Finishing up "Horror"

So the other day I wound up talking about horror movies with someone and I realize I never wrote the reason why I started writing "The Greatest Horror Story of All Time."

I figure I'll take some time I have at the moment to write the end, and completely avoid the middle section of the story all together because I don't feel like writing the middle, and this was really all I wanted to say in the first place. So here it is, the end of the "Greatest Horror Story of All Time."

Also, please excuse any glaring spelling errors. I wrote this in an email. There's no word on this computer.


The lights are still out. Thunder roars overhead magnified by the hollow echo of Laura's vast cottage. Rugged Dave, Selpathe and Laura sit huddled in the darkness watching home movies of the recently departed Henry David Thoreau in Laura's planetarium.

Giant pictures of Henry David Thoreau dance on the ceiling. Pictures of Henry David Thoreau doing crunches, studying String Theory, and skeet shotting. You know, kid stuff.

The trio is just getting to Henry David Thoreau's opera training, they are being washed over with his beautiful 8 year old voice. Rugged Dave has a hand on Laura's thigh. It's been slowly creeping upwards. Laura is crying loudly and pushing his hand back down. Selpthe wearing her goggles and doing a rubix cube.

Rugged Dave is getting increasingly angry that he will not be getting laid this evening. "Fucking kid dies and my dick stays dry." He thinks. He then remarks to himself that he should put that on a T-shirt. "Fucking millionare." He says outloud.

"What did you say?" Asks Laura.
"Nothing. Forget it. Watch the movie." Say's Rugged Dave, secretly wishing he had said something funnier and thus justifying two lines of dialog that don't need to exist.

The group is nearing the 3D section of the movie. They ready their 3D glasses and Selpthe sets aside her rubix cube and silently resigns to peel the stickers off later, making the cube inky black and complete in it's inky blackness. "NOW WHO'S STUPID!" She screams at the puzzle.

Selpth removes her night vision goggles and relplaces them with her 3D glasses. The scene that Laura had made into a 3D masterpeice is one in which he is having a baseball toss with Rugged Dave. Rugged Dave is hurling mighty fastballs to young Henry David Thoreau. Rugged Dave is clocking himself at about 94 mph. Henry David Thoreau is swaddled in catchers equipment and is taking fastball after fastball to the midsection, his 8 year old reflexes not quite up to the task of actually catching the ball.

Laura selected this, for it combines her two favorite people and the spectacle of having a 94 mile hour fastball virtually whizzing by your head every four or five seconds. Even now, in the midst of this horrible sadness it draws Oohs and Aahs from the three.

"I'm going with the changeup, little buddy." Says the three dimensional image of Rugged Dave.
"Yes sir. I am preparing my synapses for a lapse of judgement made by the contrast of the quick movement of your arm, vs the relatively slow aproach of the ball. All is in readiness." Says the little scamp.
"Here goes" Says Rugged Dave.
"Whamp!" Says the chest plate of Henry David Thoreau
"OOOOHHHH AHHHHHH" Says Laura, Rugged Dave and Selpthe
"Sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" Says an unidentified source

"What was that unidentified source?" Cried Rugged Dave, quickly removing his 3D glasses.
"SHhh" says laura, you're missing the best part

A three dimensional Rugged Dave is standing over the limp carcass of a three dimensional Henry David Thoreau. "Always think fastball, kid. Just because I say I'm going with the changeup doesnt mean I'm throwing the changeup. Last second changes are the name of the game. You get some ice on that you'll be fine."

"Tricked indeed, says I. My broken sternum is testament to that! Quite a ruse, Rugged Dave, quite a ruse, indeed! I must go tend to my wounds. Selpthe, ready my laboratory." He even says laboratory like "Lah boor ah tooree" I want to pinch his cheeks! Henry David Thoreau!

They all share in a deep belly laugh over the funny Rugged Dave joke. Change up? Rugged Dave doesnt throw Change ups. He throws nothing but heat all day long. All Heat All the Time! Never fucking forget that.

"SLllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" says the unidentified source.
"I don't like that unidentified source." says Rugged Dave.
"It's probably nothing." Says Laura. It's probably a good time to mention that Laura was kicked in the face by a horse when she was a small child and never quite recovered her sense of danger. Much like I, your author, pines for a big breasted woman who was born without the use of her inhibitions, Laura lost her sense of danger at a young age. Hence all the brownies all the time, she's constantly making with the brownies. While this is impossible, one dares to dream, and since this is a horror movie, you're going to have to let some reality slip away even though that noise is fucking scary and even typing it as my asshole tight, she's fine. Get me? Fine. Don't fucking argue. Eat your fucking popcorn.

"It's probably just the Air Conditioning." Says Laura

"You're probably right" says Rugged Dave. It's probably a good time to mention that Rugged Dave once dated a ram. As such, he had to fend off other male rams who were bidding for his love's attention. Rams do this by butting horns at impossibly high speeds and impacts. Rugged Dave is rugged and did it with a trucker hat and a belly full of Shlitz. During this courtship ritual Dave's better judgement collapsed like a dwarf star and is now incredibly gullible to almost any suggestion made by women in a planetariums. We all have our crosses to bear, this was his.

"PUNCH YOUR OWN FACE!" screamed Selpthe.
Dave punched himself in the face, thereby proving a ridiculous point. Thank you Selpthe.
"WELCOME!" Screamed Selpthe at nobody in particular.

"Sllllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhh"

The planetariums 3D display was nearing an end and was currently displaying young Henry David Thoreau in a bath tub. He was rubbing at his chest which had several baseball shaped welts on it. He was delicatly dabbing at his wounds with a pink washcloth. When he realized his mother was taping from the doorway behind him, he quickly threw the washcloth at the camera which elicited one last "OOOHHHH" From the 3 person audience.

The screen went dark and the lights started to come up when Selpthe Screamed. "NOT DONE!" Laura was confused, she swore that was the end of it. The washcloth was wet and damaged the camera and she hadnt gotten another one down from her Digital Camcorder Closet yet. Afterall it was up on the fourteenth floor, and who's got the time to wait for the elevator?

But Selpthe insisted "LOOK!" and pointed at the ceiling, still wearing her 3D glasses. She remained seated and stared intently while peeling her rubix cube.

Rugged Dave and Laura looked skywards as the dark ceiling became illuminated with a faint green tint and "SLEEEESSHHHHHHHH" was heard again, this time much louder. The sound was coming from the cieling! More precicely, it was coming from the Air Conditioning duct!

"I told you, it was just the Air Conditioning" said Laura "Now let's go to bed after I make some brownies."
"You got it."
"I SAID LOOK" said Selpthe.
Rugged Dave's new orders came in and so he did, he looked towards the Air Conditioning vent. Suddenly the green tint grew brighter. Almost hard to look at. "OOOOHHHHH" Screamed Selpthe still wearing her 3D glasses.

The green tint suddenly shut off. And water gushed out of the vent. Impossible amounts of water. "I Guess the condenser went" said Laura, demonstrating surprising knowledge of her Air Conditioning system.

Water was pouring out. Gushing. The floor was now two inches deep with water when suddenly a black form flushed out of the vent and flopped on the floor in a formless heap. "AHHHH!"

The black form started to shift. Slow side to side movements, then it slowly took a stronger shape, and stood tall. It was a boy! He was facing the other way and was covered in small gashes. Small cuts bleeding rivulets of blood. He was soaked, only wearing black shorts and carying one weighted ring!

He turned slowly, the cuts were worse on the front of him. The blood was turning the waters red. It was Henry David Thoreau!"

"Henry David Thoreau!" Shouted Laura, full of surprise! "You're alive."

"Not quite, mother. Not quite." His eyes were cast downward allowing the shadows to fill his deep set eyes. His eight year old frame bleeding steadilly. "I've come for you, Rugged Dave. I've come for you."

"Fuck you." said Rugged Dave.

"You killed me, Rugged Dave. I'm here to return the favor." His dialog now trite and contrived because we're nearing the end.

"Did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Did too." This went on for practically an hour because Henry David Thoreau is eight years old, and Rugged Dave didnt know what else to say.

"ENOUGH!" screamed Laura.
"OOOOHH AHHHHHH" said Selpthe

"He killed me with the weighted rings. The underwater fun game. They're 100 pounds. He threw them in, I caught one as it was floating towards the bottom, and it dragged me down to the the bottom of the very deep end where the pressure eventually killed me." Dialog is so quick and unlike the character now because he's dead! Why is he so different? Who knows?!

"The pressure! That explains the cuts!" Said Laura
"No." Said Henry David Thoreau "The cuts are from crawling through the Air Conditioning Ducts, they're full of metal screws. When air ducts are installed, screws are used to keep them in place. Hundreds of screws. Thus making travelling through them completely impossible and foolish. It's how they're built. So it never makes sense. Not ever." So precise! "But enough of the exact construction of air ducts and a giant plot hole, I'm here for you Rugged Dave. I'm taking you with me. " As Henry David Thoreau finished this line, he gestured behind him with a rubbery dead arm. A green portal opened behind him at his gesture. "OOOOOHHHHH!" said Selpthe

Screams poured out of it. Loud, haunting screams. "They're the dead. Like me. Like you. Come, David. Now is the time of your undoing." Suddenly he's back to how he used to talk, he talked normally just for the brief moments of exposition, and then he's back to his scampish, impish self. Someone get that sweetheart a taffy!

Henry David Thoreau pulled his right arm from behind his back revealing a scythe-ish curved blade. It was brown and chipped. It's as though the shape and condition of it made the threat of getting stabbed even more scary, even though gettting stabbed is getting stabbed and really, the asthetics of getting stabbed dont really result in your being more or less hurt. You get stabbed in the belly with one of those shoe cutting knives, it'll kill you and if you get stabbed in the belly with a rolling pin, it'll kill you. Same thing.

Henry David Thoreau held his weirdo knife at his side. He turned the blade over in his hand, cocked his wrist, so the blade was pointing directly to the right. The blade glinted faintly in the green light, he twisted it to add to this affect. Green. Brown. Green. Brown. Flashing terror in the eyes of Rugged Dave who advanced from the outer ring of the planetarium.

"I say, David, I always assumed your undoing would be in the planetarium. It fits." Said Henry David Thoreau, even though there was no clear way that it fit. He and Rugged Dave circled each other in the glow of Henry David Thoreau's mystical portal. They were close now, circling like lions, or rams. Rams is funnier. "Ever since that day you pelted me with those leather orbs, I've dreamt of this moment. Except, I wasnt dead in my dreams. But I was gutting you just the same. Like a fish. But now I'm dead, but, you get the idea, right? Me knife, you gutted. Now is the winter of our discontent, Mr. Dave. The Bell Tolls for Thee, Rugged fool! This is the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, louse! It was the Best of Times for me, it is the Worst of Times for you, Rugged Dave! HAVE AT YOU!"

Henry David Thoreau lunged with all his might! He quickly closed the gap between himself and Rugged Dave, his knife held high in the air, screaming like a mad man he came in for the killing stroke!

"AHHHHHH" said Selpthe

Rugged Dave threw a Left Cross and crushed the face of Henry David Thoreau. The potal immediatly closed and Henry David Thoreau lay on the floor in a heap, holding his 8 year old face and crying. Henry David Thoreau begged for mercy, but Rugged Dave would have none of it. "Please sir, I was just kidding. With the portal and the death and the scythe and everything. I'm only 8."

Rugged Dave picked up Henry David Thoreau and walked him out of the planetarium. He carried him across the hallway and threw him straight throughthe 8th floor window. "Rugged Dave always throws the heat. Bitch." Said Rugged Dave. Mustering the corniest, barely relateable line he could think of. But remember I told you to remember that he always threw the heat? Huh? I did, because I needed to have some very obvious foreshaddowing. Actually, I needed something where people could say "Ohhhh right that's just like what he said before" even though there's no possible way you could take "Always throws the heat" and transform it into "OHhhhh, he's going to throw him out a window. See, because heat. He always THROWS it. Henry David Thoreau? He THOREAUS the Heat. You see? Fucking obvious, I knew the whole time. This movie is bullshit, when I get home I'm going to write a story about how stupid horror movies are and how fucking awesome I am."

Rugged Dave lit a cigarette and shaddow boxed for a moment. "FUcking 8 year old kid." He mused to himself. His words slight, but wise. If an eight year old kid is tormenting you and your family, punch him in the face. Throwing him out a window was a bit much, but really, just punch the little bastard in the face. You win. Instantly. Even if you're built like a dandilion and wearing a T-Shirt that says "Hopeless Romantic," take a swing. You'll win because he's 8 years old and his scull still mostly mush.

Laura aproached the window with caution because of the lengthy, underly stylized expository paragraph that just took place. "Do you think he's dead?" As she looked outside into the rain, down on the mangled carcass of her son lying dead on the pavement just north of the topiary maze.

"I don't know, baby. I don't know that we'll ever know. But yes he's dead. I threw him out the window after he caught the left cross." Said Rugged Dave. From that day forward Rugged Dave called his Left Cross "The Widow Maker" because he thought it sounded cool, and didnt know what the word Widdow meant.

Laura quit her job at the Media Company and began working at a miniature golf course to be near children. She brings home well over six figures a year.

Selpthe never did finish that rubix cube. She gave up after all the excitement and went back to her first love, Umpiring for the Milwaukee Brewers.

"THE END??"

THE END, Selpthe. The End.

More Ian and Shane, Subject to Editing

I'm probably going to trim this down a bit and make a few other changes, but I'm in the home stretch of writing it now. I havent touched it since my last post. I just spent a little time with it today flushing out the story. I'm not sure how it ends yet, I'll be doing that soon.

Ian and Shane continued

“I knew you'd feel a little high after the first time. I know I did.”
“Woozy. It's not a good feeling really. More sickish than high. High is more fun.”
“Really? Do you want some water or something?”
“Do you have some water?”
“I keep Pellegrino in the trunk.”
“Good thinking. I think I'll have one of those.”
“Pellegrino is undoubtedly the best water on the water market today.”
“I agree. Is there a water market?”
“I think so. There should be if there isn't.”
“Could we make a water market?”
“Do you mean make a building where we sell water, or establish a financial institution based on following water trends?”
“Either or.”
“I don't see why we couldn't. But we should keep on with your black people training.”
“I think we've done enough for today. For forever for that matter. My eyes aren't fully adjusted after looking at him. I'm seeing black splotches everywhere.”
“No, there are a lot of black people behind me. Don't call black people splotches, Shane.”
“I wasn't. I just thought it was an after affect. And what did I tell you about calling black people black people. African Americans please, Ian.”
“Sorry, Shane.”
“So those are all real blacked people then?”
“Yes. Which brings me to our current problem. I'm not really sure what to do at this point.”
“What do you mean, oh keeper of the plan?”
“Well, we seem to be surrounded. I'm not sure that I can get us out of here.”
“Christ. You don't think they'll let us leave?”
“I'm not sure, Shane. There's probably some sort of tariff, or barter system just to get out of the parking lot.”
“They probably don't own the parking lot, the parking lot belongs to Denny.”
“Maybe, but in effect all Denny's belong to them. None of our friends have ever been in a Denny's. I don't even know if that's how you pronounce it. It might be Den-ays. Like that clever woman from 227.”
“Good show.”
“I thought so.”
“But if what you're saying is true, then how do we get back to Landville?”
“I'm not sure exactly, you kind of ruined everything.”
“What do you mean? Why? Because I passed out because you hit the horn even though you didn't tell me it was a part of your plan that you invented to meet black people even though I didn't want to?”
“No. You're wearing a blue shirt, and I saw a movie once on A&E that said blue angers them.”
“The color blue angers black peop -- African Americans?”
“That's what I'm told, Blue and Red. I'm not sure about it, probably something to do with Rods. Or maybe even Cones.”
“Rods and Cones?”
“Cells that make up the eyeball, different A&E show. But apparently in black people they're curved incorrectly. Leading to Rod's and Consey's or something. It's a disease. It makes them mad at colors.”
“There's no way that's true.”
“Are you going to argue with A&E?”
“No, but even Peter Graves is wrong from ti-“
“C'mon man.”
“No. I really think you're wrong.”
“Not a chance, and even if I am, do you really want to get them all mad at you?”
“No, but -“
“Then why would you risk it, Shane?”
“Alright, we should probably work out another plan. I need to get home. Shelly wants to watch a movie tonight.”
“Which movie?”
“Probably some artsy nonsense.”
“She's a whore, you know.”
“Fuck you, Ian, not right now.”
“Car?”
“Car.”

Back in the car

“This whole day has gone to shit, Ian.”
“I know that, Shane.”
“What happens if they don't let us leave?”
“I'm not sure. We might have to live in the car, and there is only so much Pellegrino.”
“Can we send for help?”
”I don't know. Our cell phones are useless out here. They don't have the same technology. I don't think so anyway.”
”Damn. Maybe we can tie a note to a pigeon.”
“If you gave me your house I wouldn't touch a pigeon, Shane.”
“Yeah, you're probably right.”
“Oh shit.”
“What?”
“Look over there.”
“Is that a white guy?”
“I think it is.”
“Do we know him?”
“Probably. But he's on the other side of the parking lot and I don't think it's safe to move just yet.”
“Ian?”
“Yes, Shane.”
“I'm a little frightened.”
“Me too, Shane.”
“Ian?”
“Yes, Shane.”
“What if…”
“What is it, Shane, you can tell me.”
“What if we….catch black.”
“Don't you ever say that! That's impossible. That can't happen. It's been proven in laboratories. It's an old whites tale and I want you to get it out of your head, we're going to be fine! Just fine, Ok? I want you to say it!”
“We're going to be just fine!”
“Stop crying, idiot. You're going to attract them, they can smell fear.”
“They can?”
“Yes, like jungle cats.”
“Oh.”
“Alright, c'mon, pull it together. Let's think.”
“What do we have that we can use to barter with?”
”Pellegrino. I've got shoes on.”
“Pellegrino needs to stay, if we're stuck somewhere else we could die right here in this Mercedes. And your shoes? C'mon Shane, think clearly. How would you get in your house from the car?”
“I could have Ilsa bring me out a pair of Denzos from my bedroom.”
“Denzos? When did you get Denzos?”
“Oh, I didn't tell you. I brought a few pair home from Italy last month, beautiful shoes. Smell like sun dried apricots somehow.”
“No kidding, I've always wanted a pair of those. Awfully expensive though, three large for a pair.”
“It's worth it, 3000 is a small price to pay for your feet smelling like sun dried apricots every day.”
“I do like a good apricot.”
“I know that you do. Which is why I brought a pair back for you!”
“Oh man, Shane! You didn't!”
“I did, I was going to wait until your birthday to tell you, but now it seems like we're going to die here, stranded in your Mercedes in this jungle of black --- African American people.'
“African American.”
“African American.”
“I appreciate the shoes, Shane. Hopefully I'll see them one day.”
“I hope so too, Ian.”
“What time is it?”
“630.”
”We've been stranded here for 3 hours. There's no end in sight, Shane. We have nothing to barter with -- ”
“If only we had a chicken.”
“-- So we're probably going to die. I haven't had a latte since breakfast.”
“You didn't have a lunch latte?”
“No, I skipped it, I was feeling a little jittery from my morning latte/Jog.”
“Jogging is great.”
“Nothing like jogging with a latte. Maybe, champagne with yoga.”
“Really any type of drink with exercise is good. Or even Fresh Squeezed Orange Juice and free time is good. A bit less sophisticated, but it feels just as nice. Just a cool drink and free time.”
“I agree. But we're very far off the subject. We really have two options right now.”
“Which are?”
“Which are, we make a run for it, or we can sit here and wait for help to arrive.”
“How would help know to arrive? Nobody knows where we are, Ian!”
“Fuck. OH no. Not fuck! I've got it.”
“What, Ian, what?”
“I've got OnStar!”
“Ian, you lovely man. Hit it, let them know we're in trouble.”
“Here goes!”
“OnStar, this is Cynthia speaking.”
“HEEELLLP”
“HELLLPPBE”
“Sirs, calm down, tell OnStar what's the matter.”
“Shhh, Shane, I've got it. Hello, OnStar, My colleague and I seem to be trapped in my Mercedes.”
“If the doors are locked, I can open them from here, but it would make more sense for you to just hit the un-lock button which is on your arm rest.”
“No no, OnStar, the doors are locked on purpose, we need a rescue squadron. Maybe call my country club, or Jerry on 9th street, he's my jeweler, he'll know what to do.”
“I'm afraid I don't understand sir.”
”WE'RE TRAPPED IN A SEA OF BLA-AFRICAN AMERICANS AND WE DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”
“Shane! I said I would handle this. Please, drink your Pellegrino. My friend is a little jittery, it's getting cabin feverish in here. We've been stuck in the car for almost four hours now.”
“I'm sorry sir, I'm not hearing the problem, are you out of gas, do you have a flat tire, is the engine dead?”
”Is the engine dead? Are you retarded? I said I'm trapped in a Mercedes. The engine doesn't die in a Mercedes, at most it ages, like fine wine or your better cheeses. Besides I'll have a new one before a fourth digit on the odometer pops up.”
“You hate four digits, Ian.”
“I do, Shane. It's the year 2k5, we can stop with all the numbers by now, I think.”
“I agree, tired things. Old fashioned. I don't have any twigs to count in my cave, professor old guy.”
“Sirs, Cynthia here -“
“Who the fuck is Cynthia, why are you in my roof?”
“OnStar, I'm OnStar.”
“Oh, OnStar. Someone named Cynthia just hijacked your frequency and -“
“Sir, if there's nothing else I can do for you, I've got other people to help with real problems.”
“NO! I paid good money for this phone! You help me, now. African Americans, as far as the eye can see! Is there any type of way to get out of this, can you send help, can you blast them from space with some sort of ray gun, or maybe make them sleep for a few minutes?”
”Thank you for calling OnStar, goodbye. Click.”
“She's gone. OnStar is gone. Forever. They must've gotten to her.”
“Ian?”
”Yes, Shane.”
“I'm freakin out man! We've been in this car for too long, I cant breathe coughcough I'm frightened and cold.”
“Hang on, I'll turn on the seat heater.”
“You got a seat heater with this?”
“I did, it's great on cold days. And on warm days, it's cooled, which is beautiful. I would've paid a million dollars for this car just based on the high tech testicular temperature controls.”
“Oh there it goes, that's nice right there. Keeping the boys warm, they don't know they're about to die.”
“They're in a better place already, Shane.”
“Shane?”
“Yes, Ian?”
”I think we have to make a run for it.”
“What time is it?
“830.”
”I think it would be a mistake to leave at night. They could be anywhere, they'd blend in.”
”I hadn't thought of that.”
“I think we should just get some sleep, and see about leaving in the morning. They might not be out in the early morning sun. I think it melts them or something.”
“That's vampires, Shane. We've been seeing them all day in the sun.”
“Oh right. Well, then we've got one up on the vampires then.”
”Vampires are Asian, Shane, everyone knows that.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
“To sleep?”
“To sleep.”

Morning.

“Ian. Ian wake up. We've made a terrible mistake!”
“Huh, Shelly….no… Huh? What?!”
“What the fuck, what are you saying Shelly for?”
“OH, I - uh. Dreamed about. Shells.”
“No, dick. You said Shelly. Not shells. What the fuck is going on?!”
“It's nothing, I had a dream about whores. I.E. Shelly.”
“Fuck you man, she's no whore. That's my Shelly.”
“She's a whore, she used to fuck Jerry the Jeweler.”
“So did your mother!”
“That's childish.”
“Ohhhh yeah, your mom had Jeweler Jerry all over her. All sorts of angles and ways and -“
“Shane, look at your Pellegrino.”
“Used to be like “Ohhhh Jeweler Jerry, got the diamond in his ballllls. And now I've got my own diamond in a way that no woman could -“
“Shane, stop it! Look at your Pellegrino!”
“-Probably going to need to go to the doctors, Jeweler Jerry, Gonna get that green shit all over me. Because your gold is sub par and turns green when it gets wet….oohhhhh Jewwwwwellllll Jewellllllller Jerry --- OHW! The fuck are you smacking me for?”
“Look.”
“The Pellegrino, it's shaking.”
“Yes, Shane. Do you know what that means?'
“The black fo-African Americans, they aren't hunting dinosaurs this early are they?”
“I don't think so. I think its bass. Look behind us.”
“Oh my god. The parking lot! It's full!”
“Denny's specialty is pancakes. It's a waffle house, Shane! We're in a waffle house breakfast at daybreak!”
“Good lord, we'll be sacrificed and used for syrup.”
“It's happened before.”
“AHHHHHH”
“AHHHHHH”

Panic.

“Oh my god, I don't think we can make it until lunchtime. Wait, they don't serve lunch do they?”
”I'm not sure, I cant read the hours from here.”
“What time is it, Shane?”
“7am.”
“We've got at least five hours until we can et out of here, and even then we might not be able to leave until two, maybe even two. If they have dinner, it wont be until eight or nine. We should have enough Pellegrino to last us.”
“Ah, I don't know”
”No we should, Pellegrino is delicious, but if we can hold off and only drink about five bottles a piece until then, we should be alright. We shouldn't have to eat yet.”
“I don't really eat.”
”Me neither. I stopped eating carbs, and so I just cut out the rest of it too.”
“Same here. Who needs it? I've got a whole kitchen full of food that's just going to go right into the garbage.”
“I did that last week, I put a few stereos in the cabinets, the kitchen has surround sound. It's pretty sweet.”
“I hadn't thought of that, that's a good idea. No room is really complete without surround sound. Maybe throw a hi-def flat screen into the fridge.”
“Way ahead of you.”
“Very nice, I'll have to come over and see.”
“Yes. All right. So that's not a problem, no food, but we don't eat, that's not for us. But we're stocked on Pellegrino.”
“Well actually…”
”Delicious Pellegrino, a gift from the gods.'
“Well, god's don't really exist here in this parking lot, and neither does Pellegrino.”
“No, it does, I told you, there's a case in the trunk.”
“No, it doesn't. It's gone.”
“What do you mean it's gone??”
“I drank it last night, and then I used some of it to clean up this morning.”
“What? You drank 24 bottles of Pellegrino?”
“23, I used one to wash the boys. That heater works a little too well, I tried to turn it off, but I just made it worse, and I was afraid that if I tuned it to cool, I'd either give the boys a cold, or create a thunderstorm in my balls.”
“But what the hell am I going to do without it?”
“I don't know, you should've bought more.”
“Obviously, and I will next time, but 23 bottles Shane?!”
“Don't take that tone with me, Ian, don't act like you've never drank a whole case of Pellegrino.”
”No, I haven't Shane, that's insane, I don't even know how you could physically do it, and now I'm going to die of thirst while you've glutted yourself on our rations!”
“Call onstar if you're so worried.”
“They. Got. To. Her. She's of no help to us. OnStar is dead, Shane! It's dead! I didn't want to tell you, but they bit her on the neck and now she's black! That's what happens Shane! They bite you and then you turn into one of them!”
“LIAR! You said that was impossible! You said it couldn't happen!”
”I lied to protect you Shane! You didn't need to know! I didn't want to frighten you more than you needed to be!”
“Oh my god we're doomed. Doomed. And… what was that.”
“Why is my Mercedes shaking?”
“OH MY GOD THEY'RE UNDER THE CAR! THEY'VE TUNNELED UNDER US! LIKE THAT MOVIE!”
“CALM DOWN, SHANE! They're not under the car. Not yet. But, it's worse than that.”
“How! How could it be worse?”
“We're out of gas.”
”What? We haven't driven the car in a day. How could we be out of gas?”
”I kept the car running for the air conditioner and the seat heaters.”
“You idiot!
“I didn't hear you complaining, all that talk about your balls, and how cozy everything was! “Ooh my balls, Ian, my balls. I heard it for an hour yesterday about your balls! How about now, your balls got us into this mess! You could've told me to turn off the car at any time so don't put this shit on me, Shane!”
“I didn't even know the Mercedes was on.”
“Of course not you idiot, it's a fucking Mercedes. It's smooth, Shane. Smooth!”
“Oh my god. I always knew I'd die in a Mercedes.”
“Really?”
“Well maybe not a Mercedes, but something high end. And if not a car, then a high end something else. Like my Duraunte. That's my bidet that I had installed.”
“Those are great. Like an ass massage. But without the shame.”
“Ian?”
”Yes, Shane?”
“What do we do now? We're out of water, we're out of gas, we're out of air conditioning and seat heating. It's all falling apart! I was only kind of worried before, but now I know what fear is! We're going to die in this Mercedes, Ian! Die! I never got to have sex with three women at once! I never got to spend the night in the White House. I never got to have sex with three women at the White House!”
“Calm down, Shane! Pull it together! We're out of options, my friend. It's come down to one choice, we have one choice.”
“Eat my cell phone? That'll probably kill me somehow. At least I'll get to go out my own way.”
“No, asshole. We have to make a run for it.”
“Run? What are you an idiot? How would we do that?”
“One foot in front of the other”
“Yeah, that's funny. Glad you're here to lighten the mood, Jeff Foxworthy, but I'm deadly serious, deadly, as in, we're-going-to-die-you-fucking-idiot serious.”
“We'll what the fuck do you think I mean. We run. For the highway. We stick out our thumbs and hope an Accountant or a CEO Comes by and gives us a lift.”
“That'll never work, CEO's hunt drifters for sport, and you know that!”
“I know that, you know that, everyone knows that. We have business cards on us; we know the secret hand shake. We'll be back in Landville before you know it.”
“I guess it's the only way. I think we should rest up a bit before it all starts.”
”I think that's probably the best idea.”

The Journey Home

Ian and Shane

There's more to this, it'll be posted later on.

Ian and Shane

"I don’t know any black people. I’ve never been near any."
"You’ve never been near a black person?"
"No. It’s just something that never came up. I grew up wealthy. I lived in a white neighborhood. Mostly jews. I’m not racist, I just don’t know any black people."
"You are a racist, you shouldve met black people by now."
"So I shouldve just gone up to a black person on the street and introduced myself because they’re black?"
"Something like that. Maybe at work. Or at school."
"I went to an all white school. I don’t work. I’m very wealthy."
"You should make it a point to go meet a black person."
"That’s ridiculous."
"Why is that ridiculous."
"I should take the day tomorrow and go find a black person?"
"Yes."
"So what would I say? I just walk up to a stranger and say ‘We should talk because you’re black.’
"Something like that, only be less of a dick about it."
"I’m not being a dick, the situation would be ridiculous. I couldn’t do that."
"I think you owe it to yourself to do it."
"I don’t really like people in general, I don’t meet people well. I get nervous."
"That’s your fault."
"Yes it is."
"Get in the car right now, we’re going to find a black person."
"Can we stop along the way for an eskimo, I don’t know any of those either."
"Don’t be a dick, get in the car."
"I’m not going anywhere, I’m enjoying my black person free day right here."
"Why do you refuse to meet a black person?"
"I don’t refuse, it just hasnt come up. I’ll meet one when it happens. I’m not going to force myself on the black community."
"I think that y–"
"Also, it’s African American isnt it?"
"Not the point, the point is –"
"you’re a filthy racist. Calling African Americans ‘black’ disgusting. I think you should leave."
"You’re such a dick, you’re the racist. I know black people."
"Yes you do. And you made it a point to do so, which is weird. And racist."
"How is that racist?"
"I’m not sure, I just don’t feel right about it."
"I feel great about it."
"Me too. Let’s not go anywhere at all."
"You’re annoying. Let’s go find a black person and get you two fixed up."
"We’re going to go hunting black folk?"
"Sortof"
"Two rich guys are going to get into your black mercedes and then go grab a black person off the street so that I can shake his hand, maybe go out for coffee or something like that?"
"I think it’s the right thing to do."
"What time is it?"
"230"
"Alright. Let’s go russsle me up a black friend."

In the car

"Just remember when this goes sour, it was your idea in the first place."
"You agreed to go. I think it’s important for both of us."
"I think you’re retarded. I think that’s important for both of us."
"Such a dick."
"I’m bored. I only came because I was bored in the first place, this is even more boring."
"I’m enjoying myself."
"I’m glad."
"This is fun though isnt it? We’re coming down from our ivory towers and mingling with the common folk."
"Nope. I should be in the pool. Or with Shelly."
"Shelly’s no good for you."
"I’ll tell you what we shouldve done. We shouldve gone around back and talked to my landscaper."
"Why’s that?"
"He’s mexican. We couldve went halfs on the whole thing and you wouldve gone home and I would be in the pool or getting laid."
"Mexicans don’t –"
"Or in the pool getting laid, which would be the best option for today."
"Not a bad day right there."
"No sir."
"Oh hey! There’s a black guy!"
"There he is. What do we do?"
"We follow the plan."
"There’s a plan?"
"Yeah. I thought we went over the plan."
"I didnt even know we needed a plan."
"There has to be a plan, there’s always a plan."
"A plan for meeting black people? There’s a black people meeting guide?"
"I worked it out one day, it’s pretty solid. I’ll pull over, we should go over everything."
"This is ridiculous."

The plan

"Here’s the plan –"
"Should we get out of the car, I feel like it would be better if we got out of the car."
"I think you’re right."
"Be careful getting out your side, don’t get hit."
"Gotcha."
"Allright, so what’s the plan?"
"Are you ready?"
"I think so, I cant be sure."
"I know how you feel. Alright, here it is. We pull up alongside of a black guy, you say hello, we fucking floor it."
"What?"
"Just say ‘hello’ then I’m going to step on the gas and we’ll be gone before he can react."
"I really don’t understand."
"Alright. You say "hi." I drive fast."
"No I understand the steps involved I don’t understand why those are the steps though."
"Which one?"
"Fucking both of them, Ian. ‘Hello’ is pretty simple for this grand ‘meeting’ you had planned. I thought I was supposed to make friends with a black person. And why are you taking off after I say hello?"
"I just didn’t know if you were prepared for the more advanced stages."
"I think I can handle it."
"Allright then. We pull up along side a black person and then we grab him and throw him in the trunk."
"What??"
"That’s what you have to do. It’s the only way to really do it."
"To meet a black guy, I have to hogtie him and throw him in the trunk of your car."
"I never said hogtie, but I think it’s a good idea."
"I don’t even understand what’s happening."
"I think you owe it to yourself to hogtie and kidnap a black guy so we can make friends with him. I think it’s the best way of doing things."
"What time is it?"
"330."
"Alright, seems like we have the day anyway."
"Nowhere to be?"
"Nope."
"Then if we’re going to do this, I think we should do it right. I don’t know any other way of reasoning with black people."
"Me neither. I don’t even know any. Is this how it’s done."
"I believe it’s an african custom."
"I think you’re right, Mercedes Trunks are big in tribal rituals."
"Are they?"
"No, Ian. No, they’re not."
"They should be."
"I think it would be for the best."
"Let’s get back on the road."
Back on the road
"Ian."
"Yes Shane?"
"I think that you should explain the plan to me one more time. So I’m sure."
"I drive up. You get out, I get out, we grab a black guy, throw him in the trunk, we leave."
"Ok. I think maybe we should start smaller. Suddenly I’m not so sure of myself."
"It’s ok, Shane. We’ll take it slow."
"Let’s start with the ‘Hello’ first."
"Ok. I’m going to get off at the next exit, then we’re going to try it out. You see how it goes."
"Ok. I’m nervous Ian."
"You’re not good with people, Shane."
"I know. It’s no good."
"Alright, here we go. Here’s the exit. Here’s the first light. Right or left?"
"What?"
"Chose your destiny, right or left?"
"Oh. Right. Always right."
"Alright, oh man! There’s one already. They’re biting today."
"Hello. Hellllo. Hey. Hi. Hiya. Howya doin.."
"What are you doing?"
"Practicing, which do you think is best.
"Just say hello, it’s not difficult."
"Yeah, but do you think I should do it more street like?"
"How do you mean?"
"Should I throw a ‘Yo’ in there or a "Waasssuupp!" or should I tell them where I live?"
"You’re ridiculous, just say hello."
"I’m nervous. They’re so dark. What if they don’t understand me?"
"It’s going to be fine. Alright here we go, there’s one there. He’s waiting for a bus."
"My stomach is off, maybe we should do this tomorrow."
"Now or never!! I’m stopping! Here he is, I’ll hit the horn."
"HELLO SIR!!! GO! FUCKING GO! DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE!"
"WE’RE GONE!"

Aftermath

"Shane! Shane! Shane?"
"Oh my god, what happened? Where are we?"
"We’re in a Denny’s parking lot. You passed out as soon as I hit the gas. How do you feel?"
"A little woozy."
"What happened."
"You didn’t stick to the plan Ian, that’s what the fuck happened."
"What are you talking about? I stopped, you said hello, I floored it."
"Oh is that what happened?"
"Yeah. That was the plan."
"Oh so where in the fucking plan does it say ‘Ian will honk horn?’ where?"
"I thought you realized we’d have to get his attention."
"How would I know that unless you tell me? You invented the plan, Ian. I didnt have anything to do with the plan. Actually, this whole day was your fault. I was perfectly happy not knowing black people. You shouldve fucking warned me."
"I’m sorry, Shane. I didnt think."
"No. You never think. Fucking horn, Ian? c’mon! I’m lucky to be alive."
"Jesus man I said I was sorry."
"Ahhh fuck. Fuck. It’s allright, I’m still a little shaken up. Did you see how black he was? And he was reading a paper. I couldnt believe it."
"It was amazing."
"Fuck man, it was exhilirating."
"I knew you’d do well."
"I think he liked me, I really do."
"I think so too."
"The ‘SIR’ was just ad libbed I didnt even know I was going to say that until it happened. It felt good though. Organic."
"I wasnt going to say anything until you did, but I thought the ‘SIR’ was magnificent. I didn’t see it coming."
"Pheew. Still lightheaded. Hah!"

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.

A Meathead Story

Just wrote this now. Just took a random thought in my head and started going with it and it ended up getting out of hand.

A Meathead Story.

So I was at Trendy McBullshits, watchin the Birds Game, drinkin some brews with my boys, Scotto, Tiny, Mac and Petey and Bobbo. And I get up to go to the Mens Room because I started drinking around 4am the night before, you know how it is! HAha yeah! Way. Sted. I mean, cmon. So I go to take this piss right and it's a crazy long piss. You know the kind!

So I go up to the uranal and get down to buisness, you know, fucking oldschool. But then, in the middle of taking this mondo leak, I catch the motherfucker next to me looking over at King Henry and the Meatmen. So I'm all like "what the fuck, motherfucker? What THE Fuck?" You know, man? And he's lookin at me like he dont know the fucking score, but he knows what time it is! So he fucking does some faggot shit with his eyes and fucking runs. Like fucking runs runs. Like he's got the runs and he's running because he's got the runs type runs runs. YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT, BOBBO! Bobbo totally shit his fucking pants one time when he was on coke. It was fucking hysterical.

Plus I bench like four eighty, five ninety, six something. You know how it goes.

So then I leave the bathroom after I finish shaking it off. Check the grill in the mirror and fucking head back the fuck out there before Mac and the boys steal my fucking beers. I would kick their asses, dont say anything though, they get all girly about it and shit.

I wold totally fucking win in a fight against a tiger or like one of those big fuckers. You know the ones.

So I leave the fucking bathroom right, check my shit one last time and my shit is all fucking good, and guess who's in my fucking seat. Fucking dude. Yeah, the fucking dude is in my fucking chair. So then I took this pool cue, right? And I was like, that's my fucking chair, asshole. And he was all like "I'm old and shit." So I fucking hit him like pow. But it's his fault, I didnt tell him to sit there, man, you know how it is. Fuck him.

And where the fuck are my Buffalo Blitzers? I ordered like fifty of them. The record is seventy eight. Set by yours truely, the master. I fucking eat man. I fucking eat.

I could totally eat a fucking can.

So then fucking dude is on the fucking floor all bleeding and shit. And I'm like "Yeah, who's looking at what now motherfucker?" Say hello to my little friend and shit, right? Man, fuck dude, fuck.

So then McNabb totally scored this touchdown. Did you see it? You had to fucking see it. Dude did the crazziest move around that other dude. And that guy died on the floor and totally fucking missed it. Fuck him his loss. Right? Am I right about that shit? Fucking eagles need a better tight end, that other asshole is holdin out on his contract and shit. Fucking fag. Get your millions and get on the fucking feild.

I could fuck a feild. You know what I'm sayin! Like a bitch.

So then, right, just as the fucking birds are making another run at the redzone, Bobbo fucking farted and we all were like "oh shit!" Like literally right, like 'oh shit, shit.' And then there was some crazy trumpet, fuckin whatever the fuck that was. Some dude mustve brought one of those beer horns. Those crazy blue plastic things.

One time I had one of those crazy horns and fucked this cheerleader with it. No shit, dude. No shit. Totally put one end in there, then fucked her through the other end. Swear to god. So I start telling the guys about the time I fucked some Cheerleader broad through the horn and they're all like 'no way, dude, really' and they're hangin on every word we almost missed the birds score again. And there were all kinds of horses outside and shit, fucking crazy. Fucking birds totally scored again. That makes twice they scored Einstein, Eagles 14 -Cowboys fuck dudes. HAhahaha.

Plus I was at the game last year in dallas and I hungout afterwards to throw eggs at Clint whoever the fuck the place kicker from dallas and at least three Cowboys hit on me. True story. Check dead guy for ID He's probably one of those fucking cowboys. Like fucking ButCowboys. So then I'm tellin my boys about fucking these dudes and fucking bugs started showing up everywhere. You know how it is! Fucking dudes and bugs and shit.

Fucking third quarter bro. Place is full of bugs and shit, but who gives a fuck, eagles are making another drive. I used to play highschool ball. Fucking politics you know how it is. So I fucking start telling my boy Scotto about it when some uppity motherfucker found the fucking loudspeaker and shit and was all like "REPENT FOR YOUR SINS!" and shit fucking "END OF DAYS" and all this fucking bullshit.

But that fucking Arnold movie fucking rocked through, right bro? I mean when he shoots that dude, he totally fucking shoots that fucking dude. I used to hang out with arnold, like back in the day when I played highschool ball. Dude is fucking rock solid people. Bought me like six beers one night and was all like "I'm arnod and shat" Hahaha, dude was nuts bro, fucking nuts. I totally could kick his ass though. Motherfucker is slow. He's fucking big, man. But he's fucking slow, dude. I used to take JuJitsu and shit.

I could probably break a board with my dong.

So then when I'm telling Petey about Arnold and my fucking dong and shit. And fucking Petey get's all fucking girly because fucking scotty melted. And he's all like "wahh, I'm a whiney bitch my brother melted." Right? Fucking Petey was always a fucking Mary. He went out for baseball when we were in school and got railed in the nads by a line drive. Fuckin Hysterical. I almost puked. THEN. Fucking fag started crying like a crybaby bitchbaby. Shouldve fucking gone out for hopscotch or some shit. Fucking dick.

And then Bobbo got eaten by demons. And I'm all like, "I'm trying to watch the motherfucking game, motherfuckers!" And I got that loud douchebag goin all babbles on the fucking mic at forty miles an hour like it's fucking Gook night and shit. " AHhabababalaha I AM THE LORD HOST HOLY. THE FIFTH SEAL HAS BEEN BROKEN"

And I'm all like "you're goddamned right motherfucker, I was just in that motherfucker like two minutes ago wit that fagot motherfucker. Broke the seal is fucking right. Beer before liquer never been sicker man. Fucking A right. I just hope there's no more fags in the fucking bathroom and shit.

I totally shouldve brought my nunchucks.

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

I like that a lot. It makes me laugh because It's about annoying meatheads and the guy is so into the game and telling bullshit stories that he doesnt even notice the apocolypse. Which is crazy because it's the apocolypse. Ha.

One Foot Feet.

While I'm at it, here's something I wrote a little while ago. I like it. Again, strange and entertaining only to me.

I guess I never titled it, so the working title is Jackson Street until I think of something better, or you start pulling your weight and tell me what it should be. Enjoy. Or dont. Entirely up to you.

Prepare your eyeballs for an onslaught of awesome................................

Jackson Street

There’s a corner store on Jackson street that sells everything I could ever need. It’s got all my favorite products and foods. I like it very much.

Mangos are good. I don't particularly like the taste of them as much as I enjoy buying them and telling people that I have mangos should their liking of mangos be greater than mine. I buy my mangos on Jackson Street. It’s one of the foods that I like very much.

Most time my mangos go bad and I have to throw them away but there’s going to be a day where I talk to a lovely young lady and she just happens to be in the mood for a mango and I’m going to say, “well, I just happen to have some mangos, young lady.” And that’s how our lovely relationship will begin. It will be based on mangos, something I don't like very much, but have because fate decided I should have them.

I figure she’ll be tall and slender; she’d have to be slender with her liking of mangos. You don't very well see many unslender folk eating mangos nowadays. She’ll like me for my excellent fruit judgment and will dismiss my clear disliking of fruit and love of chocolate milk.

Chocolate milk is good but I don't think I like anyone who also likes chocolate milk. It’s a corruption, really. It’s the purest form of drink made impure by confection and decadence. I don't think I’d even let anyone in my home that liked chocolate milk as much as I do.

I always have Mr. Imperio double bag my chocolate milk so that it’s a secret when I bring it in the house. Sometimes I think that if I don't double bag the chocolate milk my locks will stop working and my house wont have me anymore. It’s a ridiculous notion, but it’s better to be safe.
The chocolate milk gets double bagged and my mangos don't get bagged at all. Oftentimes you can see me strolling down Jackson Street with an oversized bag of secret chocolate milk and an arm full of mangos. I don't bag the mangos. How will the lovely young lady know that I have them if they’re sealed away in bags? Bags are dangerous things.

Bags are bad. I often think that if it weren’t for the sheer convenience of bags nobody would ever use them at all. Ugly brown things full of mystery and deceit. One time I saw a man on Dickson street walking with a cart full of cans and a bag full of bags and I thought I would faint from the horror of it. Why collect such useless things? I was able to right my walk when I decided that he was crazy and was only able to move after minutes of deliberation concerning his bag full of bags.

A cart full of cans is fair game. I like cans. They’re crunchable and fun. I used to throw cans at a stray cat that lived behind my house. I called him Target. Target the Cat. He was a nice little fellow and enjoyed the cans after I had thrown them at him. He’d bat them around like little tin mice. Tin mice would be a fun thing to have. So would miniature ducks.

If I had my druthers I’d put little miniature ducks in the ears of all my enemies. Nothing could be so annoying and funny as a duck. I don't dislike ducks but I figure having miniature versions in your ears would be the ultimate in torture. All that quacking, none of the echoes that accompany having little things in your ears, it would just be hell.

I have more enemies than I’d like. My mailman is one of my enemies. My aunt Doris is my second enemy. My landlord Pete is an inadvertent enemy and Target the Cat is an enemy that I secretly like.

My mailman is my enemy because he brings me nothing but bad news. Bad news and advertisements for things that I cant afford to buy. Most of the bad news comes in bill form, or from letters from the doctors telling me about this or that prescription and my lack of renewing this or that prescription. He also brings letters from my family who talk about the same things the doctors do. Oh! And when people die I tend to get letters from my family telling me about the fact that those people died. I suppose because my dead uncle Timmy can’t write letters anymore, they feel the need to fill in.

The advertisements are just as bad, and are starting to get just like the doctors letters too. Lots of fake letters about drugs that will help me do everything. They should put all the pills into one giant pill and then we could all take it and be what they think we should be. But pills are bad. Dangerous.

My aunt Doris is my second enemy because she killed my uncle Timmy. I loved my uncle Timmy and miss him very much. I was mad that he didn’t write his death letter himself. It would’ve been nicer. But Aunt Doris killed him, I’m sure of it. I don't know the details of how he died, but I’ve seen Aunt Doris drink chocolate milk so I know she’s not to be trusted.

Uncle Timmy took me fishing and ate mangos. He was a good man and shouldntve married a woman whose fondness for chocolate milk clearly outweighed her dislike of murder. I’ll bet she fed him poison. Poison mangos.

I hate my landlord because from what I can tell that’s what you’re supposed to do. I never really got a grasp of it because my landlord is a very nice man. He’s very open. Very polite. I like him as a person but dislike him because of the position he holds in my life.

Mr. Imperio tells me about his landlord a lot. He’s said this to me a hundred times “landlords are not to be trusted, they’re the devil’s handymen!” Mr. Imperio yells a lot. I don't exactly know what a handyman is or why the devil would need to have them, but I trust Mr. Imperio, he’s nice to me.

I told Landlord Pete that I hated him the other day. “I hate you Landlord Pete!” I said with full exuberance and he said “Oh.” Then he went about his way and I assume he was upset with me. Mr. Imperio says, “They’re pulling all the strings!” when he talks of landlords. Mr. Imperio doesn't know Landlord Pete but he swears that Landlord Pete pulls on strings.

Landlord Pete is nice enough outside of being a handyman for the devil. He has a tan and a truck with blue sides. I took a ride in his truck once. He gave me a ride to the post office and it was the most horrible blue-sided truck ride ever. A man I hate drove me to a place where a man I hate lives. It was a very bad day and I washed it away by not leaving my apartment for two weeks after. After two weeks I went to Mr. Imperio’s shop to stock up on supplies and he said “Where the hell you been!” Mr. Imperio yells a lot.

Target the Cat is my last enemy. He’s just a cat though, and is only my enemy because he sometimes cries at night. It’s loud and undignified. Uncle Timmy said crying was for sissies. Target is a cat though, so I think it’s ok for him to be a sissy. I just think he should be a little quieter about it. Like I am.

For about a month he used to cry just outside my window and I would throw cans at him. He eventually got used to my attention and I eventually got used to his. He lives under my sink now and doesn't cry so much. Until he came along I never realized how much I like things that move but don't talk or how many cans I seem to always have. I’ve become convinced that he sends away for cans in the mail. Maybe cans.com or something like that.

Sometimes I come home and I’m sure there are more cans than I used to have so I say things like “Hello Target the Cat, enemy of mine, quit it with the cans!” And he comes and rubs at my legs.

I like rock and roll music, books about the weather and adhesive tape. I have a bowtie but I’m not sure why. I think it was a gift from someone in the family who seemed to think I’d be the type of person who would like bowties. I don't though, they’re dumb and I hate them. But I keep it anyway as a reminder that I like the things that I like and hate the things that I hate and that’s just fine with people who are me.

My apartment is small but I like it anyway. I’m small, my things are small, target the cat is small, so it all fits together. I have a brown chair and a stereo and a TV set with bad reception. My bookshelf is full of books about the weather and one about breeding ducks. I never got around to reading the duck book.

I like the weather because it’s enormous and unpredictable but can be easily described in books despite its two main characteristics. It’s a lovely thing to have someone write books about something so big and un-write-about-able. Someone somewhere decided one day to write a book about something he had no business writing anything about and got it to a company and they said “that’s great!” like Mr. Imperio and went ahead and put it in bookstores so that people like me could read about it and laugh.

Clouds are made of water. Did you know that? I did. I read books.

One of my doctors once told me that I like the weather because it’s impossible to relate to. I agreed and stopped seeing that doctor immediately.

I have a bottle of talcum powder and I don't know why. I don't know what the practical uses of talcum powder are. I know what they’re supposed to be, but I disagree with them on a moral and personal level. Sure it’s soothing and slippery, but it’s also a rock. Would you put rocks in your pants? Of course not. I tried it once and it was immensely unsoothing. Where does talc get off thinking it’s so great? Baloney.

Plus if you don't use it properly, which is easy to do because there’s no directions on the bottle, you walk around all day covered in a fine white powder unable to relate to anybody within eyesight or nosesmell.

One time Target the Cat found the bottle and turned himself into Target the Snowcat! He wasn’t happy about it, but I told him he should go hunting for things in the snow, but we live in California so he quickly and accurately decided that it was a foolish suggestion and started crying until I washed him.

I was careful not to use caustic solvents when washing him because that’s what a vet told me. “Don't use caustic solvents!” I don't know what those are, so I just used water. I’ve heard water called a lot of things but never ‘caustic solvents.’ Water is what makes up clouds but you couldn’t order a glass of clouds. Trust me. I tried it once and the waitress hated me. Women are quick to hate me.

Coffee has a lot of nicknames. Like Joe and Java. Coffee has exactly two nicknames that I’m aware of.

I once met a girl on the tilt-a-whirl at the carnival, she was beautiful in spite of her face being pulled back from the spinning and seemed to hate me in each small glance I was able to catch from my car. Just. A quick. Glance. From. The other. End. Of the ride. And she hated me. Just like that. I went home and was upset until my upsdoors neighbor banged on the floor and yelled “Shut the fuck up!” Everyone seems to yell a lot.

Target the Cat likes me. I don't know how old he is. Today is my birthday I think. I’m older than Target the Cat and younger than Mr. Imperio. Target the Cat got me a can and everyone else got me nothing. My mother sent me a card. I’ve heard that people get cards full of money for their birthdays; my mother sent me a card full of concerns and angers. She’s angry a lot and ends a lot of sentences like this “…everything will be all right.” And starts a lot of sentences like this “If you just come home…” “If you just get back to Dr. Cornwald….” “If your father comes back….” Everything being all right is contingent on a large number of things going certain ways.

A butterfly flapping his wings can create hurricanes. Did you know that? I did. I read books.

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


And that's the end. If I were a douchebag I wouldve written fin at the end of it, but I'm not. So it gets hyphens.

~fin~

Douche McBag

Sherpa - Page One

Pasted below is Page One of a story called Sherpa. I havent written a whole lot more, due to an accident that involved one of my fingers that makes typing a bit of a pain in the ass. It's getting better though. No thanks to you.

When I finish the rest I'll post it. I dont know when that will be. The important thing is you have this one page to work with. The rest will be much like the beginning. Strange but entertaining to me and only me.

And so begins the single greatest typed page in the english language...

Sherpa

William Howitzer III was an American billionaire. He made his fortune by being born. His father William Howitzer II was made famous in the nineteen fifties for selling his name to a tank manufacturer.

When the Howitzer Tank flew off the shelves, William The Second made a significant fortune and later sold his first name to a popular Mayonnaise used in fast food chains. "William’s Mayonnaise!" graced the counter of every fast food restaurant in the country.

Being left nameless after having sold both of his names to Tanks and Mayonnaise, his own naming rights were sold to a Bank seeking notoriety in the area. First Function Bank was a small bank from Chicago and aiming to become a big bank in New York. They knew that The Second was a popular, wealthy man, and offered to rename him in their honor so that they might gain free advertising.

First Function Bank The Second died shortly after depositing a four billion dollar check from his namesake into his namesake. It was a tragic day and he was the last person in history to be crushed by a piano which was being hoisted up on cables in the middle of New York City for no discernable reason.

His death sent shockwaves through the banking, tanking and Mayonnaise industries alike. All of New York was crushed metaphorically by William’s literal crushing. When the news paper’s headlines read "First Function Bank Crushed By Errant Piano" First Function’s stocks plummeted while Errant Piano stocks soared.

William Howitzer III’s father died when he was only nine years old. He was nine when he inherited a fortune estimated at over 40 billion dollars. When an insensitive reporter asked him what he would do with all that money 9 year old William Howitzer III replied "I’m going to get some cereal." Everyone laughed at his boyish naivete and charm.

Ten years later Howitzer Brand Cereal Flakes was the number one selling cereal in the country. "What the fuck did I say?!?" Was the name of his number one best-selling autobiography about his leap to the top of the Cereal heap.

When he was ten years old he began the company in his back yard.

As a billionaire, his backyard was quite expansive and the factory immense. His back yard employed over fifteen hundred people. It was a top of the line facility and very forward thinking. Each employee had access to gyms, day care, free phone service, giant sandbox, double decker merry go round and could take lunch at either Trampoline Island or The Robot Violence Center. It is important to reiterate that he was ten at this time.

His desk was situated in a giant cage full of plastic balls. No one was allowed to wear shoes into his office. He would take conference calls waist deep in a rainbow assortment of colors. He ruled his company with an iron fist, from the top of an ivory tower, in a room full of plastic balls.
As he got older the company grew larger, the profits increased, the cereal became more and more popular. In many ways the company began to run under its own power, it became it’s own being and needed less and less attention from it’s owner.



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That's all I've got for you right now. Check back in six or seven months and I will probably have forgotten this ever happened. Or maybe I wont, maybe I'll be knee deep in trim and have a gold plated head. Who knows what the future holds, certainly not you, dummy.

Six or seven months ago, if you asked me to predict the future I would probably say that I would be out of work, sitting on the edge of my bed and typing to nobody which would be right but I wouldnt be happy about it. So today's lesson? "Only use your magic, future seeing powers when you can stomach what you will become." And that happens to be a motto I have tattooeyd on my balls.

I'll leave you with that.

One Foot Feet

It's decided.

I've decided on what I'm going to do with this blog and my other blog. I'm keeping both. That's right, take that, convention! Actually I don't know what is conventional in the blogging world. But I'm going to keep both.

The other blog is for my personal, day to day, affairs and my constant torrent of self loathing and depression. A quote from that diary might look something like this "I worked today." or this "I am sad."

I'd tell you the name and location of the other blog, but I'm not going to. Whenever you feel like you're missing out, please feel free to read the two above quotes and take solace in the fact that you aren't missing anything good.

Yes, you in the back.

Steven Halibut, Chicago Sun Times. If the other blog is for day to day dementia and hum drum dullery, what's the point of keeping this blog? Also, why say blog when you mean diary?

Please sir, one at a time. I'm going to write in this blog. I'm going to keep stories and really write instead of whining and listing events, as I do on the other blog. I love writing and I need to get back to writing real things again. Are the details of my life written beautifully? Yes and no. The other blog is written well in that you can really hear my voice when you read my complaining. But it's not structured very well and nothing real ever gets accomplished other than getting things off my chest. Also, I hate the word Blog, but it seems to be the new hipster term. I'm on Blogger, so I must be a hipster. As proof, David Duchovony keeps a blog on here and in high school we called him Hipster McGee, King of Hippery.

You didn't go to high school with David Duchovny. And if you did you would call him Davey Dutch Oveny because that's a fart joke.

Yes, of course, you're right.

So when can we expect this real writing of yours, not this bullshit interview you've concocted.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will write a story called Sherpa or a story called Domino.

In closing. If you read this and don't like what I have to say, please, at any point, feel free to go and fuck yourself.

One Foot Feet