Friday, November 30, 2007

Accident Seen (265)

I was awakened by a loud crash outside the window. Once i was able to catch my breath, i approached the window and peeked out to see if i could figure out what had happened. there, two stories bellow, two cars had collided. i quickly called 911 and waited for them to arrive as i kept watch to see if anyone would crawl from the wreckage. a fe poeple fron the other apartment complex made their way out to try and help. i ket repeating to myself "don't move them- you're not supposed to move them."
eventually the abulance, police, and fire department arrived. they pulled everyone from their individual cars and took them away. i can only assume that since they all departed so quickly, no one was dead- not yet at least. some moments later, a wrecker arrived. the burly driver surveyed the mmess for a while, then used a huge hook on his truck to hoist both cars onto the back of the rig. i guess that it was easier. the cars looked like one big pile of metal at this point- not like two seperate cars.
after watching this little slice of tragic life, i finally forced myself to go back to bed. it was dangerously close to time to be awake, and if i started to think about it too much, i'd never be able to enjoy the couple of hours of sleep i had left.
As I brushed my teeth the next day and stared from the window, i saw people in the distance in what was just like one of the cars from the night before. they just sat there, down the road, as if they were waiting for something. soon, they sped off towards the intersection where the crash had happened last niht, and crashed into another car- a car just like the one from before.
i watched, shocked and confused as the events played out again just like last night. different neighbors came out to check on the saccident- i guess the ones from last night were already at work. the cops, firemen, and ambulances all showed up just like before. it was all happening again, like it was staged. like it was a show. as i watched in stunned silence, i noticed a fireman noti=cing me in the window. he started to say something to the other firemen, then to the cops, and the firemen- even to the victims of the crash. soon, they were all looking in my direction. and then they were all startig towards my apartment. the neighbors that had run out to see/help stood around confused as everyone involved in the accident started up the stairs towards my apartment.
I don't think i was supposed to see this- twice.

Run Amanda

“Daddy, why are we out here?” Amanda asked.

“There’s something out there,” Her dad replied.

“What do you mean something?”

“I don’t know hon, but we have to move. I can hear them.”


The Moonbooted bum and the Alien sat atop the Scepter Building on a cold, cold, cold night.

"These shoes won’t work for you. They only work for me," the Moonbooted bum said.

"Well, you’re not exactly a fuckin’ fashion plate yourself," the Alien replied.

Moonboots stood up onto the ledge.

"I ain’t talkin’ fashion, ya’ Goddamned green-skinned bastard! On my planet, you need these boots to get around."

"I’ve been getting’ around just fine without your stupid boots, pal. Siddown! You’re gonna’ fall off this fucker if you don’t be careful!"

Moonboots let out a "Bah" as he walked tight-roped on the edge, away from the Alien.

"You don’t even know what the fuck I’m talkin’ about, spaceman," Moonboots said. "I’m talkin’ ‘bout anti-gravity here. I could walk offa’ this skyscraper and walk right over to that lady’s window, knock on it and borrow a cuppa’ sugar in these boots if I wanted to. That’s the power I have on this planet, you hear me?"

"Why don’t you do it then?"

Moonboots stopped in his tracks and turned back to the Alien.

"What did you say to me?" Moonboots asked.

"You heard me. Prove it!"

Moonboots bumbly ambled over to the Alien.

"You prove it!" Moonboots screamed as he pushed the Alien off the roof. The Alien hollered all the way down and hit the pavement with a sickening thud.

"Christ, I hate aliens," Moonboots whispered, taking off his boots. He sat on the ledge again and smelled the insides of the boots as car horns blared on the street below. 


Thursday, November 29, 2007


I couldn't wait to get my Mail. i ordered porn last week. ass porn. I like ass porn.
* Sorry. I'm really drunk tonight and some chick just dumped me for being too decent. not kidding ...sigh.

Joe walked out of the building

Joe walked out of the building, and looked into the sky. Dark grey and it was only two in the afternoon. It will rain for sure, and he hadn’t brought an umbrella. He told himself that he should have grabbed an umbrella before he left the house this morning.
“Who takes an umbrella to an interview?” he asked himself. It wasn’t supposed to rain so why had he thought about it this morning? It was another thought that popped in his head just like the one that popped in his head about the interview he just left. He screwed up. They won’t call him back. Once again stuck in his crappy dead end job. It was a tangle of problems. Left a job that would have given him experience for an unrelated job with more money. Because he settled in the job with more money he got comfortable and lazy. He wasn’t motivated. There were no reasons to stretch out and work for anything. Now that he wants a job that interests him, no one wants him because of his lack of experience.
“Wait, gotta a feeling again. Don’t cross the road here,” he said as he grabbed a woman who was about to step into the road. He turned, and walked down the street. A car swerved through the intersection, and smashed into another car stopped at the red light.
“Right again,” Joe said as he walked down the street. “I hate being right.”


     "Get him on the horn," the fat lieutenant says, handing the megaphone to Grimes, a shivering, skinny pencil pusher, new to hostage negotiations. Sweat pours off of his hands and onto the bullhorn. It slips and he catches it before anyone notices.
     "Charlie," he says calmly into it. "Charlie? Let’s talk this thing through, okay?"
     A booming voice from the house pierces the air amid the scary boots and crosstalk of the seven squad cars’ radius.
     "It’s Freaknik, mutherfucker! Ain’t no Charlie in here!"
     "Fine! Freaknik, I need to come in there so we can figure out what we can do for you," Grimes says.
     "You can start by tellin’ these black and whites to get the fuck out of here!"
     Grimes lowers the bullhorn and glances at the fat lieutenant.
     "Yeah, that’s not going to happen," the fat lieutenant says forcefully under his breath. "We leave and this fucking turd paints the walls with that little girl’s brains. Tell him to let her go, then we might consider it."
     "We have to meet him on his terms or we’ve got nothing, Lieutenant."
     "Fuck that! You’re going to let some dog shit-licking fuck who calls himself Freaknik call the shots? Yeah, I don’t think so! I’m telling my boys to hit the back door!"
     "I outrank you, Lieutenant! If one of your goose-steppers so much as taps on the window, it’s your Goddamned badge, you hear me?"
     The lieutenant scowls at Grimes and lets out a sigh through his nostrils.
     "Stand down, streetgang," he says into his shoulder walkie.
     Grimes turns his attention to the house in front of him.
     "I’m coming in there, Freak," Grimes says into the bullhorn. He hands it to the lieutenant and sets his gun on a nearby squad car as he walks, eyes fixed on the house as he does so.
     "Mutherfucker, it’s yo’ ass if you come in here!" Freaknik screams. "I mean it! Goddammit! You’ll be the first one to go, mutherfucker! I ain’t fuckin’ playin’ here!"
     The lieutenant brings the megaphone to his lips, "Charl- uh, Freaknik! He’s coming in there unarmed! You hearing me? He is not armed!"
     Grimes gets to the front steps as Freaknik continues screaming. As he enters the house, Freaknik’s yelling becomes more belligerent and several shots are fired.
     "Move in, streetgang! Move in!" the lieutenant screams into his radio.
     A little girl in blonde pigtails walks out of the house, seemingly unharmed. Grimes follows close behind as the jackbooted special ops swarm past both of them and into the house. The girl is gently picked up by the lieutenant, who passes her off to a social worker. The lieutenant comes to meet Grimes, whose jaw is hanging open.
     "What the fuck just happened in there?" the lieutenant asks.
     "I’m saving it for my report, Lieutenant," Grimes says. "But nobody, especially you, will believe it."
     "Now, listen," the lieutenant says, grabbing Grimes by the collar, "I heard shots fired in there. You tell me what happened!"
     Grimes pulls away from the lieutenant’s grasp and sits on the curb. He looks at his shaking hands and looks up.
     "He shot at me. Five, maybe, ten feet away. There was no way he was going to miss. And at that moment, it was like time stopped. The bullets just hung there, in mid-air. I looked down at that little girl and saw her hands stretched out. The bullets did a slow 180 and then flew back into Freaknik’s head and he hit the ground."
     The lieutenant shakes his head.
     "Grimes, what the fuck are you telling me? That he fired at you and his bullets somehow hit him instead? That’s fucking impossible!"
     "Then, why don’t you ask her?" Grimes says, looking over at the little girl, who’s being consoled by the social worker. The girl is glassy-eyed, looking back at them as a slow, steady trail of special ops come from the house. 


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Float On! From the files of Hoovercraft Squad Alpha Chapter 18- Freckles (266)

She came over to be Photograohed and I met her at the door with a Space-scotch. the floor in my kitchen was excellent, so i had her lay down and spread out her hair. i straddled her with the camera and took a few shots. they were nice, but they weren't what i wanted. i needed her to blush. i began to ask her innocent questions about sex, becoming more graphic as the time went on. soon, her head was beet red. this was what i wanted. Tomorrow, i'd be in Alpha-Squad command prepping my team for a seige on the octopus king of Venus- Sending wave after of wave of fresh faced young recruits into what would be their first and possibly last mission as Hover pilots. it was a shitty situation brought on by a planet president that had never even been on a hovercraft, let alone served on a hovercraft squad. One recruit, I call her Freckles, she couldn't be any older than 18. grew up on a farm and always dreamed of Hovering. all she talks about is taking down the heathens of space and spreading the good world from the unified Planet of America. stupid kid. she'll probably die out there in the cold of space. she may not make even make it to Venus. But tonight? I was gonna give a young freckled lady with an underbite and a thick, soft, and sexy ass cleavage the ride of her life.
See you in hell, cadets.


Randall wandered through the old house looking for an exit. every door led to another room, and each room was filled with doors. each door was marked with a strange lettering that Hoagarth had never seen before. it seeme like hours, but eventually Hogarth entered a room that had only one other door. he could hear something speaking to him from behind the door. the voice called out "Hogarth! Where are you!?"
Hogarth sensed that it was another trap, but he had no choice but to see what waited for him behind the door. he placed his hand on the handel, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and turned the knob...
Hogarth wandered around the small town looking for anyone that had seen his brother. with no luck, he went back to his motel room to rest and think. eventually, his brain filled with thoughts of Minka- the vietnamese porn starlet with the triple k breasts.
He had never met her, but he had seen her films. he was a fan of the grotesque.
in the back of his mind, he could hear his brothr calling him...


There’s no killing on the streets tonight. They’re all awash with the sick, green tint. Trees stripped razor bare of their leaves. Zip. Zip. Gone. The only movement is on the corner. Po’ Boy stands, arms akimbo, in the deadest of whites. Nobody sent him the memo. All accounts clear, checks cashed. He looks down at his watch, then looks around. Nothing. No killing on the streets tonight. Siesta Larga.


Carrie and Grant

Carrie and Grant were playing in their grandfather’s attic when they stumbled across a large wooden box that looked like an old fashioned board game. The two boys being inquisitive creatures pulled the wooden box down from the shelf, and dusted it off.
Carrie, the younger of the two boys, asked, “Should we open it?”
“Sure,” Grant said as he ran his finger across the edge of the wooden box. He fingered the silver latches along the front edge and with his thumbs flicked the clasps open. Several metallic clicks followed shortly by a whirl and a whoosh came from the box. They happened so fast Grant dropped the box and the lid opened on its own. The lid folded back upon itself and the box lifted on an angle to face the boys.
The interior was like nothing they had ever seen before. The box was dark wood with copper accents at the corners. At the top, was a plaque that read, ‘Pathway to Other Doors.’ There was what looked like a clock face that counted to sixty with a light at every fifth notch. The majority of the box was covered with a glass top. The frame around the glass top had switches, knobs, and sliders of all shapes and sizes built into it. Under the glass top were several lights, gears, cogs, and lots of wires, what could have been miles of wires.
Carrie reached for the closest switch and Grant swatted his hand away. “We don’t know what it will do,” Grant said.
“What does that say?” Carrie said as he pointed to a side of the box Grant had not looked at yet.
Grant slid the box around and silently started to read the copper plaque on the side of the box. Carrie shook his older brothers shoulder and said, “You know I can’t read yet that’s not fair. Read it out loud.”
“You need to learn to read,” Grant said.
“I’m only in kindergarten! I can read and write my name and I know my ABCs! Tell me or I will get Mom to read it to me,” Carrie said had he started to get up, and headed toward the stairs.
“Wait we can’t! The box says we can’t!”
Carrie turned around, sat next to his brother, and asked, “What does it say?”
“It says, ‘To he who finds this relic never tell a soul, or you will unleash monsters from below. It is your chosen fate to help us in our time of need. Turn the key and the time will begin. Every five a new door will initiate. To help is your fate. Flick a switch, slider, or button. The right combination is all you need. Choose well and Godspeed.’
Both boys turned to look at each other, and Grant’s hand reached out for the clock face. It was Carrie’s turn to stop his brother. “What do you think it will do?”
“I don’t know let’s find out.” Grant’s fingers closed around the post in the middle of the clock face and he turned it until it reached sixty. Suddenly lights all around the clock face lit up and lights ran all across the entire board. Gears under the glass top started to turn and wires started to turn and snake to new locations. Loud ticking noises came from the clock face, and a single red light flashed on and off next the sixty. Everything under the glass top was moving very slowly.
“Can I touch something?” Carrie asked.
“Sure,” Grant said. He was unsure of what they should do.
Carrie flipped the closest switch, and a series of lights popped on. “What if it’s a puzzle, and we have to light up the center light?”
The boys turned several lights on and then off again. Gradually, the string of lights that started at the sixty were snaked halfway across the board. They felt they were making good progress and having a good time when all the lights went out.
“What happened?” Carrie asked.
“I don’t know,” Grant answered. “Look the sixty isn’t lit any more. The fifty-five is lit. Maybe we have to solve it in less than five minutes.
The boys worked furiously flicking switches, and every five minutes the board would reset back to the clock. When they were at the twenty-five mark, they finally got the middle light to light up. The boys jumped up and down hugging each other when a light started to creep down the wall. It made a rectangle on the wall, and Grant said, “It’s a door.”
“Lets go!” Carrie said.
“Go where?”
“Into the door!”
“Why? We don’t know what in there.”
“You read me the box, and it said people needed our help. We have to help!”
Both boys walked toward the door and went in.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The fire in my belly

As I look down below, I feel the hunger rise. The lights dance in my eyes. This will be delicious. I love a barbeque.


     Cold. Stinging cold. Vigil is a bitch. I always thought perching up on rooftops would be a little slice of badass. That’s the way the comic books painted it anyway. Then again, I don’t remember seeing any of those tight-wearing faggots doing this kind of shit in the dead of winter either. Or in Alaska, for that matter. Why I took this assignment, I’ll never know. Anything to get away from Steelville. I bet Silver Maiden’s having a great time without me around. Jesus, I created a monster. Never thought she’d be in my line of work, but I guess the female mind is capable of anything. Divorce’ll be going through soon and then she can fuck any of those crimefighting douchebags she wants. Lurker, Red Razor, for all I care. I do kind of miss her though. Wonder if she’ll stay the Silver Maiden? Could I sue her for that name? It’s based on mine, so why not? Aw, who cares, right? At least we’re done. That’s all I give a shit about really.
     C’mon, you fucking dillholes! If you say you’re going to hit this freighter, you should have the common decency to be prompt. Fucking tip was probably bullshit anyway. You just can’t trust Eskimos. Hell, I’m giving them one more hour, then it’s Alaska Blue’s problem.
     I wish I’d brought a book.


Monday, November 26, 2007


Whenever he slept with a woman, he'd wait until he'd fallen asleep then sign his name on her ass with a Sharpie. he had a reason for doing this that he'd try to explain, but it all just boiled down to the guy beig a real asshole. he toured with a traveling side show, juggling and telling the same joke over and over. somhow, this got him laid- more than you'd expect. later in life, as e sat alone in his home surrounded by old newspapers and canned food, all he could think about was apologizing to the poor, stupid girls he'd defiled then left town after town.


Clearly our screening process isn’t perfect. This is simply something we have to work on and get past. Hiring a former pornographer was obviously not what we intended to do when we were accepting applications for Mt. Bilthwaite. Our film department had an opening and Mister Dongbone was one of a dozen candidates we considered.

Wasn’t it obvious that "Dongbone" was not his real name?

Not at the time, no.

Didn’t you check his references or look into his employment history?

First of all, his references were impeccable. As far as employment history, he was from Hollywood. We really didn’t see that as a drawback. I mean, name me one bad thing that’s come out of Hollywood lately.

I can think of a few. Dane Cook, the Fantastic Four movies, the de-rapification of Ice Cube . .

Okay, now you’re just grasping at straws.

 . . Soul Plane, A Dumb and Dumber pre-quel, pretty much any movie based on a 70’s TV show . .

Fine! Duly noted.

Did you even bother to look up Mister Dongbone on the Internet?

Slow down! I defy you to look up anyone on the Internet and not find reams of negative sites devoted to them.

Actually, I’m one step ahead of you. We looked up two individuals yesterday. One being your Mister Dongbone and the other being Bishop Desmond Tutu. Here’s what we found. Now, you see this half of a page? This is the only site we found that had anything remotely negative about Bishop Tutu. Could you read the highlighted area for me?

Alright. "Tutu rhymes with doo-doo." Uh-huh. See, now you’re just proving my point.

Now, here’s Mister Dongbone’s stack of Internet links.

Seems like a lot.

This stack is the information we printed off from just the first page of Google when we looked up his name.


Roughly 700 websites altogether.


Would you read a few of his credits for me? His resume’s there at the top.

"From the Earth to the Poon," "Apollo Fuckteen," "Anal Recall," "The Adventures of Pluto Nash" . . .

Yeah, he had a thing for making space movies.

Oh, God! Here! Take this away!

So, now you understand why people are so up in arms about this?  Hiring a pornographer to teach at an all-girls school? 

Yes, yes! It was a horrible mistake. I realize that now. Ugh! "Pluto Nash!" I feel so filthy.


flame on

Name: Unknown possible sur name of Smith or Schmidt

Aliases: Inferno, Blaze, Ignite, Maelstrom, Firefly

Background: Once believed to be a family of pyromaniacs is now known to be only one person. The previous level of destruction of several locations at almost the same time led authorities to believe there was more than more person involved. At each location, a new synonym was used as a tag or note was left. Two weeks ago he struck again. He set fire to school, library, bank, three churches, five houses, and a toy and hobby shop.

Currently: location and motive unknown.

Sunday, November 25, 2007


The meat had sat in the oven for two entire days. she'd forgotten to put it way in the scramble to get her husband to the emergency room.
she asked her son if there was anyway that it could possibly be safe to eat, but he assured her that there was not. later, as she watched a documentary on the state of Darfur, she felt bad for feeling bad about her turkey. still, though- it was a lot of meat.

Bleeding from my toes

My toes are on fire! It burns so much!

Ok maybe they aren’t burning or on fire or even bleeding.

I just have to get to a bathroom before I find the spiderpuppies.


Today is the day that Huntley is to be put down.

"Pork shares are up, Mr. Deerdorfe," he says. "It’s time to sell."

"It’s a weird market now, Mr. Huntley. Maybe we should sit on this one."

"I know the market! I taught you the market! I was in this business before you were in shortpants and I say it’s time to sell.!"

"Very well, sir. How many shares?"

"All of it! Sell it all! I want to make money, not lose the shirt off my back! Where is my shirt anyway?"

"This is a new kind of shirt, sir. We had them made for all of the CEOs. Ties in the back, loose-fitting, flowing, easy to take on and off . . ."

"Well, I don’t like it! I don’t like this! Way back when, a man wore a shirt that buttoned down the front with a stiff collar. Long, skinny ties with hula girls painted on them. Pressed suits. You need to get me my Rolls. Pull it around and cancel my three’o’clock. And get me my French cut suit.

"Yes, sir. All in a due time. I’ll make sure you look presentable."

Huntley is laid flat on the table. The straps are tightened.

"Deerdorfe! Deerdorfe, where are you? I’ve lost you. For God’s sake, nobody’s around when you need them!"

"I’m turning down the lights, Mr. Huntley. You like it dark, remember?"

"Time was, a man knew the lay of the land. All schedules, solid. A long day’s work, and at the end of that day, all accounts were in the black. You got a wife, Deerdorfe?"

Mr. Deerdorfe stops the procedure. He’s suddenly out of his own head and outside of his job.

"Yes. Um . . . Madalyne."

"I met her once, yes? A redhead?"

"That’s right. Now, bite down."

"Can’t talk with this thing in my mouth."

"We’ll just be silent for a while."

"Wait! I remember clouds. And this large tree in my backyard. I used to climb that thing every day, but you know. I never got to the top, no matter how old I got. I never reached those clouds."

"Yes, Mr. Huntley. It’s time to go. Bite down."

Huntley bites down. The needle goes in and Deerdorfe can hear his last words through the bit.

"Hula girls . . clouds . . . sell . . . . sell . . . . . sell . . . . . . sail."


Saturday, November 24, 2007


Tonight, I'm going to explode. I'm going to find a nice crowded place, and ignite with the powers of my mind. My only hope is that people take something from it. I only hope that there is a chain reaction.
I hope I'm not a dud.


"And if you think that Moz is gonna’ let you do this, yer’ outta’ yer’ ever-lovin’ mind!"

Moz always spoke about himself in first person. We never knew why he did it and, honestly, we never questioned why. He might not have been the smartest, but he was the muscle behind the team and we always needed him. This eight-foot mass of bluetone bulk had no brains, but a heart that he wore on his sleeve. When he got upset, shit got broken. Unfortunately, this was one of those times.

He tromped off, leaving huge footprints in the metal floor. Yeah, this was bad.

We followed the footprints to exactly where we were afraid they would end: the Causeway, an inter-dimensional tunnel that led to the place where we’d originally found him, battled him and eventually gone back to in order to ask him to join the team.

His tantrum earlier was spawned by our vote to close the Causeway permanently, which would potentially seal off Moz’s world from ours forever. Too many weird things had escaped from his universe, things we couldn’t beat, regardless of the futuristic technology we’d built. This was the only way. It was a 6 to 1 vote. You can guess which team member voted to keep it open.

With my hand on the red lever, I tossed his Tet-7 badge into the tunnel.

"Good-bye, my friend," I said as I pulled down hard. With a bright, blue flash of light, the Causeway collapsed inward until it was only a tiny dot that soon faded away.


Why won’t you love me

Friday, November 23, 2007

Public Domain(271)

there was a summer many years ago when i was a teen where i was getting dangerously close to running out of masturbation material.
at the time, i couldn't get my hands on any real porn. i had a Penthouse with Aerosmith on the cover, but simply seeing a few naked women had lost it's appeal. i needed the hardcore. this was, you see, after i'd had one of my occasional triumphs of conscience and gotten rid of my entire porn collection. this happened often. so there i was- no porn other than a penthouse and a vhs tape where i'd taped a few sex scenes from movies on hbo abd cinemax.
so one day i was going through the slideshow in my mind trying to figure out who to whack it to, and i rested on an image of Aunt Bea from The Andy Griffith show. in the fantasy i quickly constructed, I'd show up to her door to ask if she needed any chores done around the house. she'd tell me that i could clean out the garage. i'd clean for a while, and she'd offer me some lemonade and sandwhiches for lunch. as we ate, we talked about what a nice town mayberry was. i'd ask her why she'd never been married, and she'd say that she'd never found the right man. she'd tell me that she'd always been happy taking care of her nephews, but still, sometimes she'd get lonely. this is when i'd lean in and kiss her. we'd kiss hard and for a bit, then i'd stand and she'd take me into her mouth...
well, i'll stop there. needless to say, the sex was not gentle nor clean, and when it was all over Aunt Bea would be a satisfied mess of a woman, all flush red and panting on the floor of the garage. we'd lie there, and i'd have a menthol Swisher sweet mini cigar that she'd ask to share. as i'd watch her inhale, smiling as her huge bosom would rise to take in the smoke, i'd have no choice but to take her again, violently on the floor. the string of explatives that would come from her only made the session longer and hotter. Aunt Bea and I would continue for hours there, until the sun set and we were both drained.
that was where i'd leave her- sweaty and spent on the cold floor of the basement, begging me not to leave.
then I'd visit Ethel Mertz...


How much farther?

Honey, sit down! And put your seatbelt on!

How much longer?

Dammit, I will stop this car, I swear!

Mommy doesn’t like it when you swear.

That isn’t swearing, honey. Shit. Piss. Fuck. Tittyballs. That’s swearing.

I’m telling Mommy.

I don’t care. Now, put your seatbelt on! We’re almost there.

Where are we going? I’m hungry!

Honey, listen. If you sit in your seat and put your seatbelt on, we’ll go to Cecil Burger, okay?

I don’t want Cecil’s. I want bar-be-que.

Dante’s then. Just sit down, okay?

Dante’s? Really?

Yes, I promise. Is your seatbelt on?


Alright. See, now you can take it off! We’re here! That didn’t take long, did it?

Kinda’. What are we doing? Where are we?

The woods. Now, listen, sweetheart. Remember when I told you that one day Daddy isn’t going to be around anymore and how one day you’ll have to take over the business?


Well, Daddy’s decided to start training you a little earlier than he thought. Remember Daddy’s boss?


No, his other boss. His underboss, Mister Bastinado.

Uncle Stooly?

Yeah, see, he’s not really your uncle, sweetheart. Turns out, he was just the nickname we like to call him and he was turning state’s evidence against Daddy. So, we have to hide him out until this all blows over. Hey! You want to see Uncle Stooly?


Great! I’ll pop the trunk.


eating habbits

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Future Crimelord (272)

with his long blonde dreds and his mouth full of Titanium and diamond teeth, Future Crimelord was one of the key suspects in the death of hip-hop. his main thing was to do songs about all the crimes he'd commited- in the future. as for now, well, he was innocent. he wasn't yet Future Crimelord. an example lyric "I rob the president, but not yet though- Future Crimelord, Gettin' future dough!"
mainly, his songs didn't add up to be anything more than ringtone fodder, but at the time that was what was popular. the general public had given up on any sort of music that showed ant complexity or heart. so future crimelord's single "Imo get them(nasty jailbait drawls)" went platinum in two days. it was downloaded onto 17,000 cell phones within two hours of it's release. i may not know the future the way Future Crimelord dose, but i'm sure the song will also be responsible for the creation of skynet.


Weathervanes in this neighborhood pick up signals from outer space. The antennas do exactly what they’re supposed to do, picking up porn from across the globe, but the weathervanes are back in vogue for a reason. Maybe this is what "they" wanted all along. A quaint, unassuming hamlet to start the ball rolling. Saturday morning soccer games, pies cooling on the windowsills, lawnmowers humming tunes in the background. An appearance of tranquility, silent desperation, we all fall down. Slanted, perfectly-tiled, black rooftops, each with one thing in common. American eagle weathervanes. But this ain’t America. Not anymore. The signals have transformed this place. Folks ‘round here call it Extempora, emphasis on the third syllable, like some foreign language. This place is foreign with all white faces. Fake jobs, fake smiles, fake existence. Love will always get you in trouble.


Jeff is Alone

Jefferson P. Montgomery is now alone. They came and took his siblings. They killed his parents. He wants revenge, but revenge is for brave people. He is barely a person. He is only thirteen, thirteen and scared. The only reason they didn’t find him was because he hid under the bed.
He will hide and keep surviving. He will find his brothers and sisters, and he will free them.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Magic hat Johnson and the wings of the poison eagle(273)

Even though he had written the best movie the western world would probably ever see, he wouldn't budge on the title. the title that had inspired him to write the great american film- the title that didn't really have anything to do with the film in question. he wouldn't budge, so the studio wouldn't release the film. he took the only copy hed had and showed it to people in secret clan destine viewings. everyone that saw the film loved it. most vowed never to see another film ever again. this was the power of Magic hat Johnson. ultimately, he gave up on ever giving the world his film. ultimately, the people that had vowed never to watch another film- they watched films again. Magic hat became an entertainment urban legend. many years later, the filmmaker agreed to change the name of the film. it was released and had brief critical success. somehow it had lost it's magic. it seemed that it was all in the title after all. this is the tale of magic hat Johnson and the wings of the poison eagle, or as you probably know it, Smokey and the Bandit 3. fin.


     Russ fell in love with her before he’d even seen her face. It was covered in blood, fake blood as far as he knew. She didn’t seem to be woozy or need immediate medical attention. Plus, her white and black make-up gave the appearance of a human skull. At least he hoped it was make-up. If it was, it was incredibly realistic and if it wasn’t, she was beyond needing medical attention. The skin-tight bridal gown she wore left nothing to the imagination. She was gaunt and bony, not the kind of girl he fell for normally. He liked them thick. But his eyes had scanned the room earlier and all the thick girls had more cleavage than he was used to. Besides, most of them were too loud or drunk and this was before he’d seen "the Bride." At least her outfit gave the term "nothing left to the imagination" different meaning.
     He had read somewhere that if a woman across a crowded room met your glance three times, it meant that she was interested in you. The next step in the book detailed how to make the first move, but he hadn’t read that far.
     By the end of the night, the only people left were several guys dressed as Ghostbusters, a bevy of thick girls sitting together, the Bride and him. It was getting scarce and the time for action was quickly retreating. He and the Bride had exchanged smiling glances more than a dozen times, but it didn’t make his job any easier.
     People started to get their coats and say their good-byes, until it was only one thick girl watching TV, while he and the Bride stood in opposite sides of the room. As the Bride went for her coat, he started to walk over to her, wishing the entire time he hadn’t dressed up as a giant dick and balls.


The best tea party Ever

Chester picked up a teacup and slowly brought it to his lips. “Fine tea you have here, mam.”
“Thank you good sir,” Leslie replied and continued with, “Would you like a cookie?”
“That would be delightful.”
She handed him a cookie, and he ate it with a smile. It was a good cookie, and this was the best tea party either of them had ever attended. Too bad any joy that came from the tea party would be dampened by the horde of living dead just outside the tree house.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


you can't travel to the future, becasue it hasn't happened yet. although, today is yesterday's future...right? so you can travel to the future as long as you realize that one you get there your face will probably be eaten by the mayor's gotesque son.
his son live in a basement, a basement in the future. that miht mean he's in that basement right now. you're welcomr to check if you'd like. and i'm not saying that the mayor's grotesque son is definately waiting in a basement in the future to eat your face, i'm just saying that it's highly likely. live for today, man. live for today!


The first thing he noticed when he awoke was that his head felt swollen, like a round melon, bigger than his body. He’d stayed awake most of the night, face up beneath a checkered down comforter, replaying the advice his psychiatrist had given him. She was a dark-haired harpy, sure, but everything she said was correct. It all had to be destroyed so he could move on.

He found an axe in his parents’ basement and felt like the tree was the best place to start. The tree had served as a constant reminder of his lifelong failure and it needed to come down. He was surprised how easy it was to get rid of. No more than 14 chops and it had crashed hard to the ground. He continued hacking away at it until it looked like the broken kites he’s lost to it so many years before.

The stone wall was next. He kept glancing up and down the street with every whack of the ball-peen hammer, thinking someone would come along and tell him to stop. But no one did. It was his anyway. Well, his and his best friend’s. But his best friend had taken the coward’s way out of this town, so it was up to him now to break it apart, piece by piece. Even if his friend had been there, he would’ve found a way to keep the wall up, to talk him out of tearing it down. His friend had always been the rational one, the soft one. But that was why he was gone anyway. Too soft for this world.

He dismantled the mailbox. He’d never really received any mail anyway. What good is a mailbox when you’re not popular enough to even get a Valentine?

The last thing hurt the most. He tried to turn his heart cold, to stone, and just go through with it, but this was always the most difficult part of the process, shedding the feelings. He doused the empty dog house with gasoline. He lit the match, then blew it out. A tear stung his eye and his hands trembled. He took a deep breath, lit another match and slowly tossed it into the old dog food bowl at the house’s base. He watched the orange flames mix with the brown leaves that fluttered into the blaze. The colors reminded him of a Thanksgiving many years back. One last look at the dog house, then he walked away.

He strengthened his resolve by looking back at the town he’d grown up in, just as he crossed its tiny border. He swore he heard the tinkling of a piano somewhere in a house nearby and the distant howl of a dog. His heart pumped fast and he almost went back. But he knew he was meant to leave one day. And that day was today.

Pumpkins were in bloom as he passed the baseball diamond. A cloud of dust rolled up the street towards him. This was the place he would never return to.


As the runner knows the road

As the runner knows the road, the trail longs for the runner.

His feet find sure footing as he makes his way up the trail. He is one hundred and fifty miles into this race. This ultra marathon has twenty seven miles left. He hasn’t seen another person for hours. He hasn’t seen another runner for the past day.

He crests the trail, and starts down again. Its all down hill from here. Down hill to the finish, when he finishes he may rest.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Women love to shop (275)

I told them not to go into the basement, but they did anyway. now they're dead. if they'd listened to me then the grotesque son of the former town mayor wouldn't have hit them on the head and leaten their faces, but they ignored me. now they're dead. i don't know what, if anything, they were trying to prove. it was just too much to ask to listen to me this one time, and do what i asked. it wasn't for my benefit! i was trying to help them out! dead. Women...

Smile for the Camera

Little Ray loved cameras. He asked his mom for a camera ever since his fifth birthday. Every birthday, Christmas, Easter, and Halloween he asked for a camera.

For his tenth birthday, his mother conceded, and got him a camera. He took pictures of everything. The neighbor’s dog, his mom doing laundry, the bus driver, and the mailman. An art dealer saw his photos and wanted to buy as many “Ray Originals” as possible. He had a fresh outlook. He was free from the restraints of structured society. Or, that is what the art dealer said.

Soon Ray was shooting for all the big magazines making the big bucks. He forgot where he came from. He forgot what made him special. Pretty soon people forgot who he was. He returned to his mother, and went back to school.

Ray did grow up, not happily ever after, but he grew up learning from his past mistake of forgetting his roots.

Never forget your roots.


     Marv’s phone rings. He looks down at his cell, sees it’s his agent, mutes the TV and answers.

     "’Yello, Linda."

     "Hey! Gotta’ booking for you!"

     "Booking? Last thing I went out for was Montrose. Didn’t they cast that?"

     "Oh, yeah. Not Montrose. This is a future booking."

     "Cool! What for?"

     "Well, that’s a little tricky. See, the company predicts a flux in their infrastructure by the time you shoot this thing, so it’s kind of hard to know what they’ll be called by then."

     "I’m not following."

     "Okay, they like your look now, but they don’t actually want you in this commercial until you’re about 65 or so."

     "Linda, that’s 30 years from now."

     "Yeah, yeah. See, they’ve got this new computer aging software that takes headshots and shows the clients what people will look like when they’re older and, well, the client thinks you’ll be perfect."

     "In 30 years."

     "In 30 years, yes."

     "So, why don’t they just cast me now, shoot it now, then age me in post?"

     "Yeah, I asked them that and they just kept on and on, trying to explain it to me and, you know me, I couldn’t keep up with all their technological mumbo-jumbo. Apparently, that’s not the way it works. They want an authentic older gentleman and, like I said, they think you’d be perfect."

     Marv pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it.

     "Marv? Hellooooooo?? Marv!"

     "I’m here, Linda. Look, I don’t see why they can’t just shoot it now with some old coot and keep it in the vault until they’re ready to put it on TV."

     "Again, this is not really my area of expertise."

     "Alright, alright. Who did you say they were again?"

     "Ummm, right now they’re called Mears Consolidated, but their analysts have been studying possible trends in the future, which means that they might be called something totally different three decades from now. The CEOs are in diapers, so it’s hard to tell."

     "Their CEOs are that old?"

     "Oh, no! They’re babies now, but by the time you shoot this, these kids will be in charge. It’s all been worked out ahead of time. That’s why all this research in future trends in the market are so important. They’re very organized. So, you want me to put you down for this or what?"

     "Thanks, Linda. And tell Mears thanks, too, but honestly, I’ve been really looking forward to dying before I’m sixty. Why don’t you give Bill Pettibone a call, huh?"

     "Oh. Okay, but if he’s booked already, should I just tell them that you’ll do it?"

     "No, I’ve really got my mind made up on this one. Appreciate it, though. Thanks for the call."

     "Okay. Bye, then."

     Marv sits on the couch with the phone in his hand. He picks up the remote, sighs, and hits mute again. The large-breasted schoolgirl giggles and says something in Spanish as the TV audience roars with laughter. Marv contemplates calling Linda back, but never does.

     The sun sets. Marv turns off the TV and sits in the dark with the phone in his hand until morning.


Sunday, November 18, 2007

What’s love

“What’s love?”

“Doing anything to make that other happy, and accepting them for what they do.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Put on this clown nose, and stand naked in the street.”



The lo-fi rock band Prestige Arabians have just hit the sophomore slump. Rumors spread throughout every highbrow music magazine that singer Perry St. Croix locked band members in the studios of Empty Mansions, only letting them out for occasional restroom breaks, keeping them unfed until they’d produced an album equivalent to the brilliance of their chart-topping debut, "Farfisa." St. Croix denies these allegations, claiming that he also let them out for smoke breaks and that the marathon recording sessions were catered, but that he did keep a revolver perched on the soundboard for motivation. By the middle of the so-called "Lock-In Sessions," bass player Julia Tory and drummer Eugene Harper had escaped, having only put down the rhythm tracks on about five songs. Guitarist/organist Gil Klose later recounted the events in an exclusive interview with the UK magazine, Sound Gate. "It was like Hitler recording an album with Mengele sitting in as producer," he said.

St. Croix finished the album himself, acting as producer. He scrapped the tracks that the other band members had played on and re-recorded the entire album from scratch by himself. Although it could be considered a St. Croix solo album, it clearly displayed the name Prestige Arabians on its cover, along with the album title, "The Vultures Feed The Vultures."

It’s a brilliant album, if only taking into account the way it was recorded. However, it’s uneven. "Vultures" has all of the lo-fi muddiness of "Farfisa," but none of the heart. It almost sounds like a suicide note at times, trying to explain why the inevitable end has happened. It never charted, there’s no plans for a single and sales are almost non-existent due to the effect the rumors had on fans.

St. Croix’s only comment on the album’s direction was released to the press this week. It was a simple, two-line soundbite:

"The vultures feed the vultures. If that doesn’t explain it all, I don’t know what will."


Saturday, November 17, 2007


it was a slippery situation. i could lie and tell her that i thought that she was a great person, and that we sholud be friends or i could reveal to her that outside of the fact that i thought we might do it, i had no real intrest in her as a friend. honestly, she was shrill and not pleasent to be around- but man was she hot. i imagined what we'd do together in the sack. it was long, hard, hot and nasty. ultimately, though, i'd talk to her and immediately lose the desire to be with her. eventually it didn't matter- she called me her buddy and started to tell me about all the other guys she was with. i couldn't let her get away with this. i did not enter into this to make a buddy. i knew what i had to do- on a beautifully warm night, i invited her out to a late dinner picnic under the stars. i showed her the ring and asked her to marry me. she said yes. that'll show her! I won! i'm not her friend, i'm her fiance! I win! wait-

never trust a boy detective

Johnny kept his ear to the ground. He thought he heard the approach of horses on the wind, but it must have been an acoustic trick of these canyons. As he rose to his feet, he turned to Snooze and said, “ I guess we followed them up the wrong canyon.”
Snooze was Johnny’s trusted bodyguard. He has saved his life at the hand of the O’Malleys in Scotland. Snooze couldn’t remember anything and pledged he would protect Johnny at all costs. He hadn’t been much help. True to his name he would fall asleep at the drop of a hat, but he was a big guy and Johnny having the stature of a nine year old needed all the help he could get.
Johnny England a.k.a. Boy Detective had a genetic flaw that caused him to not age past his ninth birthday. His parents had been great explorers and found the fountain of youth. He drank deeply and lived happily for several centuries until they had a son. He began to age as normal children, and they were worried that he would grow old while they lived forever. They planned to give him water from the fountain of youth when he turned twenty-one. However after the age of nine, Johnny stopped aging physically. The fountain of youth was pasted on genetically. After much debate and looking, Johnny found a girl and married. They have three children, who all seem to be aging normally, however this is all for another tale.
Johnny and Snooze rode to the head of the canyon, and were surrounded by at least fifty men.
One stepped forward and asked, “Johnny, we know you have the micro chip. Where is it?”
“Well I guess you could say I am a micro chip off the old block!” Johnny replied as he pulled a detonator out of his side bag. “I know you aren’t stupid. Let us go and you will have the microchip.”
“How do we know you will deliver?” the first man asked.
“Gotta trust me. Oh yeah, if you try and stop me I have already activated the detonator. All I have to do is drop this.” Johnny said as he held the small black box high in the air. “Here take this,” he threw a different box at the first man.
“What’s this?”
“A GPS tracker with your microchip’s location programmed into it. Let us go and follow that beacon. You will have your chip in no time.”
The two groups split and went in opposite directions. After a half hour of riding in silence, Snooze asked, “ Did you really give them the microchip?”
Johnny looked at his watch and said, “Nope. Look over there.” He pointed to the south as a large flash washed across the mountain range. As the light died away, they turned and continued to ride north.


he took the book of secrets to the wise old frog, and was given the stone of rainbows. after taking the stone, he travelled to the river of sorrow and tossed the stone onto it's shores. the river suddenly turned blue, and all the animals nearby began to sing and celebrate. a small chipmunk brought him a small sack filled with stones as a show of gratitude. our hero took the stone, and gave them to and older hero outside of the circle k store. the older hero used the stones to buy enchanted wine coolers. with their task finally nearing its conclusion, the older hero took the enchanted fuzzy nipple wine coolers to the loose divorcees house and dry humped her while the young hero watched from outside the window.
The shire was saved!


Severed Yakuza digits were the price of admission. At the door stood a headless Marine at attention, decked out in his formals with a 17th century crossbow in his hand. Every chair in the place was full of tumbleweeds, perfectly still in the seats. A Mongoloid in a bright-red, 80’s track suit came onstage from the wings. He started to breakdance before the music started, then made a farting noise with his lips and stopped, seemingly embarrassed. Snipers with water pistols full of liquefied Jello-shots took aim at him from various points in the balconies. The music began, a mixture of low, rumbling bass notes and the sounds of geese. The Mongoloid started his breakdancing routine again. Four men in gray, painter’s coveralls splattered in blood came onstage and surrounded him. In their hands were black window blinds which they held high so as not to drag them against the floor. An old, wrinkled Taiwanese woman in a maid outfit came from the opposite wings, carrying two, long fluorescent bulbs. As she smashed them together, four, interconnected metal rods held aloft by chains descended from the catwalk above the Mongoloid. The four painters waited as the bars came within reach and placed the window blinds on all four sides, then crawled offstage on their hands and knees. The Mongoloid continued to breakdance within the enclosed blinds. The low bass rumble stopped abruptly and the geese sounds turned into feedback. Smoke flooded the stage. The Mongoloid halted his dancing and began shouting times table. The sevens, incorrectly. The blinds shut as the Taiwanese maid brandished a revolver and shot herself in the foot, no screams or shouts, completely unaware of her own actions even after blood shot out of her tan shoes. Several tumbleweeds in the front row blew from out of their seats.  The snipers took their lunch breaks.


Friday, November 16, 2007

Our Junk (278)

i should have known she was trouble becasue of the movie game.
she was sexy to me even though the boys told me she was playin' me. she was smart, sassy, big breasted, jewish, bitchy, and tall. i wanted her. against my better judgement, i made the mistake of telling her this. we went to see Reindeer Games with a mutual friend, and decided to play the movie game while we ate at Chili's.
the goal was to say a line from a popular or cult flick and have the next person guess it. i should have know that she was trouble when her lines were from The Gargabe Pail Kids Movie and The Pelican Brief. in hindsight, she was just plain not fun to be around. the things our junk makes us do, huh fellas?

Vampire cheerleaders from outer space!

As blood rains down from the night sky, their laughter flows through the streets. This place is new, while not as appealing as the dark blackness of outer space, there is plenty of food here.

They wear short skirts and pigtails, and their mouths are covered in blood. They know their team will win. They chant. They yell. They cheer.


Because they are Vampire cheerleaders from outer space!


"So, what can I do to get you in this car today?"

"I don’t know." It’s a little out of my price range."

"It runs on sperm."

"Excuse me?"

"Excuse you! This car. It runs on sperm."

"Human sperm?"

"Of course human sperm, ya’ numbnut! What other sperm is there?"

"Well. Pretty much any male species of animal."

"Look, I’m not some male animal species doctor or anything . ."

"A biologist."

"Whoa! Enough of the balloon juice, prof, I’m just trying to sell you a car here."

"Oh, c’mon! This thing really runs on sperm?"

"Hey! Hey! Do I look like a ballerina?"


"’Cause I ain’t dancin’, am I?"


"Do you see me dancin’?"

"No, I said!"

"Then, what’s the problem?"


"Why don’t you take it for a test drive?"

"Ummmmm . . ."

"Go ahead! Get in!"

"Oh, fine!"

"Huh? Smooth leather seats, sure-grip steering wheel, global positioning system. Runs on 100% sperm."

"Okay, I don’t know."

"Just stay in there! Look, you start her up, the dong hose shoots straight out, grabs the wang, jerk, jerk, jerk, you’re good for 200 miles minimum!"


"Listen, I own two of these little beauties myself. When the wife ain’t puttin’ out, on the rag or whatever, nag, nag, nag, squawk, squawk, squawk, I take a spin. It’s man’s best friend, I’m telling you. Except not a dog, which doesn’t even have a dong hose."

"No, honestly. I think this is a little too much for me to take right now. I’m a little uncomfortable to be honest."

"Just start her up, you pussy!! What, you think you’re too good for her? Afraid you’re not man enough?"

"Oh, I’m man enough!"

"Then put your penis where your mouth is, twinkles!!"

"Fine! Fine!! There! Are you happy? Whoa!!!"

"Hold on, don’t fight it! Let the dong hose do its job!"

"Holy mother of . . . oh. Oh! Oohhhhhh! Don’t look at me! Don’t you fucking look at meeeeeee! Oh, oh, oh!! Gah! GAH!! GAAAHHHHHH!!! Gooooooo-Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Atta’ boy! Now, just unlock the passenger side and we’ll take her around the block."

"Uh, can you just give me a few minutes?"

"Sure, sure. Just recline the seat back there. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got another guy coming in to look at this particular model, so I don’t want to rush you or anything, but . . ."


"Oh, Preston, you’ve still got it."


Thursday, November 15, 2007


"rockin' the pee-pee hole" was the fisrt single on stankdoddy's sophomore album. it was about a horrile thing that happened to a friend of his at a very young age. he'd appropriated the story as his own, though, and decided to tell this tale as a hip-hop ballad sampled over "breaking us into" by joe Jackson. he won an Grammy for sampling a person's life. Proper

Rory Sachalburg

Name: Rory Sachalburg

Alias: I.D.

Background: Sachalburg flunked out of three high schools, expelled from two, and graduated from nine different schools all in the same year. Recognized as a master of disguise, illusion, and evasion. His multiple high school attendance balancing act was not discovered until three different universities entered into a bidding war for two of his aliases. They were required to both be part of a panel in the application process. When there was only one person where there should have been two, he outlined how he was able to attend fourteen different high schools. The two universities agreed to fund him in anyway possible. Sachalburg accepted both offers and in five years received a Bachelors in Art, Bachelors in Science, Bachelors in Forensics, Bachelors in Physics, a Masters in Photography, Masters in Bio-mechanical Science, Masters in Advanced Quantum Spatial Relations, a PhD in Aerospace Mass Relations, PhD in Information and System Technologies, and an Elementary Education Teaching

Currently: Sachalburg is wanted by the United States, Canada, Sweden, Norway, Chad, Japan, Russia, Iran, Columbia, and Peru for stealing goods to be used in a device of unknown abilities. He was last seen in the Canary Islands just before they disappeared. The newspapers have listed this machine as a dooms-day device. The above countries have called for an all out manhunt.


The red Corolla swerved to try and hit the albino squirrel. When the car missed, it sped off down the street without stopping. The albino squirrel zipped halfway up the tree, listening to the desperate cries of the two year old girl in the back seat, getting farther and farther away from him.

"This is not the life I expected," he thought. "Chewing on bark, constantly on the move, narrowly escaping death from cats and dickheads in Corollas. I mean, a Corolla? Who drives an outdated piece of shit like that anymore? Why the hell did I have to be a squirrel anyway? Okay, climbing trees is pretty badass. And that thing I can do on telephone wires? Being able to leap from one limb to the other? Makes me feel like a fucking rock star! But even the cool shit has gotten pretty pedestrian already. And an albino squirrel? I might as well paint a target on my chest! Except when it snows, but still! I wonder what my life expectancy is. I mean, cats and Corollas aside. Jesus. Reincarnation is a complete bitch-hole.


Wednesday, November 14, 2007


i tossed a sheet over the body and ran upstairs to get something to cut him up with. i didn't have a saw or any butcher knives. i decided that now was the time to use my mastery in kung fu. with kung fu, i could slice through this son of a bitch in no time with my bare hands, and so could you! take my class and you'll be using your hands as tools and weapons in no time. act now and you'll also get my guarenteed tips on how to turn ads in your local paper into money making opportunities. be a murdering kung-fu millionaire just like me! act today!

Does it work

“Does it work?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t turned it on yet.”

“What ya waiting for?”


“Really? Cyrus is coming?”


“So this is for real then?”


“I’m excited.”

“Me too. Me too”


This drug is the ultimate high, I’m telling you. Depending on the person who takes it, it’s been known to give you the feeling of not only travelling through time and space, but more specifically, travelling into your own past or presumably your future. Although heart attack and stroke are common side effects, the theory is that it’s not the drug that causes these problems, but your body’s inability to handle such realistic time travel. They say it’s like controlling your dreams, really. Once you’ve inhaled the proper dosage, you can control which way you want to go, forward or back.

A 35 year old male suffered a severe heart attack because, according to him, he’d "gone too far ahead, to the year 2042, where mankind had de-evolved into large, hissing lizards, tearing at the eyes of the dead."

One woman who’d always wanted to relive her fifth birthday took the drug and apparently went too far back. When the paramedics found her, she was on the floor of her apartment in a fetal position and has yet to regain consciousness.

On the street, it’s known as Blue Flux or simply Flux, and demand has gone through the roof. Now that a congressional act was pushed through giving the FDA more power, it’s impossible to get the pure form of Flux off the streets anymore. Unfortunately, an FDA-approved sugar additive called Septinol, which is the main hallucinogen in Flux, is also the main ingredient in the popular breakfast cereal Blue Demons.

We’re still fighting the FDA to get it taken off the shelves.

Who would’ve thought that the greatest drug epidemic in history would be started by General Mills.


Tuesday, November 13, 2007


“But, he is my brother!” Jose cried into the night.

As the words crossed his lips, he wondered what good would it do? The wolves rarely leave their prey alive. They ask their questions, and then feast upon the remains of the tortured soul who wandered into the wrong dark alley at the wrong time. He knew that the only family these cared about came with a fur coat once a month. His first thought was to run to his grandmother’s house, melt down the silverware, and visit his friend who packs bullets. This was a traditional move, old school in fact. These weren’t old school werewolves. They were part of the new school, and genetic manipulations had made it next to impossible to attack these guys with traditional means.

Two hours, three different plant nurseries, a home improvement store, and a trip Radio Shack later he was ready.

He dubbed his silver nitrate slinging leaf-blower Marla, and made peace with his maker. He would avenge his brother’s death tonight.


Tales of the Casketman

“The Late Mrs. Elza Mayberry”

You’re not listening to me- the man fought caskets. Literal caskets. Pine and oak and maple- velvet lined, memory foam, goose down. The final resting places for your friends, family, and loved ones- he fought them.
He’d step into the ring to the cheering of the crowd, and dance a bit as his corner man took his purple sating robe away to reveal his red velvet boxing trunks. Some said that even these shorts were made from the luxurious insides of the first casket he’d ever defeated in the ring. They say that the mask that he wore was sewn from the handkerchiefs of grieving widows past.
When he had finished showboating for the crowd they’d launch a casket at him. They’d take a casket and secure it in a huge rubber band, three strong men would pull it back, and launch it at him in the ring.
And when that casket was launched, Casketman would promptly and most assuredly beat the living hell-shit out of it
On occasion there would come a challenging casket, one that Casketman felt he had to make an example of. He’d be extra brutal with these unfortunate caskets. Some would say that he was out of bounds, but the Refs ignored these actions and the audience could never get enough.
When he unleashed his fury onto these poor boxes the first few rows of the audience would be showered in splinters and excitement.
I won’t say that I went into my business relationship with Casketman completely blind.
My folks had always taken part in a few shady dealings in order to keep afloat. They’d sold bodies to various nameless individuals from our family funeral home for years, and when I took over I had no real reason to try to turn things around. The money was good, I’d been raised as an immoral heel, and the money was good. Casketman’s people got in touch with me, the deal was simple: I’d provide him with the highest quality caskets in exchange for two grand per. I figured that all I’d have to do was provide him with enough to fight throughout the year, then I’d get out of here and leave this crummy town behind me.
This is when I met a girl.
She was great. When I met her, we immediately hit it off- sharing lunch, conversation, and a dislike for hippies and home schooled kids. We sat alone in the cemetery and talked about what we wanted to do with our lives. It wasn’t until this conversation that I realized that I had no real plans outside of selling peoples caskets and leaving town. I didn’t even know where I wanted to go when I left. I did not, in reality, have any plan for the rest of my life. But when I met her. I knew that whatever my plan was, it had to include her. We fell asleep there in the cemetery, on the grave of the late Mrs. Elza Mayberry.
So I finally had the beginnings of a plan- I’d sell enough caskets to Casketman to make enough money to follow my girl out of time.
Here is how it worked. Casketman would tell me what style of casket he wanted for that weekends fight. I’d make sure to try and push that style on some poor shclub that was putting his beloved in the ground. Then, because Casketman wanted authenticity, the caskets had to be buried and then exhumed. His people would come and collect the merchandise and I’d be paid in cash.
I never told my sweetie what it was I did because I was sure that she wouldn’t find it to be as romantic or victimless as I’d convinced myself it all was.
So it came as a big surprise to me when she told me she wanted to take me out one Saturday night and we ended up at the casket fights. We got seats right in the front row, got some beers from the guy, and got ready for some action. After the fanfare, I noticed the men loading the casket into the rubber band.
I could recognize that Series 32 Econo Relax-Master from a mile away. Her family wanted puce, and there it was; The Late Mrs. Ezla Mayberry was in the first casket that Casketman would fight tonight.
Casketman walked out to the sounds of an old ragtime band and to the cheers of the entire crowd. My girl seemed to cheer the loudest. She lept from her seat and pumped her fist as the Casketman walked around the ring, putting his hand up to his ear so that everyone would cheer louder.
He walked to the center of the ring, and took off his robe.
My girl started to yell his name- “Casketman Casketman ”
As Casketman took his position in the ring and redied himself for the fight, my girl whispered into my ear- “That’s my dad.”
And there is was. My girl knew the secret identity of the cities, perhaps the worlds greatest most controversial athlete. In fact, she was his kin. I’d never felt more in love with her than when she’d shared this secret with me.
We returned our attention to the ring in time to hear the bell and see the men release the band.
Everything after happened in slow motion. The casket shot out, and barreled towards the Casketman. He waited until what seemed like the absolute last minute, then suddenly obliterated the puce box with a dynamite left hook.
I saw it happen. I saw the jagged three foot plank speeding towards my girl. I saw her turn towards me to celebrate, not noticing that she was about to die. I even saw my self too frozen to try to yell or cover her or push her out of the way.
And as she sat there with the plank in her chest gasping her last breaths, I saw that everyone in the arena was in hysterics- everyone but Casketman.
He just stood there, staring at me through the mask.
I’ve always wondered if he’d done it on purpose- killed his daughter on that cold Saturday night. Maybe he knew she’d told me who she was. Maybe he wanted to teach me a lesson of some sort. I never knew. I was never man enough to find out. All I can remember is the gurgling of my one true love and the eyes of Casketman staring at me from behind that mask.
There is a reason I tell you all of this, son. I want you to promise me that you will never have any fear. I want you to promise me that if you find true love, you’ll do whatever it takes to keep it. Fight for love, son. Because somewhere out there Casketman is waiting to take it all away from you.
Somewhere out there is a piece of casket waiting to impale all that you hold dear.
Leap in front of the casket piece, son. Leap in front of the casket piece.


     Guster. Whatta’ piece of work that guy was. I suppose you can say we underestimated him. Then again, hard not to underestimate half of the shit-for-brains we go up against on a weekly basis.
     Here’s the sad truth. A villain’s only as good as his gimmick. And they all have gimmicks. Flamethrower? Kind of a high-end, dangerous type. The Contrary? You never know what you’re gonna’ get. Guster’s thing was wind. Gusts of wind. I mean, what were we supposed to think? We sent out some reserve members, guys who never made the cut, who didn’t make it into the Freedom Committee proper, but who we thought could compete on an easier playing field. We figure in a couple of hours, they’d bag a baddy, right? I suppose everything is about hindsight in this business.
     Hell, the last time I heard Guster’s name mentioned was in conjunction with a court case he had against Cloudmaster. Yeah. Two villains in a court case against each other, hemming and hawing over the name ‘Cloudmaster.’ This is the judicial system we live and breathe, which should explain why people like the Freedom Committee have no qualms about kicking the ass out of these douchebags.
     Now I just wish we hadn’t sent the reserves in there. The shit that freak did to those kids. Makes me nauseous thinking about it.


Monday, November 12, 2007


Kaney Malaney made a name for himself by being the first peron to ever sample a complete album. He took Paul Williams greatest hits in it's entirety and simply added the occasional "uh" and "yes ya'll" at the most fitting moments. the fact that he won an Emmy for the album, coupled by the fact that he was the first person to ever win an emmy for an album... well, it changed hip-hop. and not for the better


The withered old man across the street looks just like me. He waits for traffic and goes through the mail in his hand.  He’s got a more advanced hunch than I do, but apart from that, the hair, the glasses, even the retro coat is classic me.  Although, I guess I would be classic me if what I’m thinking were true.  What if time on this particular street corner, where 7th meets Deerdorfe, is intersecting with itself?  The ‘future’ me intersecting with the ‘now’ me.  My thought is that if I cross 7th at the exact same time he does, mirroring his footsteps at the same pace, time itself will either collapse or completely start over like an odometer.  Billions of years get set back to zero.  And out of the trillions upon trillions of universes out there with limitless possibilities, it could all come to a screeching halt right here on this street.

The light changes and he starts to cross, sadly oblivious to what catastrophic, cosmic tragedy is about to happen.  I mirror him step for step and close my eyes as we cross paths.  I open them as I reach the other side, expecting I don’t know what.  As I step onto the curb, I look back across the street to see the ‘future’ me lying on the sidewalk, holding his chest with mail and leaves blowing around his body.  I pull out my phone and dial 911 as I rush across to tell him it’s going to be okay.  That’s when I get hit by the bus.


and he laughed

There was once a man who pined for a lost love he would never have. It wasn’t due to different social cliques, or age. She didn’t know he was alive. He stumbled through life following after her. His cries for her attention went unnoticed. She went about her days avoiding him. Not on purpose, but sheer ignorance of his existence.

Then again, the living rarely pay the living dead mind until they are chewing on an arm or leg.

Sunday, November 11, 2007


Otter Pop and tatsy Fresh, also known as the Kash Money Klan went to prison. once they were the best white m.c.s you'd never heard of. as a matter of fact, they were underground sensations loved by many of your favorite artists. but you probably heard of them due to their involvement in the murder of famous rapper Kaney Malaney.

Kaney was killed by the KMK so that he could shed his underground status and become famous.

it sort of worked. the KMK's murder trail went on for two years, and the sides were split right down the middle. the racial overtones ripped up the nation and the world, especially due to the fact that a fan of the KMK, Stankdoddy, had given the men the honorary usage of the word nigga. this of course was a contiversial move.

still, once the murder trial commenced and the albums of the little known band started to come to light, it was obvious that there was talent.

unfortunately, there would be no new music from the Kash Money Klan.

they arfe in jail for double life. word.


            It was a tough blow for Undead Shiksa Pictures. After a full day of intense filmmaking under the gun, they’d done their best. And their best, apparently, hadn’t been good enough.
     Two days prior, they had been handed several elements that needed to be placed in their film in order to qualify for entry into the annual Martini Shot Film Festival. In 24 hours they, along with 48 competing teams, were given a film genre, a type of animal, an occupation, a disease and a line of dialogue and were expected to produce cinematic genius no longer than seven minutes long. All 48 teams were given different elements to keep it interesting. The Undead Shiksa team wound up with the horror genre, a film style they excelled at. Their previous projects had titles like "Yoga Booty Bloodbath" and "Hellbeast," so you could say that they were steeped in such things. The animal they were required to work into the film was a ferret. The soundman at Shiksa already owned one, so that base was covered. The occupation was milkman. An odd one, but they figured no odder than ferret. E-Bola was the disease and that seemed to be an easy thing to work in, given the genre. And finally, the line of dialogue was, "A tomato is not a vegetable." This last one kept them stumped for a while, but by the time they’d stayed up bouncing ideas around and getting a screenplay written, they’d found a place for it that seemed to make sense. At the end of the writing and casting selection, they set out into the night with every piece of equipment they had at their disposal. Tiny, expensive cameras were prepped, a strong box containing several lights was checked and double checked, dolly tracks and portable boom mics, side-car mounts and odd assortments of props and costumes, along with the ferret and copious amounts of fake blood were packed into their van. They were prepared to hit this head-on.
     The storyline was as follows. Britain, 1980’s. A milkman named Toliver Bentley was making his morning rounds like any other day. As he’s cruising along in his milk trolley with his faithful pet ferret Nigel by his side, an emergency bulletin comes on the radio. A strain of bad beef tips had been served to the patrons of the King’s Pier Pub and in turn, had created a race of flesh-eating, blood-spewing zombies. The film follows Toliver just trying to finish his route, encountering the infected and zombified victims of the infected, battling them along with Nigel doing his part. At one point, Toliver falls asleep while hiding in his trolley from the zombies. Margaret Thatcher, in a dream sequence, spouts cryptic phrases to him like, "A tomato is not a vegetable," "Milk will set you free" and "I apologize for the Falklands." Toliver awakens only remembering the milk line and curses Thatcher for the Falklands as he douses every E-Bola zombie with milk, which turns them back into normal patrons, thirsty for another pint at King’s Pier. In the end, Toliver and Nigel save the day and get everyone in the United Kingdom their milk on time. Fade to black. Credits.
     An ambitious story, to be sure, but the Undead Shiksa crew tackled it with aplomb. In 10 hours, they’d shot all of the footage they needed and zipped back home to edit it.
     Upon looking at the footage, they noticed that in various spots, ghostly images and very obvious phantom figures appeared on the tape as they downloaded it onto their hard drive.
     While the editor searched through footage for a clean set of takes, the director had a premonition. "This would be the ultimate horror film," he said. "A horror movie within a horror movie." As time was tight, the rest of the Shiksa team agreed that although they weren’t fully convinced that the images were actually ghosts, the finished product would have to do.
     The night of the screening, their seven minute magnum opus, "Milkman," got a great response from the audience of competing teams, most of them letting out enthusiastic waves of "ooohs" during the ghost image sequences. However, when all the votes were tallied, Undead Shiksa were discouraged to learn that they had come in second to last, right in front of a post-apocalyptic drama about a folksinger and a "Friends" parody done in stop motion with stuffed animals.


Cathryn McCray

Name: Cathryn McCray

Alias: Ignite

Background: Obsessed with fire at an early age, McCray learned she could start fires by snapping her fingers. Her parents moved from southern California after McCray started one of the largest fires in California’s history in 1983.

Current status: In hiding last seen in the Northeast United States.

Saturday, November 10, 2007


"You're a long way from home, boy."
"So are you."
"Uh- Hold me?"


Why am I so fascinated by ass? The female figure has so many attributes, so many peaks and valleys that attract the eye on a daily basis. Yet a woman passes by on the street, and what is the first thing I do? I turn around and check out the caboose. Why is that? I’ve never had the impulse to try anal sex, even during the most revved-up moment in bed. A fleeting thought, perhaps, but never something I thought I would try on a girl. I guess I could be considered an ass-man, though I consider myself a breast-man above and beyond. And, as I said, in the heat of the moment, I’m only thinking about "the big valley" anyway. Is it that the ass is attached to the "landing strip?" Is that it? A necessary means to an end? I don’t know. And if I was so attracted to ass, couldn’t I potentially be attracted to whatever that juicy, round ass was attached to? Even a man’s? And does that very thought make me gay?

These are hypothetical, and might I add, rhetorical questions, you understand. Even if a man, my best friend, say, who I share incredible rapport with, had an amazing pair of tits and ass, I would never consider making out with him, praying I could at least get to second base. On one hand, it would be incredibly awkward. From that point on, our friendship would be compromised.

Still, I guess I couldn’t help staring at them if he wore some low-cut number what revealed his man-cleavage.

You just can’t take the dog out of the man.


I wrote that

Ok, here is the deal. When I am forty-two I develop time travel. How do I know this? Future me came and told me.

Space-time continuum? That bull from the Back to the Future movies isn’t real or doesn’t apply. He didn’t seem concerned so I didn’t think to ask. He appeared one day made a few suggestions about life. You know, don’t worry about Y2K, don’t go to New York in September of 2001, and avoid New Orleans anytime. The last thing he told me was a bank account number and a trust fund number.

The trust fund contains the money earned from music royalties. Future me developed a time machine, and went back in time to write some of the most iconic songs from the past fifty years.

You want an example? Ahhh one I know of is every top ten hit from Hank Williams Jr. Hank Sr. went to future me and asked him to help make his son famous, but don’t write anything better than I could write.

I don’t know if its true. Its just what I told myself.

Don’t ask about your future. I don’t know, yet.

Friday, November 9, 2007

Geoff Hesheski

Name: Geoff Hesheski

Knicknames: Hey, Shitski!

Alias: G.H.

Background: At a young age, Hesheski excelled in all physical activities as well as technical scientific classes. He is a classically trained pianist, cellist, and banjo player. He is said to be the bastard amalgamation of Batman, Ironman, and Q, if those people were real. After graduating from Edward Lillyworth Prepatory School at the age of seven, he went to Yale. While at Yale Hesheski took online classes from Harvard, and finished his Ph.D. the week before he finished his Bachelors at the age of eleven. Even though he finished with honors he had time for extracurricular activities. He campaigned and almost banished the Greek system from both Yale and Harvard. He successfully cloned his old dog Ginger. A mistake was made a mistake in calculations, and Ginger’s clone was born with three heads. He renamed the three-headed dog Cerberus in honor of Greek mythology.

Current status: Works for the U.S. Government developing ways to track supers. Playing fetch with Cerberus, and he is attempting to date again after a freak accident with his last girlfriend’s peg leg.


i saw what I thought was a ghost. the ghost of Austin Powers. i started to wonder if it were somehow the ghost of Mike meyers dressed as Powers, somehow the ghost of the actual fictional character, or the ghost of a man who died while dressed as Austin Powers. then, there was always the possibility that there was a man who died then decided to dress as Austin Powers in hell. this was one of the many questions I'd have when i finally crossed over into the land of the dead...


     Her nickname was Cankles. She had rosy cheeks, a beautiful complexion. By most standards, she was a gorgeous girl. Perfectly round breasts, olive skin and a thin physique. The only thing people focused on were her thick ankles.
     While in high school, she did everything she could to de-emphasize them. She never wore skirts for that very reason, even in summer. Trips to the beach were absolutely out of the question. During the winter months, if that was all that was clean in her closet, she’d resort to the skirts, but only with the appropriately matching leg warmers.
     As an adult, the taunts were but a memory, but she occasionally went out with utter pricks who would bring up her cankles in passing conversation to break the ice, and in her mind, the future of that particular relationship would always be around the bend.
     Her life was completely perfect apart from that. She worked out every day, had a job she loved, had a wonderful apartment, a cat named Pokey, everything she ever wanted. But the cankles looked up at her every morning that she stepped onto the scale or taunted her from the full-length mirror on her bedroom door.
     Then, one day she saw an ad on TV advertising a new, corrective surgery called the SoHo Method, a tried and true, fat-sucking outpatient procedure that claimed to slim down any part of your body. She dialed the 800 number and uncomfortably asked if it could do anything for her cankles. By the time she got off the phone, she was scheduled for a SoHo appointment at the clinic around the corner from her apartment.
     The next day, she withdrew all of her savings and met with the doctor, who said that she would be done within three hours if she felt like going through with it immediately. They prepped her, put her under and by the time she awoke, she was a new woman from the calves down.
     Flash forward to a year later. Her 10 year high school reunion comes up and she is psyched. She is in the middle of the perfect relationship with Greg, an ad writer who supports her in every aspect and loves everything she loves: bad Japanese horror movies, Chai tea, the cheesy Percival Trinidad crime novellas. Every guilty pleasure she always thought she’d never share, he loves.
     Greg was also excited to meet the people she went to school with. It was the only area of her life that he had never heard her speak of. When she brought up going to the reunion, he couldn’t have been happier.
     They arrived dressed to the nines, Greg in his best black suit with maroon tie and her in the slinkiest, most costly spaghetti-strap number off the rack from Belvedere’s.
     The first person they encountered at the makeshift reception table was Ashley Panzer, an astonishingly beautiful, former head cheerleader from the high school pep squad. She didn’t recognize the couple at first and shuffled through pictured nametags, thinking that Greg was the alum she was supposed to be searching for. Then, after an exhaustive search, she glanced back up, about to tell him that his tag wasn’t there, then shifted her attention away from Greg to his date.
     "Oh!" Ashley yelped. "Cankles!!! Oh my God, I didn’t recognize you!" Ashley then got up and balanced her sleek figure over the table to glance down at "Cankles’" legs. Ashley let out a laugh and her nametag from the table. On it was the name "Rhonda Clements" with the word "Cankles" in italics below it.
     Rhonda grabbed it from Ashley, then grabbed Greg by the arm and spun around, headed for the double doors they had just come from.
     "No, it’s this way," Ashley whined, pointing up the door to the banquet hall behind her.
     On the ride home, Greg begged Rhonda to explain what Ashley meant by "Cankles." Rhonda said nothing through her tears. She soaked the nametag with them. Even the greatest man in the world couldn’t erase this memory. It was back in front of her now, as if it had never left. The past would always taint the present.
     Rhonda would always be 15.