Part 3c (aka the end)

The coffee rings on the table signal our retirement. Randy’s hand is shaking like an Alzheimer’s patient when he pays for his snack. Whether he’s wired or worried I couldn’t tell you, but I’m alert as airport security in New York.

Sirens echo in the skyline while we crunch gravel with our heels, dust to dust. The city air sings of lost souls and antidepressants, somewhere someone was getting more action than I’d seen in months.

We pull off thirty miles down the road. They abandoned this stretch of highway forty years ago when the interstate moved in; an ignored part of the 1960’s our grandparents left for us to discover. One lane, no lights, no signs, not a guardrail to guide you home, out here the rest of the world just kinda dissolves.

Speeding down the road with ghosts in our hair, this is where the world makes sense. Away from the sounds and stench of home, away from the theater and my shit job, away from the sirens and the lights and the pollution. I imagine this is how Jonah felt before the storm; liberated, out of sight, the perfect get away.

My mother used to read me stories out of this oversized, poorly animated children’s Bible. David and Goliath, Daniel and the Lions, Joseph’s flamboyant 80’s overcoat- pages of the faithful dumbed down for the illiterate. Mom would always go back to Jonah. Night after night I’d sit in my footie pajamas while she’d pound through the same themes: you can’t run from God, and the blessings of obedience. She never mentioned that at the end of the story Jonah looks God in the eye and says, “Fuck you, I’d rather die.” Jonah’s the only book in the Bible to end in a question.

Randy kills the engine in front of the docks, wood left to rot while stars reflect scales on the water. He pulls a handle of Wild Turkey from under the passenger seat and we take our spot next to the crickets and bullfrogs. You don’t need words when nature’s speaking; the whiskey does just fine. This is where life happens, between the puddles of bourbon and shooting stars, Saturday nights where the Lord himself couldn’t care what time it was.

There aren’t any world changing epiphanies here. I’d love to sit back and tell you that sitting there in the moonlight we had some deep philosophical conversation about life, God and death, that under the cosmos we finally understood our place in the world around us; that we found Jesus at the bottom of that bottle.

But I’m not here to lie to you.

She used gasoline.

I'd give a kidney to express myself half as well.

That's how I feel today.

It's about time.

The new As Cities Burn stuff makes me wanna dance.

less fist and feet, more spin and sway.

Part 3B

“I don’t see why you stick with that shit job,” Randy’s speeding down the freeway. “If it were me, I would’ve told those bastards to go fuck themselves months ago.”

“Gotta pay rent somehow.” I’ve heard Randy’s sermon every Saturday for the past two years.
“I’m just saying, it’s not like they’re paying for your retirement, you don’t owe them a damn thing.”

He’s right, but we both know I’m too much of a bitch to actually quit. Sure, I could find something else, but at least this job lets me wear a mask to hide my shame.

After fifteen minutes of listening to the wind slap against the Jeep’s plastic exterior we roll into our favorite diner, one of those high-class joints with red leather booths and a real smoking section. The whole place smells like cigarettes and stale coffee.

Randy orders the chicken fried steak and I ask for a slice of apple pie.

“You know that stuff’s like eating cancer.” I say when the food arrives. The steak looks like tire rubber smothered in bull semen.

“Fuck you Martha Stewart,” he stabs. “I’ve got a solid four years left before my metabolism goes to the shitter, and until then I’ll eat what ever the hell I damn well please.”
“Have it your way, just don’t expect me to cry at your funeral.”
“Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m to Much of a Pussy to Quit My Shitty Job and Actually Do Something with My Life. I’m surprised you haven’t killed yourself.”
“You’re right, why don’t you pass that heart attack over here and I’ll get started.”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up and eat your Goddamned pie?”

We banter on while sucking down gallons of unleaded coffee, I’m a self-righteous, self-loathing prick, and he’s a scumbag, no talent, ass clown. It’s a beautiful thing.

So I'm getting another tattoo.

Anyone else wanna come?

Seriously?

For fuck's sake, what do you want from me?

kick me again why don't you.


I give up on Missouri.

BTW

Lost is the only thing that gives me hope in television these days.

Heroes is killing me.
and the Office is slowly becoming more and more irritating.

Haiti.

I'm packed and ready to go.

Who knows, maybe I'll decide to stay- people tell me I could use some culture.

pt. 3A

I still have scars from that night, a Morse code across my chest spelling a message of long nights and poor decisions. It’s my badge of honor screaming, “Yeah, I’ve been to county.”
Oh, I’m hard. I live alone, no car, no cable, not even a cat. Just me, alone with Abe judging me from the ceiling. The clock waves a rough 10:15. I have to work in forty-five minutes.
The recliner cries and moans as I pull myself up. You’d be thrilled for work too if you had my job. Every Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and second Sunday I climb into a giant rat suit and hug toddlers. I have spent the last three years of my life getting kicked in the shins, punched in the nuts, and jabbed in the kidneys by eight-year-olds while their parents laugh and take pictures.
Did you know that in order to get a job as a corporate mascot you not only have to shell out an ass-load of money for a background check, but are actually required to take a polygraph test to be absolutely certain that you are not
A. Gay
B. A Pedophile
C. A Furry
The last thing my employer wants in some kid sticking his face in the leftovers of someone’s Chlamydia.

Imagine looking your future boss in the eye and describing every wet dream you’ve ever remembered. It’s like being in the clergy after the guy in the confessional next door got caught with kiddie porn.

My suit smells like rancid dog and pepperoni. The owners claim they send it to the cleaners every week, but I know for a fact that the boogers on my thighs have been there for at least a month. I feel like I’m living in Mexico, after a while you just get used to the stench. Besides, kids could care less as long as they have enough tickets to buy the cheap plush toys at the end of the day. I’m an overdressed baby sitter, an underdressed clown, and an all around joke.

I hate my job.

Eight hours later Randy is waiting for me in the parking lot, “Let’s go Mickey”
“Wrong trademark, jackass.”
“Mickey, Chuckie, Jerry, Itchy, Mighty, fucking Ratatouille, do you really think I give a shit who you’re supposed to be?” His sarcasm bleeds like a slaughterhouse. “Now do you want a ride or not?”

It’s cheaper than the bus.

James Hetfield croaks through Randy’s blown speakers. I hate this guy almost as much as Randy hates Tobey McGuire. Almost.

short story, part 2

Twelve years later I’m climbing out of Randy’s front seat while he wipes burger sludge on the upholstery. The dark canvas holds a masterpiece of grease, soda, snot, and God knows what else. I didn’t even want to guess when he’d had it cleaned last, probably towards the end of the Clinton administration.

Randy’s tin can backfires, leaving me to drown in a sea of carcinogens. I should take up smoking after all the times I’ve done this, menthols can’t be half as bad as the poison that car runs off of.
Halogen lights sterilize the world around me. This was my home- four walls, outdated Berber carpet, one window with a great view of Crazy Eddie’s Liquor Store, and hot water that would stay hot as long as you only shower once every three days. Sure, it’s a shit hole, but it’s my shit hole- assuming my rent cleared the bank.

I throw my shoes into the corner and click on the stereo. Randy and I never could agree on music. The kid lives off of grunge and 80’s power metal, while he’d describe my inclinations as, “Fucking venti mocha latte Mac-elitist euro-bullshit.” I call it talent and remind him that Iron & Wine is from South Carolina.

You have to ease into my Lazy-Boy, otherwise the reclining back will turn on you and leave you with your legs in the air like a drunken sorority girl on a Saturday night.

They cut the cable a month ago, so instead of watching chimpanzees hump each other on the Discovery Channel I lay back and make shapes out of the water stains on the ceiling. There’s Abe Lincoln on a sailboat, the pentagon, and something that looks way too similar to a dick with arms. This is what my life has resulted to- seeing shitty movies with my ogre best friend and spotting cocks on my ceiling. Ain’t life grand?

I pop too many Ambien and pass out with my jeans on, feeling like Mary Jane Watson’s independence; trivial, fake, and utterly useless.

I’m a junior in high school, our football team has just thrashed the defending state champions and here I am, fifteen miles from civilization watching my classmates dance around a raging victory inferno. Kids running drunkenly with red Dixie cups filled with whatever they could get their older brothers to buy them. Caleb and his cronies scored a keg somehow. He tells everyone he has a fake ID he got in Panama over the Summer, the reality is he probably paid some frat boy to hook him up. Regardless, Jennings is the man of the hour.

Randy’s sitting across the blaze with a fifth of Jack Daniels, smirking at a group of freshmen girls. He’ll turn eighteen in a few weeks, so I let him play his little game while he still can.
Me, I just stand there, wrapped in the October air, gazing into the fire like Moses, waiting for a word from God. I remember in Sunday School they used to tell stories about how God would reveal himself to the prophets, guys like Moses, Joseph, David and Elisha. Then around the time Jesus showed up, the revelations just stopped.

I can’t say I blame him, I’d be pissed if my children crucified the baby sitter while I had my back turned. Ever since then the skies just kinda shut up. Nowadays if a man hears the voice of God he’s a Mormon, and therefore a lunatic. I just wanna know what he’d say.

There’s a shout followed by more panicked screams, blue and burgundy lights flood the plane like the tide. People are diving into cars, sprinting into bushes, spot lights tracking kids like rabbits.

I stop thinking and run. Hurdling bushes and hay bales, stampeding through puddles and cow pies, praying for an exit. In the distance Randy’s transition grinds as he pushes for the right gear. The four wheel drive on his beast could keep those police cruisers at bay for hours out here, assuming he doesn’t roll it and kill himself.

My legs are numb, the cold air is turning my lungs to confetti, the world around me is passing at the speed of sound. Lights keep slashing behind me, licking up my trail. I turn around to judge my position and feel something tear into my ribcage, knocking me backwards. Everything goes grey after that.

The police report said they found me tangled up in a barbed wire fence. Apparently, I close lined myself with the steel teeth and knocked myself out when I hit the ground.

I come too and look straight into the eyes of a walrus. Not a real walrus, but your run of the mill, donut guzzling, coffee fueled, overweight Officer Sir- glorious mustache and all. I can’t tell if the throbbing in my head is from the collision or if I’m hung-over. Officer Sir doesn’t care. Through chew laced teeth he pries little bits of personal information out of me and a dozen other saps that were dumb enough to get caught. Name, address, parent’s phone number, name, address, parent’s phone number, the routine drolls on.

Freshmen girls huddle tight together, bawling hysterically. The bacon sends them home, along with the other boys whose last names wouldn’t look good on the back page of the newspaper. I didn’t fall into either category, so I got a free ride to county. Forty-five minutes later, Officer Sir tells me what I already know- my parents weren’t posting bails, so I was getting a night stay on the taxpayers.

My pop’s is a bastard like that. The man dreamed of raising the next great shortstop for the Yankee’s. Instead, he got me.

I wonder if Jesus had daddy issues?

Latte= Drinking gasoline.

Dammit Palin.

The Get Up Kids are opening for Brand New at the University of Alaska.

I wish I was an Eskimo.

This Drills It.

"Someone who I could live without but would never want to."

short story, part 1.

“If I have to sit through another shitty Spiderman movie, I’m going straight to Marvel and punching Stan Lee in the throat.”

Randy and I are walking out of the theater after being screwed by crap heap that was Spiderman 3.

“I blame the studios, the studios and those fucking emo kids. Peter Parker would never have become such a bitch if it weren’t for all those goddamn fifteen year olds wearing their sisters jeans and stealing money from their parents to go see shitty movies.”
At this point I’ve disappeared into my hoodie, hoping to dissolve into the shadow of Randy’s obscenity. Mom’s and theater ushers are looking in our direction with glares that would peel paint off the wall.

“You are such an asshole,” I mutter from inside my cave, “lets just get out of here before you get us kicked out.”

“I’m and asshole? Fucking Tobey McGuire is an asshole, Sam Rami is an asshole, I’m just a guy with a very limited income who’s pissed about blowing ten bucks on a shitty movie.”

“Randy, we snuck in.”

“It’s the principle man, these good people should not have their wallets raped by Sony just so they can sit through Aunt Mae’s enema.”

I cringe at the thought and drag him through the double doors to the parking lot, “You amaze me.” It’s not a compliment.

“You know you’re thinking the same thing, I’m just the only one here with the nuts to say anything about it. Like it or not, you need me.”

I give up and climb into Randy’s Jeep. He revs the engine, “I’m getting a burger.”
I met Randy in the third grade. I kept to myself, turned in my math homework, and washed my hands after going to the bathroom. Randy, well Randy was lucky if he passed a spelling test. I’m not sure how it started, but one day at recess Caleb Jennings and his lackeys, Duff and Clint, pinned me in the corner of the playground, just out of Mrs. Andrew’s sight. Caleb was a real prick. The type of kid who’ll piss in your Cheerio’s and take your pudding cup just because he was bigger than you. Caleb Jennings was my third grade orientation to natural selection.

Anyway, so I’m curled up in the corner, a chain-link fence on one side, brick wall on the other, with Clint, Duff, and Caleb at the vertex.

At this point, I’ve accepted the beating that was coming. Caleb was going to destroy my face while his goons held me down so he could get a better shot. It was the cruel reality- I was going to die curled up in the corner of JFK Elementary School while kids played tag and told secrets.

Two pairs of hands grab me and throw me against the brick wall, its grit scraping my elbow, leaving bits of rubble under my skin. I’m crying, eyes sealed shut, refusing to face my killers. All I can do is sit there and wait for the inevitable. I can picture Caleb’s Neanderthal glare as he rears back for the kill, but instead of eleven year old knuckles smashing my skull into the brick, there’s the sound of cheap aluminum colliding with bone. There’s a yelp and I open my eyes- Randy is standing over Caleb and takes a second swing at him with his Transformers lunch box.

The death grip around my arms disappears with a panic as my captor’s process what’s going on. My own personal Jesus Christ is wailing away like a butcher until Tweetle-Dee and Tweetle-Dum drag him off like a rabid dog to be put down. Randy swinging recklessly as they go.

I watch in awe as Caleb spews blood on the pavement and picks his ego up off the ground. At this point he could care less about me, his aggression had a new target.

Next thing I know my assistant principal is interrogating me, her grey eyes shielded by red-rimmed glasses, boney fingers scratching evidence on forms. She sends me out and I’m face to face with my assailants, each one in their own wooden chair holding towels to noses, shins, and elbows. The entire left side of Caleb’s face looked like burger.

Across the room Randy just sat there bleeding, eyes focused on his prey, smirking like a sadist with Caleb’s face pressed into the side of his lunchbox. The smug bastard was proud of his work.

I’ll never forget that smirk. It’s the same look he gets when we play cards, the same smile that emerges when he spots a pretty girl. It’s the devil in him, and I love him for it.

The weather outside is frightful

Let's go dancing.

This is me getting my shit together.

Holy Stress Batman!

i think i'm gonna puke.

It's a grey day.

I'm freakin' bummed today man.

Daylight savings just jacked me up.

Dr. Manhattan

I'm gonna punch him in his radioactive blue dong.

Yes.

I'm picking myself apart

I have to write a poem for tomorrow.

I'm running on zero motivation, I've barely eaten in three days, and i'm intentionally self-destructing so I can have something worth writing.

I totally understand why Van Gogh cut off his ear.

Werewolves Sunk the Titanic (It's Not Personal, It's Dinner)

The ocean air brings out the beast in me,
claiming your maiden with sharp teeth and sharper cold.

But, my darling, you taste so good tonight with the moon in your eyes
and the salt in your lungs. The Atlantic is calling your name.

I’m sorry for how this happened. I hope it helps you to know,
I feel the most at home, peeling the skin from your bones.

Dear NBC

Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop doing the same thing over and over and over on Heroes.

Yes, watching Nathan swoop in at the absolute second and save Peter from becoming a meat pancake was endearing during the first season, it was even acceptable for the finale when Nathan flew him up into the sky and let him explode out of harms way, but again? Seriously NBC, using Senator Petrelli to rescue Peter every time he has a near death experience is cheap, and it's old.

On that note, quit threatening to blow up cities. First Peter in New York, now Matt in DC.

I understand that when everything goes to Hell the best option is to go home, go back to your roots, go back to what works, but this is just a crappy version of season one.

Claire's character is worthless, the albino looking dude is a douche, and this story is no longer engaging.

I promise, I can write better dialogue than this left handed.

Eat It,
-Nathan Doyle and countless disappointed viewers.


Btw, if you begin the next season with the government developing a line mutant hunting robots I'm reporting to Marvel for copyright infringement.

"We will wear compassion,
we will wear it on our chests
and sing with love at our throats-
like a child, it's all I know"