19, 2007


“You know what makes you great, Joe?” Hillary said, wiping the things blood from her hands and onto her shirt.
“You let me have fun. It doesn’t feel like a job when you’re in charge.”
Joe watched as the six foot five Amazon of a woman transformed back into the 14 year old girl that she was most of the time.
“Well, not all jobs are fun, but you should always have fun doing them.” Joe said, and sat on the curb next to her. Across the street, Trent was zapping the remains of the last few tear-jerkers that flinched and groaned from Hillary’s work.  It was his turn to clean up the mess that they left, but he didn’t mind the work. Since Riot Act had been reinstated, there were strict rules that they had to at least attempt to abide by. The main ones being try and keep the collateral damage to a minimum, and the second- clean up after yourselves.
Joe looked up just in time to see Johnny yelling after Trent-
“Save one of their heads so I can study it!”
Joe shook his head and had a cigarette.
“We’re a superhero team that has to clean up its own messes.” He said, and looked at Hillary who was looking down and studying the mess on her Keds.
“Well, at least they don’t make us wear costumes anymore.” She said.
“Good point.” Joe answered.
Trent took the last remaining head from the tear-jerker battle and tossed it in a Rubbermaid container.
“I’m hungry.” Johnny said, and looked over for Joe’s approval.
“Yeah.” Joe said, nodding.” Let’s eat. Dinners on the government.’
 “God bless the U.S.A.” Trent said, not having a full understanding of the concept of God, but knowing that the phrase was a good thing.

He held her down

    He held her down, knife to her throat. She whispered in to his ear, “You won’t do it.”
    He brought his lips to her ear and said, “Wanna bet?”
    “Yes, you know I like it rough.”


     I’m the bass player for one of the world’s foremost rock bands and I don’t any pussy. Hell, I started this band and I don’t even get the slightest recognition. I mean, the name "Sippy Cup" was my idea. Yet even the roadies get more play than me on tour. What is that shit? I practically sign the checks. Still, the lead singer gets more throw-away poon than I’ve had in my entire lifetime.

     I used to think the whole shying-away-from-the-spotlight thing was pretty cool. But then "Genocide Baby" hit #1 and we went global. I wrote that fucking song, yet everybody flocks around this dick like he'd found the cure for AIDS. Don’t get me wrong, I like Clyde. He’s the perfect frontman and he’s even a nice guy, but c’mon! I wrote the song that propelled us from Wisconsin dive bars to the Goddamn Budokan and what do I ask in return? A one-night stand. Singular. I’ve got the songwriting royalties, the heated driveways, the weekend flights to Amsterdam. Shit, I own an island, for Christ's sake! All I really want is to get laid on tour. Just once! I mean, all I want is for some 19 year old to throw herself at me. And not out of pity, not as a consolation prize. I want that one girl to jump on the tour bus and go, "Frank, you are the fucking heart and soul of this band and I want your penis in my vagina right now!"

     Okay, I wouldn’t want her to say it like that, exactly. That sounds kinda’ disgusting. I just want a Frank groupie, that's all. Just once.  But, you know what? Nobody wants to fuck the bass player. Except maybe that tool from Winger.


Thursday, October 18, 2007

Glee Club intermission (306)

Joe’s mind raced as every possible outcome to his actions filled his head. He was tracing and tracking this one action as far back and as far into the future as he could without going insane. This was a new experience. Joe was not a tracer. He’d always worked outcome- worked it with a team. But he’d be ordered to kill his new team, and to kill his old partner carpenter. Normally, he wouldn’t be told why and he would ask, but this time…
This time he figured it out. By some strange twist of fate, all the pieces had become real to him like lucid scenes from a film. Everything laid out in front of him, showing him his greater purpose, showing him his cause. He wrote everything that he saw, memorized it, and destroyed the writings- then he began again.
It was obvious now that he was a big part of zeit geist. He was essential. The fate of mankind rested in his actions, and he had to abuse that responsibility before anyone else figured it out.
All that Joe knew was that in order to save reality, he had to destroy it, and he knew just how to do it.
So, joe set about formulating a plan, making sure to anticipate any and every possible outcome that could possibly delay him from his very important schedule.
This took him ten years.


Our plan was to open the release mechanism in the floor. By doing so, zero gravity would take hold, enabling us to venture to the remnants of the supposed haunted house below. That was the main plan.

The back-up involved the Nazis that were patrolling in the floor above. They were making a Hell of a lot of noise, tipping over tables and chairs, probably looking for something or someone. There was a knot in the corroded ceiling above us that not only gave us a view of the occasional goose-stepping boot sole, but served as the perfect hole to release the hornets. After the hornets, we planned on injecting the hole with a 24th century airborne virus. That was the back-up plan.

Liberal amounts of bear grease was spread on the tiny, stained glass window in front of us, which appeared to depict some kind of victory by some king none of us recognized. Probably from an alternate timeline, though it could’ve been one of the kings we just never bothered to pay attention to in history class. Ironically, none of us are historians. We should really look into hiring one to go out with us sometime. The light through the window kept blinking on and off. Could’ve been some hippie freak-out behind it or the fact that we were passing so quickly through time that days counted off like seconds.

This is only speculation, mind you.

The final option was the cyanide gun. Why we bothered to put cyanide in a gun is beyond me. Put anything, a cotton ball, a flower petal, it’ll kill you going 900 mph out of a barrel. Anyway, that was our final option. But, then again, that’s always the final option, isn’t it?

We opted for both the first and back-up plan after a short talk. By the time we’d released the virus upwards and tripped the mechanism below, the Nazis were no longer Nazis in the timeline and the house below us was no longer a house. Ancient samurais hit the floor with a thud as few stray hornets escaping into our area, swords clanging to the floor above us. And now, we are floating in space.

We just couldn’t stomach touching all that bear grease.



    Deep underground beneath the Geneatrack Building, two men walk down a long corridor. The older of the two turns toward the younger and asks, “Do you know what we do here at Geneatrack?”
    “We are the world’s leading producer of genealogical knowledge. Our vast data bases of information combined with constant surveys, interviews, and physical searching provide us with the wealth of knowledge we use to help link families.”
    “Nice, is that right out of the new employee handbook?”
    The younger man nodded.
    “Well, how do you think we interview people in a way that allows us to accurately determine ancestry back twenty seven generations or more?”
    “I am not sure, sir.”
    They stop at a nondescript door in the middle of the corridor. The older man stops and asks the younger man, “Are you sure you want to continue? Once you enter there is no turning back.”
    “Yes. I am in all the way.”
    He opens the door and there is a small box sitting in the middle of the room. The box is large enough to sit inside, and looks to be constructed of clear plexi-glass and a bubble machine. The older man turns to the younger, holds out his hand, and says, “Time travel.”


Wednesday, October 17, 2007


“I wish that I had multiple personalities.”
“Because if I was banging one chick? I could bang her in each personality. That would equal banging like- 10 chicks.”
“Get out of my car.”


     The brunettes in the back booth of Sleestak’s are sisters. If that weren’t bad enough, they’re all actresses. Angel, the oldest, is separated by two years from Billie, who’s three years older than Janis. Sleestak’s is their weekly rendezvous point where they talk shop. This pact means that they won’t clutter up the rest of the week with conversations about "the business."
     It’s Friday night and the conversation always starts the same way.
     "I need more cigarettes before we start this shit," Billie says, scrounging through her Coach bag. "Excuse me," she asks a nearby waitress," do you guys sell cigarettes?"
     "Yeah," the waitress replies," Dutch Pinks or Diamond Blues?"
     "You got Dutch Slims?"
     "Sure. You guys want refills?"
     Angel covers her glass with her hand, shaking her head.
     "Still nursing this one, thanks," replies Janis as she takes a swig.
     The waitress saunters off.
     "So, anything good this week," Janis asks, finishing her drink.
     "Oh, yeah," Billie says, sarcastically. "That slimy fuck at I.Q. Casting? The mullet guy? He made another pass at me."
     "Billie, you think every guy is out to fuck you."
     "I’m serious, Janis! I’m going in for that Waterbed King spot and when I get in there, he tells me to lay down on this twin size mattress and flop around."
     "He actually said, ‘flop around?’" asks Angel.
     "Yeah! He made me take off my shoes and he told me he was doing some close-ups of my feet for the client to see. Jesus, when I got out of there I felt like I needed a shower. Felt so filthy."
     "Well, that was probably a good impulse," Angel says. "No telling how many people have already flopped around on that thing before you got there."
     "Shit! You were called in for Waterbed King?" Janis shouts. "I should’ve been called in for that!"
     "If they do, make sure you get a pedicure first," replies Billie. Apparently the Waterbed King has a foot fetish. So, what’s shaking with you guys?"
     "I start rehearsals for that play this week," Janis says, looking down at her empty glass.
     "Jesus God, that Greek tragedy thing?" Billie asks with a chortle.
     "No! Remember? I’m understudying at the Humboldt this week!"
     Angel and Billie look over at each other in shock.
     "The H?" Angel asks.
     "You’re working at the big room at the H?" asks Billie at full volume.
     "It’s not the big room, it’s the black box," replies Janis, meekly. "I’m understudying this tiny role. It’s not a big deal."
     "But it’s the H, Janis," Angel replies, "that’s kind of a big deal. Admit it."
     "Fuck me! You’re playing the fucking H before me! Oh my God!" shouts Billie.
     "Hey, you got called back for Waterbed King. That’s a national spot!" Janis fires back.
     "C’mon, mullethead’s using my foot tape for his personal jerk reel. You’ve made it into the big house! That’s the fucking balls!"
     "Yeah, I’m not getting paid shit though. I’ll probably never even go on."
     "Billie’s right, Janis. This is a step up for you. It would be a step up for any of us. But you. You’re still young, you’re still in that ingenue phase. This could lead to bigger things. Seriously, congratulations."
     Angel tips her half-empty glass to Janis, who clinks her glass with Angel’s.
     "And you?" Janis asks Angel.
     "Oh, nothing. Nothing, just working at the law office. You know, I’ve been really busy lately. Late hours. There’s this huge backlog and by the time I get home, I’m just beat. I mean, I saw a couple of things this week I thought about going out for, but I just didn’t have anything prepared, so . ."
     "Wasn’t there some student film thing?" asks Billie.
     "Yeah, but I got a weird vibe from the director. There was this bare back scene in it and I just wasn’t comfortable. It seemed unnecessary."
     "It’s just your back, Ang," snaps Billie. "They’re not asking you to go spread eagle or anything."
     "Yeah, that’s more your speed," replies Janis.
     "Hey, you know that I.Q. guy’s a fucking skeeze," Billie says.
     "It’s only a student film," Janis says to Angel. "You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, you know?"
     "I know. Honestly, I’m not even sure I want to put myself out there anymore."
     "What do you mean?" asks Billie.
     "I’m too old now. 35 is tough. Trust me, you guys will know what I mean when you get here. I just want stability. A real life like everybody else. Normal people, you know, not actors. I mean, how long do we chug away at this thing before we give up? Where’s the end to it all? I don’t even know why I bother trying anymore. I don’t get cast in anything. Haven’t for a long time. I called Faye a couple of days ago and told her not to send me out anymore."
     "What?" Billie screams.
     "Angel," Janis says calmly, placing her hand on top of Angel’s wrist, "you can’t tell your agent you don’t want to be sent out anymore. You just tell her you’re taking a month off, then you’ll call her back."
     "No, I’m done. You guys are doing great. Better than I ever did. I’m just not cut out for it. Time kind of whittled me down, that’s all. I’ve got to find somebody. Got to stop living for myself. And that’s all this business is. It’s too self-involved and I just want out."
     The faces of the other two brunettes turn down to their drinks. Angel is almost in tears, but manages to hold them back.
     "Excuse me," she says and heads for the ladies room.
     "Well, how about that?" Janis says to Billie after a moment of silence.
     "Yeah," Billie replies, "How about that?" She is shaken a bit. Angel was her reason for trying her own hand at this in the first place, and seeing her older sister giving up like this makes her doubt her own future.
     "Can I get some fucking cigarettes around here?" she shouts.
     The bar gets eerily quiet as the two brunettes wait for their sister to come back to them.


Let’s start a band

Let’s start a band. Yep, you and me and who ever else we can find. I don’t care whom else. I just want to play. It would be real trendy some kind of techno-retro-feelgood-hardcore-trashdance-rockabilly-deathmetal-blugrass. We can start small playing to all the smaller venues in town. A small regional label will pick us up. Of course, the description of our sound will be too much for record write-ups. It can be shortened to Blue Metal Death Grass! Thrash metal with banjos! Keyboards and a cowbell will all be our signature sound. After an EP and two LPs later, a major label picks us up, and all our fans from the early days say we sell out. Our fan base grows exponentially over the course of four more albums in six years. My head will expand, and I will go solo with one hit disc and my sophomore album will fall flat. I will apologize and rejoin the band. We release a greatest hits/live album with a couple new songs fans eat it up.
We aren’t as young as we use to be we lose our keyboardist, yes you, to drugs. You die in an alley with a nose full of coke. It’s sad. We all proclaim to be clean, we aren’t. Six months later after a near overdose our drummer will find Jesus, and run off to some compound to be with Mother Nature. We support you to your face, but make fun of you to the press. We never speak again.
We clean up for real. We release a couple albums that are terrible. On tour we only play one song from the most recent album to appease the label. The only reason we tour to help make ends meet. Our life styles have caught up to us. Money from albums doesn’t flow like it did before.
On second thought, lets not start a band. I gotta get these burgers out. That sounds safer.


Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Glee Club epilogue (308)

Joe walked through the crowd of men in corsets and women in even less as Aphex twin’s Windowlicker thumped along with the strobe lights- or vice versa.
They were all sitting at a table together, all dressed in black single breasted suits and drinking espresso. They stood out like sore thumbs and blended in all at once.
Carpenter was the first to see Joe approach.
He stood, and nodded in Joe’s direction.
Joe walked over and had a seat. The waitress came over- she was pierced in ever hole that was visible, and seemed like the sort of girl that had made the decision to live in this sort of world late in life. In high school she was a cheerleader. Now, two years later, she was goth as fuck.
Joe opted not to yell over the music but instead pulled her close to whisper into her ear. When she walked away from the table she knew two things: Joe drank cranberry juice with a shot of tonic, and later Joe would be inside her.
Joe had a seat with the five men and gave thm the once over. Except for Carpenter, they all looked really young.
“Meet everybody’s all American!” Carpenter yelled over the music.
“Your new team.”
“They look young.” Joe yelled back.
“They are young, but they’ve put in work. They were hand picked by you know how at you know where! They’ll get the job done for you!”
Joe tilted his head to the side, looking each one of them over. He’d seen this team before- hell, he was on this team once. When he first joined the Tabernacle, he had a meeting just like this- being trotted out in front of the old guy, feeling like all he could do was explode waiting for his opportunity to prove himself. He knew what it was like to be them. This is why it was all so tragic.
“Let me introduce you!” Carpenter yelled.
“That won’t be necessary.” Joe answered.
“You know who at you know where has sent the order down. I’m sorry.”
Carpenter froze for a moment, then shook his head.
“Do we know why?” carpenter asked.
“Sure we do. We always do. For the greater good.”
“The greater good. Shit.” Carpenter said. He picked up his drink an finished it.
The team of young agents looked at the two seasoned pros, confused. Carpenter leaned towards them.
“Don’t worry about it.” He said. “All in all, you boys did a great job.”
After this, Carpenter’s brains exploded all over the men, then one by one Joe shot them as well.
The combination of silencer and loud Techno music covered them entire scene. They wouldn’t be discovered until closing time. And since they never carried actual I.D. or had readable fingerprints, they’d never be identified. 
Later, Joe made angry love to the former cheerleading Goth waitress on the couch in her apartment. The next morning he left without ever learning her name, went to the house he had purchased earlier that week, and walked inside.
He did not emerge for ten years.
The beginning.


That new restaurant Sique’ just opened up down the street. The buzz has been going on for months. Everyone wants to get into this place. Reservations are next to impossible. Only the rich, famous or notable are allowed in opening night. But then again, only the rich, famous or notable could afford it. Appetizers start at $50.

Local entrepreneur Alexi Girard, best remembered for his WhizBang clothing line for the mentally retarded, conceived of Sique’ during a bout with food poisoning. While he cursed the bistro that had undercooked his veal over his toilet, his loopy mind envisioned a place where patrons came to the restaurant knowing in advance that the food they consumed would make them violently ill. As long as he covered his ass with the right legal team and made sure that each customer signed a three page document holding themselves 100% responsible for future medical bills, he would be in the clear.

Sure, people scoffed and ridiculed and protested, but nothing Girard ever did went without controversy. His DangerLand amusement parks were a big hit with the masochistic set, and although EuroDangerLand never saw its full potential, he still saw a growing profit margin (in hindsight, he blamed its closing on a lackluster marketing campaign that completely skipped over Germany).

Sique’ was simply the next step.

In the first week, the in-house defibrillator was being used in such a rapid succession that it broke down. Word is that by week two he had furnished each booth with one.

A local food critic was quoted as saying, "though the uncooked brisket is tough to get down, its elegance is greatly achieved when it comes back up."

By month’s end, there were three deaths attributed to Sique’. In fact, the more famous the deceased, the longer the line got to get in the place.

When asked by a local paper about the deaths, Girard said, "Well, we don’t serve to children. These are adults. Adults who know what they’re getting into when they arrive. Someone once said, ‘Food is life.’ Well, I believe the opposite is also true. To die at Sique’ is the ultimate dining experience."


Mortimer the littlest mortician

    And now another installment of Mortimer the littlest mortician!

    Mortimer goes into see his mom cooking an apple pie in the kitchen. He says, “Mom, I have a joke. Do you want to hear it?”
    She puts her apple corer down and said, “Sure hon I would love to hear a joke.”
    “Ok, what’s the best way to unload a truck of dead babies?”
    “What?” She screamed as she crushed the apple in her left hand. Where did you hear such a joke?”
    “Jeffery told it to me.”
    “Don’t you lie young man. We both know that Jeffery isn’t real who told you that joke?”
    “Jeffery told me.”
    His mother obviously shaken slammed the smashed apple on the counter and said, “Fine, no pie for you until you tell me who told you that joke.”

    Mortimer went up to his room and closed the door. Jeffery was sitting on his bed and asked, “What did she think? Did she die laughing?” He then mumbled, “I guess not my dad isn’t here.”
    “She said that it was a horrible joke, I’m not to tell it to any one, and I can’t have any pie until I tell her who told me the joke.”
    “Well, that won’t do will it? Tell her it was Susan I never really liked her. Oh yeah, and get me some pie too!”
    Mortimer left his room to find his mom, and get a piece of pie for himself and one for Jeffery.


Monday, October 15, 2007

public services

        A group of seven men stand in a circle deep in the woods outside Blottstown’s city limits. All of them in their mid to late forties except for the one sheriff’s deputy who was the first on the scene.
    “Oh Geez! What am I going to do? You guys know its an election year right? You haven’t forgotten that yet?” the irate mayor screamed.
    “Mayor sir, the press doesn’t know about this, yet. We can keep it under wraps until after the election,” the sheriff said.
    The police chief added, “They aren’t local. We checked.”
    The detective on duty nodded, and said, “Sir we want to back you as much as we can. Just don’t panic. I will be on this case. They don’t have to be found,” he mimed quote marks with his fingers, “until later.”
    “They have been dead for a while, at least a day or so,” the coroner said as he flicked a cigarette into the woods.
    The young deputy who was the first on the scene said, “I don’t get what the big deal is here. There are two dead hookers way out in the woods. How can this hurt your reelection? Also who is that guy?” He asked as he pointed to the only person out side of the circle.
    “That’s Charles. He is a cleaner. He takes care of messes.” The Mayor said, “I brought him in. Murder isn’t that big a deal here. It’s the hookers! We have a moral obligation to the citizens of this fair city of ours. Murders keep the people in line. Fear is a great motivator. Now hookers, they are just tacky.

Give a man a gun and he's Superman (309)

He was a cop’s cop. He had a code that only he honored, and honored no code. He always carried two 45s, Triade rules be damned.
When he walked into a room, people got quiet and criminals got shot. He’d never made an arrest in his 10 years on the force, but was responsible for the decline of crime in hong Kong by almost 200%.
He played jazz clarinet when he wasn’t on the streets shooting criminals and blowing up cars with accurate marksmanship.
He cried at night because his father wanted him to be a doctor.


     He can feel his heart thumping like an 808 bass. A heartbeat’s not something you think about unless it’s working overtime, against something detrimental to your body. In this case, it’s a gunshot wound.

     He makes it to the fire escape of his apartment building as the blood drips off his shoulder. The key to the window lock is somewhere in his belt, but in the state he’s in, he gives up and lies down on the landing.

     "Fuck this," he thinks, fumbling in each compartment of his oversized belt. "I’m just gonna’ die here, I guess. Mr. Dino will find me while sneaking in to look for a rent check. He’ll walk in, see me dead on the fire escape in this fucking get-up. It’ll be in all the papers, too. ‘Lurker Found Dead.’ Whole article will be about how I lived like a bum. One of the most respected crimefighters in this city lived in a shitty, rent-controlled, three story walk-up. They’ll find all my foot fetish porn, so that’ll make the article for sure. Jeez. All these years I’ve gotten shot at, but never actually shot. I’m too old. That’s it. Too old, too slow. How foolish am I gonna’ look, dead on this fire escape? I just don’t care. It was a good ride, I guess. Aw, fuck it."

     The Lurker closes his eyes. In a few hours, when the sun comes up, he’ll wake up and wish he was dead, but he won’t be. He’ll slink over to the only man who knows his secret identity. Doc Childers will easily nurse his wound and demand to be paid in booze.

     They’ll laugh over a couple of Scotches at D.T.’s and Doc will once again remind The Lurkerr of how big a pussy he is.


Sunday, October 14, 2007

Ultra Death Dealing Shrink Ray

    Two young boys playing in the abandoned house down the street discover a dusty relic under a tarp. The tarp has danger in faded red letters printed all across its surface. The younger of the boys pull the dusty tarp away to reveal a silver monstrosity. All ridges, metal rivets, and wires snake across the surface of the coffin-sized machine. The older boy runs his hand over the machine wiping away dust. There is a sign on one end. The sign reads, Ultra Death Dealing Shrink Ray.
    “What’s an Ultra Death Dealing Shrink Ray?” the younger boy asked.
    “You will find out soon enough,” a voice behind them said.


Joe was a Priest for the secret underground/off grid organization known by few as the Tabernacle. Joe had had many aliases before he joined the religious sect, his most infamous being that of Brother Subliminal, mastermind criminal.
He was recruited by the sect for his proficiency in make things his that once were not.
Joe’s job with the tabernacle was that of a thief of sorts. His job was to procure religious, cursed, and otherwise magical artifacts for the tabernacle to store in its hallowed halls and study.
It was while on one of these missions that Joe managed to procure a missing scythe that had been lost to a fallen Grim Reaper for millennia. Once he touched the artifact, he was suddenly transported to the office of the angel of death.
She told him in no uncertain terms that he has to take up the job of the fallen reaper until he meets his quota.
She also decided to give Joe the special cases, like super heroes, monsters and powerful creatures, and other special interest jobs.
With this new gig all set, Joe left the Tabernacle and set upon his task of collecting the souls of the superhuman.
This is the beginning of the tale of Brother Subliminal and Riot act.


     I’m doing this thing for "scale." Less than "scale." The Union can blow me. What these shitheads don’t seem to realize is that it’s not the money, it’s the work. If I can stay busy, keep the name out there and still eat Cecil Burgers every night, I could give a flying fuck.
     Hud Gamble is not my name, it’s a fucking lifestyle. Back in the 70’s, that name had me living high on the hog. Hud was a bankroll, a free ticket to anywhere I wanted to go, the tap I turned on when I wanted hot and cold-running chics. But it was just a name, you understand. A name that I had to pick because the Union already had 14 "George Stone’s," with creative spellings that I could never have dreamed up. So, I took my favorite Paul Newman movie and combined it with a word that described this business in a nutshell. Hud Gamble. I got representation, and once I appeared in that fantasy crap that everybody knows me from, the offers wouldn’t stop. I saturated the market and I got paid big. But the drugs got out of control. By the time I kicked them, I was in the hole $80,000 with no offers coming down the pike. Divorce, alimony, child support, you name it, I got strapped with it.
     Seven years drought and now this little movie comes along. The name isn’t the reason people come to see it once it opens.  Not like in the 70's. New, hot director who makes has-beens into can-dos. At the screening, I sneak in 10 minutes after it starts and hide in the back row, just in time to hear the following conversation between two Hollywood ponytails:

"Hud Gamble?!!? He’s still alive?"

"Glad he’s still getting work, I guess."

     It phases me, but only for a minute. Jesus, I look good up there. Who knows? This might be the comeback. Just keep climbing that ladder, George. Mama was right, though. Hud is a fucking stupid name.


Saturday, October 13, 2007

Ever heard of g’nats?

    Ever heard of g’nats? No, I didn’t mispronounce gnat. G’nats are little gremlin like creatures that steal your things, and hide them.  They don’t steal important things or mess up important machinery like the gremlins of World War Two. They are just a pain in the ass. I just moved into a house that is infested with the little buggers. They have my checkbook currently. It’s a pain. I will find it soon.

J'Mel always rings twice (311)

(J’Mel drunk dials celebrities you may or may not have heard of and leaves embarrassing voicemail messages)

Halle Berry
Hey Halle. It’s J’Mel. I was just watching Monster’s Ball. That sex scene with Slingblade was off the chain, baby girl! “Make me feel good!” I’ll make you feel good! I just want too say something, and I guess if you get mad or disagree you can blame it on the liquor because I’m as drunk as (expletive deleted). I think you look better with clothes on. I’m sorry, but I don’t apologize for saying that I think you look better with clothes on. I’m not saying you didn’t look good, I’m just saying that I had this vision of what those (inappropriate slang for breasts) were gonna look like, and I was wrong. Anyway, I hope you aren’t mad at me. Call me when you get this. Make me feel good! Oh, and Merry Christmas.

Idea. How about you take What A Fool Believes by the Doobie Brothers and, like, sample it? I don’t think anyones done it yet. You can basically just loop the first 12 seconds of the song, and get Michael McDonald to sing a new hook over it. Something like What a bad Boy believes, or What a Biggie Believes- yesh! Do it for Biggie. I think it’s about time for another Biggie tribute song. You know what, though?  You’ll blow everybody’s mind if you do a 2pac tribute song! What a Pac Believes! That’s all I had- I didn’t want anything. Think about it.

Jerry Reed
What up playa! Holla! Hey, so I’ve been wanting to ask you this for, like, years- what the hell was up with Smokey and the Bandit III? Did they just pull a truck load of money up to your house? How did that meeting go?
“Hey Jerry. We have an idea. We think that the reason the fisrt two Smokies worked were you and Burt Reynolds. So we’ve decided to do a third film, and in order make sure that it makes millions at the box office, we want to combine you and Burt into one character. We want you to play Burt Reynolds playing the bandit in Smokey and the Bandit III! Here, wear this phony mustache for the entire movie, you dick!”
Dude! What happened? They got the gold mine and you got the shaft! Can you even look  Burt in the eye? Does he even call? Man, I didn’t call you up to be an ass, but I just want to know. If you want to talk about it hit me on the cell. I’m over here chillin’ if you want to hang out. Bring that Asian tape you keep telling me about- the one with the dog. Peace!

Nancy Grace
Just returning your call. Um- yeah, I still have your underwear. I told you I was going to keep them. Did you think I was joking? I wasn’t. Ha ha! You’re more than welcome to come and get them, if you dare. Just wanted to say that all that angry contradiction stuff you did last time was really hot. I love a vocal girl. Seriously, though, swing on by when you get this. And bring a pack of Newports. Get the 100’s. Before you even say anything, I know I said I quit, but I only like to smoke after two things- drinking and…you know. So, we’ll have two reasons to smoke tonight. Don’t wear a bra. Bye, you nasty thing, you.
Amy Winehouse
Okay, you win the bet! I didn’t think you could go it, but you win. When I first heard you whining on the radio like a violated cicada, I went crazy! How did you actually convince people to give you a record deal? You are crazy! I love you, you nutcase! And you even lost 50 pounds- you look like a dead person. You look like a cult member in a fright wig. Bravo, Aimster. You win the bet- One dollar. Get some sleep, you deserve it, because you look like a teen runaway from an apocalyptic future. I’ll call you next week. Don’t call me, my voicemail is broken or something. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll hear from me soon after. Alright.

O.J. Simpson
Thanks for covering for me, Juice. I owe you big- Big!

Melanie Jayne Chisholm (Sporty Spice)
Congratulations on the reunion tour. You know you were always my favorite Spice Girl. I tell eveyone I know that you were the only one that could actually carry a tune. I can’t wait to see you guys on stage again. Don’t charge too much for the tickets!
I’m just putting it out there- Nancy grace is coming over later, and you should join us. Seriously, come on over. It’d be best if you got here before she did. Wear a bra and nothing else- maybe socks.

George Lucas
G-money bit o’ honey. It’s me. I should have made this call a long time ago, but I waited and then it was too late and by the time I thought about it again, it was way too late to do it. So, look- I was joking! That script I sent you was never meant to be made into a movie! It wasn’t even formatted properly! Didn’t you notice all of the unnecessary parenthetical phrases and stilted dialogue? Dude, I hadn’t even watched the original films in 20 years! You can’t tell me that you didn’t notice that nothing tied into the other films. You can’t tell me that after the first twenty pages, you didn’t notice that it was just a bunch of characters flying back and forth and talking at each other with no distinction in character. And it’s called Attack of the Clones! They don’t attack anyone, they’re on our side! Anyway, man. I’m sorry but it can’t even be considered my fault at this point. It’s like you’ve never read a screenplay! If you wanna hang out, Jerry reed is bringing that Asian tape where the girls cry a lot. If you’re coming, bring the tequila. It’s your turn. Bitch! Ha ha. Seriously, drop by.  Noonch!

Joyce DeWitt
I wish you’d pick up the phone. I don’t know what you thought you saw, but Nancy Grace and Sporty Spice were just here to help me change the shower curtain. That explains you hearing Nancy saying “Give me the rod, and I’ll put it in.” it was just a misunderstanding. Actually, you’d think that you would understand- this is very close to one of your Three’s Company episodes. I mean, really- “Hurry up and finish screwing it before I scream!”? I can see how you could make the mistake, but we were only doing some light home improvements. I hope that you do the rational thing and call me back. This is too silly to end what we have. I’ll talk to you later, hopefully. I love you. Happy birthday.