Merry Christmas To All, And To All a Good Fright!

Happy Holidays!

Did everyone spend themselves stupid? Not yet? Don't worry, New Year's Eve is coming. That'll finish the job on your bank account, rest assured.

In the meantime, my book 99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World will be available for one measly buck until January 1st. Buy that shit, yo.

I'm going to be a busy, busy little horror writer in the next few months or so - I have projects that are angrily jostling for position to be next. I can't wait to share them with you all.

I will now present to you my new holiday classic, "The Krampus Came Instead". I hope that you all have a safe, relaxing and gift-laden holiday season.

The Krampus Came Instead

Santa didn't come to see us last night

The Krampus came instead

He came down the chimney with a burlap sack

And stole us all from our beds

Now, the Krampus is a horrid sight

A sight that cannot be unseen

He's short and squat and hairy and fat

A foul and devilish fiend

The Krampus lives in a dank old cave

Full of bats, pale toads and rats

The floor is littered with pajamas and bones

And the carpets are made out of cats

As Santa rides upon his sleigh

On a cold and crisp Christmas eve

The Krampus rides a rotting mule

And punishes all your bad deeds

He leaves no gifts behind in his wake

He feels no love in his heart

His teeth are sharp and his eyes are red

And his claws will tear you apart

Santa eats cookies and sugar-plum pie

A man eats meat, cheese and bread

But the Krampus feasts on naughty children

And uses their skins for his bed

And their souls he keeps all for himself

He keeps them locked up in a box

And what happens to them? Nobody knows

Maybe he wears them as socks!

Santa didn't come to see us last night

The Krampus came instead

To bite us and beat us, kick us and bleed us

And then he chopped off our heads!

The End is Nigh

Oh, wait, no it's not.

Every few years or so, some wingnut/a collection of wingnuts will declare that the world is about to end, due to some quasi-religious/science fiction event that is beyond our control.

Repent! The end is nigh.

Then the portended date comes and goes, and nothing happens. Don't those people feel fucking stupid after it's all said and done? Jesus, the embarrassment that they must feel ... I'd be unable to look friends or family in the face for a long, looooong time after that. I mean, fuck, just imagine - you've spent weeks, maybe months ranting at everyone that you know the truth, everyone's gonna fucking die! You quit your job, wipe out your savings to buy a pallet of emergency food and water, reinforce your windows and doors - maybe even have a teary-eyed, snot-running tantrum with your loved ones because THEY WON'T TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY!

And then ... nothing. The sun rises, and then it sets. Nothing happens.

The main thing to remember is that, at some point, you are going to die. You don't know when, or how, but you know that it will happen. So - just stop worrying about it. Live your life the best you can and fuck worrying about shit that you couldn't possibly have control over. Chill out, man...

Having said all that, here's a little story to play on your fears -


At the red light, you turn to your wife so that you can give her your undivided attention; she is telling you that Mitch has a dental appointment next Friday, a fitting for braces - you have to be early, she says, to fill out the paperwork. There is more, but now you're missing it, because something is happening behind her that has caught your attention. There is a blazing fire in the sky. No - there are many of them, and they're coming in fast.

No, you think. No, this can't be happening - no ...

But yes, it is happening, right now it's happening while your wife drones on about mundane things that are never going to take place. The balls of light are streaking in, bearing down in a deadly celestial hail that cannot be survived, and she doesn't know it yet. Can you keep her attention, so that she might die innocent of the horror you currently feel? You try the best you can; you try to smile and nod vigorously at her, but you can't take your eyes off of what is coming and now she's turning her head, she's craning around to look and she's screaming but you can't hear her and you're screaming too and the light is everythi

Motherfuckin' ZOMBIES

Better late than never!

I just got back from work, and fuck, man ... you wanna talk zombies? I work in a manufacturing plant FULL of them. I mean, seriously - the powers that be have refined breaking the human spirit down to a fine science.

I like to push my book a lot, but I won't today - shit, you can click on the link in the sidebar, you're not dumb. Today, I'm going to give you zombie-hoppers a link to a story of mine that has a special place in my heart, because it's rooted in superstition from the old country - Romania. The story is based partly in fact, and has folklore-ish monsters. What more do you want from me, really?

Here's the link ... enjoy!


Revisiting My Salad Days

Getting nostalgic already?

About a year ago, I was out of work, riding the unemployment insurance train to Boredomsville. It was kind of a low point - there I was, exiting my mid-thirties with no job, and nothing to show for my "music career" except for a few unpopular albums and a lot of miles on the van's odometer. I felt ... ah, not good. Like a loser.

Then I remembered about writing.

All through my later childhood/teen years, I struggled to become a decent horror writer. I wanted to be like my literary heroes. Of course, I wasn't anywhere near patient or mature enough at that time to be any good at spinning a scary yarn. In fact, I sucked at it. Real bad. In my early twenties, I finally said "Fuck it!", and quit trying. Not too long after, I picked up the guitar, and that particular odyssey began. Years passed, and I forgot all about writing in my pursuit of rock 'n roll glory.

But, last winter, whilst stuck in my rut, I remembered about the joy of losing myself in the creation of different characters, dramatic situations, and (of course) monsters of all kinds. So I penned a short story; a nasty little zombie-type tale called Nine Brief Scenes From the End of the World. The girlfriend encouraged me to post it on,  so I did. It garnered enough praise and attention to be chosen for the NoSleep Podcast, a podcast dedicated to narrating the stories of the Reddit horror writing community. This gave the story even more attention, and a few encouraging comments from readers inspired me to expand it into the full-length novel that some of you might be familiar with, 99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World, an opus that was originally published as an online serial. I then self-pubbed it on Amazon and Createspace - to date, I've sold a few hundred copies on Kindle, roughly one hundred paperbacks, and have given away over 4000 free Kindle copies during free promotions. Not bad, for a guy who got into the game just 12 months ago.

Well, this is Story Time, so why don't I go ahead and show you the short story that started this whole ball rolling? It's a quick, fun, ugly little read. Enjoy!

9 Brief Scenes From the End of the World

Why Must We Work So Much, And Why Does it Suck So Hard?

I'm tired, old and haggard.

I'm trying vainly to get an anthology of short stories ready in time for that most merry of the greedy corporate holidays - Christmas (or, Get Out There and Accrue More Credit Card Debt Day). However, I have to work, like, all the fucking time, and this makes getting such things done almost impossible. My job is just some mindless bullshit in a bullshit-ass-fucking factory that makes stuff that goes into other stuff that people buy and drive around in (there, vague enough? Don't you stalk me, weirdo). I deal with the garbage and recyclables that is created during this mindless process. It's a boring, soul-crushing job that is enacted in a dull, hostile environment. And if it weren't for the fact that I''m an unknown, losery self-pub bitch, I could be at home threshing out this god-forsaken anthology - instead of squishing recyclables and garbage into noxious, unmanageable cubes of gigantic size.

Shoot me. No, don't. Shoot at me?

Speaking of mortality, today's my birthday, yo! I want you all to download this book and read that shit, then post an honest review somewhere, even on the walls of a bathroom stall in a truck stop known for gay activity will do. Do it, you bastards, it's my birthday.

So, you want a story? On MY birthday, I gotta tell you a story? Assholes ... aha, just kidding, you're my friends and I love ya. Here's one you might not hate (NOTE: I'm gonna just post links to other places on the Net where the stories are posted from now on, at least until my girlfriend gets around to snazzing up my shit-tastic blog. Can't format this motherfucker to save my life!)

She's Yours

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving to all of my American friends, peers and fans!

Your Blog Means Nothing, and You're a Pansy

If you call yourself a "writer", then you better start a'writin', son.

You know what I find frustrating? The online microcosm of folks that maintain shitty blogs and then call themselves writers - or, even worse, journalists. NO. BAD HIPSTER. Here, let me clarify this shit;

Anyone can get themselves a blog on a site such as this one. Like, anyone. And a fuck of a lot of folks do just that - create some sort of bullshit, narcissistic online journal, then go on to prattle endlessly about stupid, lame crap that no one could possibly ever care about. See, even I have one, as shitty-looking and ill-formatted as it is. Very few people read it, and why would they? Who gives a red fuck about what I think about any subject, at any time, under any circumstance? Nobody, that's fuckin' who. I hardly even care what  I think, for Christ's sake, why should anyone else? This blog is just a farcical vehicle to share free little short stories that I've posted on Scribd and Reddit, as well. Any opinions or supposed facts that you encounter on here are subjective and are probably somewhat retarded. I accept this; revel in it, even. However, there are a shit-fuck-ton of people out there that take their fucktarded little opinion blog waaaaaaay too seriously. Even more alarming, some of these smug little shits actually have a sizable following of like-minded douchers who read their oral bullshit faithfully. It makes me want to bite someone.

If you maintain a blog, you are not really a writer. Sorry, but this is MY opinion, on MY crappy-ass blog. You are a dude/dudette that maintains a fuckin' diary - it might be well-written and entertaining, but it's a fucking diary nonetheless. A writer writes stories: they may be works of fiction, a tale that documents some fact of reality, or a combination thereof - but a writer writes fuckin' stories. A story is, in my definition, a tale that has characters and rising action and a fucking plot of some kind. It's not a long-winded diatribe as to how X makes you feel so Y. Speaking generally, I don't care what you think and/or feel about stuff. I like fact.

There is very little fact in this blog post, and it contains absolutely none of the elements that would qualify it as a  story. If all I did on this blog was shit like this, I would not have the temerity to call myself a writer. Fortunately, I'm not lame like that. Here's all three parts of a story called, "Clean Your Life Completely!" It's a cheerful little story about the dangers of taking the easy road in life. Read this shit.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Done, Done, It's Finally Fucking DONE!

So glad that I can finally move on!

So here I sit, smoking a joint (yeah, fuck you, prohibitionist, go pound some whiskey and beat your wife) and excitedly working on new stuff. That foray into excess and awfulness, 50 Shades of Decay, is now available to view/download on Scribd. Here's the link:

50 Shades of Decay - read only if you feel like thinking that I'm a fuckin' exploitive lowlife piece of shit

So, yeah ... NEW BOOK IN THE MAKING! I've been busy with both my bullshit job and life-stuff, but I'm happy as hell to announce that I'm working on a new book, an anthology of short stories entitled Tripping Over Twilight. I'm going to post a story from this anthology on Reddit and/or here on my shitty, dusty blog by the weekend. Here's hoping that it does as well as 99 Brief Scenes has so far (thanks for that, by the way!)

My Money is Like Drops of Fallen Mercury

Dude, seriously, I'm broke

Recently, my girlfriend and I realized that we're fuck-ass broke. I mean, we are genuinely bereft of beautiful, life-giving money (or, referencing the Simpsons, "fazoolies").

Where the fuck are all our fazoolies? Where do they go?

I work a LOT. Six days a week, eight to fifteen hours a day. She pulls in a full, forty-hour work week. We both have shitty, minimum-wage jobs, this is true, but ... seriously, where the fuck does it all go? Even after van payments, rent, all that shit, theoretically, we shouldn't be so goddamn crack-whore broke, but we are. WHY!?

I'll tell you why. It's because we're stupid garbage shoppers. We buy garbage.

You see, money is a lot like a leaky container of mercury. You go to pour out a little mercury, because you need to use it ... and a little more leaks out. It drips onto the floor and then rolls away all willy-nilly, and it's gone. The same as whenever I pull my wallet out to pay for something necessary. A little bit more gets spent on something, each and every time. Go to spend fifty fazoolies, end up parting with sixty. It happens all. The. Time. The worst part of this is that nothing of substance is ever purchased. Just ... bullshit. Stupid shit that we could have done without. Stupid goods and services that, often times, aren't even things that will last for any length of time. Like, um, fast food or cigarettes. Cheap toys for the kid that will break and be forgotten within two weeks. Shit like that, man.

And you know what? We all do it. All of us. The real world economy, I sometimes think, is not in oil commodities or land or textiles - it's dollar store shit, convenience store impulse grabs, and take-out coffee.

Oh, and gas. Fuck the oil companies in the ass, dude. It's gotten to the point where $1.26 a liter is considered to be a cheap day at the pump. FUCK YOU. That's not cheap, that's highway robbery. 

So, here's a completely unrelated story, because I don't have anything relevant, aha.

House-Sitting Blues

Well, this was something fuckin' else, wasn't it? Roy, being the great friend that he was, agrees to house-sit for Jimmy while he's gone for the week ... notices that the fucking lawn was turning into something that looked like a wheat field, and decides to mow before the predicted rain starts later in the afternoon ... gets out the push-mower ... and promptly falls through an old, rotten well cap. Roy had plummeted twenty feet down into a foot or so of murky water, and both of his legs had snapped irreparably on impact. He ended up jammed into an agonizing half-sitting, half-bent position in the narrow, slimy cylinder of the shaft. His legs were broken branches of misery beneath him.

He had to reach his phone and call for help, before the goddamn rain. Jimmy lived outside of town: his closest neighbor was almost a mile away. No one would hear his screams. It was supposed to absolutely fuckin' downpour when it started ... earlier, the perky weather girl on Channel 55 had informed him and the rest of the tri-county area that it was supposed to keep up like that until morning. He'd drown ...

Pushing his hand into his hip pocket stirred a jolt of pure torment through Roy's pulverized leg. It wasn't there. Heart pounding, he searched the other ... OH, oh no, oh fuck! Being the great friend that he was, he'd lent the motherfucking thing to fucking Jimmy; he'd said that he needed a phone to keep in touch with his sick Mom while he was away or some shit, fuckfuckfuck oh fucking shit, and now the rain was coming, it was gushing down in buckets - Roy screamed and screamed. Uncaring, the thundering rain continued to pour down.

Vomiting up a Story: Sometimes, You Gotta Do it!

A painful but exhilarating experience!

I've gotta admit, I haven't really enjoyed writing 50 Shades of Decay.

It's not a bad piece of writing, really: it's just pointless, that's all.

I started this particular serial (published on Reddit, which is my usual writing stomping grounds) to mock the shit out of E.L. James and her piece of crap"erotica" series, 50 Shades of Grey. Also, I wanted to poke fun at slut culture, clubbing, and a lot of other nonsense - but in the end, the story has become an exercise in the grotesque. I'm being shocking for the sake of being shocking, and that's some bullshit, right there. I like to keep things brisk and gory, but to be gratuitously disgusting with no point or reason is in bad taste. I'm a bit disappointed in myself, to be honest.

Anyway, here's part four of this debauched spectacle. Enjoy?

Fifty Shades of Decay: Part Four

I Suck at Updating My Blog

But When I Do, It's Always Goddamn Awesome, Each And Every Time

So! Been working as a janitor in a factory for five weeks or so. It's fucking gross, dude, seriously.Factory workers can be seriously disgusting creatures. Sometimes, the horrors that I encounter when I go into the men's room toilets is almost enough to crack my sanity in two. I'm totally going to get a story out of this, though. Fucking right I will - anything this disgusting/creepy is horror writer gold.

It's not all bad, though; I'm pretty much under the radar in this place. As long as I'm getting my shit done, at any time I can jump in my van, get a Timmie's large double-double  (for my Russian and German readers, Tim Horton's is a coffee shop chain: a "large double-double" is a large coffee with two creamers and two sugars) and just fuckin' cruise around for a while. Have a smoke, see the countryside a bit, and decompress. I'm not fond of scrubbing toilets. Everything else I can handle just fine, but the goddamned toilets ... Jesus, even the women are sometimes capable of completely painting the interior of an industrial-strength toilet entirely fucking brown. What are these people eating!?

On a more pleasant note, I finally got around to having a book release party for my debut novel, 99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World. My old friend/band mate and his wife hosted the party for me (thanks, guys!). We got a bit loaded and had a game of infection tag, ate lots of food, got more loaded, and then it was time for this aging man to get home and let the dog out to take a much-needed piss.

Here's me, awarding the winner of the game of infection tag with a zombie trophy (made by my friend's wife) and a copy of my book (which he can't read for a few more years yet, aha). We're making zombie faces. Don't worry, he was sequestered inside the whole night, playing the XBox whilst the grown-ups were indulging in booze and debauchery (except for his Dad, who was driving. We're responsible, seriously.)

Finally, here's a link to the third installment of my hideously disgusting, raunchy-as-fuck parody of 50 Shades of Grey. I urge you to not read it if you're a wussy little punk who gets offended easily.

Fifty Shades of Decay: Part Three

When the Going Gets Tough, I Get Really Gross

Man up and read this shit

I just posted part 2 of my disgusting-yet-hilarious parody of E.L. James' stinking pile of shit erotica series. I've said this before, but motherfucker you shoulda stuck with Twilight fan fiction. Now you've forced my hand into creating this nasty little thing. Look what you've made me do! You should be ashamed.

Fifty Shades of Decay, Part 2

Dislike MY Work? I'LL SMITE THEE!!!

Well, It Was Bound To Happen At Some Point, Right?

There it was - the horror! - sitting there on the Internets for all to see ... a bad review of my novel, 99 Brief Scenes From the End of  the World. Here's what this fucking motherfucking fuck had to say:

"This is more or less a typical dystopian/zombie apocalypse story, although the cause of the infection, and they way it manifests itself is somewhat unique. In general the writing is pretty good, but there are a lot of typos that should have been corrected in the editing process. Despite a quick start, the story was slow in developing, getting lost in too many stories of people getting mauled, and not enough time developing the characters. By the time the storylines gained some clarity my ability to care had all ready started to flag. Adding to my frustration was the inconclusive end. I suppose the author may have been keeping his options open for a sequal. God, I hope not." - 2/5 stars

You hated it so heartily that you hope to God Almighty that I might somehow be prevented from writing a sequel? For real? Like, you want Him to strike me blind, or take my fingers in a freak accident? Sheesh ...

Actually, it's not that bad a review. He gives his honest opinion, and that's what internet strangers will usually do. As an artist of any kind, you need to accept the differing views of others and FUCK THAT SHIT, I'LL DESTROY HIM, I'LL RAPE HIS FUCKING FACE hahaha just kidding, seriously. Anyway, he spelled "sequel" wrong, therefore his opinion in invalid. (MY typos are acceptable, however.)

Well, here's another story for this guy to hate on. Go ahead, dude, call upon the celestial powers-that-be to stop me from writing a sequel to this one, too:

In Dreams

To whoever finds this note: I know what I have to do now. The gun is loaded and ready. I'm so, so sorry - but it wasn't me who did this, you have to understand that. I'm not a monster. It was the dreams! For months now, at night I dream that I'm loping down the road and through the woods on all fours, fast and powerful. On the hunt. I feel so incredibly, ferociously alive, invincible ... I wake up naked and covered in the sweat of exertion, with the coppery taste of blood in my mouth - and dirt on my palms and feet.

Pretty soon, the neighbors began losing their pets. Sometimes, they'd find shreds of fur and bits of bone nearby. They blamed a rogue fox, and many of them repeatedly called animal control, demanding action. I tried to avoid talking to them about it, because I didn't want them to see the guilt on my face.

I've tried to live with this oddity in my life for as long as possible, and now ... now I dearly wish that I hadn't. You see, when I woke up very early this morning, there was blood on my teeth and under my nails, and my next door neighbor's truck was still in his driveway. He hadn't left for his midnight shift last night. The driver-side door was hanging open, and there was blood splattered all over the inside of the cab. I found his boot on his driveway, and followed the drag marks from there back into his house. I went in with my heart in my throat, and I saw what happened to them all. I'm so sorry. You must understand, it wasn't me who did this horrible thing ... it was the dreams.

It's Free Book Time Again! Yaaaay!

"Because, in my infinite wisdom, something something blah blah blah ..."

I felt like giving away books again, because I'm Crazy Grim, and down here at Crazy Grim's Apocalyptic Book Emporium we are practically just throwing books at passers-by! Come on down to, uk, de, fr, hell, all of 'em, and you'll walk away with a gin-you-when, authentic version of my book, 99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World, on your Kindle! Well I said, damn! HOT-damn! (fires six-shooters into the air)

Hey, what the hell, have a quick story:

Walking In Autumn

Sometimes, I'll take a walk out into the woods behind my house in the fall, always during the time of the season when the late afternoon sun beams like slanted lasers through leaves that are becoming thin and reedy. I walk, and I look for suitable spots where I could take someone and kill them. Not to bury them, though: oh no, not so close to my own home, hell no ... all I do is, I look for the place, the exactly right patch of perfect ground, where I can aesthetically experience the final moments of some hapless person's futile life.

Oh, I do unspeakable things to these poor souls, here in the woods behind my house ... I slice off their noses and I stab their livers, I bite chunks of skin and meat from their cheeks and bodies - I sever the tendons in behind their knees and force them to flee my knife, promising them that I will slice their rectums if I can catch them. I always catch them. I rape them all, men and women, I rape them in the dirt and dead leaves of that perfect, lovely place. I batter their skulls with a rock while I'm doing it. I do these things and I do worse, oh, such unspeakable things.

Some day, I might get caught. Maybe I never will, who knows? Until then, you might see me out here; a man wandering through the woods by himself on a gorgeous autumn day, a big man wearing faded jeans and a red lumber jacket. Smile and wave, hell, why not? I'll wave back. Just don't get too close ... because, on that particular day, I just might have found the spot.

I Hate Her Book So Much That I Wrote a Really Gnarly Parody of It

No, Really, What a Piece of Shit That Book is!

I'll start this tirade off with a disclaimer ... E.L. James might be a really great lady, I dunno, I've never met her. I will say right now that I am no Earnest Hemingway, D.H. Lawrence or John Irving. Nope. Not a towering talent in the universe of literature, fuck no ... but HER books are a pile of listless, bland-tasting garbage. They're an insult to erotica, drama, and romance novels, all in one fell swoop. She shoulda stuck to writing crap-ass Twilight fan fiction. However, if she hadn't, well, she wouldn't be fabulously rich right now, and ... yeah, so I'm poor. Score one for E.L., ha ha.

Basically, the book suggests through the actions of the protagonist (a plain-jane "everygirl") that women are completely docile, passive and needy fucking retards who can be wowed into crappy BDSM sex with baubles and a big ole' cock. Now, obviously, this could be construed as bad role model material. Why can't the protagonist be a smart, resourceful and independent woman who happens to like crappy BDSM and big ole' cocks? Why?

I'll tell you why. Because she modeled her characters on the fuckin' bullshit Twilight characters, that's why. GAH! Bad fiction begets even fuckin' worse fiction, like some sort of awful, Old-Testament plague on the literary world. The bitch up and wrote one-dimensional characters based on the dubious, two-dimensional characters of another hack writer - and wow, WOW, just a terrible, terrible non-plot-line on this thing, seriously. Shitty dialogue, shitty prose, wooden characterization, ridiculous sex that's tame as fuck ... nope, I'm sorry, this doesn't deserve to be so popular that fuckin' radio DJ's are trumpeting about the shit right into my ear all the time. It just plain isn't good, not at all. The only reason its popular at all is the fact that people like to jump on bandwagons - the bigger the wagon, the more folks'll jump the hell on that bitch and mindlessly ride.

SO! Here's my answer to this insipid garbage that I see mentioned on fucking Facebook constantly; a horror parody to top all horror parodies. Behold, and follow the link to my "masterpiece" (ahaha) 50 Shades of Decay. I'm posting it on Reddit - at least this first part, we'll see if anyone wants to see the rest of it.

50 Shades of Decay - A Love Story

By the way, this is very much NSFW.

Why do Sick Fucks Do Sick Fucking Things?

Alternate Title: Our Base Desires Can Make People Do Really Awful Shit

I'm not even going to attempt to touch on the horrible tragedy that occurred at a certain screening of a certain movie in an unnamed state in the U.S. I haven't the words or the scope of imagination to even consider tackling that particular mess. However, it leads to the broader topic of mentally disturbed wierdos and the mentally fucked-up things that they are prone to doing. Most of us can only look at individuals like these and say, "What the fuck, man ... seriously. What the fuck?"

I couldn't possibly list all the depraved shitbags out there who have perpetrated awful deeds throughout the years: their numbers and crimes are literally immeasurable. But the atrocities that they commit are flavored by three general forces: Lust, Greed, and Hate. From war to sexual homicide, this Holy Trinity of unpleasantness are always the building blocks of the mania behind the violence, the cornerstones of a vast mansion of madness. Think about it -  it's true, man. Lust, Greed and Hate - they infiltrate a human's perceptions of events, people and places around them. Then, they take root and start to fester away down there in your subconscious, the place that takes all the information in that your brain receives and busily knits it all into a quilt of perception of the world you live in. The quilt your subconscious was knitting begins to rot and unravel: it becomes a jagged tapestry of violent patterns and disconnected imagery. Now, lust, greed and hate are not necessarily bad concepts, not at all -  they're not even exclusively human frailties. But they can be poison when allowed to sit and fester. They'll fuck you up.

It's not at all uncommon for a person to become so unhealthily obsessed with an idea or feeling that it eventually drives them mad. That shit happens all the time, and unfortunately, this can sometimes result in people getting dead. It's very scary to think that, at any time around you, some poor soul might have popped a few bolts loose in the ol' brain-pan ... and now they're thinking some very bad shit. Yep, makes you want to invest in a suit of armor, sometimes ....

Why Won't You Stay Dead?

There it is, plastered across the broad, stubbly face of that middle-aged construction worker walking ahead of me. It's that look you always give me, that knowing side-smirk with one eyebrow arched - you fucking ghoul, why won't you stay dead? How many times do I have to kill you before you'll finally stay dead?

I follow you in your new guise for blocks and blocks; past pizza parlors and massage joints, pawn shops and liquor stores with bars on the windows. You appear to the disinterested world around you to be a blue-collar man on his way home after a hard, blistering day in the sun. I know that's a dangerous deception. You're a demon, a soul-eating monster from beyond imagination and reason. How many times have I driven you from this world? I've lost count.

Finally, you turn a corner onto a single-lane street, hot and empty. I run the last steps between us with my hammer raised and a roar on my lips. In this final, fleeting moment you feign confusion and terror; I ignore this familiar ruse and rain the righteous blows down upon your skull. As I walk away from your twitching husk, I put the hammer back in the plastic bag, and I rapidly stroll around the corner and make my way to - wait! I caught it from the corner of my eye, I almost missed it. The young girl with the stroller on the opposite corner ... her sideways smirk, an arched eyebrow ... steeling myself, I pull out the hammer again.

Predators and Prey - An Awkward Square Dance

And a Do-Si-Do!

Hey folks! Hot as hell out there, man ... careful out there in the sun. Heatstroke sneaks up on ya!

I've been busy as shit this past week, working daily for an old co-worker of mine, doing industrial clean-up. Hot and crappy, but work is motherfucking work, son. If I tried to live off of writing, well, my girl would leave me, ha ha, cuz I'd be a broke-ass burden on her.

So, anyway ... predators and their prey. It's a symbiotic relationship. One eats and the other dies. It's an icky old world out there - there's stuff running around, chasing down and eating other shit, all the fucking time. Think about that for a second, would ya? Right now, as you sit reading this bullshit, there are hundreds of thousands of horrific, ghastly scenes of murder unfolding all around you. Ladybugs are eating aphids. Aphids are sucking defenseless leaves dry. Ants are overwhelming a poor lone little beetle, and they are fucking tearing him apart while he screams and writhes. They are cutting off his legs with their jagged mandibles, one by one, as he vainly scrabbles to flee from their carnivorous intent.

Shit's fucked up, I know.

People are predators. We fucking predate on half the shit on the surface of this planet. Bloodthirsty bastards, we are! We've taken predation to previously undreamt-of levels of ghastly. Shit, we even (metaphorically and sometimes even physically) prey on each other! Sometimes, however, we are prey for other species of shit, too. Tigers eat us on occasion, and wolves. Parasitic amoebas infiltrate our bodies and make us die rather cruel deaths, as they feed on us from within. Mosquitoes feast happily on our life's blood every time we try to go outdoors in the summer. Human beings are simultaneously both the top predator AND beset by predators. It's a confusing state of affairs. It seems that the role of predator and preda-tee isn't static or well-defined in the least. Fuck, as I'm eating these potato chips, there are microscopic lice running around on my skin, eating dead skin cells just like I'm eating these fuckin' chips. The fuck, man? Weirds me out.

The Taste of Fear

The girl didn't struggle or fight against the intruder, didn't beg; she just urged him to "hurry, please hurry. Finish and get out of here." Donny slapped the bitch hard across the face and told her to shut the motherfuck up. She was crying, and normally that would get him harder than concrete, but the fear that propelled the tears was not for her own mortal safety. Donny knew that variety of fear quite well, knew its taste and smell intimately. The woman pinned to her kitchen floor beneath him was not afraid of him.

"Please, goddamn it! Hurry up and get out of here!" she shrieked up at him, and his cock abruptly went as soft as playdough. Teeth clenched in fury and confusion, Donny punched the young woman in the mouth and got off of her. He stalked out into her living room, pulling up his jeans as he went. The living room was awash in the strong glow of the moon, rising full above the apartment buildings across the street. He used the light to locate the knife in his bag.

Voice trembling uncontrollably, Donny called out, "Hey, I've got something for you, whore. I've got something else to stick in you." He turned back to the kitchen ... and, lit in harsh white relief by the full moon, a mutant horror of a wolf trotted through the door. Frozen in place, Donny numbly watched as the monstrous thing kicked the remnants of the girl's dress from one massive hind leg. Two large, yellow eyes found him. Her muzzle wrinkled back from teeth like daggers, and she growled. Piss ran down Donny's leg in a terrified stream, and the knife fell from his nerveless fingers. He had time to scream, but only once.

Real Vampires Aren't Handsome. They're Really Fucking Gross

I Highly Doubt That They'd Ever Get a Girlfriend as Devoted as Bella

First of all, I want to apologize that my formatting sometimes goes from single-space to double from post to post. I haven't a single dim clue as to why this is, and my girlfriend couldn't figure it out either ... and she's, like, in her twenties, and therefore knows stuff about computers. So, yeah, I suck and I'm mentally insufficient to the task of evenly formatting stuff. Sorry!

Okay, anyway ... fuckin' vampires, man. They aren't pretty.

Why would they be? Living in the darkness, hiding from the sun like that shit is the Black Death, feeding on the blood of pretty much whatever they can get their hands on ... naw, they aren't high-society types, how could they be? In order to be a vampire, you have to die - dead people can't keep their fortunes. Sorry, Count Dracula, but that shit gets willed away to others, or is seized by creditors. Nor could a vampire viably hold a job - either the sunlight will eventually get him, or his urge to devour his co-workers will. Also, as an undead, blood-thirsty monster, would you even fucking care about that sort of thing anymore? My guess is NOPE.

I see them as ghastly things, ghouls tortured by a disgusting thirst and doomed to exist in the pall of night. They'd be murderous, amoral, animalistic, simply not regular folks at all.

Here's another question, though; would they still have feelings? I mean, would they still experience longing, fear, sadness ... fury?

My Father

Look at you, crawling around on the filthy floor with your guts trailing in the dirt behind you, whimpering and piddling like a cur. You disgust me. Your existence is offensive. It was pure dumb luck that you bested my father, surely it must have been. Looks like your luck has finally run out, doesn't it?

My father was brave. He wasn't like you, you cowering piece of shit - STOP SCREAMING! Shut your puling hole and listen to me, or I'll rip your tongue right out of your throat. Do you understand?

Good. Hold it in and fucking listen.

My father was a provider for his family. He cared for us. He sheltered us from our enemies. Most importantly, he made sure that we never, EVER suffered from hunger. You smug, sanctimonious bastard, you wouldn't know anything about hunger ... not THIS kind. Do you think that you're in pain right now? Huh? You have no fucking idea, you little worm. The hunger is like a molten-lead agony that leaks into every fibre of your being. It consumes you, body and soul, and there is no release of death. We have to feed, and my father provided for us. Now what? Who will hunt for the clan? We're suffering. We're suffering unimaginably and it's because of YOU.

What? No soul? Yes, I have a soul. So did my father. He had a beautiful soul. You destroyed it when you destroyed his body. He's lost now. He's lost in the void, he's GONE, do you understand, lost FOREVER-

Oh ... didn't like that? I'll tear your other ear off, too! There, how's that? How about I reach down and rip a big strip of skin from your hide? Look at you squeal! Go ahead, plead to the Heavens, beg, vomit forth all of your misery ... it'll never be enough. You'll never suffer as brutally as the clan has since you crept, like a scavenger, into our domain - and drove a fucking wooden stake through my father's blessed heart as he slumbered. Oh, you pathetic, contemptible coward...

No, I couldn't possibly inflict as much suffering upon you as you have done unto us, vampire hunter ... but I'll try. I swear upon my father that I'm going to try my best.

Ha! Where do you think you're crawling away to? Get the fuck back here. I've barely even started ...

Love is Like a Rose, or Some Shit Like That

It's fragrant, but it's pointy!

I'm fortunate in that, when I was in my early thirties, I actually met an all-around great girl. She's intelligent, caring, sexy, and creates great pop-art-style paintings. I live in a small/mid-sized Canadian town full of haggard skanks; I moved here through an unlikely series of events about eight years ago, and had pretty much lost hope on finding a girl who wasn't stepping out on her boyfriend or husband (seriously, almost every girl I dated in the first couple of years that I lived in this shitty town was out slutting behind her SO's back). So, after much frustration and annoyance, I finally found her - LOL - on a cheesy online dating site.

We squabble a lot, but it's because we're kinda poor these days. If we were rich, we'd never squabble (we'd still wrestle, though, damn straight). When we're not too tired for sexy times, the whoopie is incredible. She reluctantly makes me dinner, and I reluctantly drive her places. It's the best relationship I've ever had.

Most of my romantic relations in the past have been a mess. Constant fighting, cheating, domestic disturbances ... all that white-trash shit, man, all of it. Relationships can be absolute poison. Here's a short little tale of a romance that has gone wildly south ... 


The stage was set for his final vengeance; Eddie called Mel and told her that he was going to do it, that her coldness and infidelity had finally driven him to suicide. He told her that he believed her only reason for existence was to destroy his spirit, and that she had succeeded.

"Wait!" she gasped, her voice urgent, "please ... let me come see you before you do anything rash!" Eddie hung up on her and, while he waited, he readied the noose. When Mel came strutting in through the front door, Eddie was balanced on a stool, the rope already tight around his neck. He grinned at her, a crazed sickle of longing soured to madness.

Not breaking her fast, leggy pace, the vulpine succubus glided across the living room and kicked the stool out from beneath Eddie's feet. He squawked and fell to the end of the rope with a muffled snap, his eyes bulging at her in disbelief. The thing jumped onto him and clung like a mantis, staring into his distorted face raptly ... feeding ...

Aliens are Scary

I want to see one - but, not too close, y'know?

I'm fascinated with UFO's. Almost unhealthily so. I'm convinced that the Earth is pretty much swarming with the fuckers, and that most governments and ruling elite are well aware of this, and that they have (one way or another) adapted technologies garnered from the alien visitors. No, I don't wear a tinfoil hat - I just think that the evidence of this being true is overwhelming. Photos, videos, credible first-person accounts ... 

Now, let's consider the incredible gains we've had in all sorts of sciences and technologies since World War II. After some five hundred years of slow, linear progression in the creation and tempering of the sciences, shit suddenly got fucking advanced, man. From Velcro to advanced computer technology to freakin' face transplants, in the past seventy-some-odd years the human race has exploded with ingenious innovations. Coincidentally, the start of this wave seem to occur during the beginning of the era of UFO sightings (nuclear technologies, however, were pretty much our baby from the beginning. Can't blame extra-terrestrials for that one).

Here's another creepy vid that will make you either want to scan the skies, or hide inside at night.

I think that we should keep in mind that, as "alien" as they are to us, we would also be to them. I wonder how they perceive us, from aboard their craft (if that's what those things are, even)? During an encounter between us and them, who would be more freaked out?

Deer Diaree

Deer Diaree,

Today sumthin happen witch I cant not explane at all. It is harvest time now mind you and I been drinkin for three day strate now, sleepin almost none at all and workin til maybe I gonna have a hart attak. I got mebbe three week tops before the Ranes come and drown my feelds. The preshure to get finnished in time drive me to drink and I hit my wife sometimes too. But any ways what I meen to say is that what happen wernt from the drink, it rilly happen to me today.

Tomorroh I will call the Sheriff and he will bring a camerra to take pickshures of the mess. Then everyone will see I aint lyin none at all, even if it sownds like a lye it aint.

This is what happen.

I was just finnishin the cuttin in my north fortee. It has a big slope in the middle of the bitch, it rise up probably fifteen degree or more then down aggen. I had my cousin Ell out helpin me, he drive the harvester and I come in behind on foot an make sure he stay strate when he drive it. Well he didnt he went off coarse and hit a fuckin rock that bust the blades reel bad. He was drunk.

I yell at him and tell him he aint no good. He tried to bite my ear and we fight and I beet him up. We was rollin around kickin and fightin in the damn dirt and we roll down that bitch slope all the way to the bottom. I got up on top and pound him out reel good when I herd sum noize like a bunch of beez on fire, only way I can describe it you see. I stop hittin Ell and look up cuz there is a shadow over us too but there aint no clouds in the sky. I look up and theres a fuckin flyin sawser comin down from the sky. It happen just like that. The sawser look like a shiny mettle bowl on top of a couple sawhorse with flame shootin out the bottom. Ell started screamin it was aliens like what we seen at the picture show a couple yeers ago in town. He screemin Let me up, Let me up I'm gonna run away, an he pushed me offa him and run like his ass were on fire. I just sat in the dirt and watched it flote down to the top of that slope, it was like I was to scairt to move. I was froze an couldn't run, my hart was poundin and I feel sick to my stomack. I could feel the wind comin off the thing as it came down, hot and smelt like burning wires. It were pretty big, at least the size of the harvester and twice as tall. It had some weerd letters or markings on the side of it, like nothin I ever seen before. It were an alien langwich, you know, I could see that rite away.

A door open on it then and I figger the aliens was coming out to git me. This made me jump up off the dirt and run back over to where my gun was layin in the weeds, I always bring it in case of wild animals. I grab it up and see that they WERE comin out to git me, five of them! They was small no bigger than a kid, they walked weerd and was all shiny to like the sawser. They had no faces, it were just like a shiny glass bubbel insted. I yell at them to stay back but they didnt, they kept on comin and i felt a sting where one shot me with a string of lite and it burnt me good on my chest. So I fire back, and Im a good fuckin shot I shot all of them dead. Red stuff came out when the bullets ripped threw them, and they make these awful hi pitch noizes. One must have stayed in the sawser becuz the door slide shut and it took off fast back up into the sky.
I stay back and wait til I know they was dead, the sounds stopped an they lay still there on that slope. Then I come up and I looked at them.

They was so tiny and little. So much red stuff in them tho I could hardly beleeve it. I thought maybe one was still alive and movin a bit so I stomped on him hard and I herd braking sounds come from under my boot. I was mad becuz the little fucker shot me with a space gun. I tried to pick up the little gun but it was hot and burnt my fingers so I threw it out into the weeds and swore.

Twomorrow the Sheriff will come and then I will get my pickshure in the papers and maybe get some money, who knows? I hope so farming is a hard life, and now I got a harvester to fix. My only help around here is Ell and he aint no good. I have drew up some pickshures of the sawser and the aliens, but I aint good at drawin not like my wife she can paint pretty pickshures and it make me sorry I use my fists on her. Any way I will try and make the markings I seen on the side of the sawser heer in my diaree.


I hope that more of the aliens dont come back on my land becuz if they do I will shoot them all dead like the others. I will.


I'm Not Even Kidding! It's Free today!

I'm offering my novel, "99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World" for free today, June 18th! It's an apocalyptic horror novel about the end of Western Civilization at the hands of a sinister alien radio signal - graphic violence, political intrigue, coarse humor, it's all there for the readin'!

Here the link!

Sleep? What is This Sleep You Speak Of?

Seriously, This is Getting Crazy

No sleep. Like, three to four hours a night. Too fucking much to do, not enough hours in which to do it. I was driving on the 401 the other day and I seriously hallucinated that a truck was floating about eight inches off of the surface of the road, wheels spinning, driving along on thin air. What the fucking FUCK, I thought, somewhere between panic and amazement, that eighteen-wheeler is being operated by Magneto! Then I blinked a few times and realized that it was some weird trick of the mid-morning light and shadow, and that I need to fucking sleep, ASAP.

Another effect of the sleep-deprivation is bitterness. So BITTER, brah. I find myself wanting to hurt others for no reasonable cause, except that I'm tired to the point of experiencing a psychotic break from reality. Will there be sleep in my future? Or will I drive my van right into the fucking sun, borne high on leathery pterodactyl wings?

Here's a little blurb I wrote a while ago, concerning the topic of experiencing a break from reality. It would really, really suck ass if this were to actually happen to me.

It happens instantaneously, from one moment to the next - you are walking along a suburban street one fine summer night, and during the time it takes you to lift one foot from the sidewalk and put it ahead of the other, you suddenly find yourself somewhere ... else. 

Instead of firmly bracing the familiar concrete of the sidewalk, your running shoe crunches into a grit of greyish sand. The shock of the sudden change in your environment hits your body before your brain can even register what your eyes are seeing, and you start shuddering uncontrollably. The sky above you is now a murky, multi-hued haze, and the moon is gone - instead, two different, dim and alien orbs hang overhead. You can see no other stars through the toxic smog of this alien sky. You can't breathe properly. This is a cold, poisonous atmosphere that was never meant for human lungs. Fuck, your eyes are burning, as are your nostrils, mouth, throat and lungs; panicked, you stagger in a big looping circle to nowhere. The footprints left in the alkaline grit behind you are the only ones in sight. You are alone.

The street is gone, the town you live in is gone, and there is now only a sandy grey plain as far as your inflamed eyes can see. You scream, meaninglessly, for help. There is none to be had. As the scream tears like a buzzsaw out of your throat, a mist of blood escapes your mouth, pushed from your chest with a rush of the bitter, freezing air.

The scene is bathed in a sickly orange-yellow light from the moons (suns?) that shine weakly through the overhead murk. The plain is filled with strange cactus-looking things, grey like the sand, huge and spiky. It seems that they are swarming with thousands of  insectile worm-things, some almost four feet long. They chitter and buzz in a deep, low tone that you can feel in your chest. They are horrible to behold, and your sanity teeters wildly.

You cough again, and this time it isn't just a mist that escapes, it's a full gush of precious, crimson life. You're drowning in your own bloody mucous. You stagger backward, the heavy gravity dragging at you like dangling lead weights. You fall. Collapse into the caustic dirt beneath you. Try to crawl, spasm, and finally lay still. In the distance, there are mountains that rise to dizzying heights, and you stare at them as you die.

Did a Reading at a Gay Bar!

So, Here's the Story

A friend of mine who I jammed with for a while invited me to come do a reading before a punk rock show he was putting on - at a local gay bar. Why there? Were the bands gay-themed punk rock (also known as "queer-core")? Nope - there just aren't many places to play a show at in my neck of the woods, not anymore. Live music is dying out all over, killed by a sneaky thrust of the club DJ's sword. But that's another story ...

So, I read a short passage from my debut, self-published novel, 99 Brief Scenes From the End of the World, to a mostly-empty room (it was only nine-thirty at night, still early for the punk crowd) - then picked up my electric and murdered a Waylon Jennings tune. I fumble-fingered my lead bit something terrible, and was EXTREMELY glad that no one was there to witness it (I'm generally regarded as a decent-enough guitarist in the local scene, although that impression would have died if anyone had been around to see THAT shit). Determined to redeem myself, I did a passable solo version of "Biko" by Peter Gabriel, then called it quits.

Here's another little Reddit throwaway, one that is (slightly) homosexually-themed. Solidarity, yo.

I'm Not What You Think I Am 

"I don't want to disappoint you, hun, but I'm not what you think I am," Constance told the john, and lifted the mini-skirt he wore to show what lay underneath.

"That's okay," the john chuckled, and he closed the door. Locked it. He turned around to face Constance, and his grin was full of curved fangs. In a blur, the john had Constance pinned to the motel bed. His cold, iron hand throttled back the screams.

"I'm not what you think I am, either."

Of Kittens and Lunatics

People Love Kitties

I mean, they really, really love those crazy, jumping-around-like-a-wolf-spider bits of fluff, don't they? They'll adopt like, seventeen of the things, and love each and every one of them like a child. As for me, I don't mind cats, as long as they're fixed. I don't scary-love them to the point of being a fucking weirdo, though.

 I posted this little quickie on Reddit and, at first, there were downvotes and bitter outrage. Personally, I think it's a feel-good story. You be the judge.

Paw Prints

One by one, he threw the helpless kittens into the burlap sack. The first kittens in the bag squealed and meowed pathetically as the accumulating bodies of their siblings smothered them. Their pain and fear made the man smile. He walked to the edge of the creek and along the bank, looking for a deep spot in the water. He found one soon enough, at a bend, and clambered down the embankment to stand on the rocks at the edge of the water.

"Bye-bye, kitties!" the man laughed, and prepared to launch them into the water. As he cocked his arm back to let the bag fly, his feet slipped on the mossy rocks, and he fell hard. The back of his head smashed, with brutal force, onto the jagged rocks beneath him. One by one the kittens escaped the bag, running past his twitching body and back up the embankment. They left tiny bloody paw prints on the rocks behind them.

Starving Artists and Shit

I Need a Goddamn Job ... For realz, yo


Months ago, I took a lay-off from a shitty local factory, and turned it into an opportunity to finally write that fucking book that I wanted to write ... and I did, and it's published, and now ... shit! Unemployment ran out! For the first time in a long, long time, I am without a solid means to help support my little family unit. Predictably, my self-published novel was not immediately a smash success, ha, and I have not won the goddamn lottery. So, in the interim, I must begin the search for yet another meaningless survival-job, and waiting to either sell some books or WIN THAT MOTHERFUCKING LOTTO MAX. 

I'm going to get around to putting more links on this thing to places where one might purchase said book, as soon as I can get my younger-and-therefore-more-computer-savvy girlfriend to do it for me. Seriously, HTML code and all that shit is like fucking Sanskrit to me.  I can't even place a fucking widget somewhere. The whole business makes Hulk want to SMASH. 

SO! Right! Story time! This one's relevant. It's called "The Interview."

I hate this fucking prick. I hate him so fucking MUCH. 

Doug watched as Hennings squinted at his resume across the cheap, phony little desk. The man tapped a clear Bic pen on his green ink blotter pad as he did so, thup-thup-thup-thup. Hennings frowned through the slim lenses of his glasses at the stapled papers in his hand, made low, unimpressed sounds in the back of his wattled neck - and fucking kept tapping that goddamned pen, a measured percussive accompaniment to his blatant disapproval.
"You haven't worked in a while, Mr. Armstrong," Hennings said. His voice was bright and crisp with antagonism. He looked up from the resume and jabbed Doug with a cold, fishy stare. "Why is that? Eight months go by and you haven't worked? Just riding the unemployment train, right? Getting in some couch time?"

He spat the questions out in a hard, rapid barrage. Each one was meant to be a slap in the face. Doug tried valiantly to keep his expression neutral. "I took some time off and wrote a book. A novel. It was something that I've always-"

"A book?" Hennings repeated, accusingly: he said "book" in the same tone one might use when uttering the word bullshit. "It doesn't say anything about being a novelist in your employment history, Mr. Armstrong. It says that you have experience in MIG welding, warehousing, and quality control. Nowhere on this resume did I see any reference to authorship of any kind." 

This fucking retard seems to be implying that I'm ... lying to him, somehow? Doug tried briefly to wrap his head around this, but failed. What the fuck?

"I apologize, Mr. Hennings, I didn't in any way mean to seem misleading on my resume ... I'll be sure to fix that and, uh, expand on what I've been doing since Tri-Tech closed its doors. I don't want it to seem like I've been sitting idly around for months on end, channel-surfing." Hennings said nothing, just stared at him, as if Doug were some sort of distasteful specimen that the Human Resources staffer had been unwillingly assigned to study and quantify. Clearing his throat, Doug ventured, " If you look on the second page, though, you'll see that I mention writing the book under the heading, "Interests". Truthfully, writing a full-length novel was a lot more challenging than any job or task that you'll see mentioned on my resume-"

"Second page?" Hennings interrupted again. "I never get to the "second page", Mr. Armstrong. It doesn't exist for me. If I don't see what I want to see on the first page, I'm done." Hennings dropped Doug's resume onto the green blotter. "Sitting on your duff, pecking at a keyboard while sucking away at the system doesn't seem very challenging to me - and if we're going to be honest with each other here, I'll tell you that I'm not sure if I like what I see here on your resume."

Doug was starting to sweat a little under the strain of keeping his teeth from gritting with mounting fury, and his fists from clenching on the plastic armrests of his chair, clenching into bony clubs. What was this guy's problem? What did it matter to this man if Doug had taken a few months off to do fucking whatever? He was applying for a job working on a manufacturing line. Any able-bodied person of average intelligence could do it with absolutely zero experience. And ... what the hell was that crap about "sucking away at the system"? The arrogant, dim-witted fuck was referring to government-enforced unemployment insurance that he, as a working man for most of his adult life, had been forced to pay into whether he wanted to or not. His blood was starting to pound in his head. Doug took a long breath in and, striving for mild neutrality, said "Oh? Can you tell me specifically why or what it is that bothers you on my resume?"

Hennings snorted. For a brief moment, Doug's fists clenched. "I'm talking about the eight months that you spent not gainfully employed. Why? To write a book? Do it in your spare time, man! Seriously, what are you ... thirty-seven or eight? I'd expect an idealistic college drop-out to do something of that nature, not a man of your age. The word 'shiftless' comes to mind."

His heart, pounding rapidly. Every sense razor sharp, every muscle alive with electric strength. Doug could smell the acrid sharpness of the man's cheap cologne, could see the faint beating of a pulse in a vein that ran across his high forehead. He could feel the man's essential frailty, like a predator. Doug bared his teeth at Hennings in an attempt to smile.

"Mr. Hennings, I have a wife and two children, and all the commotion and bustle that goes along with being a family man. Spare time? If you're working a full-time job, with over-time to boot, and two young kids, and a household to maintain on top of everything else - well, there's no such thing as spare time, okay? I had just been laid off from Tri-Tech ... and just it seemed like a good chance to finally do it. Completing a book in that period of time was a feat unto itself. I edited the thing myself, and formatted it for publication. All that, in eight crazy, sleepless months-"

Doug stopped talking, not believing the ignorant audacity of the man sitting across the desk from him - the officious, sagging old fuck in his garish maroon tie was actually fucking clapping at him, slowly, sarcastically - clap. clap. clap. He gave up the ghost on trying to be congenial, at that point. There was just no fucking way. The feeling was coming on him, now. It was a surge of sweet, hot rage that enveloped him, as it always did, in a fevered velvet glove of murder-lust.

"Bravo, Armstrong, great - writer, editor, and everything. Why are you telling me this? Am I looking for a secretary to proof my correspondence?" Hennings began to drum the pen against the desk blotter again. "No, I'm not. What I need is few people who can reliably show up every day and give one-hundred percent, each and every day, six days a week -"

Oh, fuck, that PEN, he's tapping that fucking PEN-

"-not a day-dreamer that's going to miss days, and even more importantly, miss defects in the product," tap-tap-tap, "because this company's reputation for quality control precedes us." Tap-tap-tap-tap-TAP-TAP-TAP- 

Now. Right fucking NOW.

"FFFFFUUCK!" Doug roared, and he sprang forward from his chair like a panther. As he cleared the desk, Doug swiped the pen from the startled man's hand and stuck it into his right eye, all in one fluid motion. He slammed into Hennings and knocked him backwards onto the ground, chair and all. The older man struggled to scream, but the wind was knocked out of him. His hands found the half of the pen that protruded from his ruined eye socket. Doug could see that he was trying to shriek, "My eye! My eye!", but only a pained whistle was issuing from his loose, blabbering mouth. Doug straddled the prone man and, with the flat of his palm, he drove the pen home, all the way to the hilt. It made an wet, indistinct tearing sound. Hennings spasmed and kicked, his gray-trousered legs sticking straight up because of the chair that was still beneath him. Doug pinned his thrashing with a grip of maniacal steel.

"I didn't tell you what the book is about," Doug hissed down at the man. "It's about a guy who has poor self-control, sometimes. It's kind of an autobiography, really." 

"Why?" Hennings tried to ask, but it was just a wheeze. Blood was coursing in a steady stream from his eye socket. It leaked into his mouth, and he choked.

"Don't blame me. Don't even bother trying. It just wasn't your day, buddy, that's all. You piece of shit." He slammed his fist down into Hennings' protruding Adam's apple. It crunched, and the hapless man bucked beneath him wildly, gurgling and coughing blood. Doug pinned him and waited it out. When his struggles were weak enough, Doug let him go. The murder-lust was gone. It was time to boogie.

He opened the door and walked out into the reception room. It was after five, and the secretary was either on a break or had gone home. The line of plastic chairs against the wall was empty -  he'd been the last interviewee of the day. Doug flipped up the big hood of his jacket and walked briskly out into the hall, the heavy door locking shut behind him. If the secretary didn't come back and find the mess, the cleaning staff soon would. In the hall, a few workers were bustling out through a man-door onto the production floor. They were obviously in a hurry to get back to work from an illicit smoke break, and paid him no attention.

Doug strolled, nonchalantly, out a metal door and into the huge parking lot, just some unremarkable Joe on his way out to his unremarkable car. He left Jeffrey Armstrong behind him, trapped on the paper of a blood-spattered resume. The cops would find the resume, a Hotmail account, a pilfered Social Insurance Number, and not much else. The grainy footage from the CCTV cams would show a hooded man of average height and build, getting into a Ford Focus. Neither the security guard at the gate or the distraught secretary would be able to provide much more information, just the vague description of an average Caucasian man in a blue hooded windbreaker and jeans. As a fellow who had very little control over his murderous impulses, Doug had learned how to be unremarkable long ago. It was an art. Multiple identities and anonymity were a necessity, to maintain the intricate web of deceit that was the framework of his life. It was taxing, unpredictable way to live, and keeping his story straight could sometimes be a bitch - but it was better than taking shit from people like Hennings.

When he got home from the long commute, Doug's wife asked him how things went. Doug explained regretfully that he didn't make the interview. Tire blew. Had to put the spare on.

"Oh, hun, that's crappy! Shit ... well, maybe if you call them and explain, they'll give you another interview."

"Ah, I don't think so, babe. I think I'll just forget them, and go on to the next one, y'know?"