The Greatest Horror Story Of Our Time

The Greatest Horror Story Of Our Time

Laura Patrick lived alone in a quaint suburb of New York City in a simple seven bedroom, four bathroom, indoor pool having, vaulted ceilinged cottage. She earned a living working for a media outlet in New York City. It’s not important which media outlet, or even which medium. Let it be said that she works for a media outlet and makes enough money to own a house which she can later run full speed through without ever running from one side of the house to the other. Also, note the vaulted ceilings, which will come in handy for yelling.

Laura has had a saucy, off and on style relationship with Rugged Dave. Rugged Dave is a fireman who owns a variety of guns and ammunition. He loves Laura very much, but sometimes his manliness is too much for her to handle. He never shaves. But constantly trims his beard as to always have rugged stubble. Rugged Dave Stubble.

Oh and Laura has a kid from a previous marriage and Rugged Dave lives with his Creepy Aunt Selpthe. Slebleth. She’s from the old country. Aunt Suhbbleth. Sublet. Shelbath. Old Country. She’s always swathed in blankets and talks in a so high a tone that it is reminiscent of metal being torn asunder and is prone to screaming single phrases, from which, one could see glimpses of the future. Or maybe she’s just crazy. Either a telepath/soothsayer or just crazy. One or the other. Shelpehtsk.

Today Laura has planned a barbecue and swim-about at her indoor pool, which is located in section 7A of your readers companion "Map of Laura’s House."

Laura is sitting pool side drinking an Atomic Margarita. She is happy. She sips and watches Rugged Dave cook an elk on her pool side grill. Her son, eight year old Henry David Thoreau, is swimming, but is careful not to go near the very deep end. He’s tossing those weighted rings under the water and then diving under to fetch them, as this activity is the most hypnotically entertaining pool activity known to mankind. He’s a very strong swimmer.

"Mother. I’ve yet again captured yon rings. I felt you should be alerted to this new development." He’s so precocious.

Selpthe is in a rocking chair swaddled with blankets and seems content. "CONTENTMENT ABOUNDS!!!" She screams. Everyone has a good laugh over this, just another one of Selpathe’s scathing social commentaries about how happy everyone is right now. And how perfect everything will always remain forever.

"More elk?" asks Rugged Dave while sharpening his Bowie Knife on his arm hair. "Yes please" says Laura, who loves anything elk. Last year Rugged Dave escaped from her house and in the morning she awoke to find that he had left her an elk on her doorstep. The gesture scared her until she was assured it was a present. Since then she was hooked on elk and Rugged Dave. His gesture of kindness was all that she needed and knew she had found a soulmate and possibly a father for her son Henry David Thoreau, whose biological father will never be mentioned in this story. "WHORE!" screams Selpathe but nobody knows why.

Laura takes the awkward silence as the perfect time to ask "Who wants brownies?"
"MEEEE!" says everyone else, because everyone always wants brownies.

"I’ll be back in a few minutes with the brownies. While I’m gone, don’t let anything change for the worst very drastically."

"Mother. Your sentiment is asinine. I feel you are a goose. A silly one. Dissemination of brownies will not, should not, could not, change the landscape of our afternoon. Please. Off to the brownies with you." said Henry David Thoreau. What a scamp!

And so Laura went to fetch some brownies.

"SUNGLASSES HUT! SUNGLASSES HUT!" Says selpath, evoking the name of her favorite store to buy sunglasses. Or maybe something else entirely. Maybe some secret meaningful glimpse into the future!

"Hey slugger, you want some elk? I mean, vegetarian shmeginarian? Right? I took this baby down at fourteen hundred with some buckshot that I threw....slugger?" Rugged Dave turned around very slowly towards where the camera would be if this were a movie as to slowly reveal the horror on his face, even though in a situation like this, every second counts, although, so does drama. Rugged Dave’s eyes fell across what could only be described as: The Pool. But nowhere in that pool was Henry David Thoreau, son of Laura, and certainly not the author of "Civil Disobedience" who has been dead for quite some time.

Rugged Dave sprang to action. He ran four paces and then swan dove into the pool. "GREG LUGANIS!!" screamed Selpathwek, noticeably impressed by her nephews diving prowess.
"Brownies!" Laura announced as she finally returned from the brownie closet. She looked around and was curious to not see her son or her boyfriend. "Selptthhhheee where is everybody?"

Selpthhhee stirred and looked at Laura with her cold, haunting eyes, and in her prophetic tone of mystery screamed "I DON’T KNOW, WASNT WATCHING!"

Laura read this sign correctly from Selpthe that her son and boyfriend were both under the water because "oh my dear god, Greg Luganis almost drowned when he hit his head on the diving board after a miss judged dive because he wasn’t watching what he was doing and now he sponsors sunglasses hut. The place to go for low sunglass prices. My son and boyfriend are drowning!" she screamed!

"WHAT?" screamed Selpathe, clearly confused.

Just as Laura was about to spring into action, bubbles started to appear from the very deepest end of her pool. Slowly at first, then more quickly, someone was approaching the surface. Seconds ticked by as the bubbles got closer and closer and Laura and Selpathe nervously chewed delicious brownies. "CREAM CHEESE???" asked Selpathe wondering about the origins of the chewy-gooey texture of the brown taste explosion.

Then just like a Rugged Dave emerging from the water, Rugged Dave emerged from the water. He was holding five weighted rings and the limp, lifeless carcass of Henry David Thoreau. The kid, not the brilliant author of "Walden Pond."

Rugged Dave immediately began CPR. Five chest pumps, and then a strong steady breath into the mouth of the drowned child. Five pumps. Breathe. "One, two, three, four, five. BREATHE! Goddamned kid, breathe! BREATHE YOU COCKSUCKER!" Rugged Dave was delirious with anguish and possibly suffering from the Benz from coming up from the depths of Laura’s Media Outlet Financed SuperPool. But try as he might, the child would not resssusitate. recessitate. Resuscisate. "RESUSCITATE!" Thank you. The child would not resuscitate.

Laura screamed into the vaulted ceilings "WHY GOD WHY!" and other haunted screams that are tiresome to write and painful to read.

Day fell into night.

Laura was finally asleep, exhausted from screaming things repeatedly that I refused to copy down for the sake of you, the reader. Over and over for seven or eight hours, she screamed into her vaulted celings, bemoaning the fate of her son.

She stirred occasionally, ‘why so deep?’ in reference to her two hundred foot deep - deep end. Entirely too deep for any deep end. It was like someone had constructed a lake in her house for the sake of tying in the fact that there’s always a creepy body of water in modern horror films. And socio-economically disproportionate housing and then combined those two in a way that was more distracting than funny.

Rugged Dave watched over her, a soliloquy perched on just the other side of his lips. Ready to spring forth. A soliloquy that would vault him into the highest echelons of soliloquy givers in times of great sadness. He would climb the ranks of those that have gone before him in great impromptu speeches given while "nobody" could hear. Rugged Dave glanced upwards, a single tear in his eye and said: "Fuck."

Exactly.

Light from Laura’s bedside reading lamp fell over her and kept Rugged Dave from sleeping. Kept him from screaming. It had been one of the worst days of his life. A child dead. A horrible storm washed out the roads and cut off all communication with the outside world. An elk gone to waste.

Oh. While day was "falling into night." A big storm came and knocked out all the power and washed away all the roads. Effectively trapping our four characters in the giant house with the dead body of Henry David Thoreau!

"RIDICULOUS!" screamed Selphethe

Selpthehehs scream reminded Rugged Dave that he hadnt checked on his beloved Aunt in a while. Her room was just down the hall from the master bedroom so Rugged Dave figured it wouldnt take much to check on her. He quickly ran to the escalator and went down to her room. He gently tapped on the door as not to wake her if she was sleeping. At the slightest touch the door creeped open and made a horrendous squeeking sound. "SQUEEEEEEEEEK!" said the door as the metal hinge grinded itself open despite it’s being opened with not much more than a tap. Thereby being well lubricated enough to open with a faint tap, yet not well lubricated enough to not sound like a vault door made of bones and evil.

"Aunt Shelpthe?" said Rugged Dave. "Aunt Shelpethe, where are you." In the distance of the room he could hear the faint creeking of that goddamned rocking chair she made him take everywhere.

"Aunt Shelpthe is that you, in your chair?" Again no answer. Dave felt along the walls to find a lightswitch, a lamp, a candle, a torch, a match, anything that would illuminate this hideous darkness. This creepy milky darkness. He continued to feel his way along the wall. Still nothing. He keeps feeling and feeling and feeling and still. Nothing. And oh man is it dark. Dark and because the damned wall is so big it’s taking forever to find the fucking switch. Man is it dark and tense and taking a while. AAAAAnnnnddddd there it is! Instinctively his hand went to his knife, in case of mysterious troubles in the dark. He took a deep breath. Then he threw the lights.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Standing no more than four inches in front of Rugged Dave was a Masked Villian!! A white cloaked monster with a horrible metal face! A green, bug eyed mask of evil! Dave pulled his knife and slashed at the air wildly to subdue the screaming Masked Villian!

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Screamed the attacker and fell to the floor in a clump. Bleeding from both it’s arms or what may yet be revealed as tenticles or wolfman paws or fiery wings!! Dave didn’t know which of these things it was, but he was sure it was one of those three and one of those three alone.

He rushed over and was ready to deliver the sweet killing stroke! He stood above his attacker and said "see you in hell, meat bag. Any last words?"

"NIGHT VISION GOGGLES!!!!" screamed the heap.

"Wha-" Dave bent down and rolled over his attacker to discover his his bleeding attacker was none other than....SPTHEHTHETH!!

Why, it was old Sphteheth all along! That googley eyed monster wasnt anything more than his Aunt Splethehth in the night vision goggles he got her for her birthday. Silly Rugged Dave and his stabbing.

"PRICK!" screamed Spechialtits who was just doing some late night night-vision-goggle reading. Or as she called it "VISAGOGOREADIN!" screaming a mushy word as she’s known to do.
Everyone’s heart was beating pretty quickly. After all Dave just turned on the lights to discover a Masked Villain staring him dead in the face and then with all the stabbing that went on it’s easy to see how everyone would be a little keyed up. Jumpy.

Dave tucked shepehellchek back into bed and went on back up the escalator to his room, amazed that he nearly jumped out of his skin for no reason. And also he almost killed his aunt with a knife. But hey, thank god it’s Friday!


-------------------

That's all of that. And by all I mean 'enough.' That's enough of that. I could keep it going, but I really dont want to. There are some funny things in there, but it's not enough to really work on. Unlike Sherpa, which still needs finishing.

I like the size of the house, that makes me laugh, also the size of the house was really just a way to build dumb suspense. Everything being so big made it nessiscary to draw out descriptions. Naming the kid Henry David Thoreau was strange and funny because it makes him sound that much more refined and inteligent, but mentioning his father is probably confusing 'is he saying that thoreau is his father?" I wasnt. "CREAM CHEESE?" kills me. But enough is enough on that. Maybe someday far away I'll write up an ending.

Also, the thought behind "Spelbthah" is just that I wanted a very appropriate name for the creepy aunt and didnt come up with anything so I just mashed out something as a place holder. Spelpthe. Shelpath. Spellshack. Nothing good came out. So I just kept mushing it further as I went, hoping that would be funny in itself. But it isnt.

Also, I like any time where I start writing my thoughts of the story insde of the story. "...which was more distracting than funny." I just enjoy doing that and I dont know why.

But it doesnt really function as a story, so it's not worth saving. Neither are other entries on here, but this one in particular set out to be a start to finish story type story and it doesnt work as such so it can eat my ass.

Worth mentioning is that these four pages probably took me three hours to write whereas "Jackson Street" Took maybe an hour "Meathead' Less than that. They're all first drafts but this one didnt really come as easilly as I thought. Also problematic was that I had an idea for what I wanted to write here and both "Jackson Street" and "Meathead" and, for the most part, "Sherpa" all just sort of fell out of my head.

By the way, all of this post-writing-writing, is me trying to pick apart why things did or didnt work for me. So please feel free to never read the post-writing-writing. It's a post-mortem that I can look at later and remember how I felt about the writing at time of post and then how I feel at time of Re-read.

dan.

7.50

This is just a quick random thing I wrote at work one day. I ran out of things to do and I really didnt feel like asking for more work so I looked around the office to find something to write about. Eyes landed on Lightswitch and off it went. It's titled 7.50 Because that's exactly how much money I earned while writing this for one half of one hour.

I found it just now wihle going through some old emails. I forgot this ever happened. Enjoy...

7.50

The light switch on my dining room wall is broken. It broke on Friday morning during a routine football match versus my neighbor, Henry. My head struck the cover plate when Henry speared me from the other end of the dining room table. These things happen.

When I came to Henry was standing over me and it was beginning to get dark. Henry was apparently annoyed by the gathering darkness and decided to turn on the light, using the light switch that was just recently destroyed by my head and his well placed tackle.

Henry hit the switch and immediately shot twenty feet across the room.

Henry was buried on a Tuesday while I was at St. Helena’s Hospital recovering from my football injuries. Henry was a nice man and a hell of an indoor football player. I retired his uniform, which was his red tie, blue shirt and khaki pants. He didn’t dress well. I never said that he dressed well.

If I were able to walk or speak at the time of his burial I would have told everyone about his football prowess and his inability to color coordinate. It would’ve been nice of me. But I couldn’t because my head had to be tied to my torso which then had to be tied to a bed. Pretty image. Apparently during my heads breaking of the dining room light switch I shattered my collar bone and would have to sit out the remainder of the indoor football season. It’s just as well; the entire rest of the league had been killed during a freak light switch accident.

While in the hospital I met exactly forty two nurses of varying shapes sizes and skill levels. They all basically came in to give me food and adjust the ties which were holding my head to everything in reach.

I had a dream one night that my head was tied to every single thing in the room. I was happy to find that this wasn’t the case. When I woke up I said “Phew! My head is only tied to two things.” Which, really, doesn’t make much difference as far as head tying goes. Once it’s tied to something, it could just as easily be tied to everything else in the world, and the same affect will be achieved.

I hope someone fixes my light switch, with all the death and head tying, it’s easy to forget about the important things. Besides, what would happen if I get my head free, break out of the hospital, decide to enjoy a nice evening dinner on my seldom used dining room table, turn on the light, and no light comes on? I’d have to eat in the dark. What if I dropped my fork?

Whiskey Dog

Whiskey Dog

My closet doors are open. I cant move. I should be moving. I’ve got a million things to do. I really cant move. My alarm is annoying. I should get up so that I can get something from my closet, put it on, and then go downstairs and have coffee. I wonder if it’s possible to call someone to come to my house and bring me coffee. I’m really only interested in coffee.

Never mind, my phone is on the floor across the room. I forgot that I threw it at my alarm this morning. Fucking alarm. I hope the power goes out. If the power goes out the alarm would shut up. Maybe I can will the power to go out with my mind. Or will the alarm off with my mind. That would probably be easier than shutting down the city’s power grid with my mind. I think it would be anyway, I’ve never really tried to shut off a power grid with my mind. Might be worth a shot.

Fuck.

The power grid is probably downtown somewhere. It’s probably by work. Christ, I cant move. Too heavy. I don’t like moving. I should’ve set the alarm to the radio. Then I could listen to music while I didn’t move, instead of having my dreams end with a truck backing towards me. Damn truck is always right about to crush me right before I wake up. I heard that if you die in your dreams you die in real life. Fucking truck.

If I rolled over I could probably grab the cord with my hand and then drag the alarm closer to me and then maybe it would be in arms reach. Or maybe minds-reach.

Sometimes when I’m downtown walking through all the people I scream in my head "IS ANYBODY PSYCHIC!" And no one ever is. I should assume that nobody is psychic, but I figure they don’t want to blow their cover. Or a psychic person did answer but then quickly erased my memory of the conversation as not to blow their cover. I don’t really want to talk to anyone anyway. Everyone talks too much.

I was supposed to be in work two hours ago.

Right now I should be at my desk in my cubicle wondering if anyone in the office is psychic. There probably isn’t though, because if there were I would’ve been fired months ago for never working and bothering them with my mental screaming every few minutes. Imagine if someone worked next to you all day in a bland office and just shouted "CAN YOU HEAR ME?" You’d have to say yes every time and then you’d just go crazy and fire that person. Even if you weren’t in a position of power to fire anybody. They’d probably understand and help him pack his shit.

I figured I’d be in a position of power by now, firing people willy nilly. They fire people all the time for no good reason, I figure I could fire anybody I wanted. Maybe if I worked my way up the ladder I could work from home. I’d never have to move. I could lie in bed all day and call the office and have them come down and shut off the damned alarm. And bring me coffee. God how I need coffee.

My job is a waste. I call people on the phone all day. Everyone hates talking on the phone. Everyone. I call clients all day, people that my company works for and still, fifteen or sixteen times a day someone just yells "No Thanks!" into the phone and hangs up. They assume we’re telemarketers. I think all the telemarketers are in India by now. That’s where they go.
The great telemarketer migration of the early two thousands. That’s how they’ll probably refer to it in the history books. They all went over there. It’s probably an easier life there. A lot more diseases to worry about though.

I should get a disease. They don’t hustle people that have diseases. They’ve got every right in the world to lie around all day and be unproductive. If it weren’t for the disease, they’d have it made. No job to bustle off to and be generally unimpressive at. No social life to regret not having. Who needs a social life in India. Most of those diseases are probably communicable. You’d probably be happy just having a life over there. Happy to be alive and helping Americans buy junk or fix computers. That’s probably a good life. I should go there.

But I cant really move. Too heavy. I could move. I think. But what the hell is the point. The only good thing that will come of it is coffee. I’d get some coffee and then I’d go to work where I’d count the seconds till I drank more coffee every fifteen minutes or so. The more coffee you drink, the more active you look and less you’re actually doing. You look like you’re full of energy because you cant stop moving from the caffeine. But in actuality, you’re drinking the coffee so that it’ll make you piss more and can spend more time alone in the bathroom away from everybody and that goddamned computer.

I haven’t done an honest days work in years. Nobody seems to notice or care because I don’t talk to anyone or bother to make them care. I sit in my little corner and try to not draw attention to myself so I can keep my job and get a paycheck so that I can afford coffee. So that I can get up in the morning and go to work and drink more coffee. My whole life seems to be governed by a bean. That’s pretty strange.

Bed. Bed. Get out of bed. Scream in your head, get out of bed. Someone has to hear you. Someone has to come. Someone is supposed to. That’s what I thought would happen. It hasn’t yet.

Man that fucking alarm. What’s unbelievable about that alarm is that someone sold it to me. There is such a thing as an alarm clock salesman it turns out. I had no idea you could be an alarm clock salesman. Bad guidance councilor I guess. I went to a store next to my office for an alarm clock, I had smashed my other one. With my fist. It hurt like hell but it was the most satisfying moment of my life. I had to put the other one across the room so I wouldn’t make a habit of smashing things and being satisfied.

Inside the store were a bunch of electronic gizmos. Everything beeped. I hated it. A man in a red shirt saw that I was unhappy and came to help me. He asked me what I needed and I told him that I had hurt my hand smashing my alarm clock. He thought I was kidding and then told me all about the alarm clocks he had in his store. The one he sold me was the most expensive, but he said it was the best. I assumed he knew what he was talking about and then bought the warrantee incase I had another satisfying moment.

I don’t know what makes this alarm clock so special. It just makes noise so I wake up. I imagine that’s what they all do. Maybe not, how would I know, I don’t own an electronics store. Not yet. No. I’ll never own an electronics store. Too much beeping. I’d wind up smashing the whole building. With my fist.

But there it is, all shiny and new and loud as hell. Best damned alarmclock money can buy. It would be quiet plastic splinters if I could get out of bed.

The phone is ringing. Someone please answer the phone. Please. I cant. It’s probably work. Maybe they’ll get worried and send for help. Maybe one of those fat dogs with the whiskey on it’s neck. That would be great. A big dog full of whiskey. I could go for one of those. If they sold those by work I’d be out of this bed so goddamned fast. One dog full of whiskey, please. Sold. I’d be up every morning.

I’d be able to bring whiskey to work. I could probably still bring whiskey to work. I’m a grown man. I’m allowed to have a drink if I like a drink. What could they do?

They’d probably fire me. I suppose they could do that. Fuck. I shouldn’t get fired. I need the job. Actually. I need the bed. I already have the bed. It’s paid for, they cant take that away could they? They could even have the sheets and the pillow. I wouldn’t really need them. Ah, but then there’s winter. I’m dumb enough to live in a place where the weather changes whenever the hell it feels like. In winter I’d be fucked. NO! Whiskey dog! Whiskey dog would keep me warm. That’s what his goddamned job is. I paid good money for that dog, he should do his fucking job.

Sorry whiskey dog. I don’t mean to yell. You know how I get sometimes.

It’s too late to even make it to work if I wanted to. I don’t know when the busses run at this time of day. The morning busses run like clockwork. There isn’t any clockwork anymore. Every ten minutes there’s a box full of people on their way to their jobs. Important people. Young people. Men and women. Beautiful women. Janice. Janice rides the busssssss.

Janice is the most beautiful creature on gods green earth. Though most of it isn’t really green. And I don’t know if there’s a god because he never answers my psychic calls either. But Janice is on that bus every day at 815 like Janice is full of clockworks. Wheels and gears and metal and teeth. All shoved into a pretty young body like I’ve never seen before. I didn’t go to work today. I missed her this morning. Christ how I missed her this morning.

Every morning for ten miles of bus ride I scream in my head and try to make her hear me. I shouldn’t let her into my head, there have been things thought there that she shouldn’t see. I wouldn’t want to spoil her. But damn it she’s worth it. She should hear me. She should see me. How could she hear you this goddamned noise this fucking alarm! ENOUGH ALARM! I know. I'm sorry. I’m awake!

God how I hate that alarm. I’m sorry. Sorry for yelling. Whiskey dog, please shut off that alarm.
Janice. I saw her once from a window at my office. I was getting coffee. I needed coffee. She was walking by in her pretty blue suit. Running. She was hustling by. Hurrying. She had somewhere to be. She’s probably got a million things to do too. Slow down, I thought, please slow down and wait. I don’t move well. She was just outside my window and ten floors down. I could spot that pretty blue suit from forty floors. A hundred. She knows. She knows I’d see her from there.

Phone. The phone again. Ringing phone, beeping alarm clock. Before I threw the phone at the alarm I pictured in my head that the phone would make contact with the alarm and they would explode in a fireball. Like a sun. Up in a flash of silenced glory. And I’d be warm for just a second. Just from the heat of the explosion.

The phone bounced off my dresser and fell to the ground. Now it’s in cahoots with my alarm clock. Screaming at me to get up. And go. Go to work. For coffee. For my alarm clock. The alarm clock needs me to be up so that I can go to work and sit in that goddamned gray place for as long as I can tolerate it before going crazy. Just enough and then I’m out. Free. To get on the bus and be tormented by Janice and her pretty blue suit. SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE. Off the bus and back in bed. Bed bed get out of bed get out of bed out of your head out of bed get out of your head SOMEONE HELP.

Janice dropped her lighter the other day. It clacked on the floor and I thought it would explode and I thought of ducking for cover but it was too late. It already hit the floor but everyone was fine. Everything for just a second was ok. It was alright. But she was already gone. Got off the bus at the stop on Green St. Full of clockwork and speed. She’s all in hurries. Quicker than me. I yelled for her. "Your lighter. Janice! Your lighter!" She was already off. Gone. All I need. Gone.

Christ it’s late. Already dark.

I have it now. Her lighter. It’s next to my bed. When they fire me for missing too much work and the electronics store guy comes to repo his alarm clock, it’ll just be me and whiskey dog. Calm down whiskey dog. Everything’s ok. That’s his. It’s his. Tell Janice about the lighter, electronic store guy.

I will.

Don’t mind Whiskey Dog, He doesn’t bite. I tell him not to. He’s tame. He hears me.

Ok.

I knew you’d understand, guy. You’re a good guy and a hell of a salesman. Maybe you could get me some coffee, guy. I hope you would. I need it. I need something. Whiskey dog, go play with the guy. I need to be alone for a while. It’s late. I should be asleep. Wake me in the morning whiskey dog. I’m going to need you. I cant leave here, but it’s important that I’m awake. I have important things to do here at the office. Just don’t let them take my bed. Or Janice’s lighter. It’s important. Right Janice?

Yes.

I’ll just stay here with you and the Whiskey Dog, Janice. If that’s ok. I don’t want to move anymore. It’s too much. I cant take it. And please, if you loved me, you’d turn off the noise. Make it stop. Please.

Ok. I love you. Go back to bed.

I love you too. I knew you’d hear me. I knew it. Back to bed. Back to bed. Back to bed.

------------------- Theend-------------


needs work. Tempo is a bit off. Need Janice to show up later, and to coincide with the appearance of Whiskey dog, right after he yelles in his head. Snapp. And he's got a whiskey dog. SNapp. and he's got a wife. And could probably cut out the lines for the Alarm Clock Salesman. Ehhhhhhhhhh. needs work.

Let me know.