"Honest to Blog!"

Killer Kitties From Hell

2011-10-25T19:45:00.000-07:00

Beatrix Sanders was eighty-six years old. For over fifty of those years, she had been the owner and proprietor of The Salt Mine, Hualapai's second most popular watering hole after Uncle Hank's place. Though getting on in years and nearly blind, Beatrix remained a firecracker, as full of piss and vinegar as she had been as a young woman of twenty-three, when she'd been an important part of Hualapai's volunteer fire department. Once, years ago, Uncle Hank had drunkenly made a pass at her. Without hesitation she'd viciously slapped his hand away from where it was going and snapped, "I've already got one asshole in my pants, why in the Hell would I want another one?"

At some point in her late fifties, Beatrix had begun collecting abandoned and feral cats, just a few at first, but as the cats began to breed and her collection grew she quickly and quite unintentionally became Hualapai's official "Crazy Cat Lady." By the time she was eighty-six, there were close to three-hundred cats in the backyard of The Salt Mine at feeding time. The majority of this feline herd were "outside cats" only a dozen or so of her favorites remainded indoors at all times, living in a back room of the bar devoted entirely to her cat companions.

At times, when emptying the litter boxes escaped her mind, the stench in the bar was palpable. But Beatrix was a beloved local treasure, so her patrons pretended not to notice, though more than one had been forced outdoors for, as they put it, "a little fresh air." She herself had long since grown accustomed to the smell.

Oftentimes, when business in her little bar was slow or non-existent, and she was feeling especially lonely, Beatrix would open the back door and let her herd of wild kitties into the bar to keep her company. It was on just such a night that Beatrix's story came to an abrupt end. She was listening to the latest episode of Dancing With the Stars. She could no longer clearly see the television but she enjoyed the music, as they often played Swing or Big Band numbers, her personal favorite.

All of a sudden she felt a sharp pain in her chest and instantly she knew her time had come. Goddamnit, she thought, I ain't ready to go yet. Ever mindful of the animals that had given her so much love and companionship over the years, she tried to make it over to open the door and let them out but she fell down halfway and died right there on the floor of the bar she'd served drinks in nearly every night for five plus decades.

At the moment of her untimely demise, there were two-hundred and sixty-four cats trapped inside The Salt Mine. The food and water that had been left out for the indoor cats was gone in less that two hours. Try as they might, the cats could not get into the tightly-sealed plastic buckets of cat food, and once the toilets had been emptied there was no water. The cats had begun fighting amongst themselves for the last vestiges of the toilet water, in the process unplugging the bar's neon lights and, attempting to escape, locking the door.

These were wild, feral animals, whose survival instincts were such that several of the smaller ones were subsequently killed. The others, used to supplementing their diets by devouring birds, mice, and the occassional slow rabbit, had no problem ingesting their fellow felines. For the time being, the body of their master Beatrix was left untouched.

Meanwhile, The Salt Mine's regular patrons, faced with a dark, locked bar, assumed that Beatrix wasn't feeling well enough to open the bar. It was a rare occurence, but not so uncommon as to cause alarm. Each one made plans to check on Beatrix at her home, but circumstances conspired to prevent it. Shutup Amy had an argument with her husband Lupe and went to visit friends in the Bay Area. Hippie was delivering his second child. Uncle Hank found his bar overrun with cowboys and chukar hunters and couldn't get away. And so on. This went on for several days, everyone thinking that surely someone else had looked in on poor old Beatrix.

Meanwhile, back at The Salt Mine, the situation was getting desperate. The cat herd had thinned considerably, all of the old and weak had either died and been eaten, or deliberately killed and then eaten. In the melee, several bottles of ninety proof liquor had been knocked over and smashed. Literally dying of thirst, many of the cats had eagerly lapped up the spilled liquid. Those that did became even more violent towards the others.

Unlike dogs, who mostly remain fiercely loyal and loving to their humans, a cat's loyalty goes only so far, and they love only themselves. Before their kindhearted mother Beatrix's body had even grown completely cold the insane and drunken wildcats were on her, tearing and ripping and greedily chewing her dead flesh like she were no more than Meow Mix, or the contents of a can of Whiskas brand cat food, dead old lady flavor. They feasted on their former master with reckless abandon, picking her bones clean like the coyotes had often done to those of their number that had wandered too far into the desert, all the time continuing to drink hard liquor like street people on welfare check day.

Iverson pulled his truck into the parking lot of The Salt Mine. He made it a point to stop by and have a couple beers and chat with Beatrix at least once a week, but a wildfire had kept him away for the last two. Unlike everyone else, when faced with a dark and locked bar, he was undeterred. If Beatrix wasn't at the bar, he would go to her house. He knew that, feeling well or not, Beatrix looked forward to the time they spent together almost as much as he did. If she was sick he would make her some tea or heat up some soup for her. When she didn't answer her door he knew something was wrong.

The people of Hualapai rarely locked their houses, and Beatrix was no exception. A quick search of her place told Iverson that she hadn't been there in days. Back at The Salt Mine, he didn't hesitate. He put his boot to the door and with one solid kick it flew open, revealing a scene of such carnage and horror that Iverson, no stranger to either, was nevertheless unsure whether to scream, shit his pants, or both at once.

A decimated skeleton, the remains of Beatrix, he could tell by the red hair, lay in the middle of the floor, surrounded by broken bottles of booze and red-eyed hellcats that even Tyson's dogs would have hesitated to chase. He had a brief moment to wish he was holding his fireman's axe, and then they were on him.

He fought hard, stomping as many as could to death, but in the end there were just too many of them. So this is it, he thought, this is how it ends. He, Iverson; Fireman, warrior, tweaker slayer, killed by a bunch of old lady's goddamn cats. This is why I've always been a dog person he thought, then his jugular was ripped open, and he thought no more.

Some of the cats stayed behind to feast on their fresh kill, but most of the herd, still well over a hundred in number and now pure Evil, raced out the open door and into the night, to quench their insatiable thirst for human blood among the unsuspecting townsfolk of Hualapai.

The Devil's Pancakes

2011-01-19T02:17:00.000-08:00

The Devil’s Pancakes
By: Robert J. Day
Copyright 2011, Robert J. Day

And He (Jesus) asked him (the man), "What is thy name?" And he answered, saying, "My name is Legion: for we are many. -Mark 5:9

Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face.
-Nelson DeMille

Sometimes
The Devil is a gentleman.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Paul Scranton walked into an International House of Pancakes. Where is not important, it was a small town in the middle of nowhere, like so many towns he’d been to. Been through. Paul was a drifter, had been for some time, for almost as long as he could remember he had been going. Going, going, but never arriving at a destination, never stopping, never staying. He was dirty, he was tired, and he was very hungry. He planned to spend his last five dollars on whatever sort of meal he could afford before walking to the freeway onramp and sticking out his thumb, destination unknown.

The restaurant was unusually crowded, even for a Sunday morning. A line of people stood inside the door and out into the parking lot, waiting to be seated. The other patrons all seemed to belong to the same church whose services had just concluded. They did their best to ignore Paul, who looked like he’d slept in a dumpster because he had in fact slept in a dumpster, and talked about what a great sermon the pastor had delivered on the subject of “Christian Charity.“ It was almost an hour before Paul finally scored a booth. He sat down and eagerly scanned the menu, looking for the cheapest things that would be the most filling. It could be a day or even two before he ate again.

“Pardon me” said a deep, pleasant voice, “I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve got this booth all to yourself.”

The voice, Paul saw when he looked up from his menu, belonged to an older man about sixty-five or so, with a perfect pompadour of white hair, dentures that were just a touch too large, and dressed in a suit that while obviously expensive and tailored, had seen better days.

“I don’t mean to intrude” the man went on, “but if you’d be so kind as to share your booth with me, I’d be happy to pay the bill when our meal is concluded. Would that be satisfactory?”

“Uh, yeah alright, sit down then.” Never turn down a free meal. All of a sudden Paul’s bowl of oatmeal with a side of toast was now an enormous stack of banana pancakes with whipped cream and a side order of sausage links and bacon.

“Excellent! I can tell you’re a man who knows a deal when he hears one Mr. um…”

“Scranton, Paul Scranton. Nice to meet you sir.”

“Sir even. My, my, how polite you are. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well young sir. My name is Legion. Mr. Legion. Let me ask you something Mr. Scranton…”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“What is it you want most in the world?”

“Banana pancakes.”

“Ha! Banana pancakes indeed! And you shall have them for here comes our waitress now. But I don’t mean for breakfast Mr. Scranton. No, no, I mean what do you want most in Life? Fame, Fortune? Women? Or men, I don’t judge? Power perhaps?”

Well, thought Paul, breakfast keeps getting more interesting all the time. “Sure, all those things I guess. I mean, doesn’t everybody?”

The waitress arrived and they ordered. The old man surprised Paul by ordering T-bone steak and eggs.

“Oh and please have the chef prepare it as rare as he can stand would you? Thank you my dear.”

“So,” Mr. Legion continued after the waitress had gone, “where were we?”

“Fame, Fortune, and Women?”

“Ah yes, of course. What would you say, Mr. Scranton, if I told you that I have the power to make all of your dreams a reality?”

“I’d say you were crazy and that I’d be happy if you just had the power to make our food get here faster.”

“Of course you would, rightfully so for you don’t yet know just who it is you’re talking to. Let’s say I did make our breakfast arrive at the table in a more timely manner, would that impress you sufficiently enough for you to then take me seriously?”

“Sure I guess, but how are you going to do that there must be a shitload, uh, I mean there must be lots of orders in front of ours.”

“My dear boy, I’ve already done it. You see? Here comes our food now.”

“Already? That’s impossible we just now ordered! That’s gotta be for someone else, another table…”

“Sorry about the wait!” If the waitress was aware that what she was doing was against all the laws of science and nature she gave no indication. “More coffee?” She placed the food in front of them and was gone with a smile.

“What the hell is going here?” Paul was more than a little confused. “Is this some kind of hidden camera show? Are you putting me on?”

“I can assure you my dear boy that I most certainly am not, as you say, putting you on. I was merely making sure I had your undivided attention. I have a proposition for you but first let us enjoy our meal shall we? Such a fine repast it would be a pity to let it get cold.”

Dumbstruck, Paul began to eat, even though his appetite had faded drastically. Who the fuck was this creepy old guy and how did he do that trick with the food? The banana pancakes were delicious, and went a long way towards restoring Paul’s appetite but he made sure to keep his eyes on his own plate. The sounds of the old man’s oversized dentures working on the bloody rare steak was slightly disturbing.

By the time they had both finished their meals, Paul was feeling better about the whole situation. He must have just misjudged the time and their food just arrived rather promptly that was all. His imagination was just playing tricks on him, maybe it was the hunger, he had been a little lightheaded.

“So Paul,” said the old man, “are you ready to hear my proposition?”

Paul had been propositioned before, more than once actually, during his life on the road. It sort of came with the territory when you hitchhiked. There was always some old pervert, or some deeply closeted homosexual…

“If it’s all the same to you I’m gonna have to pass. I don’t swing that way.”

“Neither do I son, neither do I. It’s not that kind of proposition.”

“Okay then, I’m listening. But if you come off with any of that perv shit I’m outta here!”

“Fair enough. As I said my proposition is not sexual in nature. I want to give you every thing your heart desires, make all of your wildest dreams come true, and in return I ask for only one little thing.”

“And what’s that? No wait, let me guess, my immortal soul right?”

“Precisely.”

“You’re insane. Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Oh, I think you know. I think you know all too well, you just refuse to believe.”

Paul looked at the man, and he saw him clearly for the first time. His oversized dentures were stained pink from blood of the raw flesh he’d just eaten, there were tiny little chunks of meat caught in-between the teeth. His fingernails were long, curled, and yellow. So thick they were more like the claws of animal. His suit, Paul now realized, looked ragged but was in fact just singed, around the edges, as if the man had recently escaped from a burning building. The hair in his nose, his ears, and on his knuckles was curly and black, and much too long.

But the worst part was his eyes. They burned with an unholy light that made Paul want to find a safe place to hide, and perhaps cry himself to sleep. Eyes that contained not the slightest trace of anything resembling decency or mercy or kindness or compassion. He could only stand to look at them for a moment, and he was instantly nauseous, his cursed free banana pancakes felt like a ball of hot lead in his guts.

Twenty minutes later, a new spring in his step, Paul walked out of the International House of Pancakes and into his brand new life. He’d never felt better. The old man had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, and when it had come time to sign on the dotted line Paul had barely hesitated.

The Mercedes was parked just where it was supposed to be, unlocked with the keys in the ignition. The tank full of gas and the trunk full of cash, just like he’d been promised. Paul knew that when he died there would quite literally be Hell to pay, but until that day came he had a Hell of a lot of living left to do.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapters 42-51, copyright 2011, Robert J. Day

2011-01-06T13:59:00.000-08:00

*Chapter 42*
Time passes. Slowly for the most part. The stark reality of what might have been, what almost was, drags you down deep into the depth of dark despair and depression. Like a ship that sank into the deepest part of the ocean and settled it’s broken remains at the bottom of the abyss where no light can penetrate the complete and utter blackness and no sound can break the eternal silence.
There is no joy, but strangely enough there is also not much pain. Mostly there is just nothingness. An icy cold void that can not be filled. You are filled with nothing. You are nothing.
Oscar can’t help you, though he doesn’t stop trying. Neither can Blake, or your parents, all whom he’d enlisted in his quest to restore your humanity. You’d remained impassive and unresponsive and he’d eventually returned to work and just left you alone. For now.
You go through the motions of living like the well-programmed automaton that you’ve become; eating, sleeping, bathing, these are just mindless tasks you perform on a semi-regular basis because you can’t find a good reason not to.
Can’t find a reason, or maybe it’s the balls you can’t find. The balls to just eat a bullet, take a dirt nap, or enjoy a nice relaxing bloodbath instead. You don’t deserve to die but you’re too dead inside to live. You’ve lost all interest in drugs, alcohol, sex, even food has no comfort to offer you.
Time passes. Slowly for the most part, but you take no notice. Your soul, or what’s left of it, may be turned off but your body remains functional. Your wounds, your physical, bodily injuries, heal.
Wal-Mart girl, the baby… You could have been a family… Should have been… A good family, a happy and loving family.
You spend your days and a good part of your nights staring at Oscar’s big screen, always the twenty-four hour news stations. Seeking some sort of solace in the world’s misery.
Misery loves company, as the saying goes, and the talking heads, the well-groomed harbingers of doom and gloom on the cable news channels are the perfect companions for someone in your state of mind.
You’ve often wondered how newscasters can be so emotionally detached from human suffering that they can deliver a half hours worth of the latest terrorist attack, of various rapes, robberies, and homicides, in a crisp monotone and then effortless switch to meaningless banter about the weather or a story about squirrel who can water ski.
Even when the subject at hand was genuinely humorous, which it usually wasn’t, their laughter was as phony as the single shake of the head or the “that’s too bad” that was supposed to convey a sense of concerned empathy.
“-was pronounced dead at the scene. At this time the police have no suspects. Alice Jibberson was eighty-one. This is the eleventh reported rape/murder of an elderly woman so far this year.”
Head shake. “That’s too bad…”
Big goofy grin. “And now here’s Debra Fitzpatrick at the annual potato festival!” Plastic grin widens horrifically. “By golly Debra that looks like one heck of a good time!”
Three more children are found dead, then a fourth is found still alive, but dies in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. A little girl, seven years old the television informs you.
She asked for her mommy and for the family dog, Bruno, shortly before she died. The tv didn’t tell that, Blake did. He comes over few days to score smoke and bitch about how there are still no solid leads in the case. You don’t even pretend to give a shit anymore. He’s lost a lot of weight, his face is sunken and haunted looking.
Tonight he smells like he’s forgotten to bathe since the last time he was here, you can smell his anxiety and the pungent aroma of fear. Fear that he’s missed something that could have saved little Sarah Ferguson, or Daniel McNamara or any of the others from being killed and then discarded like so much litter.
He’s smoking pot like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Like a junior high kid whose only just discovered the joys of cannabis, without regard to any kind of moderation. You want to tell him that all that toking can’t be helping him to catch the bad guy, but you can’t the summon the necessary energy and doubt he would heed your advice.
“What the fuck!?” he screams loudly. He’s sitting on the couch next to you. The case file is spread out all over the living room and on the coffee table in front of you are the crime scene photos of the vacant lots where the bodies were found. “What the FUCK!??” he screams again, red-faced and sweating. Angrily he runs out the front door. You hear a car door slam and then he peels out of the driveway, tires barking.
He’s left the case file, forced to temporarily abandon it before it drove him completely over the edge. Some of the photos were taken before the bodies were removed. You try to ignore them but even in your current state of quasi-catatonia the bloody faces and battered, naked bodies are too much.
You slowly start to gather them into a pile. Then you notice something that brings you back to earth with a bone jarring crash. In every picture, amidst the garbage and refuse you’d expect is a candy wrapper. A lollipop wrapper to be precise.
*Chapter 43*
You know you should wait until Blake comes back and tell him your suspicions, but you want to make absolutely sure first. After all, it could just be a coincidence and you don’t want to give him false hopes, not now, when he’s clearly desperate.
For the first time in many weeks, you venture outside the house. The sunlight seems unnaturally bright as you walk the three blocks to the nearest bus stop and you wish you ‘d thought to bring your sunglasses.
Because that whole scene in the liquor store that day was so bizarre, the memory is still clear in your mind, even after everything that came later. There’s no doubt that the candy that homeless dude was buying in bulk was the same brand as the wrappers that were in the pictures.
At the time, you’d thought maybe the bum was using the lollipops to quit smoking or kick some other bad habit, but what if he had been poisoning them and using them to feed an addiction that was far more depraved than alcohol or crack cocaine.
Could the always friendly albeit dirty and disheveled derelict who used to hit you up for spare change and cigarettes be in reality a serial murder, a sadistic pedophile? You weren’t sure, but as you stepped on the bus and paid your dollar and a half, you told yourself that you intended to find out.
The first thing you needed to do was locate the guy, and it seemed the most logical place to start your search would be the corner store by your old apartment. The place you’d seen him at so often that when he wasn’t there you would catch yourself wondering where he might be with an almost parental concern.
For nearly two years that guy, Ralphie, had been if not your friend exactly, then something close to it. Almost like a pet. Yeah, your pet vagrant. On several occasions you’d even shared a joint with him behind the store and you had often bought him a forty ouncer of Malt Liquor when you had a little extra cash. He’d always seemed so utterly harmless, scared of his shadow really.
But you knew that the reason a lot of people ended up on the streets was because they were mentally unstable. Hadn’t you often joked that you were just a shopping cart and some mental illness away from homelessness yourself? So yes, it was entirely possible that your friendly neighborhood hobo had been hiding some very dark secrets.
This was the first time you’d been back to your old neighborhood since you’d been evicted from your apartment and you’d moved in with Oscar. It was still the same dreary place it had most likely always been. It’s filthy streets and badly maintained buildings and boarded and barred windows emitted a veritable reek of poverty and despair. You’d always been vaguely aware of this, but having gotten used to the neat and tidy upper middle class neighborhood Oscar lived in, you saw it all with new eyes.
Quicker Liquors was your average, run-of-the-mill corner store. Middle Eastern owned and operated, with a decent selection of beer and hard liquor and a not so discreet rack of dirty magazines and XXX DVD’s behind the counter.
There was no sign of Ralphie, either in front of the store or in the alley in the rear, so you go inside. For old time’s sake you buy a beer. The clerk is not the same on who sold Ralphie the candy that day, but you lived in the neighborhood long enough to know that he’s a cousin of the guy you want to talk to. When you ask, he tells you that it’s his cousin’s day off but if you come back tomorrow he’ll be working. You pay for your beer and leave.
There’s a park about six blocks away, with a nice tree-shaded picnic area where you used to drink beer and score the occasional overpriced gram of weed or coke. You head that way. Your beer is in a paper bag and you take a few swigs and smoke a cigarette while you walk.
You feel like someone is watching you, and when the same blue Honda drives past a third time you’re sure of it. You turn a corner towards the park, walking a little faster now, and aren’t a bit surprised when a moment later the Honda comes around the corner behind you. Entering the park, you grab a seat at your favorite picnic table, and wait.
*Chapter 44*
You had returned to your old neighborhood looking for a homeless man who may or may not have been poisoning lollipops and giving them to children so he could violate their corpses. Taking all that into account, it’s easy to see why you might momentarily forget a little thing like the outlaw biker gang that wants to end your existence.
But when the man parks the car and starts walking towards you, you find yourself welcoming the confrontation. He’s a young guy, about your age, and a patch on his leather vest identifies him as a “prospect” which means he isn’t yet officially a member of the gang, just a wannabe.
It’s been a couple months since you moved away, and this poor bastard had most likely been assigned the exciting task of staking out your old neighborhood on the off chance that you might someday return. No doubt his orders were simply to follow you home and then report your location, but now that you had actually shown up this ass clown had decided to scare you, maybe rough you up some.
You look for a telltale bulge in his clothes that would tell you that this fuckhead is carrying a gun, and when you don’t see one you relax a little. He could have a piece tucked into the waistband of his jeans behind his back, but you don’t think so. You know from personal experience that that’s a less than ideal location for weapon concealment.
He’s tall and skinny, with a curly mop of reddish brown hair. The smirk on his face and look in his eye say you are supposed to be afraid of him. Not too long ago you would have been, but you aren’t now. Not even a little.
“I can’t believe you had the nerve to show your ugly face around here again,” he says walking up to the picnic table, “big fuckin mistake asshole. Now I’m gonna make you -OOMPH!”
As soon as he got close enough, you smashed your mostly full beer bottle on the side of his head. He never sees it coming and it puts him on his ass, which is right where you want him to be. You reach into the dripping wet paper bag and remove a particularly nasty looking shard of glass.
After kicking him in the ribs a couple time, loving the sharp cracking sounds, like someone snapping dry tree branches over their knee, you put the piece of glass against his throat, pulling his head back with your other hand.
“Listen very closely Douchebag, I have no intention of repeating myself, you get me?”
He nods quickly.
“I am sick and fucking tired of this horseshit. If you boys want to keep playing these games then we’re gonna play by my rules. Rule number one is I kill anybody who fucks with me. That is all. Go back and tell the real bikers what I’ve said. Think you can handle that?”
He nods again. Now that he knows you aren’t going to just gut him like a fish or give him the old Puerto Rican smile, most of the fear has left his eyes. You are not okay with that. If you let him go now he’ll come after you again, and there’s a good chance that he’ll neglect to relay your message.
One good stomp of your steel-toed work boot puts his lights out. You go to work on his face with the piece of broken beer bottle, then relieve him of his belongings. Driving away in the pristine, nearly new Honda, you wonder what a dirty scumbag like that was doing with such a nice clean car.
Twenty minutes later, as you douse the interior with two quarts of oil you found in the trunk and then light it up, you almost feel a twinge of regret for torching such a fine automobile. Almost.
*Chapter 45*
Justin Norwood woke up lying in the grass in a puddle of beer that might have once been frosty cold and delicious but was now piss warm and stagnant. Never in his life had he experienced such severe pain. Every breath was agony, a fresh Hell that would have made him cry out if he wasn’t afraid that doing so would hurt even worse than breathing.
That crazy son of a bitch had really done a number on him, even his drunk ass stepfather had never beat him this badly, he thought as he slowly made himself sit up. Justin felt in his pockets for his car keys while simultaneously looking over at the parking area. When he became aware that both were empty he began to cry softly.
Because his motorcycle was both two conspicuous and uncomfortable for any kind of long-term surveillance work, he had had to borrow a car. Years of drug abuse and chronic unemployment had not made him the most popular family member, not by a long shot, and the only one willing to even consider such a request had been his grandmother.
Grandma Helen was seventy-two. Just four months ago she had spent the last of her retirement savings on a brand new Honda Accord. There had been no money left for insurance. Grandma Helen insisted she didn’t need it because she only drove to the grocery store once a week plus church and Bingo on Sundays. She was always careful she said, and it was a brand new car so she didn’t have to worry about it breaking down.
Justin had begged her for hours and spent many more hours pulling weeds and planting flowers so he’d be able to borrow it. Now it was gone. He might not have cared so much if he hadn’t just move in with grandma Helen after he was kicked out of his apartment when the gang partied there one night. Now he was going to have to like to the only family that still gave a shit about him. Hopefully, the old bag would believe the car was stolen while he was volunteering at the homeless shelter, otherwise he might have to become one of the shelter’s newest residents.
Walking slowly, Justin made his way over to the bathrooms in the middle of the park. His forehead was covered in crusted blood and he dabbed at it gently with a handful of wet paper towels. When he checked his reflection in the mirror above the sink, he started to cry again. Carved across his forehead in angry capital letters was the single word “PUSSY.” Justin was no pussy, but he no longer felt like such a badass either.
*Chapter 46*
After your little carbecue you’d taken the bus home. You were hoping that Detective Blake would be there but he had apparently returned while you were out and then left again. He’d taken the case file and your stash of grass from under the couch with him. He’d had the decency to leave your bong on the coffee table fully loaded, so you take a couple hits before trying his cell phone.
As you’d expected he didn’t answer, so you leave a message telling him call you, “right fucking now!” He needed to know about the lollipops, and also about your little run-in at the park, in case the shit hit the fan. You rather hoped it would. With this in mind you help yourself to a Glock 9mm from Oscar’s well-stocked gun cabinet. Whatever was going to happen, you’d be ready for it. Your days of running and hiding were over.
Oscar came home about an hour later and perhaps because the television was turned off and you had shaved and weren’t wearing pajamas, he immediately knew something was up.
“Feeling better kid?” he asked.
“I guess I am” you answer, and it’s true. You do feel better. Not great maybe, but better than you have in a long time. “I think I just needed a little action to pull me out of the funk I was in.”
“Well,” Oscar says, “it’s good to have you back. I’m almost afraid to ask but what kind of action are we talking about here?”
You tell him about the day’s events, leaving out your suspicions about Blake’s child killer for now. You want to make sure there’s really something there first, and see what Blake thinks. By the time you reach the part where you set the car ablaze, Oscar’s eyes are shining with excitement.
“Goddamnit boy! This changes the game a bit! From now on you better make real sure to watch your ass, and mine too. Those bastards don’t like it when you shit on their colors the way you did today, prospect or no prospect. You better get you some heat and keep it with you until this shit is over and done with.”
You pull out the Glock and hold it up.
“Good, don’t let that get any further than arm’s reach away from you. You gonna tell that reefer-toking detective about this?”
“Yeah,” you say, “I think I probably should. I’d ask him for help but he’s got more than enough on his plate right now.”
“What do you mean ask him for help?” Oscar asks. “You got something you’re planning to do now that you’ve gone and once again stirred up the hornet’s nest?”
“How does complete and total destruction of their entire organization sound?”
“Fancy. And fun…”
“Arson, kidnapping, assault, and maybe even some justifiable homicide.”
If Oscar had looked excited before he was practically jumping for joy now.
“YES! Jesus Christ kid, I was hoping you would pull yourself out of that hole you were in and get your balls back but I never dreamed you would go so completely over to the Dark Side. Let’s have some fun!”
*Chapter 47*
“Look kid, I’m glad you made it back to the land of the living and all, but are you sure you wanna do all that?” Blake has finally returned your call. He sounds optimistic, if not overly excited, at the possibility of the first real lead in his case. Less so at your plans for the next couple days. “Technically I should just go ahead and bust your ass right now. Bring you in for even thinking you could get away with kind of stupid shit. But seeing as how you put me onto this Ralphie character I got more important things to do than once again pulling your skinny ass outta the fire.”
“Yeah,” you say, “plus if you lock me up you’ll have to find somewhere else to score free weed.”
“True. And I really hate having to pay for my smoke. Just be careful for Christ’s sake. You can call me if it’s a life and death kinda deal but for the most part you two characters are on your own. How’s the little guy doing anyway?”
“He’s so excited he’s like a little kid on Christmas morning, how the fuck do you think he’s doing? Right now he’s picking up some supplies from your SWAT buddy you introduced him to.”
“Well,” says Blake, “at least I know you’ll be carrying a full of basket of goodies on this little picnic the two of you have planned. I’m almost sorry I gotta miss it to go look for some bum. Don’t have too much fun without me amigo.”
“Happy hunting Detective.”
“Same to you kid.”
After you hang up you go over your plan for the day, looking for any holes you may have overlooked. There’s a lot of risk involved, but just the same you are looking forward to wreaking havoc on the sons of bitches who tortured you and anyone who gets in your way.
Oscar comes home bearing gifts. A full set of body armor for you, including a helmet with a built-in gas mask. The best he could do for himself was a child sized bullet proof vest. Tear gas canisters, flash bangs, fragmentation and incendiary grenades, a single-shot bean bag shotgun, of couple of anti-personnel claymore mines, and a fuckton of ammo. You were ready for World War III and/or the zombie apocalypse.
“Uh, dude… you do know we’re not planning on actually killing anybody right? Not unless it’s us or them and we have no choice?”
Oscar smiles. “Yeah, but the guy made me such a sweet deal on all this shit I just couldn’t resist buying it. He damn near had me talked into buying an RPG launcher but it was just too fuckin heavy to mess with. Maybe I’m a sick bastard but I really hope I get a chance to use most of this stuff. Especially those mines, and the bean bag gun, how fucking cool is that thing?”
“Man, I’m glad you’re on my side because sometimes you really scare the shit outta me you know that?”
“Love you too. Now gear up and get your ass in the van.”
*Chapter 48*
Oscar’s excitement is contagious, you put on the body armor and you can’t help feeling like a badass. Nevermind that you have zero fucking training, you’re a fucking commando, a Navy Seal or something really kickass like that.
You stand in front of the full-length hallway mirror posing while Oscar gets ready. The two of you load the gear in the back of the van and cover it with several layers of moving blankets and a large roll of bubble wrap. Oscar makes you take off the body armor and stow it with the rest of the stuff.
“How’s it gonna look if we get pulled over? We’re supposed to be two guys from moving company and you got all that shit on. Put it up for now.” Somehow he’s gotten his hands on a magnet decal from a popular local moving company and he puts it on the van door.
Feeling slightly chastised you do as ordered. “Yes mother…” You’re about to climb into the passenger seat when a car pulls into the driveway, effectively blocking your exit route. It’s your mother. Oh shit, speak of the devil. You quickly sink down in your seat. “Tell her I’m not here!” you tell Oscar.
“Too late, she already spotted you man. Anyway she’s your mom why wouldn’t you want to see her?”
“Wait, how do you know she’s my mom? Aw fuck dude, you did this didn’t you? How else would she know where to find me. You are such an unbelievable asshole Oscar!”
“Right back atcha kid. Hey, I thought you should see her one more time. There’s a chance we won’t make it back from this you know, and I didn’t think you would listen to reason so I called her myself.”
“Why?” You can’t believe what you’re hearing.
“Cause it’s the right thing to do I guess, I dunno.” Oscar shrugs.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her you missed your mommy and were too much of a pussy to admit it. Now get out there, she’s waiting.”
She’s gotten out of her car and was standing in the driveway looking uncertain.
“Fuck, man!”
“Just go!” You go. “Hey ma. How have you been?”
“How have I been? I don’t hear from you for months and months and that’s all you can say to me is how have I been?” She pulls back her hand as if to belt you one but then pulls you to her and hugs you fiercely instead. After a moment you return her embrace.
Oscar was right, you do miss your mommy. You’ve never gotten along but you love the woman.
“I’m sorry mom. I was dealing with some stuff. I’m better now. No more drugs. Well, no more hard drugs anyway. Just some weed.”
She gives you the once over. “You look good. You’ve gained some weight and you’re not quite as pale. Oh honey, I was so worried. I was afraid I’d never see you again, after that last time, in the hospital…” She’s crying now.
“Shh mom, it’s okay, it’s fine. You were right about what you said. But that’s all over now, I finally got my shit together. Which reminds me…” You point to the van, “I gotta go. I’m real sorry mom but how about I come over to the house tonight after work?”
“Oh honey, that would be nice, I’ll make your favorite spaghetti. You bring that nice Oscar with you too.”
“Oh don’t worry, Oscar’ll be there.” You give her another hug. “I love you mom.”
“Love you too son, I’ll see you tonight okay?”
You watch her get in the car and she waves to you before driving away. A tear rolls unnoticed down your cheek. You get in the van.
“Ready momma’s boy?” asks Oscar.
“Shut the fuck up and drive midget!” To your surprise, he does just that.
*Chapter 49*
Donald Trevarius, AKA Big Tree, was the president of the Whiskey Marauders motorcycle club. When their shop and clubhouse had been raided, he’d been among those arrested. Because the District Attorney was pushing for an indictment against the club as a whole and because he was it’s president and amongst the various charges against them was one for attempted murder, the judge had denied him bail.
Thanks to the club’s lawyer, nearly everyone else had been bailed out months ago, including Bodie, his V.P. and the guy whose unwanted facial had started the whole chain of events. But Big Tree was still residing in the county lockup’s general population and he was not a happy camper.
True to his name, Big Tree stood six feet three inches tall in stocking feet and weighed in at just over three hundred pounds. The County Jail was a rough, violent place for even the most hardened of criminals but fucking with Big Tree would have been suicide and everyone steered clear.
It was the boredom and bad food that was the hardest on Tree, at least until today. He’d been called out of the cell block by a guard who said his lawyer was waiting to speak with him. But when he’d walked into the holding cell used for attorney/inmate meetings instead of his lawyer he found half a dozen guards armed with billy clubs.
He’s tried to back out of the cell and had been shot from behind with a taser. He’s tried to fight back, but was quickly beaten into unconsciousness. He’d come to in the jail’s laundry room. He was gagged, blindfolded, and securely strapped down to a gurney. They had stripped him of his jumpsuit and underwear, and for some reason he was lying facedown. He didn’t know what was going on but by god somebody was going to pay dearly.
Christopher Stephens was serving nine months for probation violation. Unlike Big Tree he was not big and strong and feared by all. Quite the opposite in fact, he was slender and rather short. He was also very, very gay, and not particular about the types of men he enjoyed. His nickname, given to him by some of the jail’s African American contingent that Chris regularly serviced, was “Firecracker.”
Firecracker worked in the laundry, washing clothes yes, but also sucking and fucking. Unlike Big Tree he liked it here just fine. After his cellblock had locked down for the night, he had been right in the middle of giving a hand job to his cellmate Victor, a Mexican who was married and had seven children and was in jail for something to do with guns.
When Victor was first into the cell with Firecracker he’d loudly threatened to kill the “queer motherfucker” if he tried any of that “gay shit.” Now he was gasping and bumping his hips to the motion of Chris’ hand when their cell door suddenly opened.
“Hey Firecracker!” yelled the guard, “There’s some stuff in the laundry room you need to take care of. Now.” Looking at Victor, who was pretending to be asleep, he shook his head in disgust. “Never figured you for flaming faggot Gonzalez.”
Firecracker was expecting a load of blankets or jumpsuits or maybe an officer’s uniform to iron and press, but he liked what he found a lot more. He knew just what to do with it.
*Chapter 50*
“No. Fucking. Way.”
It seems that Detective Blake felt bad about not being able to go with you guys on your little covert mission. So to make up for his absence he arranged a little party for El Presidente, hosted by some of his jailer friends.
Oscar has just informed you of this in his own inimitable way as he drove.
“Way. It all went down late last night. Right about now that poor son of a bitch is wondering how long it will be before he can sit down without wanting to cry. My money’s on three to four days, but you’d know better than I would wouldn’t you?”
It takes a second for you to realize he’s referring to the night you first met. When you were completely out of your mind on magic mushrooms and had woken up on his couch the next afternoon and been led to believe you’d been voluntarily sodomized. Except…
“Holy shit, you were just fucking with me!” you yell, a palatable sense of relief washing over you. “I was so afraid it might be true I just sort of blocked it out. But my browneye wasn’t sore at all the next day! You were only joking! Right? Right?”
Oscar’s face remains momentarily impassive then breaks into a grin of the shit-eating variety.
“If I wanted to bang a dude I’m sure I could do a lot better than you. So does this mean you’re talking to me again?”
“Are you kidding? I’d kiss you except now I know it won’t go anywhere.”
You laugh together.
“Well” you say after the laughter has died down, “It’s serious now, there’s no turning back.”
“Kid, we’ve got enough weapons and explosives to take on a small army, not to mention land us in prison for decades. But some dude gets fucked in the ass and all of a sudden now it’s serious?”
“Well, yeah…”
You laugh together some more.
The gang’s new digs aren’t nearly as nice as the old clubhouse. After legal fees there hadn’t been much left in the treasury and almost none coming in. They had been forced to move out of the old place because of money laundering and fraud charges against their repair shop.
The new headquarters was a small store front on the outskirts of town but most of the gang preferred to hang out at Ronnie’s Roadhouse. Blake had learned all this from a few of the many criminal informants on the police payroll and passed the information on to Oscar when he’d called and told him about Big Tree losing his butt cherry.
The old clubhouse is your first stop. Because the investigation is still pending it still technically belongs to the club but their business has been forced to close down. You don’t need any of the weapons for this part of the job, just two five gallon containers of gasoline and your Bic lighter.
Ten minutes after arriving, the van pulls away from the curb leaving a towering inferno in it’s wake. Hungry flames three stories high eagerly devouring everything even remotely combustible. Let the games begin.
The next stop was the new place. You had originally planned the same sort of torch and run for this building as well, but as Oscar pointed out that would have been terribly unimaginative of you.
“First that punk kid’s car, now their shop, you are dangerously close to becoming a first-rate firebug. Soon, just the sight of someone striking a match will be enough to cause uncontrollable masturbation…”
“Fuck you Oscar. You have a better idea I assume?”
“Well yeah, now that you mention it.”
Oscar’s idea was a lot better, but it required the two of you to stake out the building for the better part of four hours. Finally, just one man remained inside, everyone else had ridden away in groups of two and three, presumably to Ronnie’s to begin the nightly drinking.
As fate would have it, that one remaining guy was none other than Vice President CumFace. You had a clear view of him through the front window. He was sitting behind a desk looking at a computer print out of some kind. If the look on his face was any indication, whatever it was, it wasn’t good news.
“Stay here and watch my back.” Oscar says, “Go ahead and put the suit on if you want.”
You want. Even though it’s as hot as a summertime sidewalk inside all that gear you can’t wait to put it on. Once you’ve suited up you stand behind the van and sweat as you watch Oscar cross the street. He’s taken one of the mines and a roll of duct tape with him and he’s wearing his vest and armed with the bean bag gun. He’s marching right up to the front door like he belongs there. Very quietly he opens the door and slips inside.
Less than a minute later he reappears. CumFace hasn’t moved, he’s still behind the desk looking perplexed, his back to the hallway that leads to the entrance. Oscar places something in the doorway to keep the door from closing all the way as he steps back outside.
You realize what he’s done and can’t stop smiling as you open the rear doors of the van and remove another gas can. The chopper parked by the door would be too nice to burn if only you weren’t such a pyromaniac these days. Anyway he started all this.
Sure, you accidentally ejaculated onto his face from the second story balcony of his favorite bar, but that wasn’t half as humiliating as being tortured until you cried and pissed all over yourself like a newborn, and you’d also apologized profusely and did your best to compensate him for the inconvenience of the unwanted facial.
The flaming motorcycle doesn’t immediately get his attentions so Oscar throws the big, heavy roll of tape at the window. It cracks loudly. CumFace turns towards the window and when he takes in what’s happening he grabs a pistol from one of the desk drawers and comes running outside. When the front door closes behind him it depresses the trigger switch for the Claymore mine Oscar had placed inside the door.
With a deafening boom, thousands of steel pellets are shot out of the mine in an ever-widening arc. If Oscar had placed it facing the opposite direction we would have all been instantly reduced to hamburger. Instead, the blast rips through the building, the shrapnel cutting through both sheetrock and plywood like the proverbial knife through butter.
Bodie is too stunned to use the pistol he’s holding in his right hand, it hangs limply down at his side. Given enough time he might come around and recover enough to fire a round or two but he never gets the chance because Oscar promptly shoots him in the face with beanbag shotgun. The last thing Vice President CumFace hears before the lights go out is the sound of his nose and teeth shattering.
*Chapter 51*
So far so good. You’ve managed to avoid being killed, captured, or arrested up until now but you still have to pull off the third and final act before the curtain closes for the last time. You’d left Bodie lying unconscious outside the door and were on you way across town to Ronnie’s Roadhouse for the final showdown.
If you hurried and managed to stay alive, you could still make your dinner appointment with mom and dad. There was nothing like arson and assault to help you work up an appetite, you can almost taste the spaghetti and garlic bread.
“Whatever happens,” Oscar says, “you gotta promise me that this time you won’t set anything on fire. I’m seriously starting to worry about you kid.”
He makes a jerking off motion with the hand not holding the steering wheel and winks at you. You flip him a bird.
“You really fucked that guy up back there Oscar. You think he’ll be alright?”
“What the fuck do you care, he wants you dead remember? Yeah, he’ll live, he’s gonna be a little uglier is all, probably got a concussion too… Jesus, what a fuckin shot! Can you believe I was actually aiming for his balls? Fuckin thing don’t shoot like no regular gun, that’s for sure. So you gonna tell me what we’re supposed to do when we get there?”
“Well, you won’t let me torch the joint so I guess we’ll just go in with guns a’blazin like ‘shootout at the O.K. Corral.’”
“Here” says Oscar, “torch this joint. That’s bullshit and you know it, we don’t want to actually kill anyone, just maim and cripple. Hey, don’t bogart, pass that shit!”
You pass the joint and give it some thought. “I’m going to kick over their bikes and shoot out a window or three. The first couple guys that come running out, I want you to shoot in the leg. You can snipe them from down the street with a rifle and provide covering fire If necessary while I send a shitload of teargas canisters inside. Then I’ll pop a can of that colored smoke and we’ll go to dinner at my folks place. You like spaghetti?”
“Love it. Wait, run that first part by me one more time?”
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate Chapters 30-41 Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-12-23T19:36:00.000-08:00

*Chapter 30*
You have no idea where you’re going, and you don’t really give a shit. You just need to get away, to distance yourself from what just happened, what you just heard. You’re afraid that if you allow it to sink all the way in it will take you to a dark place from which you could never return.
For some reason, you are not a bit surprised to see that Oscar is still sitting in his van in the same spot where you left him. You walk over to the car and climb in the passenger side. He’s about a quarter of the way through a joint, and as soon as he catches a glimpse of your face he hands it over wordlessly.
After lighting a fresh one for himself he starts the engine and drives away, still not talking. It’s as if he somehow knows exactly what you need, because instead of taking you back to the house he goes straight to your favorite strip club. The two of you go inside and a grab a table right in front of the main stage.
You light a cigarette and stare off into space while Oscar goes to the bar. He comes back leading a parade of waitresses bearing food and strong drink. There’s hot wings, potato skins, pizza, and plenty of ranch dressing, plus two pitchers of beer, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, and a bottle of champagne in bucket of ice.
Oscar expertly pours beer into two enormous and frosty cold mugs and sets one in front of you. Another waitress arrives with a tray full of empty shot glasses. Cracking open the bottle of Jack, Oscar drinks deeply and then dumps the rest over the tray of shot glasses until the bottle is empty. Through all of this, neither one of you has spoken a single word to each and you feel like you should at least thank him for doing all this just to try to cheer you up.
Before you have a chance to speak though, the generous dwarf throws the empty whiskey bottle at the closest wall, and it shatters loudly against the bricks. The music cuts off abruptly. Uh-oh, now he’s done it. No way are the bouncers going to put up with that shit. You’re about to get tossed out and you haven’t even touched your beer.
But Oscar doesn’t look too worried. He gives you a sly, conspiratorial wink, and then loudly claps his hands over his head. The music starts back up again, much louder than before, classic rock this time instead of the House music they’d been playing. The lights dim, and then you find yourself sitting in the middle of an extremely bright spotlight.
From behind stage emerges yet another parade of women. This time it’s the strippers instead of the wait staff. The entire day shift, eight girls, all of them completely nude of course.
They each down a shot of whiskey before surrounding you. Because it’s the day shift, in the middle of the week, you see a lot of stretch marks, cellulite, C-section scars, even a few needle tracks. You don’t mind.
The girls are all over you, pushing and shoving to get near enough to rub themselves all over your groin area. Then you notice that Oscar is among them. He’s lost his clothing as well, and he’s weaving in and out of the women, ding some sort of mad shuck and jive number. He pops the champagne and sprays you and the strippers down real good. The girls lap up the bubbly where it pools in your lap.
The whole scene is surreal, and so completely over-the-top and absurd that in spite of everything, you finally break down and crack a smile, you just can’t help it. Soon you’re laughing uncontrollably, and it feels good.
*Chapter 31*
Five or six hours later, Oscar finally speaks to you.
“How you feeling kid?”
“Oscar my friend, I am feeling no pain.”
And it’s true. The pain is still there of course, but you’ve managed to numb yourself quite nicely. This is partly due to the recent arrival of the night shift, the A-list strippers, and the dealer they brought with them.
Four Ecstasy pills and a couple grams of some good coke went a long way towards equalizing all the booze and giving you your second wind. The new girls are hot, this one Asian chick in particular is especially yummy, but you’re not feeling very horny. The most full figured (fat) gal from the day shift sucked you off while you were getting a private dance a few hours back. Still, you don’t want to appear rude, so you get a few lap dances from the Asian girl.
Oscar, in between lines of blow, gets lap dances from all of them. You realize that since the moment you first walked in here, you and Oscar have been the only new customers. After you managed to scare off the handful of regulars with that first big scene, no one else has showed up. You’d been too distracted to notice.
“Where the fuck is everybody?” you ask Oscar.
“Private party” he says, “I bought the whole place out for the night. Told the owner I’d double whatever he usually made on a week night, and gave him my platinum card. Nice, huh? I mean really, could it possibly get any better than this?”
He laughs loudly as he lights up yet another joint. You let the question bounce around inside your alcohol soaked and chemically altered brain. Could it get any better? Probably, yes. In fact you know it could, just not right now, at this moment. About the only thing that could make this party any better was…
“Chickenwing!” you yell out suddenly.
“You want more food?” asks Oscar. “We didn’t even finish the last basket of wings we ordered. I ended up giving them to that big bitch you got the private dance from, she said she was gonna take them home to her kids but I bet they were gone before she made it outta the parking lot. Whatever though, I’ll have them bring some more. I can’t eat any or I’m gonna puke my guts out, waaaay too much Whiskey…” he trails off.
“No,” you say, “we have to go and get Chickenwing. The person, not the food.” Dereck would love all this shit, it’s his idea of what Heaven would be like if such a place really existed. You realize you really miss the fat bastard. Or maybe it’s just the Ecstasy. Still…
Oscar asks, “Your tweaker friend with the fucked up arm? Isn’t he in rehab?” You might think that being a midget would make Oscar a little more sensitive to those who are different, but you would be wrong.
“Yeah, we have to go bust him out man!”
Oscar sees that you’re serious, and warms to the idea. This sort of illegal adventure is right up his alley,
“Wait here a minute, I gotta go find us a driver.”
*Chapter 32*
The Right Path Recovery Center was a rundown old warehouse that been converted into a drug and alcohol treatment facility a few years back. You and Chickenwing had stumbled onto the website for the place while researching area rehabilitation centers. At the time, you were both nearing the end of and especially long and nasty meth binge.
You had made a pact to get clean together and had chosen The Right Path because it was among the most inexpensive and the website promised “comfortable beds” and “gourmet meals.”
Of course, after the crystal was all gone and you had both finally passed out and slept for a full day and night, you had a good laugh about how stupid you had been for entertaining such a foolish notion. Pshh, rehab was for quitters. It’s not like you were addicts, just a couple of dudes who liked getting high you told each other, knowing full well how completely full of shit you both were.
Oscar rode beside you in the backseat of an aging BMW that belonged to Ginger, a cocktail waitress from the club that Oscar seemed especially fond of. In the passenger seat next to Ginger was Mai Lyn, the hot Asian dancer, whom you had somehow convinced to come along for the ride.
Ginger was a skinny little bag of bones who couldn’t have been an inch over five feet tall, with kinky red hair cut short and a generous sprinkling of freckles across her pretty face. Perhaps her size was the reason that Oscar was so smitten with her, and she seemed rather taken by the charismatic midget as well.
Mai Lynn was nothing less that the combined masturbatory fantasies of every man with an Asian fetish, a club you’ve been a member of since the tender age of twelve. Mai Lynn does not appear to be attracted to you at all now that you are no longer in the confines of the club, which leads you to believe that you may have drunkenly promised her some exorbitant amount of money for the pleasure of her company on this little excursion. A promise you have neither the means not the desire to keep.
Right now you have more important matters to tend to. How to get inside the place, locate Chickenwing, and then escape undetected. And you must do it all while shitfaced drunk and high as a kite to boot. No easy feat, but you’re a ninja, and your kung fu is strong.
*Chapter 33*
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
You’ve just finished telling Oscar your plan and now the dwarf is looking at you like you’ve just sprouted an extra head.
“That’ll never work” he continues, “this place is fucking huge and you think your drunk ass is gonna be able to sneak in there, find your friend, and get him out here without being caught? Seriously dude?” He shakes his head. “Might as well just go turn yourself into the cops and save everyone a lot of hassle…”
“I can do it” you say, suddenly nowhere near as certain as you were a moment ago. “Anyway, do you have a better idea wiseass?”
“Yes I do as a matter of fact. The direct approach. Ginger honey, you stay here, keep the car running. Mai Lynn, you come with me, I may need to use you for bait. Nothing clouds a man’s mind quite like a sexy Asian bitch, no offense doll.”
Mai Lynn shrugs to show there’s no hard feelings.
“And no offense to you either kid, but I think you should probably sit this one out. Stay here and keep Ginger company alright?”
“What?” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “This whole fucking thing was my idea in the first place Oscar!” Oscar says, “Be that as it may, you look pretty goddamn scary with all those stitches in your face and all bruised up like you are, and we can’t have spooking the staff. Not to mention the fact that you’ve ingested enough booze and drugs to kill a large Rhino and can’t walk a straight line.”
“No, but he sure can snort one!” Ginger chimes in, giggling.
“So if you really wanna spring your buddy’s fat ass outta this place, then shut your hole, do what I tell you, and let the midget handle this. This type of shit is what I do. Well, this and make really good porno flicks.”
“Alright, shit, do what you gotta do I’ll chill here” you say. When Oscar gets like this, arguing becomes next to impossible. Besides, he’s right, you are completely fucked up.
Somehow, he appears to be almost sober and you have no doubt that when enters the building he’ll have rallied completely. How the fuck does he do that? It’s like he has super partying powers or some shit.
“Okay Mai Lynn, let’s go” says Oscar. The get out of the car and you get in the front seat. You notice that Oscar seems to have no problem walking a straight line, his back is ramrod-straight in determination. He’ll get Chickenwing out of there or die trying.
“Isn’t he great?” asks Ginger, and you have to agree.
Nothing to do now but wait. Thinking about straight lines makes you remember the vial of coke in the pocket of your jeans. You cut out a couple of big lines and you and Ginger toot up.
“Am I really that scary looking?” you ask her self consciously.
“Nah baby, you look okay” she replies in a soothing voice. She leans over and kisses your cheek, then your lips, and then her hands are in your lap, fumbling with your zipper.
*Chapter 34*
Miguel Perez was dreading another boring and seemingly endless night of manning the security desk. Maybe a couple of the drunks and/or druggies would get into a fistfight after lights out, that would provide a little excitement, give him something to tell Rosa about when he got home.
He wasn’t allowed to watch television or even read a book, not that Miguel was much of a reader, so he spent most nights just staring at the desk until it was time to walk around the building for his hourly security sweep, and trying somewhat successfully to stay awake.
The night was shaping up just like any other, until the two visitors showed up. I could have been the beginning of some hilarious dirty joke; a midget and an Asian hooker walk into a rehab clinic…
Of course, Miguel didn’t know for sure that she was a hooker but she sure was dressed like one. What if the little guy was her pimp? How funny would that be? All of a sudden his night was turning out to pretty interesting.
The midget and the beautiful Asian who may or not have been a hooker and her pimp didn’t actually walk into the rehab clinic, because the doors were locked after dark. The walked to the glass double doors and, seeing Miguel sitting behind the security desk, the midget rapped sharply on the door with a tiny fist.
Miguel stood up and walked to the door, then used a key from the enormous key ring hanging by his side to open the door.
“Can I help you?” he asked politely. The Asian was even better looking up close, stunning really, and Miguel found himself wishing that she really was a prostitute. He’d never been with an Oriental before, only Hispanics and a couple white girls, and he had always wanted to try a piece of the Asian persuasion.
The midget hesitated before answering, he was looking at Miguel very closely, almost like he was sizing him up. Finally he said, “Yeah, let me ask you something. Do you like to party?” Reaching into a coat pocket he pulled out a vial of white powder and a Ziploc bag nearly full of what could only be some seriously high-grade marijuana. The girl pulled down her halter top, exposing the most perfect set of C-cups that Miguel had ever seen.
Miguel did like to party. No, scratch that, he fucking loved to party. The problem was he love it a little too much. He had been clean and sober for almost a year and a half now, ever since he completed the program right here at The Right Path. Well, mostly anyway.
Rosa allowed him a six pack of Tecate a week and he had secretly smoked weed with his cousin Jorge on two occasions.
But cocaine had always been his drug of choice, and until now Miguel had been lucky enough to avoid coming face to face with his old nemesis/lover. Just the mere sight of the white powder in the vial (about two grams, he knew immediately) made his heart race. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Miguel stepped back and let them inside the building, locking the door behind them.
*Chapter 35*
Ginger was very good with her hands. She would have made a great masseuse, or perhaps a magician, because there was definitely some magic happening below the belt. Normally the copious amounts of alcohol, cocaine, and ecstasy would have rendered your trouser mouse all but null and void, but tonight you were on a roll.
First the pleasantly plump stripper gives you a hummer that beats any machine made by General Motors, and now this little redheaded waitress is waxing your carrot better than even you yourself could do.
You grab her blouse and pull it down, exposing a tiny pair of breasts with perky, pierced nipples. Her chest is sporting the same adorable scattering of freckles that decorates her heart-shaped face. You play with her little fun bags a bit but her A-cups don’t even make half a mouthful and you soon lose interest.
You slip a hand under her denim mini skirt and are delighted to discover she’s not wearing any panties. She’s super moist and as you slip an exploratory couple of fingers inside her it feels like your dipping them into some hot bath water.
She moans softly as you delve a little deeper. At the same time, you reach around her with your free hand and lean the seat back as far as it will go. Knowing what’s next, Ginger raises her hips off the seat and stops beating your meat so she can use both hands to pull up her skirt. You mount her, and together the two of you begin to test the car’s suspension.
*Chapter 36*
When the little bearded man told Miguel that he was looking for “Chickenwing” he knew immediately which resident he was referring to.
“Yeah, he’s here” he said, “I’ll take you to his room.”
“You the only security guy?” Oscar asked.
“Yep.”
“What about doctors, or counselors?”
“Don’t worry” said Miguel, “The only other staff on duty is the live-in counselor Mr. Cullen, whose in his room passed out. He goes to bed early and sleeps like the dead. Plus the night nurse in the medical ward on the second floor. She’s either watching an old movie while she stuffs her face or she’s asleep on her cot, either way she won’t bother us, she never leaves medical. Follow me.”
Miguel led the down a series of long, dimly lit hallways, before stopping in front of a door. “This is it.”
Miguel opens the door without bothering to knock first. Inside the room, a large man lie in bed. The way the blanket is moving below his waist, he’s either vigorously scratching his genitalia or masturbating. His obvious embarrassment suggests the latter.
“Miguel?” he asks. “Is that you? What the fuck, I was almost asleep. Whatta ya want? Who is that with you? What’s…” He notices Mail Lynn and falls silent. The bedside lamp casts enough light on his face for the others to see him blush a deep red.
The enter the room and Miguel closes the door. “You got some visitors Chickenwing” he says.
“My fucking name is Derreck asshole!” says Derreck. “And I don’t know these people.”
“You know my friend” says Oscar, “he’s your friend too. He claims that you are just about the best friend he’s ever had. He wanted to break you outta here. I made him wait in the car cause he got real fucked up at the titty bar. I think his girlfriend dumped him or something today…”
“Hey” interrupts Miguel with a hungry, slightly desperate look in his eye, “I thought you said we were gonna party?”
“Sure, sure…” says Oscar. He pulls out the coke and the weed. “Knock yourself out kid. Cut us all out a nice line while I twist one.”
Miguel is already rolling a five dollar bill he’s taken out of his wallet. He grabs the vial and pours it out on the bedside table, loving the way the sparkles under the lamp light. That means it’s the good stuff.
Oscar hops up on the foot of the bed and makes himself comfortable. He produces a pack of Zig Zag rolling papers and goes to work rolling a joint while he continues talking to Chickenwing, who looks stunned and seems unable to take his eyes off Mai Lynn. She’s taken a seat in a desk chair across the room and if she’s aware of his intense scrutiny she gives no indication.
“My name is Oscar, and this is the lovely and leggy Mai Lynn. Miguel you already know.”
“Hi” says Mai Lynn.
“Nice to meetcha” says Chickenwing.
Miguel says nothing, because he’s halfway through snorting a long line of cocaine. He nods a greeting as he switches his makeshift straw to the other nostril. The other half of the line is gone in a flash. So is his eighteen months of quasi-sobriety.
Oscar says, “I’ve heard quite a bit about you Derreck.” The joint is ready and he fires it up.
“Tell me something. Why are you friends with that asshole anyway?”
*Chapter 37*
“He’s not an asshole!” says Derreck sternly. “Well alright, maybe he is, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s actually a pretty decent guy when he’s not acting like a total douche nozzle. He has a soft spot for animals and he always gives money to homeless people if he’s got it and they ask. But this one time when he was broke I saw him take a forty of malt liquor away from this one bum and when the guy tried to stop him he punched him in the face. Still, I’d rather be friends with a guy like that than someone who thinks they always have to be nice to me just because of this.”
He holds up his deformed arm and hand, in which he’s holding the joint. He takes a puff, coughs, then says, “That’s good smoke. Here ya go dragon lady.” He passes the joint to Mai Lynn. Her slender, beautiful fingers linger on his as she takes it and they make eye contact, sharing a moment until Derreck looks away bashfully.
“Yeah, I know what you mean dude” says Oscar, “I liked the kid from the first moment I met him. The son of a bitch can consume more booze and drugs than anyone I’ve ever met, and I once partied with Dr. Thompson.”
“It’s almost like he’s not human or something!” exclaims Derreck. “I’ve seen him eat half an ounce of good mushrooms in one night. The next morning he went to church with his parents! He was still trippin, he said that was the scariest thing he’d ever had to endure, that morning worship service, but no one ever knew a thing.”
Hopping down from the bed, Oscar goes over to the table to do a line. Reluctantly, Miguel relinquishes the straw. Oscar takes a blast up each side, then offers the straw to Chickenwing. “Toot sweet?” he asks.
“No thanks, I better not. They probably won’t kick me outta here for pot, but anything harder and I’ll get the boot for sure. It’s not worth it. Unless… You don’t have any Ice do you?”
“No, sorry, I’m afraid not” says Oscar. The way he says it he could be the waiter a restaurant apologizing because they’d run out of the special. They continue to swap stories about the exploits of their mutual friend. Mai Lynn and Miguel go about vacuuming the rest of the coke up their noses, making small talk in between lines. Another joint is rolled and passed around and is nearly gone when Oscar remembers why they’re there. “Let’s get outta here” he says.
*Chapter 38*
It feels like forever since Oscar and Mai Lynn left. You and Ginger have bee fucking almost the entire time and you’re beginning to lose interest. For some inexplicable reason you just can’t seem to cum. Your little soldier is still standing tall, hard as a granite slab, but every time you start to feel like you’re close to ejaculating the sensation fades away.
You would just give up, but thanks to the Ecstasy you’ve never been more horny in your life. You’ve tried nearly every imaginable position but you just can’t get your rocks off. Ginger is loving every second of it, you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve gotten her off, the driver’s seat is soggy from her juices.
Finally, in desperation, you turn her around and slowly slide your cock into her ass. You’re not normally a huge fan of the backdoor lovin but the Vag doesn’t seem to be working for you at the moment so any port in a storm right?
She’s got a tight little bum, you have trouble getting all the way in. She arches her back and rocks her hips, synchronizing with your rhythm, her eyes are closed and she’s silently mouthing the same words or phrase over and over again, like some sort of ass-fucking mantra.
You grab a handful of her hair and thrust harder as you feel the elusive orgasm building up inside you. Closing your eyes you concentrate on finally reaching sweet release. You’re almost there. Closer. Closer. This is it. Here it comes…
“Hey man, how’s it going?” Chickenwing’s voice, ruining this beautiful moment, killing it. Like a bucket of water thrown over a single lit match.
But you’re past the point of no return. Joylessly, you explode inside her ass, blowing an enormous load that would fetch a handsome price at any sperm bank, if only they paid by volume and didn’t test for drugs.
You pull out quickly, and Ginger pulls her skirt down but not before everyone standing outside the car gets a glimpse of the river of semen that’s running out of her anus. The parking lot is very well lit, there’s no way they could have missed it.
*Chapter 39*
The morning after. Well, technically the afternoon after, but what the fuck ever. The temporary emotional paralysis, that comfortably numb emptiness, brought about by several thousand dollars worth of overpriced alcohol, reasonably priced drugs, and lap dances full of the inappropriate touching of women with self-esteem issues has worn off. You hurt all over more than anyplace else.
You long for the temporary escape of a bottle or bag, or even a needle, but you have no money, and there’s no way you can Oscar to foot the bill, not again. Not after last night. Shit, Oscar. You knew he was into that cocktail waitress, Ginger, and yet you fucked her anyway. Barebacked rear entry, knowing it was wrong and that you could have been caught in the act at any moment. And then you were caught, of course you were, and all you could do was grin sheepishly.
Chickenwing had slipped you a sly wink, but thankfully refrained from comment. No one had mentioned it. You’d stood around in the parking lot, shooting the shit and passing a joint around, you afraid to look Oscar in the eye, afraid you’d see him hurt and feeling betrayed.
That Mexican security guard had asked if you had any blow and after you gave him the half a gram or so left in the vial he’d snorted it all off the trunk of the BMW, never offering any to you or anyone else and never so much as a “thank you.” Then after he made sure that no one else was holding, that there was no more coke, he’d gone inside saying he had to make a phone call and never returned.
Who would have guessed that Chickenwing was actually serious about cleaning up this time? He’d smoke a little weed with you, but had refused to leave even after Oscar offered to score him some crystal.
Even more amazing, Mai Lynn had stayed behind with him, and she was looking at him in a way that said he was in for the best night of his life. They had walked back inside hand-in-hand, and neither one of them had bothered to look back.
Feeling ashamed and dirty, you’d told Oscar you had had enough for one night, and he agreed to call it a night. Ginger had driven the two of you back to the house and without saying a word you had gone inside and, falling into bed fully clothed, had passed out immediately.
*Chapter 40*
You must have slept for a long time, but you feel far from rested, like you were hit by a truck that then proceeded to back over you again, and again. The light shining in your windows goes through your eyelids and straight into your brain, like a pair of expertly sharpened daggers.
You mouth tastes like you’ve recently feasted on a meal made up entirely of fresh shit sandwiches washed down with warm stale beer. You’re lying in a congealed puddle of what you can only hope is your own vomit and you seem to have pissed yourself at some point, but it’s your hazy recollection of last night’s events, and not any of these other things, that bring on a wave of nausea too powerful to be ignored. You’re gonna puke.
You manage to crawl into the bathroom and spend a few minutes with your head hovering over the toilet bowl, praying to the god of porcelain as they say, dry heaving mostly. Still crawling, you get into the shower and turn on the water. The warm spray feels so nice it lulls you to sleep. You wake up shivering when the hot water runs out. After shutting off the water you wrap a towel around yourself and start to walk back to your room.
Your intention is to plop down into your bed and die, vomit puddle of questionable origin be damned, but the smell of food cooking in the kitchen is too tempting to ignore. Oscar is standing on his stool in front of the stove turning what looks like an enormous omelet. He’s nude.
“Hey kid,” he says when he notices you, “you look about like I feel. Grab a seat and have some chow dude.”
You sit down at the table and the towel around your waist comes open but you don’t bother wrapping it around you again. Oscar sets a plate in front of you, a king sized omelet full of bacon, cheese, mushrooms, onions, and peppers, plus hash browns and wheat toast on the side.
You start to tear into it and then stop yourself. “Hey Oscar, I’m sorry about last night,” you say, “that was a real dick move hooking up with Ginger like that. I knew you were into her, I don’t know why I insist on being a total douchebag.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” asks Oscar. “You think I’m pissed cause you banged some chick I got the hots for? I’m a porn star for fuck’s sake! You think shit like that bothers me? Is that why you got all weird on me last night? What a dumbass…” He shakes his head unbelievingly as he uses a spatula to plate the latest omelet. “Ginger baby!” he hollers, “Get your ass in here, you gotta hear this shit!”
Ginger comes into the kitchen wrapped loosely in a sheet with nothing underneath it but freckled skin and sits at the table across from you. Oscar puts a plate in front of her, sets two more plates on the table, then pours coffee for the three of you.
“Tell her what you told me!” he cries gleefully. “Tell her what you told me!”
Embarrassed now, you say nothing and concentrate on your food, but isn’t going to just leave it alone.
“Come on” he insists, “I wanna hear it again!”
You’re spared answering because just then the doorbell rings. Oscar goes to answer it, and a moment later Detective Blake is seated at the table, shoveling food like an Ethiopian at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
*Chapter 41*

If Detective Randy Blake thinks it unusual to find himself sharing a mid-afternoon breakfast with three degenerate drug dumpsters in various stages of undress, he keeps it to himself. His sole focus is the food, and his plate is empty in record time, even before yours and you’re barely chewing.
He looks haggard, worn out and worn down. Like a man carrying a very heavy burden. As he puts his plate and fork in the sink and helps himself to more coffee his movements are slow and sluggish, as if his limbs weighed a metric ton apiece.
Plopping heavily back down into his chair he lets out a half-hearted belch and then finally speaks. “Who do ya have to fuck to get some grass around here anyway? Don’t make me arrest you Oscar, not after you were kind enough to invite to breakfast.” The barest hint of a smile touches his lips, letting you all know he’s just bullshitting.
“You’ll never take me alive copper!” says Oscar in an old-timey gangster voice. Opening a drawer under the kitchen’s granite countertop he produces a large joint. “Puff on this while I go into my office and weigh you up a bag. Will half an ounce be enough to last you Officer Smokey?”
“That will do just fine” says the cop, lighting the joint with a gold Zippo. “How ya been?” he asks you.
“Kind of shitty” you answer honestly, “and you?”
“The same” he answers.
“What’s up?” you ask him. He looks like he really needs to talk to somebody.
“Another dead kid and still no leads…” he passes you the joint, “I’ve got city hall and the parents of all four victims all over my ass and I’ve got nothing. No witnesses. No suspects. Just four dead little kids, all of them poisoned, their corpses raped, mutilated, and left in dirty vacant lots around the city.”
“Eww, that’s gross!” cries Ginger, then flees from the room. Neither one of you pay her any mind.
“I’m sorry man” you say, and mean it. In spite of the fact that the two of you got off to a rough start, you now consider this man your friend. “I got a dead kid problem myself.” You can hardly believe those words just came out of your mouth, you weren’t planning on sharing that information. Maybe Blake wasn’t the only one who needed to talk. You find yourself telling the whole story as Oscar comes back into the room. This is the first he’s heard about the abortion and they both listen intently.
“Aw, that’s seriously fucked up!” says Oscar when you’ve finished. “I figured it was something like that…”
“Jesus, I’m sorry kid.” says Blake.
The conversation moves on to less serious things, the weather, real tits vs. implants, how bad the Raiders suck this year, etc. You’re feeling better thanks to the food, the smoke, and the company. You break out the bong and you and Oscar try to see who can take the biggest hit. You lose. Detective Blake declines to participate.
“I’m on duty and I’m already baked. I better go.” He stands up. “See ya. Oh yeah, I meant to tell you earlier kid, watch your back, a couple of the bikers made bail yesterday. They’re not the ones that wanted you dead, just some underlings whose charges weren’t serious, so you’ll probably be okay. I just thought you should know so you’ll keep an eye out for scumbags. Call me if ya need to.”

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 29, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-12-07T14:26:00.000-08:00

Walking up the stairs to Wal-Mart girl’s apartment you’re both nervous and excited. You realize you should have called first, you haven’t spoken to her since before all the crazy shit with the bikers went down. The day Chickenwing flew the coop to rehab. The day she told you she was pregnant and your life changed forever.
.
You suddenly realize that she may not even be home. After all, it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, most “normal” people are working at jobs they hate. Of course, this woman is anything but “normal.”
.
Your first knock is so light she would need dog ears or highly sophisticated spy equipment to hear it. Cursing yourself for a fool, a scared little boy trying desperately to grow up and be a man, you knock again. This time you overcompensate and it sounds like the Gestapo are at the door, intent on a brutal interrogation followed by a one-way train ride to the camps. You have the absurd urge to yell out, “Open the door, we have you surrounded! Resistance is futile!”
.
Thankfully, before you succumb to this childish whim, the door opens. Wal-Mart girl is standing there, looking fantastic in a dark blue sundress that falls to mid thigh. You catch a whiff of some floral scent, subtle and understated.
.
“Oh, it’s you…” she says, sounding surprised and a bit taken aback by your sudden appearance on her doorstep. “Who is it?” asks a voice from inside. In the living room behind her you notice there’s a man sitting on the couch, holding a Playstation controller in his hand. He’s young, early to mid twenties, scraggly brown hair in desperate need of washing falls down to his shoulders. Wearing an old Megadeth t-shirt, ripped and faded jeans, and combat boots. Your standard issue slacker/stoner dude.
.
“A friend” says Wal-Mart girl and leaves it at that. “Tony I think you should probably take off now, we need to talk.” “Ah, come on babe, I just leveled up…” Tony’s eyes never move away from the television and he makes no move to leave. “Get the fuck out!” she orders him, loud and forceful enough for Tony-boy to get the message. “Whatever. Call me later?” he throws the controller onto the couch, pouting, then slinks out the door, avoiding eye contact with you.
.
The familiar way he called her “babe” puts you off, and you can’t help wondering just what the hell is going on with them. You feel hurt and jealous. There’s an awkward silence that lingers long after Tony is down the stairs and gone.
.
All of a sudden it’s like you’re back in middle school, at the spring dance with your first real girlfriend, Veronica. You’re completely petrified, unable to even form a coherent thought, much less turn that thought into words. You seem to have temporarily lost the capacity for speech.
.
Wal-Mart girl breaks the silence at last. She does not invite you in for video games.
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what happened to you? You look like you got hit by a Mack truck.” After much throat clearing and a couple false starts you manage to say, “I was kidnapped and tortured by that crazy biker and his buddies, but I’m fine now.” She looks concerned and starts to reach out to you, then stops herself. You press on.
.
“Look, my life is a wreck. A totally fucked up mess, and it’s been like that for a long time now. I think I just stopped caring, and could never find a reason to start again. What I’m trying to say is, oh shit, what I’m trying to say is… this thing… this baby thing…” “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that” she says quickly, cutting you off mid-sentence, “I took care of it. I’m not pregnant anymore.”
.
You were about to tell her how you felt about her, that you had finally found a reason to care again and it was her and the child the two of you had made together, but her words stop you dead in your tracks. You feel like you’ve just been stabbed in the chest with an icicle. You can’t seem to catch your breath, and standing there at the top of those gray concrete steps, you feel some part of you, something deep inside, die a horrible death. “I gotta go” you gasp, then flee down the stairs as fast as you can.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Such a Lovely Place Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-12-05T14:41:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1RoHMXDt10

Darkness comes quickly to the desert. On moment it’s day, the next it’s night, almost as if the sun is in a hurry to get to bed, exhausted after yet another long day of burning brightly and relentlessly scorching the landscape. The air had cooled rapidly, and the wind felt good in my hair as I drove down the lonely highway in my rented convertible. The car was filled with the comforting scent of cannabis, both the lingering aroma of the joint I’d just finished and the stronger smell of the still smoldering roach in the ashtray.
.
It had been nearly an hour since I’d passed another vehicle or seen any signs of civilization apart from the paved road I traveled on. I was beginning to believe I had inadvertently driven into a parallel world where I was the only living thing when I saw a shimmering light far up ahead, in the distance. I had been driving all day and the fatigue, coupled with the high-potency Mary Jane, made my head feel like it weighed a ton, and I seemed to be having trouble with my vision. I was grateful for a place to pull over at last. When I was close enough to see the sign that claimed the place was a hotel, I knew I had better stop for the night.
.
It may have called itself a hotel, but it looked like an old, Spanish style mission, a really big one. Adobe walls, tiled roof, even a bell tower. I parked near the front doors, noticing as I did so that there were no other cars in the unpaved lot. They must have a parking area around back somewhere, I thought.

As I got out of the car, stretching my legs, a beautiful woman opened the front door and stood in the doorway. Long dark hair, with a body that was so shapely I was instantly aroused. She was like some kind of desert angel, and all of a sudden I thought I might just have died and gone to Heaven.
.
Then the mission bell began to ring, and something in it’s tone was so undeniably sinister that I began to wonder if maybe I had it backwards and this wasn’t Heaven after all, but that other place people go to. But that’s just stupid, I told myself. I wasn’t in Heaven or Hell, I was just at some weird hotel in the middle of the Mojave desert.
.
The angel’s name was Maria. She rented me a room for the night for $60.00. With tax, my total came to $66.60, which had I been superstitious and Maria not been so normal and so lovely, might have alarmed me.
.
The hotel actually was an old Spanish mission, Maria told me as she led me down a series of long, meandering hallways to my room. It had been renovated to become what it was today, but except for running water and a phone system that only worked inside the building it was much the same as it had been when it was first built well over a hundred years ago. There was no central heating and air, and no electricity. The building was lit entirely with candles that sat in holders built into the walls.
.
Stopping in front of a pastel green door, Maria removed a candle from the pocket of the black apron she wore and lit it from the candle on the wall closest to her. “This will be your room” she said, “you will know it because of the color of the door, the rooms don’t have numbers.” Opening the door, she led the way inside. The room was small, just a twin-sized bed covered with an obviously handmade quilt, next to an antique looking roll top desk and straight-backed chair. An old rotary phone was on the desk. Another door on the opposite side of the small room presumably led to the bathroom.
.
“I will leave you now” said Maria. “If you wish to dine with us it is included in the price of the room but we do not serve the feast until very late. I can call you on the phone when it is time.”
“Sure, that would be great” I said, thinking, The Feast? Sounds good… “Is it possible to get something to snack on until then, perhaps something to drink?" “Yes” she replied, “Just dial a six and ask for whatever you like.” Maria handed me the candle and then left. I watched her go, thinking that what I’d really like would be for her to stay, and get naked instead. As she was closing the door I seemed to hear the sound of voices coming from further down the corridor, a sort of mad, giddy laughter, and words too faint to discern. Then the door closed and there was only silence.
.
It was surprisingly cool inside my room, probably due to the thickness of the adobe walls, and having started to come down off the reefer I was no longer feeling quite so tired. I decided I needed a drink more than a snack, so after setting my small suitcase on the floor and kicking off my shoes I lay back on the bed and reached for the old fashioned rotary phone. When I picked it up I heard a dial tone, but nothing happened when I dialed a six so I tried it again, and then again, and finally on the third try there was a ringing sound and a voice answered.
.
“Hello?” said the voice, a male with a strong Hispanic accent, “How can I help you Senor?” “Um, is Maria there?” I was hoping I could coax her back to my room on some pretense, the memory of her tight little body had steadfastly refused to go away, that perfect ass and that beautiful face. Such a lovely face… “No Senor, Maria is no here, this is El Capitan. How can I help you?” Damn. “I’d like a bottle of wine please Captain.” “No wine Senor, not since 1969 or so. You would like a bottle of our special Tequila yes? It will make you feel soooo niiiice.” “Sure” I said, “even better. And some salt and limes too please.” “No limes Senor. They no grow in the desert.” The line went dead, so I hung up the phone.
.
Almost immediately there was a knock at the door. I opened it, anxious to get a look at El Capitan, but there was no one there. On a tray in front of the door was some sort of clay jug and a single shot glass. As I picked up the tray I could hear that strange laughter coming from down the hall again.
.
I set the tray on the desk next to the phone and poured a shot. The Tequila was darkly colored and one whiff was enough to let me know it was the real deal. I tossed back the shot and was pleasantly surprised. It was the smoothest Tequila I had ever tasted, and left a warm, comforting glow in my stomach. I immediately felt more relaxed, so I poured another shot and drank it down too.
.
When it was gone I noticed there was something left at the bottom of the glass. When I looked closer I knew what it was but I couldn’t believe it. It was a piece of a Peyote button. Now, I have always liked to party just as much, and probably more, than the next guy. I was all for better living through chemistry.
.
But I didn’t appreciate being dosed without my knowledge or permission. I didn’t know how much Peyote was in the two shots of Tequila I had just consumed, but judging by how strange I was already feeling it was a whole hell of a lot.
.
I snatched up the phone to give The Captain a piece of my mind while I still had one to give, but the line was dead. Even though the door was closed, I heard that insane laughter again, sounding much closer this time. Then there was another knock at the door.
.
“What the fuck is going on around here?” I demanded, jerking open the door. I was expecting El Capitan but it was Maria standing there instead. She had taken off her apron and let down her hair, and she was holding a bucket of ice, the neck of a bottle sticking up over the top, and two crystal glasses.
.
“I was told you wanted some wine. I thought I would bring you this before El Capitan tried to give you some of his Tequila. That shit is full of Peyote, only a madman would drink it.” “It’s too late, I already drank some!” I said, pointing at the bottle accusingly, “What’s going to happen to me?” “Nothing you don’t want to happen” was her reply as she closed the door.
.
The stuff inside the bottle Maria had brought was not wine, or at least not exactly, but it was gloriously Peyote free. It was pink champagne. We each had a glass, and the next thing I knew we were pulling off each others clothes and Maria was pushing me down on the bed and climbing on top of me. For the very first time, I noticed the full length mirror on the ceiling above the bed and I gazed at our reflection while the lovely Maria rode me like I was Seabiscuit and she was trying to win the Kentucky Derby. Afterwards we lay together, sharing a cigarette in the slowly dying light of the candle.
.
“That was pretty incredible” I told her. “Not that I want you to leave, but I understand if you have to get back to work. Anyways I’m really starting to feel that stuff I drank. Soon I’ll be tripping balls and I doubt if I’ll be good company after that.”
.
For reasons I would find out later, she found this last remark hilarious. She laughed loudly, and I couldn’t help noticing that that there was a touch of hysterical madness in her laughter, not unlike the manic Hyenas down the hall. It might have just been the Peyote, but I don’t think so.
.
“I do have to go, but not because I have to work. There are no employees at the hotel, we are all just prisoners here, of our own device. Some of us choose to help out a little.” “No employees?” I asked, “What about The Captain?” “El Capitan? Sadly, he passed away several years ago. Too much Tequila.” She laughed again and this time there was no mistaking the lunacy in it. I laughed with her this time, knowing she had to be kidding me, I’d just talked to The Captain on the phone. She dressed quickly and blew me a kiss as she went out the door.
.
After she was gone I realized that I’d forgotten to ask her for another candle, and the one in the room was dangerously close to burning out. I picked up the phone to call and ask for more candles but instead of a dial tone all I heard was static that sounded disturbingly like millions of whispering voices, none of which had anything nice to say.
.
I hung up and decided to check the small dresser, maybe there would be a candle in one of the drawers. If not I could always steal one from the hallway, but for some reason the idea of leaving the room was a little frightening. The first two drawers were empty but in the third was a large black candle, a book of matches from the International House of Pancakes, and a Gideon’s bible.
Placing the candle on top of the dresser, I lit it with one of the matches and because I had nothing better to do I picked up the bible and opened it at random. I was expecting the usual thees and thou shalt nots, the words of Christ in red… but the pages were blank. All of the pages were blank I quickly realized as I flipped through the book.
.
As I neared the front I started to come upon words at last. But not printed scripture, hastily scrawled pen and pencil, random stuff not unlike what you’ll find on the restroom walls of every highway rest stop in America. “Jimmy wuz here!” “So was Richard!” “For a good time, call The Captain!” “Free rolling papers!” Those last two made me laugh a little. Inside the front cover, in purple ink, some anonymous poet had written four lines of verse:
“Anytime of year,
you can find it here.
What a nice surprise,
bring your alibis!”
.
I dug around in my suitcase until I found a pen then a lit a cigarette and smoked while I tried to think of what to write, finally settling on, “Four out of five voices in my head recommend this hotel!” Not very original but the best I could do under the circumstances. I was high as a kite and it was getting hard to concentrate on anything. I put the unusual bible back in the drawer, put my cigarette out in a half empty glass of champagne, and laid back on the bed.
.
Sometime later the phone woke me up. I felt like been asleep for hours but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The black candle didn’t appear to have burned down at all. I was still undoubtedly out of my gourd but I felt a little more in control.
.
I answered the phone, hoping it would be Maria, or even El Capitan. I wasn’t pissed off at him for dosing me now that I was starting to really enjoy my buzz. Instead, a male voice I’d never heard before exclaimed brightly, “Wake up Sleepyhead, it’s time for the feast! You don’t want to be late do you? You’re the guest of honor!” “You said I was the guest of honor!” whined a shrill voice in the background. “We’re ALL the guests of honors!” screamed the first voice, without bothering to move the phone away from his mouth. “It’s really you!” he whispered into my still ringing ear. “I heard that!” screeched the second voice. “SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I’LL PUT THE GODDAMN LEECHES ON YOU!!”
.
I managed to avoid permanent hearing loss by holding the phone out at arms length. There was the sound of shattering glass in the background, the a muffled sobbing that quickly became uncontrollable giggling. “Anyway,” said the mystery caller in a normal conversational tone, “get dressed. Or undressed if you prefer, and get over to the dining hall pronto! The Master hates to be kept waiting!” There was a click and the line went dead. I still hadn’t said a word.
.
I didn’t know who had called me, or who “The Master” was, and I didn’t have a clue how to get to the dining hall. But I did know one thing, I was crazy high and tired of being fucked with. Obviously these freaks were indulging in a bit of fun at my expense. Well what the hell I thought, I can dig it. There were certainly worse things that could happen to me than having my chemically soaked brains fucked out by a beautiful Hispanic girl. Clearly, these people knew hot to have a feloniously good time, what was the harm in playing along?
.
Opening my suitcase, I took out my bathrobe and put it on over my boxer shorts. I grabbed the Tequila, my cigarettes and bag of weed, then tore out a couple of bible pages to roll with. I slipped on my shoes, then grabbed the black candle and left the room, no longer fearful. In fact I was feeling great. “I’m the guest of honor!” I yelled out loud to the empty hallway.
.
Finding the dining hall was as easy as following the smell of food down to the end of the long corridor. A pair of enormous double doors stood at eh entrance and swung inward as I approached. “Let the feast begin!” announced a commanding voice.
.
The dining hall was a large room, at the center of which was a long wooden table. The table was covered with gold and silver place settings and matching candelabras. Seated around this table were people dressed in medieval masquerade costumes. To the left of the table, a group of musicians, also in costume, sat motionless in straight-backed chairs.
.
All eyes were on me as I approached the only unoccupied seat. In the seat of the chair was a mask of the same animalistic style that everyone else was wearing. Mine was some sort of a bird, it looked like an eagle to me.
.
My chair was at the far end of the table. Straight across from me at the other end was a goat. To the goats right sat a dog, bear, fish, and cat. Along the other side was a deer, horse, frog, and fox. The musicians were all rabbits.
.
I put the mask on, tying it behind my head, and sat down. Apparently this was the signal for the band to begin playing because at that exact moment they came to life and struck up a lively tune. Instead of “Greensleaves” or something equally appropriate given the renaissance-like setting, I realized they were playing an instrumental version of “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath.
.
My memory of the next couple hours isn’t very good because this is when the Peyote kicked into overdrive and shit got real weird, real fast. All around the table crazy conversation raged while tuxedoed waiters wearing plain white masks brought food that for the most part went uneaten and drinks that were greedily consumed by all.
.
For awhile I discussed the merits of various sexual positions with the cat, doggystyle vs. missionary, etc. I recall she seemed quite fond of the 69 and wasn’t opposed to anal sex, she just didn’t particularly enjoy it, which didn’t stop her from offering. I politely declined, saying I was hallucinating just a little too much.
.
It was true too, some of the hor d'oeuvres seemed to be crawling around on their platters and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw one of the musicians bash another’s brains in with a violin but when I turned my head they were playing normally and never missed a note of Inna Godda Davida.
.
The fish must have overheard my conversation with the cat because right as he was in the middle of telling the fox and the bear a long story about harvesting black market organs from undocumented day laborers, illegal aliens picked up from in front of various home improvement stores, he turned to her and asked if she would blow him under the table. Without a word, she disappeared beneath the tablecloth.
.
The fish tried to continue telling his story but was quickly distracted. He gasped and moaned, and I saw his eyes roll back in his head until only the whites were visible beneath his mask. The frog was busily cutting lines of coke on an empty serving platter so I moved over to the cats vacant seat and asked if I could join him. I thought maybe a little Bolivian marching powder would balance me out.
.
“But of course my good man!” said the frog. I recognized his voice as the one that had called to tell me it was time for the feast. “Enjoying the party?” he asked in between blasts. “We can’t have out guest of honor falling asleep from boredom now can we?”
“Not at all old man!” I said, mimicking his speech patterns, “I’m having a marvelous time, simply marvelous… Although I must confess I’m a bit overwhelmed by all this.”
.
“I have a confession to make as well” said the frog. “I’ve recently started luring homeless drifters into my home with the promise of a bath and a hot meal. After drugging them into unconsciousness I lock them in my soundproofed basement. On Saturday nights, for kicks, I hold them at gunpoint and force them to act out scenes from my favorite sitcoms of yesteryear! If you thought Full House was mildly amusing back in the nineties, just imagine if it had starred a bunch of half-starved winos begging you to spare their lives!”
.
He laughed wildly, banging his fist on the table and spilling several hundred dollars worth of cocaine onto the floor. I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to say to that but luckily I was spared trying to come up with a response, because at that moment the goat, who had up until now been as still and silent as a statue stood up and clapped his hands twice. The band stopped playing and everyone at the table was instantly silent. The cat emerged from beneath the table and wiped her lips and chin with a napkin. “It is time for the main course!” boomed the goat.
I remember thinking that he must have been wearing contact lenses, because his eyes glowed a bright, fiery red.
.
Upon hearing his words everyone began yelling and screaming and laughing and working themselves up into such a frenzy of excitement that it pulled me in and I added my own voice to the deafening roar and began to get excited myself. I don’t know why, main course or not I was nowhere near hungry but their insanity was contagious.
.
Two waiters appeared, carrying between them an enormous covered serving platter that I thought probably contained a turkey, or maybe a duck. The waiters set the covered dish down on the center of the table, and after receiving a nod from the goat removed the lid.
.
The “main course” was not a chicken or turkey or duck, or even a turducken. It wasn’t a honey-glazed ham and it was not a pot roast with carrots and potatoes. I don’t really know what the fuck it was but it looked like some sort of demon baby and it was still very much alive.
.
It had hoofs instead of feet, sharp pointed teeth, and horns. It was much bigger than any human baby I have ever seen. It was looking right at me with black eyes that were filled with such knowing malice I started to scream again but this time out of pure terror.
.
All around the table the other dinner guests were grabbing weapons. Some drew daggers from scabbards they wore on their belts, others wielded knives from the table. They jumped up onto the tabletop and attacked the beast, plunging their blades into it from every angle.
.
It should have been killed almost instantly but instead this only seemed to enrage the thing. It shrieked and lashed out with tiny claws that nevertheless tore off half the face of the woman wearing the deer mask who had been trying to lap up the thick red blood flowing from the things stab wounds. Her mask came off, and I recognized Maria.
.
I began to scream louder and the next thing I remember I was running towards the door. Then I was in the hallway, frantically trying to find my room, where I had stupidly left my car keys. But everything looked different that it had before, the passages seemed longer, and the colors of the doors different.
.
Even though I was pretty sure I had come straight down the hall from my room to the dining hall, in desperation I started turning corners at random and somehow I ended up at the front desk. A young man sat behind it, reading an old copy of Rolling Stone magazine. He looked surprisingly, thankfully, normal. Just a guy passing the time at his boring job.

“Please man, tell me what room I’m in so I can get my car keys and get the hell out of here! I have to get out of here!” I shouted. “Relax” said the night man, “we are programmed to receive. You can check out anytime you like, but you can NEVER leave.”
.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate Chapter 28, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-12-02T12:27:00.000-08:00

You spend the next two days in a Vicodin-induced haze, lying on the couch in the living room, watching old movies, smoking grass, and greedily consuming the meals Oscar cooks for you. Little by little, you start to feel like yourself again. On the third day, you decide you’re ready to face Wal-Mart girl and tell her how you feel, that you want to be a family. You, her, and baby makes three.
.
The shitheap you’d driven to go and try to pay off the bikers went missing in action the same time you did, so Oscar agrees to drive you over to Karen’s apartment. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining brightly and there’s just the right amount of a breeze blowing to make the weather perfect.
.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the van you roll down your window and ask Oscar about something that’s been bugging you. “Hey man, how come you’re doing all this anyway? You really went out of your way to help me. Letting me stay at your place, getting me a job and then loaning me the two grand, and now taking time off of work to take care of my broke up ass. What gives Oscar?”
.
Oscar seems uncomfortable with your words, and he’s quiet for a good long while, seemingly trying to find the right words. You notice his usually rock steady hands tremble the tiniest bit as he lights a cigarette. “Look kid” he finally says, “I have almost a million and a half in the bank. I own my house outright, and six more nicer ones that I rent out. Money isn’t a problem for me, in other words. Money I got. What I don’t have is many real friends. Most people look at me like I’m some kind of freak who belongs in a sideshow somewhere. Hell, maybe I am, I dunno…
.
I started doing porn because I was a twenty-three year old virgin and I wasn’t sure I would ever get laid. Even the people who don’t look down on me, no pun intended, still treat me differently. But not you. And as long as that never changes we are friends you and I, and anything I have is yours. Now shut the fuck up a minute, and start thinking about what you’re going to say to the coke-snorting, shoplifting, gun-toting, Nymphomaniac who is currently carrying your demon spawn, cause we’re here. You want me to wait?” Oscar asks, as he pulls into a vacant parking spot. “No it’s cool” you say, “I’ll see you at the house later. Thanks man. For everything.”

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 27, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-11-29T16:19:00.000-08:00

“So can somebody tell me what the fuck happened? I mean, I know my side of the story, but how did we all end up here?” The three of you are sitting around Oscar’s kitchen table, cold bottles of Heineken in front of you, and the awkward and emotional moment from before safely behind you.
.

Oscar tells you about how he became suspicious when you never returned to the house and how, in desperation, he finally approached Detective Blake for help. “I guess I felt bad about hitting you, and about what happened to car, even though like I told ya before it wasn’t me that did it. Oscar here told me that you were a decent guy, deep down, and that you were in the process of getting your shit together.” The detective smiled. “Eventually he made me believe him. Anyway, how could I pass up the chance to finally nail those fucking scumbags?”
.
“Did you nail them?” asks Oscar. Leaning back in his chair he lights a join he’s pulled from his cigarette pack. He inhales deeply, then to your surprise he offers the joint to the cop. What’s even more surprising is that Blake takes an even bigger hit than Oscar had and then passes the joint to you before saying, “You bet your sawed-off ass I did. Nailed ‘em to the fucking wall, every last one of ‘em. Kidnapping, attempted murder, plus drug trafficking and a shitload of gun charges. It turns out that the safe in the bike shop was chock full of crystal meth and stolen firearms. Of course, I’m going to need you to testify amigo… Can I count on you?”
.
Normally, what the cop is asking you would go against all that you hold dear, but those biker thugs took great pleasure in torturing you and would surely have killed you over what amounted to nothing more than a stupid accident. “Yes sir,” you say, looking him dead in the eye, “completely.”
.
Oscar fills you in on the rest of the story while you smoke the rest of the joint. He tells you about how Detective Blake was able to lead most of the gang away, disguised as an Aztec Warrior, and how he was then able to take out Roach and Crowbar, using a flash bang grenade Blake had “borrowed” from the local SWAT team, and his own taser.
.
“I been dying to try that thing out on some poor bastard ever since I bought it” he said, pulling out and brandishing it at an invisible foe, “strongest one on the market, guaranteed to knock a Rhino flat on it’s ass!”
.
“What was up with the dude with the video camera in the car out front?” you ask. “Oh, he was just one of the cameramen from work, I paid him to stake out the place. Figured they might hold off on killing you if they thought there was an investigator or reporter snooping around. Cameras have a tendency to make people nervous.”
.
“Probably kept me from taking a bullet or two” said Detective Blake, “good call on having him follow me. You should have seen the way those bastards scattered when I pulled into the lot at the station. Between me and your camera guy, we were able to tell enough lies to finally get a warrant. I rounded up a few of the men from SWAT and we went back to the clubhouse and took ’em down. It was fucking beautiful I’m telling ya!”
.
“So what happens now?” you ask. “Now you heal up as best ya can and when it comes time for those jokers to go to trial I’ll let you know. If you have any problems before then, anyone tries to persuade you not to testify, you let me know. In the meantime, I have got to find the sick son of a bitch that’s running around killing kids. Business as usual.”
.
He finishes his beer in one long swallow. He’s clearly stoned, looking less like a hard ass now and more like a bear that’s recently awakened from hibernation. “Damn, that is some Primo shit Oscar. I’ll be calling you for a bag of that real soon. On the house of course. “Of course officer” says Oscar. He flips the cop a bird, grinning widely.
.
“Be seeing ya” says Detective Randy Blake, saver of your ass and your new buddy. He shakes hands with you both and then he’s out the door.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 26, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-11-23T16:46:00.000-08:00

Once again, Oscar’s connections in the adult film industry have proven useful to you. Besides the director who had given your first real job in nearly a year, and the costume designer who made Detective Blake’s Aztec Warrior colors, he also knew a doctor who was willing to make discreet house calls.
.
The old sawbones was in his mid seventies, and had the shaky hands and permanently bloodshot eyes of the alcoholic who long ago passed the point of no return. Aside from regularly testing Oscar and his co-workers for sexually transmitted diseases, he would occasionally be called on by certain less than reputable characters to discretely remove a bullet or stitch up a particularly nasty knife wound.
.
In spite of his shaky hands he does an excellent job of patching you up and cleaning your many cuts and abrasions. You’d suffered a severe concussion, a pair of cracked ribs; and a cut over your right eye required eleven stitches, ensuring that you would soon have a gnarly looking new scar to add to your collection. As if you weren’t already ugly enough. Four stitches took care of your split lip, and the rest of the damage was just scrapes and bruises. From head to toe, but you still feel extremely lucky to be alive.
.
Randy Blake shows up right as the old doctor was finishing up.“Thanks Doc” you say, meaning both thanks for fixing you up and for the bottle of Vicodin he’s just handed you. “Be careful with those” says the doctor. “In the shape you’re in if you take too many and pass out you might never wake up” he says, his tone of voice indicating he could really care less either way. Oscar hands him an envelope, presumably with cash inside, and without another word the drunken doc is gone, nodding curtly to the portly detective on his way out.
.
There is a long moment of awkward silence, no one knowing quite what to say, so you do what you always do in these types of situations, you make a bad joke. “If you’re here to break my nose again Detective, do me a huge favor and come back tomorrow okay?”
.
No one laughs, and realizing that you sound like an ungrateful asshole and acting on instinct, you cross the room and wrap your arms around the big cop, pulling him into a hug that makes your broken ribs scream. Caught off guard, Detective Blake returns the embrace very briefly and then steps back. To your complete and utter astonishment, he looks a little misty-eyed.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 25, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-11-20T11:34:00.000-08:00

It takes a moment for you to realize that the gunshots you just heard are most likely a good thing and not the sound of your impending doom. Understandable considering the fucked up condition you’re in.
.
“Sonuvabitch!” you hear someone yell, “It’s one of the fuckin Aztecs! Goddamn Spic shot out the front windows of the shop!”
.
“Let’s get the greasy fucker!” shouted someone else, “Keep your weapons put away until we’re out of sight of that dickhead with the camera outside! Roach, Crowbar, you guys keep an eye on our little friend in the chair, the rest of you mount up and let’s ride. Move it!”
.
You hear the sound of a bunch of Harleys firing up and taking off. Shit. Looks like the Calvary isn’t here to rescue you after all. What the fuck? Well, maybe someone else heard the shots and the cops are on their way.
.
Then again, in this neighborhood it’s more likely they would mind their own business, such business consisting of pimping or selling narcotics. You’re starting to slowly realize that you are going to die without ever seeing your firstborn child. What a shitty way to go.
.
Just then there’s a loud bang that makes your ears ring painfully and a flash of light so bright it penetrates the pitch black behind the tape over your eyes. Very slowly, the ringing in your ears subsides and then someone is unwrapping the layers of duct tape that bind you to the chair. Your eyes are uncovered, but they are so full of dried and crusted blood that you can’t see a damn thing.
.
“Who’s there?” you ask, your voice a dry croak that you barely recognize as your own. There’s no reply, but a few seconds later a splash of icy cold water hits you in the face, then another. Your vision clears, and standing in front of is Oscar, the midget porn star who may or may not have plowed your virgin ass while you were whacked out of your gourd on magic mushrooms. He’s smiling a little, holding a paper cone from a water cooler in each hand. You have never been happier to see someone in your entire life. Behind him, two men are laid out on the concrete floor of the garage, Roach and Crowbar presumably.
.
“Hiya kid!” says Oscar, “man, you look like some dead dogshit! Excuse me for a moment…” One of the guys on the floor has gotten up onto his hands and knees, groaning with the effort. Oscar drops the paper cups, and pulls a stun gun from a pocket then gives the guy an unhealthy blast to the back of the neck, then a zap to the genitals, for good measure.
.
“I’d much rather put a bullet in the back of their skulls, but I promised Blake there wouldn’t be any killing, and I’m a man of my word.”
.
Blake? As in Detective Blake, the man who’d broken your nose and then shit all over your car after tearing it apart? What the hell did he have to do with any of this, and how the fuck does Oscar know about him?
.
It’s all too much to try and wrap your bruised and battered head around at the moment, so you let it go for the moment, and Oscar continues.
“We gotta get the fuck outta Dodge my friend. I got the van outside, can you walk?”
.
“Hell yes” you say, and to your surprise it turns out to be true.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 24, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-11-19T15:36:00.000-08:00

At first, while sitting behind his desk and listening to the bearded midget explain his plan to free his friend from the bloodthirsty outlaw biker gang, Detective Blake was skeptical, to say the least. But the more the little man talked the more he began to believe it was just crazy enough to work. The charismatic dwarf was nothing if not persuasive.
.
Essentially, the plan was for Blake, disguised as a member of a rival gang, to pull up in front of the clubhouse on a motorcycle borrowed from the police impound lot and shoot out a window or two before taking off, leading the bikers away from the clubhouse and giving the midget a chance to slip inside and free his pal in the process.
.
“You really think all of ‘em are gonna chase after me, just one guy?” Blake had asked incredulously. “Besides, I don’t look anything like a badass biker type.”
.
“Not yet you don’t,” said Oscar with an evil grin. “But I happen to know an excellent costume designer with a lot of free time on her hands. And no, I don’t think they’re going to leave my boy all by his lonesome, they’ll almost certainly post a guard or two to keep an eye on him. You just let me worry about that, I can handle whoever is inside the building.”
.
Something about the way he said this, an undercurrent of ice cold confidence in his tone, left the detective with the certainty that the dwarf was speaking the truth. He could, indeed, handle anyone left behind, but Blake hadn’t like the idea of a shitload of pissed off criminals using his ass for target practice, and said as much.
.
“Not to worry, I got a man posted outside with a camcorder, they won’t risk taking shots at you with my guy filming them, and they won’t shoot him because they think he’s a cop. Pretty funny considering that you really are a cop. Anyway, they’re crazy, not stupid. Just to be on the safe side though you’ll be wearing a Kevlar vest under your fake biker colors, and you’ll ride straight back here to the police station. My guy will follow you in his car, rolling tape all the way. By the time they figure out that they’ve been tricked, I’ll already have been in and out. We’ll meet up at my place later for a beer and you can take my friend’s statement, provided he’s in good enough shape to talk. You and your cop buddies can go back to the clubhouse with a warrant and bust the whole gang.”
.
Somewhat reluctantly, Blake had nodded. “Alright, let’s do it. But what if your boy ain’t there?” “Trust me, he’s there. I’m sure of it.”
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-three, copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-02-21T20:46:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-three, Thank You For Not Smoking
.
You're still alive, and you're still in the garage, but that's about all you know. Well that, and you're experiencing more pain than you'd previously believed was possible. Your eyes are covered by what feels like duct tape and your sense of time is all fucked up from being beaten unconscious so many times. You sitting in a chair of some kind, held to it with what is almost surely more of the same duct tape that's covering your eyes and your mouth. From time to time, someone would pull the tape off your mouth, more often than not taking a little skin in the process, and ask you questions; most of which you didn't know the answer to.
.
At first you tried to be brave, so when you were asked a question you couldn't answer like, "Why the fuck is that midget still hanging around outside our shop?" You just said whatever came into your head, such as, "Hell if I know, maybe he's got a thing for bikers. You know, a lot of people have wondered what it's like to get fucked by a dwarf. That doesn't make you gay. Just like accidentally taking another guy's load in your face doesn't make you gay. Or does it?"
.
But hearing the sound of your ribs cracking and the ringing in your ears from constant blows to the head with what could only be a crowbar or the business end of a tire iron can really dampen a man's spirits. So can pissing all over yourself when holding it in is no longer a viable option. The last time you'd blacked out, they woke you up by pouring gasoline all over you. Then someone walked around you, flicking a lighter but thankfully never actually lighting you up. Every time you heard the scrape of the flint you were sure that you were about to die a horrible death. Eventually you couldn't help it, you cried. They laughed.
.
At least they hadn't taped your ears closed as well. In between marathon beating sessions, you could hear the bikers talking to each other. Apparently, the guy who'd clubbed you over the head was the brother of the guy you'd given the unwanted facial to. The only reason you're still alive is because Oscar showed up asking questions before they had a chance to kill you . Unlike you, Oscar hadn't been stupid enough to come alone, and whoever was with him stayed in the car with a video camera. This was at least two days ago, maybe more, but from what you could gather, someone has been watching the place ever since. The two brothers still wanted you dead but the rest of the club didn't seem to be willing to risk it without knowing more, so they had to settle for taking turns beating you into oblivion. As long as they didn't beat him to death, the club didn't seem to have any problems with this, in fact a few of them took a few shots themselves, just for fun.
.
Now two of them are talking, and you hear one of them mention the police coming to the door earlier. He's not happy about this. "I say we sneak this fucker outta here after dark somehow and leave his body in a fuckin ditch somewhere." "Sure Fuckhead, and just how are we gonna do that when there's only one way out and it's being watched day and night, huh?" asks the other one. "Hell, I dunno... but we gotta do somethin, and we gotta do it now. That cop comes back with a warrant and we are totally fucked man. Holy shit, what was that?!" Gunshots. Coming from outside.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Part Twenty-two, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

2010-01-24T19:13:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-two, An Unholy Alliance
.
Detective Randy Blake, at just over three hundred pounds, was undeniably a large man. What most people wouldn't have guessed about him was that his heart was just as large as the rest of his parts. By all outward appearances he was a tough as nails cop with zero tolerance for bullshit and a short fuse. But appearances can be deceiving. Detective Blake was a man who cared.
.
So when the midget with the gray beard marched into his office demanding to know the whereabouts of his friend who'd been missing for two days, standing on a chair and shaking a finger in his face for emphasis, Randy couldn't help but feel a small twinge of guilt for whatever small part his actions may have played in the event's that had undoubtedly transpired. And he was sure that whatever else those events might have been, they were in no way pleasant for the missing man in question.
.
Sure, he'd told the guy that he hoped him and the biker killed each other, but that was just part of his badass cop routine, nothing more. In truth he'd wanted to help the man because he felt bad about hitting him, and about what happened to his car. Not that he had anything to do with that, at least not directly. Some fellow detectives, thinking they were doing him a favor, had trashed the man's car (and shit in the backseat apparently) to get back at him for making Detective Blake, and thus the entire department, look like regular practitioners of police brutality. Which of course most of them were.
.
"YOU told him where the clubhouse was!" Oscar exclaimed wildly. "Not only that, you gave him a fucking car to get there in! And now, thanks to you, he hasn't been home in two days and the clubhouse is locked up tighter than the knees of fifteen year old Amish girl! If anything happens to my friend I'll hold you personally responsible. And trust me, you don't want that."
.
In spite of the man's diminuitive stature, Randy was inclined to believe him. There was something about the dwarf that commanded respect, fear even. And he did feel responsible. "Alright, calm down, I'll do what I can to help ya." said Detective Blake. "But without enough evidence to take to a judge and get a warrant, I don't know how to get inside the clubhouse to take a look around. Anything we do has to be in a strictly unoffical capacity. If shit gets really bad I can call for backup but otherwise we're on our own here. You get me?"
.
"Fine, good." said Oscar. "We don't need the cops for this shit anyway. I got a plan, I just need another guy to pull it off. Someone who won't lose their head if all Hell breaks loose, which it probably will. Here's what we do..."
.
He began to talk. Randy listened.
.
TO BE CONTINUED...

CALIFORNIA RESIDENTS, DO NOT SUPPORT MEASURE AB 390!

2010-01-13T12:17:00.000-08:00

Why I Oppose the “Tax & Regulate” Marijuana Initiative By: Dennis Peron
Three Fatal Flaws
1. One ounce limit? 25 sq. foot per building garden size limit? Imagine a law to “tax and regulate” alcohol
that only allows for possession of up to one bottle of wine imprisoning those who exceed that amount,
be it two bottles or a small collection of choice vintages. These limits guarantee confusion, harassment
and black marketeering forevermore. We don’t control alcohol by imposing a 25 sq. foot limit on grape
vines. But one extra gram or sq. foot of pot means jail and even worse; this initiative specifies that if
accused of having too much cannabis the burden of proof is on you, not the state.
2. Singling out those who want to use marijuana for a huge excise tax is just plain unfair. It maintains
cannabis as the most expensive, blatantly overpriced product on the market thus forcing most people
to choose cheaper, more dangerous drugs with huge externalized costs to society as a whole.
3. Sending teenagers to state prison for three years for pot is evil. This initiative mandates that 18, 19,
and twenty year old minors serve three to seven year terms in California state prison for the crime of
passing each other a joint or selling one another a small amount. Under this law if a 21 year old person
passes a joint to a 20 year old he or she goes to county jail for six months. Likewise this measure has no
exceptions for parents in their own homes from the “smoking cannabis in any space while minors are
present” prohibition. We don’t lock up parents for having a glass of wine with dinner and we certainly
don’t tell the kids to leave the house for the purpose of consuming any other substance so why start
with cannabis?
This initiative is bad for parents, students and ultimately the effort to get the state to stop ruining lives
enforcing these draconian pot laws. Initiatives create permanent statutes. This one with its petty restrictions
for personal users, prohibitive unfair taxes, and mandatory state prison sentences for teen agers need be
nipped in the bud. We will campaign and vote against it should its proponents succeed in purchasing the
necessary number of signatures to put it on the 2010 ballot. The tax revenue it will supposedly generate is a
mere smokescreen for the kids it will regulate into three, five and seven year state prison sentences.
Perpetuating and increasing the hundred million plus tax dollars per year the state already spends
policing this harmless plant is wrong yet that is exactly what this proposition does. Surely we can do better
than this. How about just legalizing it, getting the state off pot to save lives and real money across the
board? Please consider how you can help expose and defeat this misleading “tax and regulate” initiative.

Dennis Peron, Author of Proposition 215, the Compassionate Use Act of 1996.
3745 17th street, SFCA 94114 (415) 864 – 1961 cozycastrocottage@yahoo.com
Read the “tax and regulate marijuana” initiative at:
http://ag.ca.gov/cms_attachments/initiatives/pdfs/i821_initiative_09-0024_amdt_1-s.pdf
September 22, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-one, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

2010-01-12T22:32:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-one, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hCiaNKJslU&feature=related
.
Before you confront the homicidal biker gang, you figure you'd better confront the homicidal soon-to-be mother of your child. Let her know that you're okay with the whole being a daddy thing. That you want to be with her, spend your lives together, hell maybe even have another rugrat or two someday. If only you knew how to tell her this. You've never been in love before, never even wanted to be. You'd almost rather square off with the biker dudes, at least fighting isn't complicated. Probably hurts less than this love stuff too. Yeah, that's the way to go, take care of the bikers first, then deal with being a responsible dad. Tomorrow.
.
The clubhouse for what the "Whiskey Marauders" motorcycle club is a large building, a former warehouse with blacked out windows in the seedy part of town. Half of the building acts as a motorcycle repair shop and is open to the public so this is where you decide to go to have your little chat. You park your new shitheap along the street outside, and put the .45 that Oscar gave you in the back of the waistband of your jeans. Just in case. In your front pocket is two thousand dollars that Oscar loaned you after you'd refused to allow him to come along. More like he forced it on you. "Just pay me back when you can." he'd said, "Walk right up to the guy, look him in the eye, slap the cash in his hand, and tell him you don't want anymore trouble outta him or his boys." You hate the thought of having to pay this asshole when the money would be better spent on the baby that's on the way, but it's better than getting dead.
.
There's about a dozen bikes parked outside the shop, so it's a good bet that you'll find your guy here. Now that you're actually here, standing outside the door, you hesitate. You smoke a cigarette while you give yourself a little pep talk. Come on man, you got this. He can't still be wanting to kill you can he? Sure, you blew your load on his face but he's a biker for fuck's sake, I'm sure he's done much nastier things involving someone else's bodily fluid. Sure, he'll be pissed at first but two grand gratis would calm anybody down. Just apologize profusely, be honest about what happened. Keep it real man. Then pay him off and exit gracefully. No fuss, no muss.
.
Resolve stiffened, you walk through the door. The shop is surprisingly clean and professional looking, but the gentleman behind the counter is anything but. He warily watches your approach with bloodshot eyes full of an almost animal-like cruelty. But you're on a mission, and not even this scary looking gorilla is going to stop you from completing it. You march right up to the counter and say, "I'm looking for one of your buddies, we have unfinished business."
.
The gorilla just stares menacingly at you, so you continue, "I don't know his name but maybe you could ask the guys in the clubhouse. Just say it's the guy from Ronnie's Roadhouse." He appears to be giving serious thought and consideration to your request, then without warning he reaches across the counter and shoves you, hard. It catches you off balance, and you fly backwards and land on your ass. You quickly jump to your feet and as you're doing so the gun falls out of your pants and hits the floor with a thump. Gorilla's eyes widen, displaying even more of his enlarged and irritated blood vessels. "Hold on, I can explain" you say, "I'm just here to talk and pay the guy some mon-" *WHAM* someone hits you in the back in the back of the head with something heavy, and the lights go out.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty, copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

2010-01-09T21:48:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty, "A Man's Gotta Do..."
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6xfpaxBHI8
.
"You trashed my car pig. I want you to replace it." Detective Blake does not appear happy to see you again. "Fuck off! I don't know what the fuck you're talkin about but if you don't get your ugly ass outta here right fuckin now, I'm gonna bust ya for obstruction of justice, interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty, and anything else I can think of!" You have no intention of letting him scare you off that easily. "You smashed up my car, filled it full of garbage, and took a shit in the backseat. That last part was a nice touch, but not necessary for me to get the message. But now I got some psycho bikers I gotta deal with, and I need a ride around Detective Blake." "Are you high? You are, I can tell, your eyes are as red as a fuckin stop sign! I don't know who did that to your car but it wasn't me. You have my condolences on the loss of that fine automobile, but that's not my problem punk. What is my problem is trying to catch this child killer that's on the loose before anymore kids end up in small body bags. I don't have time to fuck with ya. Wait, is this about the guy that got a face full of your cum down at Ronnie's Roadhouse?" "How do you know about that?" you ask, pissed off a little that he's smiling now. "What, you think your little girlfriend can discharge a firearm in a public place and no one from the department is going to hear about it? Nobody wanted to press charges or else we woulda already hauled your asses in. I guess the bikers want to deal with you themselves huh?"
.
"From what I hear they want me dead." you say. He smiles again. "Well no big loss there. But I've been trying to get something on those guys for a long time, so I tell ya what I'll do, you go down to impound, and I'll have them give ya a loaner. That way when those bikers kill your pansy ass I can bust em for murder." "You're too kind." you say sarcastically. "I hope you kill each other, save me a lot of paperwork." He grabs a cigar from the dashboard and lights up, blowing the smoke through the open window and into your face. "Now get outta here or I really will bust you. I'm workin here and you could blow my cover. We really need to catch this sick bastard... FYI, the bikers got a little clubhouse down on Second street, it's a red brick building, lotsa bikes out front."
.
You walk back across the lot, to where Oscar is waiting in the van, smoking another joint. "What was that all about?" he asks in between drags. "That was the cop who fucked up my car." you answer. "Holy shit!" he throws the joint out the window and begins frantically trying to fan the smoke out. "Don't worry about him, he's got much bigger fish to fry." you tell him, "No pun intended." "Fuck you!" says Oscar good-naturedly. "Anyway," you say, "how about taking me over to the police impound lot? I just won a brand new car!"
.
Your brand new car turns out to be an even bigger piece of shit than your old one, which shouldn't even be possible. It seems that when your good friend Detective Blake called the lot he told them to give you the worst car there that still ran. It's a Buick Skylark so rusted out you can hardly tell what color it's supposed to be, there's no key, just a screwdriver jammed into the ignition, and the seats have all been slashed, probably from where the cops were looking for dope. But at least it does run. At least for now. You follow Oscar home, letting out immense clouds of black smoke from your tailpipe the entire way, and the two of you sit on the porch drinking beer while you try to come up with a plan.
.
You decide to just go down to their clubhouse and see where it goes from there. They want to kick your ass or make you pay them some money, or both, but surely they won't risk killing you over a little semen, certainly not on their home turf. "I don't know why you're so dead set on doing this alone." says Oscar. "You sure as hell ain't no superhero and those dudes ain't nothin nice." "It's not your problem Oscar, it's mine and I'll deal with it. No reason for you to get involved. Besides, I'm just going to talk to them and get them off my case, I'm not going there to kick any ass." "Good thing. You'd better stick to taking it in the ass, I think you do that so much sweeter." Horrified, you look at him, and he gives you that sly little wink that may or may not mean he's just fucking with you. You're still too afraid of what the answer might be to just ask him outright, so you quickly change the subject. "If they want to bloody me up a little, I can deal with that. But just in case shit does go bad man, you wouldn't happen to have an unregistered gun lying around would you?"
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nineteen, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

2010-01-05T22:59:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nineteen, Growing Up is Hard to Do
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inpKD4vXxZ4
.
"Oscar!" you shout, "Come here quick!" "What is it?" asks the dwarf, coming into the living room from the kitchen where he'd been sitting at the table rolling joints for later. "Hey, you don't look so good dude, who died?" "Me. Wal-Mart girl is fucking pregnant!" You still can't believe it. "Hey, calm down, it's not the end of the world. I know a great clinic, real cheap, they saved my ass when I knocked up this one bitch I did a film with, fuckin lying scank said she was on that birth control shot..." "What? No, no, she's gonna have it, and I'm going to be there to help her raise it! Which means I gotta get my shit together fast. Get the van, I need to go buy some supplies." You've got eighty-six dollars, that should be enough to pick up some baby essentials.
.
"Ah come on man, I thought we were gonna hit the tittie bars tonight! If I got drunk enough, I was gonna show you how I can work the pole, funniest shit you ever saw in your life!" He grabs a nearby floor lamp and demonstrates, gyrating wildly and shaking his miniscule ass. "Fuck that" you say, "no more bars for me, and no more drugs either, except for pot of course, can't quit that. Well no more drugs after the baby comes anyway, and I definitely gotta cut back before that, I'm going to need all the money I can get, rugmonkeys ain't cheap. If you won't take me I'll catch the bus I don't give a shit."
.
"Fuck you, I'll go with you. Tittie bars are no fun alone, I feel like some sort of creep." "You are 'some sort of creep' Oscar, that's why I love you!" "I love you too, but I think I loved you more when you were just a low-life piece of shit, and not a responsible father figure. Jesus, are sure about this? You are aren't you? Yeah, I can see it in your face. Well, let's get the fuck outta here then. Grab those joints off the table, we're gonna need them." You grab the weed and the two of you climb into Oscar's minivan. You're feeling more grown up and responsible already. You even fasten your seatbelt.
.
"So where the fuck are we going anyway?" Oscar asks. "They got lots of baby stuff at Wal-Mart." "No," you say, "Wal-Mart is no longer an option, remember?" "Oh yeah, I forgot you got banned from that place. Alright fine, we'll go to K-Mart then. Same cheapo shit, different store." You share a joint on the way to the store and by the time Oscar finds a parking spot in the crowded lot, you're both pleasantly baked. When you go in the door, Oscar grabs one of the electric scooters the store provided as a courtesy to it's handicapped and mobility challenged cutomers. "Hey, you don't need that, just hop in my cart!" you say, "I could use the practice for later!" He shoots you a bird. "I'll catch up to you later, I need to grab a few things!" Then he's off, tearing down the aisles at the breakneck speed of about five miles an hour.
.
You're not sure what to buy, you've never shopped for a newborn before, so you start with the necessities. Jumbo pack of diapers, definitely need lots of those. Baby clothes, neutral colors because you don't know what it's going to be yet. Bottles, nipples, one of those bottle brush cleaners. Twelve pack of Heineken. Not for the baby of course, that's for you, you're strictly a stay at home drunk now. Holy shit, eighty-six bucks doesn't buy much these days, a can of baby formula and you'll be broke. Time to check out, where the hell is Oscar?
.
You find him in the electronics section. He's gotten off the scooter and he's pretending to look at CD's but what he's really doing is peeking under the very short skirt of a woman trying out a pair of headphones, oblivious to the fact that she's being ogled by your favorite lecherous and lascivious leprechaun. With some difficulty you manage to pull him away and, with him once again recklessly cruising on the scooter, running over toes and scraping ankles, the two of you head towards the cash registers.
.
"Hey, look what I got for the kid!" says Oscar, pointing into his basket and clearly excited. "Dude, that's a five piece screwdriver set." "I know, do you think the little fella will like it? I got these for him too, you're never too young to learn about safe sex." "Jesus Oscar, a baby doesn't need condoms! What kind of a fucked up childhood did you have anyway? Nevermind, I don't wanna know." You pay for your purchases and you're putting them into the van when you spot a familiar face in the parking lot. "Hold on a minute" you tell Oscar, "there's something I have to do."
.
Just what in the hell do you want?" says Detective Blake, after you've walked up to his car and rapped on the window to get his attention.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eighteen, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-31T05:27:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eighteen, Nothing Will Ever Be The Same Again
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61A75cXaM9I&feature=related
.
You hand shakes so badly you drop your phone before you can get it back into your pocket. What the fuck have you gone and gotten yourself into this time? This is beyond huge, this is fucking Universe shattering, and you have no idea how to deal with it. You can't be a father, you can barely take care of yourself for fuck's sake. You have no business trying to raise a child. Bringing another life into this fucked up world of pain, of hate, of ignorance... WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
.
But the thought of abortion never enters your mind. Not this time. Not with her. You want the kid, and that scares you even more. You are not ready for this. Not now. Not ever you would have said just a week ago. Shit, an hour ago even. You never wanted to be a father. You don't even like kids, not even when you yourself was one. Your mind goes back to that night in the car, when you looked down into that vile puddle of puke in your lap and noticed that little white pill. You thought you recognized it for what it must have been, a birth control pill, but the implications of what that could mean for you both never sank in. Until now. Fuck, a baby man! Your baby. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
.
Maybe it isn't yours though, who knows who else Wal-Mart girl (Karen?) could have been fucking. But that's complete bullshit and you know it. You feel it. And the really fucked up thing is you've been feeling it all along, you just refused to admit it to yourself. But the time for running and hiding is gone and over with. All the alcohol and drugs on the planet won't save you. There are no answers to be had in bottles and baggies. There will be no hiding from this particular problem. Like it or not you're just going to have to face the music on this one. Grow the fuck up champ. Be a man and take your medicine, as your own father used to say, often right before he beat the shit out of you. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
.
You gotta get your shit together, for real this time, and fast. But how, and then what? Get married? Get a haircut and get a real job? You could go back to school, trade in your ideals for a small cubicle in a faceless tower of steel and glass, recycled air, artificial light and artificial people, Garfield and Cathy comic strips taped to the walls, family portraits on the desks? You can't live like that, you'd never survive. By the second week, you'd be ready to show up for work with a loaded, fully automatic AK-47 and put everyone out of their misery, saving that last bullet for yourself of course.
.
You're not cut out for the nine to five grind, you never have been, and you never will be. You're just a dormouse in the Rat Race of life, you're a pussycat in a dog-eat-dog world, in the time of chimpanzees, you were a monkey. Selling out goes against the one principle you've always held near and dear. You are not one of them. Are you? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seventeen, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-29T21:23:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seventeen, Chickenwing Flies The Coop
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwMg1ym2xqE&feature=related
.
At first you think you may have dialed the wrong number by mistake, because it's not Wal-Mart girl who answers the phone, it's Chickenwing. "Don't hang up!" he yells, then starts to cry. "Man, I'm so sorry about everything... I didn't think you would care, usually you don't seem to give a fuck about anything. That was the first time a girl ever agreed to do that with me, and I didn't even get to finish!" He's crying harder now. "Those fucking biker guys slapped her and when I tried to stop them, they beat the shit outta me! They trashed my place and they broke my computer! They took all my dope, which turned out to be a good thing, because then the cops showed up. They found some pipes and stuff and took them away but they didn't charge me with anything, I guess they felt sorry for me because of what those guys did to my face... I thought they were going to kill me!"
.
There's the sound of sniffling while he tries to get it together. "Anyway, I can't fucking live like this anymore dude. My mom said she would pay for rehab if I went for at least ninety days, so I'm leaving tomorrow. The only reason I'm here at Karen's is because she said she'd help me pack up my place and move my stuff to a storage unit. I'm really sorry man... Are we still friends?"
.
There's no way you can stay mad at this blubbering pile of blubber, not after that sob story. Besides, it was just a blowjob right? Hell, if you had known he'd never had one, you might have tried to talk Wal-Mart girl into yourself, or at least paid one of your hooker acquaintences to go down on the poor bastard. Christ, he was over thirty and never had head before? Also he was right when he said you usually didn't give a fuck about anything. How was he to know that this time it would be any different.
.
"Sure man, we're still friends I guess. Bros before Hos right? I'm sorry I got your ass kicked before you could thoroughly enjoy your first experience with fellatio. Those dudes were looking for me you know?" "Yeah," he answers, "Karen told me about it after the cops left and she came downstairs from her place. She ran off while they were stomping the shit out of me, but I don't blame her. She was actually the one who called the cops, she said her gun only had one bullet left in it and there were three guys so she called the police instead of shooting them like she really wanted to. I think she was serious dude!"
.
"She was totally serious. That bitch doesn't fuck around Chickenwing, she's pretty hardcore!" "Holy shit, you really like her don't you? I mean like for real?" He's stopped crying and now he sounds like the old Chickenwing again. "You should probably talk to her man, she's been really worried about you! She couldn't reach you on the phone, and she even went to your house a couple times, but you weren't there." "Alright," you say, "let me talk to her then. I guess I'll see you when you get of rehab man. Maybe we can get good and fucked up for old times sake? Take care of yourself." "Yeah I will. You too. Later dude."
.
"Where the fuck have you been hiding?" It's Wal-Mart girl, and she doesn't sound very happy to hear from you, just really pissed off. "I was starting to think you were dead, why the hell did you wait until now to call? You're not still pissed because I gave Derek a little head for some blow are you? Because you and I were never official or anything which means I can suck any dick I want to!" She has a point, but you are still a little pissed at her. "Fine, okay, but did you have to suck Chickenwing's dick, of all the people in the world you gotta choose my best friend, a guy with a serious weight problem and a physical deformity? Hey, why don't you come on over here, there's a midget porn star you can suck off!"
.
"Oh fuck you" she says, "I would have been more than happy to only go down on you, if you would have just said something that last night we were together. But all you said was don't set any alarms and wake you up in the morning when I left! And speaking of wake-up calls, we need to talk. In person." "I don't think that's such a good idea," you say, even though you really want to see her, "I still have to deal with the bikers from Hell, plus I gotta find a new place to live. Also, I'm working, sort of, so I'm going to be pretty busy for awhile... maybe I could call you in a couple days, we could set something up." You're dying to see her again, but you're afraid too. You're not used to this love stuff, and it frightens you.
.
"I'm fucking pregnant you asshole!" she screams, and then the line goes dead as she hangs up the phone.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part sixteen, Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-28T20:57:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part sixteen, You Get a Job (Sort Of!)
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SpplmyVNX8&feature=related
.
The world is an unusual place to find yourself living in at times, and sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction.
.
It turns out that your midget friend, whose name is Oscar, is an adult film star. He told you this the day after you first met him in the bar and he'd told you what you should do about your newfound feelings for Wal-Mart girl. If only you could remember what he said. You remember asking him, but everything after that is a hazy blur. You'd awakened the next afternoon on a strange couch in a strange place, to the mouthwatering smell of frying bacon.
.
"Good morning Sleepyhead!" said the dwarf working the stove with the aid of a small stepladder, "Sleep well? I know I always sleep like a baby after a night of good sex!" "Good sex?" you ask, "I don't see any girls around..." "Of course not, why would you?" It takes a moment for you to realize what he's implying and for it to fully soak into your brain amongst the chemicals that haven't quite vacated your gray matter from the night before. "You mean we...? But I'm not..." You can't bring yourself to finish the sentence.
.
"We certainly did, but don't dwell on it too much. I make porno for a living, I have to fuck guys all the time. Doesn't mean you're queer or nothin... lotsa people are curious about what it would be like to get boned by a little person!"
.
You feel sick, but then you look at him at he gives you a sly little wink. He's just yanking your chain, thank Christ! "Oh, you're fucking with me, man you really had me going there!" He gives you the wink again, but says nothing, and now you're not so sure. But you're afraid to just ask outright, so you let it go and choose to believe he was just making a joke and he didn't plow your virgin asshole while you were in some sort of mushroom coma.
.
That was three days ago. You haven't been home since. First gay experience or not, Oscar is a really cool guy, he got you a gig holding a boom mic on the set of his latest film. Who knew that midget clown porn actually exists, you'd always thought it was an urban myth. You make a hundred bucks a day holding the microphone and occasionally moving some lighting around, and after work you and Oscar would hit the Yuppie bars, he liked to go to the more ritzy joints because he said people gave him less shit there about being a little person. You like them because no one there wants to kill you, and the forty year old divorcees don't mind slumming if it means they can get stuffed with young cock. You're happy to oblige.
.
Little though he might be, Oscar could party like nobody's business. He drove his specially modified minivan with one baby arm and the other was constantly holding a joint or cigarette, or dipping into a bag of white powder for what he called a "toot-sweet." He could drink a twelve pack of Heineken and still drive you both home without swerving too badly. Thankfully he never tries anything sexual with you, so you're pretty sure he was just fucking with you that day. Then again he could just be too tired from fucking delicious porn stars all day and drinking and drugging all night...
.
You know you can't keep this up forever, eventually you'll have to go back to your apartment, if nothing else to pack up what little shit there is worth keeping. Also you're going to have to deal with the angry biker, Wal-Mart girl and Chickenwing at some point. Twice you've caught yourself dialing her number while you were fucked up, and twice you lost your nerve and hung up before she could answer. Well, no time like the fucking present. What the hell, you're reasonably sober at the moment. You dial the number and this time you stay on the line until a voice answers.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Robot PSA!

2009-12-20T23:22:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fifteen copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-20T18:14:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fifteen, chatting with a midget while tripping on mushrooms
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4pIxnuUG1k
.
When you walk out of the bathroom, it's a whole new universe. Holy fuck, those mushrooms must be super potent if you're already starting to feel them. Maybe you shouldn't have eaten so many. Fuck it. You take a seat at the bar and order a pitcher of beer. Sitting on the stool next to you watching a soccer game on the flat-screen behind the bar is a small child, a little boy about five or so.
.
"Hey kid, aren't you a little young to be in here?" you ask. The kid turns away from the game, and you see that he's not a kid at all. He's a midget. A dwarf. A little person. "I'm no kid fuckwad I'm old enough to be your daddy. Hell I might actually be your daddy, what's your mother's name?" He laughs a little at that, then asks, "Aren't you a little poor to be hanging out and drinking in this rich folks dive?" His voice is the kind of rough that only comes from years of Whiskey and cigarettes. "Yes I am, but this seemed like a good place to hide out for awhile. Sorry about the mixup, how about I buy you a drink?" You've never talked to a midget before, you've got a million questions. But he's got questions of his own.
.
"A drink would be great, this is a bar after all. Jack Daniels, no ice. Hiding out is no kind of way to deal with your problems man, they're still be there waiting for you when you leave, don't you know that? What did you do that made you seek refuge in this hellhole anyway?" You order his drink as you think about how to answer this without telling the midget the ugly truth. But you're really starting to trip now, the neon behind the bar is unnaturally bright and giving off a slightly sinister vibe. It's fucking up your concentration.
.
You take a drink of your beer to fortify yourself and say, "I fell in love with a late-night shoplifter who saved my life after I spurted cum all over the face of this bigass scary biker dude in a bar I went to after I got out of the hospital for overdosing on meth and coke that she gave me. Actually she only gave me the coke, the meth was Chickenwing's, that fat piece of shit, I went to his house today to pay him back the twenty bucks, and she was slurping on his uncircumcised dick like it was a fucking Rocket Pop! He's the only friend I got and he's trying to steal my girl, and the fucking biker guy and his goddamn buddies want to kill me, and I can't go home!"
.
"Wow, slow down dude. I don't think I caught all that..." The midget looks confused, so you take a deep breath, light a cigarette, and start over. You end up telling him the whole sad story, from the beginning up until now, and he listens attentively, nodding in all the right places and throwing in the occasional, "Holy shit!" and, "No fucking way!" Either he's a really good listener, or you're just really high. Probably both. It feels good to talk to someone, but you can't look him directly in the face anymore. Not because you're embarrassed by the bizarre but true story you've just told him, but because his face is beginning to morph into that of a baby. A baby with a full beard showing streaks of gray, who drinks like a fish and cusses like a sailor with Tourette's Syndrome. Oh Christ, are you high!
.
The bartender asks if you'd like another pitcher, even thought the first one is barely half gone, but you're afraid to speak to her right now, afraid you'll blurt out some embarrassing moments from your childhood or the world's lamest pick up line perhaps, so you just nod. She brings the pitcher and another Whiskey for your vertically challenged friend and you pay her. "Hey thanks man, you're alright. How ya holding up?" asks the midget. "I'm fucking tripping balls and you keep changing into a bearded baby, but I'm alright. So what do you think I should do?" He talks. You listen.
TO BE CONTINUED...

X-mas

2009-12-20T17:38:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fourteen copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-19T19:56:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fourteen, The Worst Day Since Yesterday
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDSud7vAH_0
.
You shouldn't give a shit, but you do. You shouldn't be jealous and hurt, but you are. You realize that somewhere between Wal-Mart and the golf course you started to fall for this girl who just a second ago was going down on the deformed tub of lard who also happens to be your only real friend. You feel betrayed, and you feel pissed off.
.
"What the fuck?" you ask, trying to keep your voice under control and not quite managing it. "What?" says Chickenwing innocently. "She wanted me to give her some coke so we made an arrangement. It's not like you guys are a couple or anything. Anyway, can't you fucking knock?" "Can't you lock the door asshole?" you reply, reaching behind you and locking the deadbolt to demonstrate. You're walking across the living room to kick his teeth out when there's a pounding at the door. Whoever it is most assuredly can knock, and isn't afraid to do so. A loud voice calls out, "Open this goddamn door NOW or I'll kick the fucker in!"
.
You recognize the voice immediately, it's the biker you shared the intimate moment with at Ronnie's Roadhouse. Your walk becomes a run as your plans abruptly change. Instead of going over to the couch you go straight into the bathroom and start to climb out the narrow window. For a brief moment you feel bad about leaving Wal-Mart girl behind, but fuck it, she deserves what she gets. Chickenwing too. Those two assholes deserve each other, you think to yourself.
.
The biker makes good on his threat to kick in the door, right as you're in the middle of climbing out the window. You hear Wal-Mart girl yell, "What the hell do you think you're..." and then a a loud slapping sound that most likely means biker dude just gave her five across the face. Then you're out the window and running for your life.
.
You don't know where to go, but you know you don't want to go home. Chickenwing is probably telling the guy everything he knows about you at this very moment, he'll know you didn't move out of the apartment and he and his biker buddies will go back there. You can't call the police obviously, not as long as Detective Blake is still an employee of the department. You could go to your parent's place, but you'd rather get killed by a crazed motorcycle enthusiast than have to endure that kind of slow torture.
.
You don't know what the fuck to do, so you decide to have a good strong drink and think about it some more. You ride the bus across town to this little yuppie dive bar. Finnegan's Irish Pub it's called, but there isn't a true Irishman in the place, just preppy college kids and a few middle management types in bad suits. No chance anyone will come looking for you here, normally you wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
.
You go into the restroom to take a piss, and there's a college kid at the sink washing his hands and his face under the tap continuously. "Oh man, water feels SOOO good when you're shroomin!" he says, smiling the smile of the truly FUBAR. You smile back as you reach for your wallet and ask him if he's got anymore mushrooms he might like to get rid of. He does. You slip him a fifty and he feeds you several large caps and a generous handful of stems that you wash down with water from the sink.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part thirteen copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-17T22:51:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part thirteen, Weirdness
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GU-CrC7sUBA
.
The next morning, feeling surprisingly good considering all the alcohol you'd consumed, you decide to take the bus over to Chickenwing's place and pay him back the twenty bucks you owe him, knowing he'll spend it on drugs and share them with you.
.
You stop at the corner market for a pack of smokes on your way to the bus stop. In line ahead of you is a homeless man from your neighborhood who sometimes hits you up for spare change. (You usually give him a quarter if you have it.) With help from the cashier, he's busily sorting a big handful of pennies into stacks of fifteen cents each. After they complete each new stack, the homeless man turns away from the counter, walks over to the candy aisle, and grabs one lolipop. Then he returns to the counter, sets down the lolipop, and resumes counting pennies. This goes on for what seems like an eternity.
.
Neither the cashier nor the homeless man appear to be aware of your existence, they go about their work with almost Zen-like precision. You feel like this should piss you off, normally you can't stand to be ignored, but you find this whole scene oddly fascinating. What could this guy possibly want all with all of those Tootsie Pops? Is he going to use candy to kick an alcohol or drug addiction? Good for him. You want to offer to buy the man the entire box of lolipops, but feel like if you speak you'll somehow break the magic spell that's been cast over this dingy little liquor store in midtown.
.
At last the pile of pennies is all counted, and you're not a bit surprised to see that there was no leftover pennies. The perfect little moment is over. The cashier throws the suckers in a paper bag and without a word the homeless guy takes it from him and walks out. The cashier stares after him, dazed, and it takes a moment for him to finally notice you. "What can I do for you?" he asks, like a man trying to shake of a particularly disturbing dream. Feeling a little dazed yourself, you get your smokes, and walk to the bus stop. The homeless man, who would ordinarily have been waiting outside the store for you, is nowhere to be found.
.
The strange sensation that fell over you while watching the bizarre happenings in the store persist while you're riding the bus. Across from you sits a big black kid, typical gangsta type, baggy clothes and a flashy chain. There's a scar on his face that runs in a zig zag from below his left eye to his chin. Ordinarily the type of person to make you nervous, but not so much today. He's crying. Silently, but the tears are rolling down his scarred face one after another and show no signs of stopping.
.
You don't want him to catch you staring so you look ahead of you. There's an old asian man in a badly wrinkled suit reading a newspaper. He gets off at the next stop. When he stands up the sunlight coming through the window falls on his shirt and you can clearly see the black bra he's wearing underneath. What the fuck is going on in this city today? Have we all gone mad?
.
You can't wait to tell Chickenwing about all of the strange shit you've witnessed today, so instead of knocking you just walk right in, and shit suddenly gets a lot weirder. Chickenwing is sitting on his couch naked, and on her knees in front of him, doing what she apparently does best, is Wal-Mart girl.
TO BE CONTINUED...

"God"

2009-12-16T09:29:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, the Movie Trailer!

2009-12-15T20:40:00.000-08:00

Animated Excerpt from Tales of a Drunken Degenerate chapter four!
Never coming to a theater near you!

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate part twelve, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-14T21:16:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twelve, "Nobody's Fault But Mine"
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eb9agQrObSU
.
You wake up in your apartment alone. Wal-Mart girl is gone but at least she didn't set any alarms this time. Fast learner that one. Someone is pounding on your door like they're trying to break it down. Climbing out of bed with a groan, you walk naked to the front door and peer out the peephole. It's your landlord. You open the door wide enough to poke your head out.
.
"What the fuck do you want?" you ask, politely enough. "I want you out of here, that's what the fuck I want!" Your landlord, Ernie, is a balding middle aged man who has a habit of calling you kid and whose face has a tendency to get red when he's worked up about something. It's the color of a stop sign right now. "First some detective comes around asking all sorts of questions about your personal life, like I would know or give a shit, and then this morning a couple of bikers come charging into my office demanding to know which apartment was yours."
.
Oh shit. "What did you tell them?" "I told em you moved out last month, I'm not a fucking scumbag. They were obviously looking to kick your ass, and while I'm not totally opposed to that, I can't have no trouble here. Which is why you gotta go. I can overlook the constant reek of pot smoke comin outta your place, and the loud music, and even that time you vandalized the coke machine and stole everything but the diet 7-up, but I draw the line at cops and pissed off bikers. What'd you do to them anyway?" "I shot my load into one of their faces." "Jesus Christ! That's the kind of shit I'm talking about, what the fuck is the matter with you kid?" "I don't know" you answer truthfully, "but you can't just kick me out, I actually paid my rent on time for once!" "Tough shit kid. You got thirty days to get the fuck out, and don't expect your deposit back either, fuckin place looks like a bomb went off in there! See ya around kid." He hands you an eviction notice and walks away. "Thirty days!" he calls over his shoulder.
.
Well that's just great, just what the fuck you needed to hear. No way you can afford to move right now. Shit, you don't even have a car anymore. Stressed out, you get dressed and then search the apartment for contraband, and after half an hour of sifting through random piles of stuff, come up with enough weed to roll a small joint, three bottles of liquor containing about a swallow each, a Valium, and a small piece of rock cocaine, the origins of which are unknown. You drink the liquor first, using the last swallow to wash down the valium. Then you fashion a makeshift pipe out of a beer can and cigarette ashes, and smoke the one hit of mystery crack. By the time the joint has burned halfway down, you're feeling much better about things. Your situation hasn't improved one iota, but you feel better about it nonetheless. There's a knock at your door, not the merciless pounding of Ernie, a sharp and insistent rapping. You check the peephole. It's your father. Fuck.
.
"Hey Pop!" you say in your phony I'M-FINE/YOU'RE-FINE voice. "How they hangin old man?" "Cut the shit." your dear old dad says, looking like he'd like to hit you for old times sake, but knowing you'd knock him on his old ass. "I didn't want to come here, your mother insisted on it. She wants to know why you left the hospital, and why you didn't come to the house to see her after you did. It's the drugs isn't it?" "No dad, it's not the drugs... I, I just felt better and wanted to get out of there, that's all." "Horseshit. We know you're on dope. You been on dope for most of your pathetic life and I refuse to take the blame for it." As if you ever blamed him for anything besides being as asshole. "You're a loser son, and it's nobody's fault but your own. Call your mother." He walks out without saying goodbye. "Nice to see you too Pop!" you yell as the door slams hard enough to rattle it's hinges. All of a sudden you feel like shit again.
.
After being both evicted by your landlord and called a loser by your father on the same day, sadly not the first time this has happened, you don't feel like doing much. Your latest unemployment check is in the mailbox so you walk to the bank to cash it, then pick up a pizza, a bottle of whiskey, a case of beer, and some cigarettes, and go back home. You take the phone off the hook. You close the blinds. You watch bad TV and drink until until you pass out.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Santa Claus is Coming, and He's Had Enough of Your Shit!

2009-12-12T23:01:00.000-08:00

http://www.jokesunlimited.com/christmas_elf_name.php
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NnnmnY_TGo
.
Once upon a time at the North Pole, there lived an elf named Beaker Sparkly-toes. Beaker had a very important job in Santa's magical workshop, he was in charge of fixing all of the machines the elves used to make the toys. He was proud of his job and he worked very hard. Whenever a machine would break down Beaker would work as fast as he could to get it up and running again so that there would always be plenty of toys for the good girls and boys on Christmas morning.
.
One day there was a problem with the conveyor belts on the Tickle Me Elmo production line and Beaker was called to fix them. This was a really big deal because almost all of the children wanted Tickle Me Elmos that year and the elves needed to work day and night if they were ever going to be able to make enough. It was up to Beaker to save Christmas.
.
He worked harder and faster than he ever had before. "Go Beaker, go!" shouted the elves, "You can do it!" And then they all began to sing! Tools and spare parts were flying everywhere, Beaker was determined not to let Santa and the little children of the world down.
.
But Beaker was working so fast and hard, that he became a little bit careless. He accidentally crossed some wires, which caused the machine to start up while he was still inside the conveyor belts. By the time the other elves were able to hear his pitiful screams for help over the sound of their merry singing, and somebody found and pressed the emergency cutoff switch, Beaker had lost both of his arms and one of his eyes. He would have surely died if not for Santa's magic healing powers.
.
That year there was a terrible shortage of Tickle Me Elmos, and a lot of kids had to settle for Grover or Bert and Ernie, and they cried themselves to sleep on Christmas night because they thought they had been naughty and that Santa Claus didn't love them anymore.
.
When Beaker awoke from his coma, he felt horrible. Not because he no longer had any arms and was horribly disfigured, but because he had ruined Christmas. But then Santa paid him a visit. He told Beaker that it was not his fault, it was just an accident, and that he still loved him. Beaker thought there was a funny look on his face when he said it, but he told himself it was just because he wasn't used to only seeing out of one eye. Then Santa told Beaker that since he could no longer fix the machines, and everyone knows that all good elves must work, he had a very special job just for him.
.
He brought Beaker to the reindeer barn and told him that it was his job to keep an eye out for the Abominable Snowman. If he came near the barn to try and eat the reindeer, he was to use his feet to call Elf security on his walkie-talkie immediately. All he had to do was keep watch and not fall asleep. "You can do it Beaker, I know you can!" said Santa.
.
So Beaker was left all alone in the barn with the reindeer. It was chilly in there and smelled like reindeer poop, but Beaker was glad to be able to do his part. He tried making conversation with the reindeer, but they weren't as forgiving as Santa Claus, not even Rudolph, who should have remembered what it was like to be an outcast.
.
There was nothing for Beaker to do but think, the Abominable Snowman hadn't been seen in decades. The more he thought, the worse he felt. He had ruined Christmas, lost both of his arms and one of his eyes, and everyone hated him. Soon he was sobbing uncontrollably. He cried and cried for hours, and the tears coming from his missing eye's socket were pus yellow and runny. He cried so much for so long that he became exhausted, and against his will he did the one thing he was not supposed to do, he fell fast asleep.
.
When Beaker woke up, Santa Claus was standing over him, and he didn't look happy. "Oh Beaker," said Santa, "I told you not to fall asleep. While you were napping the Abominable Snowman came into the barn and he took Blitzen away." He shook his head sadly, sighing, "My poor Blitzen..." Beaker looked over to Blitzen's stall and saw that it was true. A trail of blood led from the empty stall to the open barn door. Beaker began to cry again.
.
"Now, now, Beaker, don't cry. Santa still loves you." said Santa, and this time Beaker was sure he had a funny look on his face when he said it. "But I'm very disappointed in you Beaker. Since you can't do this very special job like I asked you to, I'm going to have to give you a different job, because everyone knows that all good elves must work. Come with me now Beaker." Santa led Beaker out of the barn and into the woods. Beaker didn't know what kind of job he was going to get now, but he swore that he would work hard and never let Santa down again. I'll make him proud of me, he promised himself as he followed Santa deeper into the woods.
.
In the Great Hall, all of the other elves were enjoying a rare break from making toys. They were drinking spiced cider and singing merry songs. From somewhere nearby in the woods outside the Great Hall, they all clearly heard the sound of the gunshot.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eleven, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-11T20:38:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eleven, Love in all the Wrong Places.
.
You're feeling pretty good after the food and the beer and the narrow escape from certain death. You really thought you were a dead man back there, and that scared the shit out of you. So maybe you don't want to kill yourself after all. Good to know.
.
"I owe you one baby, you fucking saved my life back there you psycho bitch. No shit." You reach over and give her right breast an affectionate squeeze. "When I saw you were gone I thought for sure that you'd run out on me and left me all alone." "Shit no" she says, smiling at you, "What kind of a shoplifting, coke snorting, gun toting whore do you think I am anyway?" She pulls into the deserted parking lot of a nearby grocery store. "What are you stopping here for?" you ask. "You said you owe me one right? Well it's time to pay up sucka." She puts the car in park and then reaches over to touch your naughty place.
.
"I'm sorry baby but I don't think my magnificent dong is ready for a repeat performance quite yet. It's still a little sore." A lot sore is more like it. "No worries, I'll just suck your cock then." This chick seems to really love giving you head, and after saving your ass the way she did, you're in no position to argue. "You smoke this" she says, handing you a joint she pulls out of the ashtray, "and let me do my thing."
.
You fire up the jay and she starts to do her thing. It hurts a little, so while you're perfectly able to maintain an erection, you have time to smoke the joint down to a tiny roach, and you're not even close to cumming. You are totally baked however, and feeling a rather giddy so you decide to have a little fun with Wal-Mart girl and play some Tonsil Ball. Tonsil Ball is played by thrusting your hips when a girl is going down on you to see how far back in her throat you can get your shaft. She of course eventually gags and gets pissed off, at which point you apologize profusely and then do it again a few seconds later.
.
You give her an experimental little stab, and she remains unfazed. You try it again a few seconds later, putting a little more hip thrust into it. This time she looks up at you and rolls her eyes before continuing her work. Again you give her just a bit more, and this time she gags a little, but keeps going. So you go for the deep throat, thinking she can handle it, and she gags and then proceeds to spew the bulk of her stomach contents onto your cock and balls. Your lap is now a warm puddle of regurgitation; cheap booze and greasy food and a little white thing you're pretty sure is a partially dissolved birth control pill. She sits up, still heaving, and a fresh stream of vomitus hits you in the chest with enough force to splash up onto your face. A drop goes into your mouth, and that sets you off, you hurl up the burger, fries, and beer, and add it to the mix.
.
She's crying, but you're in no mood to comfort her just now, despite the fact that this is all your doing. You get out of the car and rip the hospital gown off, using the back to wipe off your face. You feel a little better. "It's okay." you tell her, "move over and let me drive, we'll go to my house and get cleaned up." You're less than half way to your house and you start to suspect you may not be able to make it there without tossing your cookies again, the smell is horrifyingly putrid, even with the windows down. You're passing the public golf course when you have an idea. You pull over and park on the side of the road. "Come on" you say to her, getting out of the car, "follow me." She does, reluctantly.
.
There's no fence around this particular golf course, and the sprinklers are on. You lead her out onto the grass where she strips down. The two of you rinse off under the industrial sprinkler head, it's cold and there's so much water pressure it's actually a little painful, but neither of you complains.
.
Looking at her, standing there naked on the 8th green, you realize that she really is quite beautiful. She shivers, cold, and you go to her and put your arms around her. She responds, and then the two of you are kissing passionately, tasting each others digestive fluids and loving it. You lower her to the grass and proceed to make love to her. Real love. It lasts a long time, because every thirty seconds or so the sprinkler comes back around again and shoots a stream of icy cold water straight into your ass.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part ten, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-09T22:54:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part ten, Roadhouse Blues
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LwfmfMBLZiM
.
In a scene straight out of a bad Hollywood movie, the music abruptly cuts off, and there are several agonizing seconds of complete silence. Then all hell breaks loose.
.
"You're fucking DEAD!" screams the huge biker, as he's wiping off his face with a bar napkin. Several of his equally large and frightening biker buddies gather around to back him up. Even on your best day, you wouldn't stand a chance of beating them in a fight, and this is far from your best day. In your current condition you'd be lucky to survive the first crushing blow from his ham sized fist.
.
You better try to talk your way out of this, and right now. Come on man, time to be charming. An angry mob is slowly making it's way up the stairs with every intention of stomping your guts out. "Hey, hold on just a second!" you say, holding up your arms, and to your immense relief, they hesitate. You grab your beer off the table and drain the glass. Here we go.
.
"Listen guys, I've had an unbelievably shitty week. I'm not looking for trouble here, I just needed some beer and a bite to eat, that's all. I have been thrown in jail, I overdosed and apparently died, I just got out of the hospital today..." you gesture to your gown and hospital wristband. "And this asshole Detective I made punch me in the face so he'd have to let me out of jail seriously fucked up my car and then dropped an enormous deuce in the backseat! This young lady..." you turn to point to Wal-Mart girl, but she seems to have mysteriously disappeared, "she was kind enough to offer me some snatch, she thought I might feel better if I got my rocks off. I am SO sorry about what happened. It was not my intention to cum all over you fine folks, especially YOU good sir, I, uh, only meant to unload on her back but she moved... If it's any consolation, my wang feels like it's on fucking fire right now! If could go back and change things I would kick her out from under the table the second she started to blow me!"
.
Swing and a miss. They are not swayed by your reasoning, and resume their Death March up the stairs. So this is how it's going to end. Beaten to extinction in a barroom brawl, wearing a hospital gown. They are almost to the top of the stairs when Wal-Mart girl reappears, holding her purse and digging around in it's contents frantically. She finds what she's looking for and pulls out a small revolver. *POW!*
.
She's fired a round into the ceiling. "Everybody back the fuck up RIGHT NOW!" she screams. "Me and my man here are walking out the front door, and I swear to Satan I'll put a bullet between the eyes of anyone who tries to stop us!" She makes her way slowly to the door, keeping her gun pointed at the gentleman who received the complimentary facial, and you're right behind her, in a state of shock but grateful to still be all in one piece.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nine copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-08T22:03:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nine, "My Shit's Fucked Up."
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2aUJF3gdog
.
You're standing at a gas station pay phone a few blocks from the hospital. You're barefoot and wearing a hospital gown, skinny ass flapping in the wind for all to see, and your dick is swollen painfully from where you ripped out the catheter. You need help, but you realize you don't have a friend in this world, except maybe for that fat piece of shit Chickenwing. After a moment of indecision you dial his number, collect of course.
.
Twenty minutes later his beat up Nissan Sentra pulls into the gas station and you jump in the passenger seat. "Wanna go back to my house? I just got a really big bag of some killer shit!" Killer shit is right, you think. You almost fucking died and all this douchebag cares about is getting home to his pipe and his porn. This guy is your best fucking friend!
.
"No, you're taking me to get my car." you say, in a tone that leaves no room for argument or discussion. The last thing you need is another crystal meth binge at Chickenwing's Porn Palace, not now, no way are you coming back from another one of those grand adventures. You figure you'll go to your favorite bar and grill, or at least your favorite where you don't owe a huge tab, nurse a few beers and hopefully get someone to buy you some food. Ronnie's Roadhouse is just the place to figure out where you go from here.
.
You arrive at the police impound lot about thirty minutes before closing time. You don't have the piece of paper the dickhead detective gave you, and the guy working the desk is an asshole and tries to charge you six hundred dollars to get your car back. You tell him that you highly doubt your car is even worth six hundred bucks, and ask him to call Detective Blake at the station. He tells you to go fuck yourself, and you lose it. You push his desk over on it's side towards him, then slap him four or five times in quick succession. "Now do as I say and call the fucking cops already!" you tell him. He calls. "Alright Fuckhead, they said you can have your piece of shit car!"
.
Five minutes to closing time, and you are finally allowed out on the lot. There's a rather unpleasant surprise waiting for you. The windows on both sides of your car have been smashed. All of the tires have been flattened. There's dents all around it, and there is trash all over the inside. Also, sort of the coup de grace if you will, someone (you suspect Detective Blake himself), has taken an extremely large shit right in the middle of the back seat. Sighing, you remove your Miles Davis CD from the player that was remarkably left untouched, and get back into Chickenwing's car.
.
"Where's your ride?" he asks. He's been snorting lines of crystal off his dashboard while he waited for you. "Chickenwing, I don't have a car anymore" you say, "take me to Ronnie's Roadhouse and let me borrow twenty bucks you fat tweaker, or I'll never fucking talk to you again."
.
Ronnie's is a two story redneck biker bar with a small cafe upstairs. The place is fairly crowded for the middle of the week, but apparently they're all here to drink and dance, because the cafe is deserted. You sit down at a table in your hospital gown, and you have the entire upstairs to yourself for almost half an hour before a bored looking waitress shows up to take your order. It's Wal-Mart girl. Somehow, you are not surprised.
.
You order a burger and fries and a pitcher of beer, and when she comes back from putting your order in, you tell her about how you escaped from the hospital, including how you stupidly ripped out your catheter like you did, and how your car was completely destroyed.
.
"You poor baby!" she exclaims. "Your shit's fucked up!" she says, lifting up your gown to take a peek. "Let me make you feel better." She gets down on her knees under your table and goes to work. At first you're afraid getting sucked off will hurt too much, but it's only slightly painful, and feeling better every second. Soon, you're at full mast, and you decide there's a better place to put your cock than down this bitch's throat.
.
You bend her over the balcony and take her from behind. You can see the people downstairs, at the bar and on the dance floor, and they can see you, but only from the waist up. It looks like the two of you are up there dancing to the music, instead of fucking like a couple of Jackrabbits.
.
You start to feel like you're about to cum, so you decide to pull out and bust your nut on her back. But as soon as she feels that you're no longer inside her she turns around. "Put in back in!" she moans, right as you climax. It hurts like hell when you blow your load, and it shoots out, up and over the railing of the balcony, landing on the crowd below.
.
Most of your jizz hits the face of a really large biker dude who was dancing with his old lady. "What the fuck?!?" he yells, glaring up at you with murder in his eyes, and suddenly everyone is looking up at you.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Brains!

2009-12-08T11:32:00.000-08:00

Created by Mingle2.com (Dating for non-zombies)

The Death of the English Language and Any Real Communication

2009-12-07T21:19:00.000-08:00

lol, omfg, lmfao, rofl, brb, idk, etc...
.
What the fuck? What have we all become? Evolved, some might say, but they sure as shit better not say it to me or I'll knock their fucking teeth out so they have a reason to sound so fucking stupid. Every time you use one of the moronic abbreviations above or any of the countless others, you contribute to the seemingly endless dumbing down of America, and put yet another nail in the coffin of the English language. And it's not just the sheeple, it's educated and sophisticated people as well, because this sickness has spread faster than the latest H1N1 outbreak. I'm not the first asshole to complain about it either, there are hordes of Grammar Nazis out there who are far more militant than I.
.
In fact, this rant was inspired by an episode of the Showtime series Californication entitled LOL, and I couldn't help but wonder; how many of the cast and crew of that show use that three letter abomination on a daily basis? How many of you reading this are just as bad? How many of you actually laugh out loud every time you hit those three keys? Is it really that much of pain in the ass to actually type in "Be right back?" That took me less than three seconds, and while not everyone can type as fast as me, most fifteen year old girls can send a text to their best friend forever telling her that Brandon TOTALLY smiled at her in the hall at school today he is soooo cute, and by the way, your hair looked really good today, in that amount of time. What's the big rush girls? Slow down you have your entire lives to talk about meaningless bullshit!
.
I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes, I too am guilty of this most heinous of literary sins, at least to a small degree. I will occasionally use "OK" or I might say "Back in a sec" instead of "Please pardon me briefly, I shall return momentarily." But I NEVER sink to the level of bastardization that has become commonplace on the screens of nearly every cell phone and computer screen in the country. It's gotten so bad that I've heard "lol" and even "rofl" in actual face to face conversations. I somehow managed to avoid puking my guts out, but only by the narrowest of margins.
.
It was bad enough when two people with less than nothing to say to each other would pollute the air with the sounds of their instantly forgettable chit chat, but now we don't even care enough to make actual words come out of our throat holes. Just as long as some sort of sound is produced to fill the silence. We might just as well be two radios tuned to different stations, facing each other and blaring away loudly, that would accomplish the same amount of communication as two people with no interest in really conversing making small talk.
.
I still know what you're thinking, and once again the answer is yes. I have had more than my fair share of those riveting and deeply fascinating conversations about the weather, a sport I know and care nothing about, or the price of beans in Boston. But for many years now, I have only kept up the charade when to do otherwise by telling them to fuck off would hurt the feelings of someone I care about. If a random stranger, on a bus or train say, tries to engage me in a pointless, "I'm afraid of silence!" conversation I immediately begin asking personal questions, revealing the most intimate details about myself, and delving as deep as I can into whatever aspect of their life I believe will offend them the most. I have fun with them until they either loosen up and we start to REALLY talk, or they leave me the fuck alone and go about their business, leaving me to go about mine.
.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-06T22:53:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, "I Think We're Alone Now"
.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eMyAbg6CWQ
.
Alone with your thoughts. The very place you have always hated to be and avoided at any cost. Totally alone. Just you and you and you... And this time there's no bottle or bag to save you from yourself. You're pretty sure there's a mild sedative of some kind in the bag of fluids that's slowly dripping down into the I.V. in your arm, but it only seems to be amplifying the negative effect of your complete and total isolation. There's no retreat. There's no escape. There is however, surrender, and because you're helpless to do otherwise, you give in to it, hating yourself for it all the while.
.
Your mother does not come back. You half expected her to, but it seems that this time she was serious. Her words float back into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. What the fuck does she know anyway? All the people that love you? No one gives a shit about you! Your father? What a fucking joke! He wouldn't even get you out of jail this last time, he just slammed down the phone and left you to rot in that stinking cage... he could have easily afforded the bail, he had piles of money socked away. All he's ever done is criticize you and tell you you were no good. As a kid he used to get drunk sometimes and verbally abuse you just so you would cry and he would have a reason to hit you. Your mom could have probably stopped it with a word, but instead she just turned a blind eye.
.
Later, when you were alone in your room crying, she would comfort you and tell about how he really loved you, he was just under a lot pressure. Pressure from what, she never said, but it sure wasn't sexual frustration, later you would hear them having sex through the paper thin walls and feel sick to your stomach.
.
You have no real friends, nothing even resembling a career, you're too afraid to let anyone get close enough to you to forge any kind of lasting relationship, and you have long since killed off any aspirations. Hopes and Dreams are dead and buried. Fucking and getting high are all you have, all you know, and seem to be the only thing you have ever been any good at.
.
You're not trying to kill yourself, you're just doing what it is that you do best, because that's all you know how to do. If you must be a no good piece of shit why not be the best no good piece of shit you can be? But you don't really want to die. Do you?.
.

You realize that you don't know the truthful answer to this question, and it scares you. Fuck this, you've had enough of this pity party, thank you very much. Sitting up in bed, you pull the I.V. out of your arm and the catheter out of your dick, which forces you to let loose with a blood-curdling scream. After looking around the room for your clothes and not finding them, you walk out the door. Running away from this hospital, this place of forced isolation and Death. Running away from yourself.

I am a Pirate!

2009-12-06T01:43:00.001-08:00

YouTube Comments, A Study in Human Behaviour

2009-12-05T23:56:00.000-08:00

.

BoiWonda4u (2 minutes ago) Show Hide
Marked as spam
Reply | Spam
Shut cho soft ass up bitch u sound stupid u fucking idiot. emotional slut bag bitch ass hoe. the fuck up round here.
.
aubrey716 (34 minutes ago) Show Hide
Marked as spam
Reply | Spam
this song breaks my heart. i feel like it plays the deepest emotions of my heart into words..i miss you rene..
.
YouTube Comments...
.
What purpose do they serve exactly? Why do we care whether someone did or didn't like a particular song or video clip? Are we that desperate for affection, that we seek it out from total strangers, in the form of the anonymous clicking on a "thumbs up" button? Why this innate need for others to agree with our point of view?
.
Also, if you read enough YouTube comments, you start to notice the trends. Spamming and shameless self promotion of course, but also people craving human contact and people with underlying issues that sometimes make their way into their comments. I've seen many references to divorce, suicide, drug use, sex, even a mention of someone being abused as a child, and none of these were in relation to the content these people were supposed to be commenting on. I'm guilty of this strange phenomenon myself, I once wrote a deeply personal verse to the instrumental version of Paper Planes by M.I.A. and posted it as a comment. You see a lot of would-be rappers posting verses in place of comments.
.
Then there are the ones who appear to sign in to YouTube soley to attempt to pick "comment fights", saying anything to get a rise out of someone else so they can flame that person again. I've seen some of these get really nasty and offensive, two people who don't know each other getting very personal.
.
Occassionally, you will see the YouTube equivalent of an online chat that has just sort of spontaneously erupted, and more often than not it has nothing to do with the content of the related YouTube file. Are we really that pathetic? The answer is YES.

I'm a Douchebag!

2009-12-05T23:38:00.000-08:00

I befriended someone online, we made plans to hang out at the Atlanta Decompression party. I ended up not being able to make it. I get an email saying hey where were you, what happened, etc. I really meant to reply but it got pushed to the back burner. So did the next one. Today I get one that says fine if you don't want to be friends I'll erase you from my contact list, have a nice life. This person seemed really cool, and I didn't mean to intentionally ignore them. You shouldn't treat people that way. Like the title says, "I'm a Douchebag!" I will try to work on this. That is all.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seven, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-05T01:24:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seven, A Near Life Experience
.
You can tell by the smells (rubbing alcohol with just a hint of Death) and sounds (the hushed voices of nurses and doctors and the intermittent beeping of some sort of machine) that you're in a hospital. For some reason you're unable to open your eyes or make a sound, but aside from that strange sensation you feel fine, you not in any pain that you're aware of. You keep trying to speak, to call out to the darkness and ask where you are and what the hell happened, but the effort is making you very confused and tired, so you finally give up and just lie there. Maybe you sleep a little, it's hard to tell, but eventually you hear a familiar voice.
.
It's your mother. "Wake up son." she whispers, and you can feel her hand in yours, warm and reassuring. "Wake up. It's time for my baby boy to wake up now. Wake up and look at me." She sounds scared. It's freaking you out a little, so you struggle against the darkness, and only fall deeper into the bottomless pool of black that surrounds you. You decide it's not so bad here the nothingness. For in a world of nothing; there can be neither pain nor sorrow. You give in and let it take you.
.
Just when it seems that you're crossing over into some new place, the universe is suddenly filled with bright light, and you feel pain like an electric shock traveling from your chest through your whole body. You can see now, and while you're not yet ready to speak, you hear yourself gasping for air, as you breathe in lungfuls of canned oxygen through the plastic mask covering your mouth. You're alive again, but you're not really sure how you feel about that.
.
You see your mother come back into the room after they wheel away the cart that holds the shocking machine. She's been crying. You manage to reach out to her, weakly, and once again you can feel her hand in yours, only this time it feels cold and clammy. You want to tell her not to worry, that everything will be okay, but your words come out all wrong, you're speaking some kind of gibberish, like they zapped you all the way back to when you were two. Then it's black again, but not the same all-encompassing nothingness of before, you've merely fallen asleep, exhausted.
.
Some time later you wake up. Your mom is still holding your hand, asleep in a chair next to your bed. Even deep in her slumber, she can somehow sense that you're awake, and she opens her eyes. After several failed attempts, you manage to croak out "Hi mom" and she starts to cry again. "I'm okay." you say, and she cries harder. Her tears of sadness and grief or whatever abruptly become tears of anger.
.
"You are NOT okay!" she's yelling now. "You fucking died, and I had to sit here and watch it happen! I've been watching you slowly kill yourself for years! You died, right here in front of me! I can NOT do this shit anymore! I WON'T! It's not fair to me and it's not fair to your father, or to any of the people that love you! I don't know why you're so determined to end your life with drinking and drugs, but I can't be a witness to your suicide anymore!" She gets up and walks out the door. You want to call out to her and tell her not to go, to come back, but you just can't find the words. You're left all alone, with just your thoughts for company.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part six Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-12-02T13:25:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part six, Downward Spiral of a Drugged Out Degenerate
.
As you make your way to the fridge for something to drink, you see that Chickenwing was lying about not having any dope, there's an enormous pile of crystal meth on the triple beam scale on his coffee table, next to a good sized bag of pot. "What the fuck?" you ask, pointing.
.
"Alright fine, I was holding out. I just didn't want any company." (In other words, he was right in the midst of a dope-fueled wankathon.) "Hey, that's my last beer asshole!" "That's what you get for lying. Now load up the pipes, I need to get fucked up in the worst kind of way." He follows orders, breaking out his homemade meth bong, and filling it with strawberry kool-aid as you chug the beer. "You wanna hit this first or smoke weed?" "Both." you answer, reaching for the bag to roll a joint. You tell him about your adventures of the past two days while you begin the process of getting thoroughly annihilated.
.
A speedfreak is out walking one fine evening... He finds what looks like a homeless person lying in the street, helps him up, and gives him a cigarette. The homeless guy says, "Dude, I'm a genie. And since you were so kind to me, I'll give you three wishes." Of course the Tweaker immediately says, "I want a big bag of meth!" The genie says,"Okay no problem!" POOF, the bag appears! They prepare some thick long white lines, load up the trusty pipe, and share it between the two of them. The next morning the genie asks "What's the second wish?", "I want TWO big bags of meth", says the speedfreak. "Okay," says the genie. POOF! And they prepare it and snort it and smoke it all up between the two of them. The genie asks, "And the third wish?" "I want FOUR big bags of meth!" POOF!! So, they prepare lots of really big lines and smoke lots and lots of really big pipeloads, and once again share it between the two of them. Much later the genie gets up and says, "Okay, it's time for me to go." The genie takes a couple of steps, pauses, turns around and says, "Okay, just one more wish."
.
Sometime later, possibly as long as a week but at least three or four days, you have no way of knowing for sure, you're shaken awake after briefly passing out in the recliner. It's Wal-Mart girl doing the shaking, which makes no sense because you're pretty sure you never left Chickenwing's place. Nope, this is his smelly chair all right, in the corner of his filthy living room. What the hell is she doing here?
.
You vaguely remember a guy you never met before stopping by at some point. Somehow, you had managed to talk him out of two hits of acid and a tab of ecstasy, putting the bill on Chickenwing's tab, probably not the smartest idea after smoking ice continuously for days on end, but at that point you were way beyond caring, you just wanted a different kind of buzz. But you don't remember any other visitors over the course of this latest massive drug binge, it was just you and Chickenwing, the radio, the overflowing ashtrays, and the steadily declining mountain of crystal meth on the table. If it wasn't for the whole shaking you awake thing, you could almost convince yourself that she was just another weird hallucination, but hallucinations can't touch you, you know this much. So just where the fuck did this bitch come from, and more importantly, why was she once again fucking up your sleepytime?
.
"Just where the fuck did this bitch come from?" Chickenwing has just now appeared in his bedroom doorway, looking about like you feel. "Karen? She's my upstairs neighbor. Why, do you guys know each other?" "In a manner of speaking." Karen pipes up, looking at you curiously. "Bet you thought you'd never see me again huh? How have you been?" "Lousy." you answer, standing up on legs that aren't quite steady from too many drugs and not enough food. "I need a shower." Without another word you strip off your clothes as you walk towards the bathroom, then climb into the shower and stand under the warm water for half an hour or so until you start to feel like you may be able to face the world again.
.
When you emerge from the bathroom, naked except for the towel around your neck, Karen (she will always be Wal-Mart girl to you, never Karen) is cutting up lines of Bolivian Marching Powder on a mirror. From the looks of them, they've already had a couple each while you were showering. Fuck it, you think to yourself, may as well go for broke. You put your pants on and join them, snorting up line after line, until suddenly everything goes black.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Burning Man 2009 Time Lapse by Delirious

2009-12-01T12:39:00.000-08:00

Evolution from Delrious on Vimeo.

Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground....

2009-12-01T11:29:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part five Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day

2009-11-29T21:29:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part five, "Ain't no thing but a Chickenwing!"
.
After breaking your nose, the fat detective finally told you what you were doing in the interrogation room. Video surveillance footage from the Super Wal-Mart showed a young woman and a man who looked remarkably like you fleeing into the night after the girl was caught shoplifting and the guy punched an employee in the face and laid him out.
.
Detective Blake's intention had been to get you to confess to the previous night's incident and thus allow him the honor of adding an assault charge to your lengthy, if rather unimpressive criminal record. But he'd fucked up when he lost his temper and broken your nose, and he knew it. What's more, he knew that you knew it as well. Once you've stopped the worst of the bleeding with the handful of Kleenex he'd begrudgingly provided you, you suggest that the two of you make a little deal, and he's understandably quite receptive to your proposition.
.
You walk out the front doors a free man less than an hour later, all records of your latest stay on a one-way trip to the paper shredder, and your nose freshly bandaged by the jail's nurse.
.
Your car is still in the police impound lot, but you've got a letter releasing it to you free of charge in your pocket. Unfortunately, that letter and a cigarette lighter are the only things in your pocket, you're flat broke. You decide to walk to your friend Chickenwing's house, a couple of miles away but still a hell of a lot closer than the impound lot.
.
Chickenwing, whose real name is Derek, got his name because he was born with a physical deformity that caused one of his arms to be much smaller and more crooked than the other. You'd first met several years ago at a dealer friend's house. He was one of those unfortunate souls that will put up with almost anything just to have a "friend" to hang out with. Besides being cursed with the poultrylike limb, he was also morbidly obese, none of which mattered to you. What mattered was that he had an enormous drug habit and willingly shared his drugs, and would occasionally let you borrow a few bucks if you asked nice enough.
.
You arrive at the door to his apartment in one of the more rundown complexes downtown sweaty and out of breath from the hike. You knock loudly, and when a minute passes with no response, knock louder still. "Just a minute!" comes through the door.
.
This means Chickenwing is in the middle of enjoying his unbelievably extensive porn collection and wants to finish his business before answering the door, and this is by no means the first time you've been forced to wait outside. Chickenwing is a man who takes his masturbation VERY seriously, (something the two of you have in common) a pervert of the highest order, regardless of who may be waiting outside.
.
When he finally opens the door, he's even more sweaty and out of breath than you were when you first arrived. "What the fuck do you want? I don't have any dope, and I don't get paid until next Friday!" He goes to close the door and finds your foot is already inside. "Let me in Chickenwing, you Dirty Nigger!" you cry with a silly grin.
.
"What the fuck happened to your nose?" Curious now, he opens the door and grants you entrance into his disgusting palace of self-pleasure.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four

2009-11-26T22:15:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four, A Blast From The Past Comes Back To Bite You In The Ass
.
The guard leads you down a hallway to an interrogation room, where he unlocks the door and unceremoniously shoves you in. A disgustingly obese man in a suit almost as bad as yours is sitting behind the table. He motions for you to sit down in the other chair across from him. "Detective Blake I presume?" You make no attempt to shake hands, and neither does he. "You mind telling what this about?" you ask, knowing there's no way in hell you're going to get a straight answer. It's much too early in the game.
.
"How about if you tell me." Typical cop response, like you're just going to break down right there and confess to murder. Maybe tell him about all those bodies buried under your house. What a fucking joke this guy is. You decide you might as well try and have a little fun with him.
.
"Well, it could be about a lot of shit, but I'm not about to just start spilling my guts to you. Shouldn't my lawyer be present for any questioning?" As if you have a lawyer. "Fuck your lawyer punk, when I get through with you, you're gonna need a fuckin priest." You say nothing, just stare blankly into his eyes. He drops his gaze first.
.
"Fine" he says, switching tactics, "if that's how you wanna play it." He pulls a thick manila folder out of a scuffed leather briefcase. "You know what this is?" You have a pretty good idea, so you give him your most charming aren't-I-so-cute smile. "Pictures of that threesome I had with your wife and teenage daughter?"
"You just better watch that mouth Mr. Comedian, or it's gonna wind up missin a few teeth. It's your criminal record. Let's take a gander, shall we?" "Sure, I could use a few laughs right about now." He opens the folder and begins to read.
.
"Drug possession, drug possession, drug possession, drunk and disorderly times five, public intoxication times eight, and drug possession with intent to distribute..." Your smile widens the tiniest bit. "What can I say, I like to party and I'm really good at it." "Sure ya are, you're a regular party boy ain't ya? Reckless endangerment..."
.
"Hey" you say, losing the smile for now, feigning indignance, "they KNEW it was a fucking flamethrowing fire cannon, they should have stayed the fuck back like I told them to and they'd still have their eyebrows!" "Sure kid, whatever you say. What's the deal with this public nudity charge?" "If you could have seen that girl, you would have went skinny dipping with her too!" "I'm a happily married man amigo, and I don't fuck around on my wife, I'm not a piece of shit like you! Alright, let's move on." He shuffles some papers around, apparently looking for something in particular.
.
"Bestiality? No shit? What kind of a sick fuck are you?" Remembering the incident, you can't help but smile again. "I was just messing around with my buddy's cat for a laugh while we were all drunk one night. How was I supposed to know those pictures would end up on Facebook? Those charges were eventually dropped, it should say so right there on that paper." You lean over the table a little to take a look and he moves the sheet of paper to the bottom of the pile and pushes you back down in the chair. "Sit your ass back down!"
.
"Here's one that wasn't dropped. Assault and Battery. On a sixty-seven year old woman?" "Okay, that one I was in the wrong, my bad, but that old bitch was just begging to have her ass kicked, she's lucky all I did was backhand her. Just because you're old does NOT mean you can just do whatever the fuck you want! Anyway that got settled out of court." Your father had paid the old woman ten thousand dollars to testify at your trial on your behalf, since the District Attorney insisted on moving forward with prosecution.
.
"Okay tough guy, last one. Explain this pimping and pandering charge." He looks oddly pleased with himself. "All I did was introduce my mom to a few lonely guys I know. I though they'd hit it off, my parent's divorce was really tough on her. If she made a few bucks, that's HER business. Too bad you're married, she's got a thing for fat slobs on a power trip..."
.
The last part was a total lie, the pimping charge had been the real deal, just you and some morally challenged girls you knew trying to make a few extra bucks on Craigslist, but you're determined to get a rise out of this prick if it's the last thing you do.
.
It works, the next thing you know you're lying on the cold vinyl flooring of the interrogation room, and blood is pouring out of your freshly broken nose.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three

2009-11-25T19:27:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three, Further Degeneration of a Drunken Degenerate
.
Jail. It's been awhile since the last time you were a guest of the county. You'd briefly considered fleeing on foot but you knew they would get you eventually, the hotel manager saw you get into the car and even though you no longer resided at the address the DMV had on file, your current address was easily obtainable from the unemployment office.
.
So instead of running, what you did was lock your door, flip the manager a bird, and reach into the ashtray for the half a joint you'd left in there the night before. No since letting it go to waste, as the police would almost certainly search your vehicle. Besides, nothing makes a difficult situation a little easier to bear than sweet Mary Jane. The dickhead manager was standing in front of the car, unaware of the fact that you're a sitting duck. He pulls out his cellphone, and dials a number. You can just make out his side of the conversation as you fire up the joint and take a long drag.
.
"Hello? Yes, I'd like to report a theft please. My name is Roger Stanson, I'm the manager of the Holiday Inn down on Bradshaw Boulevard... A guy came in here this morning and stole a bunch of food from our complimentary breakfast bar. No, he's not a guest, I just told you, he was stealing!" A pause. "No, he tried to run, I'm standing in front of his car out in the parking lot right now, please send an officer immediately, I'm pretty sure he's smoking dope!" You smile and hold the joint out towards him, like you're offering him a toke. "Yes, I will, please hurry."
.
He hangs up and returns the phone to his pocket. "You're in a lot of trouble now buddy!" he says, "The cops are on their way! Yes siree Bob, a LOT of trouble..." There's more, but you were tired of listening to his self righteous and sanctimonious bullshit, and turned on the radio to drown him out. The weed had started to do it's thing, and combined with the sounds of Miles Davis blasting out of your one working speaker, you felt pretty good, all things considered.
.
You had enough time to finish the joint and two cigarettes before the law shows up. You're a bit surprised to see a state patrol car pull into the lot instead of the sheriff's cruiser you were expecting but a pig is a pig, in your humble opinion. You're tapping your fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music when the officer, after exchanging a few words with the manager, (who looks like he just received an unexpected and really good blow job) walks up to your window.
.
"Get out of the car and put your hands on the hood!" he ordered. You chose to ignore him and turned the music up a little louder instead. It was your favorite Miles Davis tune, and you had no intention of exiting the vehicle until the songs completion. But the cop would have none of that. He drew his gun and said, "OUT! Now Asshole!" So you shrugged your shoulders and with a sigh, did as you were told. You were immediately cuffed and shoved into the back of the patrol car. After searching your car and coming up empty except for a nearly empty pack of rolling papers and an old issue of Barely Legal, which he kept, the pig took fuckhead Roger's statement and carted you off to jail.
.
By the time you were finished with the usual rigamarole of the booking process, the strip search, fingerprinting, and paperwork, and were at last allowed your phone call, it was early afternoon. You called your father, and got as far as "I'm in jail, and..." before he slammed the phone down.
.
So now here you are, in the grimy holding cell that reeks of piss, body odor, and cheap disinfectant cleanser. You've got the place all to yourself for the moment, it's just you, the stainless steel toilet/sink combo, standard issue inmate mat and scratchy and stained green blanket. There's a phone on the wall that only calls bailbondsmen, useless to you with no collateral of any kind and a negative bank balance. Your laptop is stolen and the title of your shitheap of a car you pawned last week for the price of a couple lapdances from your favorite stripper, Bliss, who refuses to fuck you for any price but will tolerate the occassional groping because she says you're a nice guy.
.
The situation looks pretty bleak. You'll most likely be here until you go in front of the judge, who, at your last court appearance, promised to make an example out of you the next time you set foot in his courtroom for any reason. You figure it will be anywhere from three days to a week until your number comes up for court. Nothing to do but wait it out and hope like hell his honor dies from a stroke in the meantime. You lie down on the mat, balling up the filthy blanket for a pillow, breathing in the built-in smell of the countless farts of all the losers who came before you, and just as you begin to nod off the cell door opens and a voice calls out your name. "Get your ass out here, Detective Blake wants a word with you!"
.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Old Craigslist posting, I just thought this was kind of funny...

2009-11-22T08:49:00.000-08:00

Here's the original post:
.
I have a huge bathroom.
.
I am a female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate. Times are tight and I need some extra money.
I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home.

My bathroom is large. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it.

I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you confine yourself to the bathroom. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room. This might change as I get to know you better.
You may have guest over as long as they are cnfined to the bathroom as well. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is $400 and the bathroom is large.
.
.
.
Now, here's my interpretation:
I have a huge bathroom.
.
I am a (mentally unstable) female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate(prisoner/sex slave). Times are tight and I need some extra money. (Heroin ain't getting any cheaper ya know!)
I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home. Also the cabinet under the kitchen sink, as soon as the eviction proceedings for the current tenant are finalized.
.
My bathroom is large. So large that the neighbors will never hear your screams. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. Or forty six dead cats, neatly stacked. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it. I masturbate frequently, so I'm gonna be in there A LOT.
.
I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you avoid direct eye contact and confine yourself to the bathroom. If you do not confine yourself to the bathroom, I will confine you there myself. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room while I'm doing my Pilates. It's MY fucking living room, you stay your ass in the bathroom damnit, unless I need to use it, in which case you may wait on the fire escape. This might change as I get to know you better and adjust to my new meds.
.
You may have guests over as long as they are confined to the bathroom as well and are between the ages of 12 and 14. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is A REAL BARGAIN at $400 (rent subject to change without notice) and the bathroom is large. Weirdos and creeps need not apply.
.
* cats are OK - purrr

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two

2009-11-21T01:18:00.000-08:00

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two
-A Mid-morning Tale of a Hungover and Still Hungry Degenerate
.
Your alarm wakes you up at ten a.m. It's been just over two hours since you and Wal-Mart girl fell asleep on your bed, your Spongebob blanket is still slightly moist from the sweat of your coke-fueled sex and smells like a combination of bodily fluids and cheap whiskey. Why the hell did she set the alarm you wonder, as you lie there listening to the shrill beeping that seems to be piercing your brain and causes your head to throb dully with that familiar pain that comes from a night of excessive debauchery. It had to be her, you haven't set the alarm since you were fired from your last job three months ago.
.
After fleeing into the night together, the two of you jumping into your car and speeding away so fast you would have made the Duke boys of Hazzard County proud, you drove to a deserted construction site and snorted some of her blow off the dusty dashboard of your Caprice Classic. You laugh hysterically about how you punched out the stock boy, and the getaway you had just made, talking loudly to be heard over the classic rock station blaring out of the radio, neither of you even for a moment considering turning it down.
.
She offered to take you up on your request to buy breakfast but thanks to the cocaine you were flying high, and no longer hungry, so you stopped at an all night gas station where she ran in and grabbed a case of beer. It was after two and not yet six but the bored looking cashier just wanted to get back to his copy of Rolling Stone and sold her the beer without batting an eye. You were half afraid she'd try and steal something and force you to beat another hasty retreat, but apparently she'd had enough of that for one night.
.
You went to your apartment, cracked open a couple of cold PBR's and she cut up the rest of her stash into lines on your coffee table after first wiping up some of the ashes and marijuana particles that liberally covered the table's surface area with a fast food napkin she pulled from the depths of her shoplifting coat.
.
You got high together, and took turns playing Youtube songs for each other on your laptop until she finally said, "Are we gonna fuck or what?" So you fucked, and over the course of the next couple hours you fucked several more times, until the coke was long gone and you both started coming down, exhausted from all the physical exertion.
.
And now here you both are, lying in this filthy bed together, you with a raging hangover made infinitely worse by the high-pitched, Banshee like beep-beep of that goddamned alarm, while she sleeps on, oblivious... Fuck That.
.
"Hey, wake up!" you elbow her sharply in the side and she barely stirs. "Hey!" you yell louder, shaking her by the shoulders. "What?" she mumbles sleepily. Her morning breath is atrocious, which should come as no surprise considering the filthy things she did with her mouth just a few short hours ago. "Why the fuck did you set my alarm clock?" you ask, making no attempt to disguise your irritation. "Oh shit, I gotta go to work!" she says, and immediately gets out of bed and begins hunting for her clothes, which are strewn out all over the bedroom. Moving quickly, she's dressed in no time. "It's been fun." she says, and without another word she's out the door and gone, leaving the alarm to continue it's battle cry on the nightstand.
.
You can stand it no longer, you reach across the bed and yank the cord out of the wall, then sling the fucking thing out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where it hits the wall with a resounding crash. At this point you'd like nothing more than to fall back asleep for ten or twelve hours, but you soon realize that's not going to happen.
.
Now that you're no longer intoxicated your hunger is back, and it's back with a vengeance. You realize it's been two days since you've last eaten. This poses a problem because you have no food of any kind in the house and it's still three more days until that unemployment check hits your mailbox. Luckily you've been in this predicament before and know just what to do. It's just past ten, so you've got a little less than an hour to make it happen.
.
With a groan you drag your carcass out of bed and over to the closet, where you pull out the only thing hanging therein, a pinstriped suit that's seen better days. It's threadbare and could use a good cleaning but should be more more than adequate for the task at hand.
.
You dress as quickly as you can, which in your condition (Dead Dogshit) is just slightly faster than a snail's pace. In the car, you pull a clip-on tie out of the glove compartment and put it on before starting the engine and driving away.
.
By the time you pull into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and park, it's a quarter to eleven. You're pushing it, but should have just enough time. You walk into the lobby, past the front desk, and into the dining area, where you grab two styrofoam plates and load them up with the hotel's free breakfast. Sweet rolls, fruit, cereal, sausage patties, a waffle, the whole works. You set these down at a table in the corner then make two more trips for beverages, three cups of coffee and two cartons of orange juice.
.
Twenty minutes later, your ravenous hunger thoroughly satisfied, you're feeling a million times better. Still not quite human perhaps, but much, much better. You're debating on whether or not you have room for one more cinnamon roll and fantasizing about a threesome with Wal-Mart girl and the hotel maid wiping down tables across from you, when a voice breaks into your reverie. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
.
It's the hotel manager, Roger according to his name tag, and he looks anything but happy to see you. "Pardon me?" you ask, trying to play it cool. "You're stealing food, and I'm afraid I simply can not allow that." His voice is so stern you would think you were stealing the food right out of the mouths of his children. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken sir, I'm a guest here." You hope he doesn't ask what room number you're staying in, or worse yet, to see your room key.
.
"Bullshit!" he's furious now, face beet red, a vein in his temple throbbing. "I let you get by with it the first few times, but now you come in here looking like a complete derelict, eat enough food to feed a family of four, and eyeball rape one of my maids, who also happens to be my favorite neice! I'm calling the police!"
.
You'd forgotten that your face was recently used as a punching bag, while you were getting dressed you hadn't bothered to take a look in a mirror you were too focused on the primary objective of getting some food in your stomach. Also you smell like a rutting pig, and you're sweating booze out of every pore. Ah fuck, here we go again, you think, then make a mad dash for the door.
.
He wasn't expecting you to run, and you've got a good lead on him by the time you hit the parking lot. Jumping behind the wheel you can't help but laugh a little at once again finding yourself in this sort of predicament, but the laughter stops real quick. The car won't start.
.
TO BE CONTINUED...

For Pamela!

2009-11-15T21:33:00.000-08:00

I have no idea how this is going to turn out but I promised her something weird and rambling tonight, so I'll give it my best shot. Pay no attention to anything I'm about to write, it's all complete and utter nonsense I assure you my furry little friends! Just recycled jokes (recycling is good for the environment damnit!)and social commentary from the mind of a heartbroken and slightly cynical lunatic with way too much nicotine, sugar, and caffeine in his system. Just be thankful that's ALL it is this time!
.
I've got the headphones blasting out the funky hip-hop beats for inspiration, and I'm enjoying yet another DELICIOUS Pepsi and Reese's flavored ice cream soda. If I keep on drinking these things I believe I really could give up the liquor. Who knows, I might even put on some weight, apparently I have to gain fifty pounds or Pam will never date me. Says her. Of all the reasons not to date me, and Satan knows there are plenty of those, it's a little bit of body mass that comes between us? Damn my metabolism! Slow Down! Ha! Like I wanna date ANYBODY anyway. Nowhere near ready for all that again. How big do I have to be for "friends with benefits" what's the weight requirements for that? I'll start eating right fucking now, I swear!
.
There was a time, not so very long ago, when I could walk around inside a crowded store, and the hot high school chicks would smile at me and check me out. Now, they just kind of "keep an eye on me." Back then I was too timid to do anything, and now that I'm brimming with confidence in my boyish good looks and silly/smart charm suddenly I'm the creepy old guy? Damn, it's like you follow one girl home in your car, and you're a creepy stalker for life... Pretty soon if I want to get laid I'll have to whore myself out on Craigslist to horny retirees and terminal cancer patients looking for one last roll in the hay.
.
Speaking of hay, what the FUCK am I doing out here in the boondocks, caring for farm animals and picking the last of the fall harvest from the garden? Green Acres is NOT the place to be, I don't care what the admitedly catchy song tells you. Meanwhile, back in the Bay Area, all this cool shit is going down, Burning Man parties and gatherings, concerts and plays... and I'm forced to live vicariously through friends and internet friends.
.
In other news, it seems that A-1 steak sauce will make you more attractive to some women, so guys, throw out that goddamn Axe body spray! That shit always smelled funky to me anyway, although I must confess I'm guilty of using it on rare occassions, usually to cover up the smell of marijuana smoke around someone's parents or spouse. I generally prefer to just use a good antiperspirant and let my bodies natural pheremones do the work. I do have a soft spot for mens Nautica but I haven't worn any in a long time.
.

But I digress. I was going to tell you the story about the shaved poodle, a pissed off upstairs neighbor, a bathtub full of cottage cheese, and a stick of dynamite, but I just don't feel up to it. Besides, I'm pretty sure the judge never lifted that gag order so I better not. Another time perhaps...
.
Man, this is turning out to be harder than I thought. Usually I can fill a page with nonsense in just a matter of minutes but this has taken the better part of an hour. Granted I have been switching back and forth to YouTube after every song. I never could perform under pressure, I get as nervous as a virgin in the back seat of a car on Prom night. Maybe if I had an actual topic? Current events it is then!
.
*Families urge Iran to release U.S. hikers*
"It's high time Iran put an end to this, showed compassion and let them come home," said Cindy Hickey, Shane Bauer's mother
.
Yeah, that'll happen Mom! Iran didn't listen to the U.S. when we asked them to stop with the nuclear shit, but you think if YOU just ask nicely they'll let your son out of their prison? It's going to take a lot of ass kissing and probably a former president, or at least the Reverend Jesse Jackson. I'll bet Oprah could get him out!
.
Alright, screw current events, there's never any good news anyway. Actually I suppose that's enough gibberish for tonight. If you're still reading this, you REALLY need some kind of hobby, stamp collecting, scrimshaw, anything! That's all folks, except for one last thing. "I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.”
.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow!

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part one

2009-11-10T10:37:00.000-08:00

It's sixteen minutes after three in the morning and you've just been thrown out of the bar after you realized that once again you have miscounted the number of beers you drank and now you don't have enough money to pay your tab. You apologized profusely and gave the cute blonde bartender all of the money in your wallet but it wasn't enough to prevent the meathead bouncer from blacking your eye before he threw you out the door and into the parking lot, where you landed in a cold puddle of muddy water and motor oil.
.
Pissed off and hungry, you drive to the twenty-four hour Super Wal-Mart. Your intention is to shoplift something to eat, a deli sandwich, or maybe one of those really big microwaveable burritos, but your soggy and oil-stained clothes and your swollen purple shiner make this task exceptionally difficult, even at this late hour. You've drawn the attention of one of the stock boys, a pimply-faced young man who looks as if he's got something to prove to the world, or at least his shift manager. He's following you.
.
You wander the aisles aimlessly in an attempt to lose him, but he stays right on your ass. You're beginning to think you might have to detour to the restrooms where you can put some cold paper towels on your eye and hopefully shake him off in the process, when you come upon the girl in the arts and crafts aisle.
.
She's pretty, hot even, (at least by your minimal standards) and because she's looking at paint-by-number sets and velvet felt tip marker posters at just after four in the morning it's a safe bet she's tweaked out of her mind, which means you might be able to score in one way or the other.
.
"How would you like to buy me a nice big Waffle House breakfast?" you ask her as you walk up. "I'll bet I'm a lot more fun than arts and crafts." "I doubt it." she replies, checking you out and taking in the whole picture. Your soiled clothes, black eye, and slightly nervous grin.
.
Deciding you look relatively harmless she decides to toy with you a bit. "If I buy you breakfast, what are you gonna do for me, huh?" "I'm sure we can work something out." you say.
.
Just then she notices the stock boy, who's been lurking at the end of the aisle, watching this pathetic scene unfold. "I gotta go." she says, suddenly uneasy. "What's the rush?" you ask. You reach out to stop her as she begins to quickly walk away and end up with a handful of her coat, which pulls back. A jumbo pack of markers and a few paintbrushes spill out and hit the floor.
.
"I knew it!" cries the pimply-faced boy triumphantly, as if it was her he was after all along. He heads down the aisle towards the two of you, almost skipping in his exuberance. "Stay right there!" he orders in his best I'm-in-charge-here voice.
.
Without thinking about what you're doing you give him a hard right hook to his greasy chin, with all your anger at the meathead bouncer (who was just too damn big to hit) behind it, and he goes down hard.
.
"Run!" you yell, but she's already headed for the door.
TO BE CONTINUED...

The Midnight Writer Rides Again! Another installment of late night blathering by yours truly.

2009-09-24T00:11:00.000-07:00

.
As always, images are used without permission but with thanks and gratitude!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tzWckYfZhbA
.
It's been awhile... Having just a few days previous attempted the online equivalent of drunk dialing and being utterly ignored (well, in all fairness, she did remove me as a friend on Facebook.) I'm not exactly flying high here folks. Quite the opposite in fact. I'd love to crawl into a dark place and die but I'm afraid that's just not an option at this late date. Neither is drinking myself into a coma, the bars have long since closed and there's not a drop of liquor in this place. Probably best to try and catch that wagon, see if I can't manage to hop on this time...
.
And so I write. The question that is foremost on my mind is age old; Is it truly better to have loved and lost?? Right now I would have to say that the answer is unequivocally NO. Not at all. Perhaps tomorrow I shall feel differently.
.
I have an uncanny ability to completely fuck up everything that's ever meant anything to me in my life, and I'm not sure why I insist on using it. Four pitchers of beer?? Why not take a nice late night motorcycle ride?? Now, after a brief stay in the old gray bar hotel, I have my first official DUI, a right leg that resembles raw hamburger, and Pops is laid up in an Atlanta hospital with a brand new piece of pipe for a leg bone! Good Times?? No, indeed.
.
On the plus side, my Muse seems to have awakened from her months long power nap, and oh boy, is that bitch pissed off! She's spoiling for a fight, and I am just the man-child to give it to her...
.
If I can scrape up some currency I believe I'll head out West, first back to Cali and then to The Big Easy for some much needed R&R of the best kind, the kind that helps people.
.
That will hopefully carry me over to Burn Time or thereabouts. Afterwards, if the Muse stays on her game, I should have enough for a "book" of some kind. (Books are these things with words that you read. Like tv only better because the picture is in your head!) Maybe I can finally publish some of this insane drivel I've been banging out and halfheartedly submitting these past few years. Or Maybe I'll meet a rich Brazilian beauty in "Naawlins" and set sail for parts unknown, never to be seen again. Only time will tell. Stay tuned!

Remix!

2009-05-23T12:58:00.000-07:00

Lonestoner's Day at Night mix by Lonestoner

flux

2009-02-07T16:09:00.000-08:00

The Ocean Breathes Salty...

2009-02-03T19:45:00.000-08:00

meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document">

A Day at the Beach

How a drunken Lonestoner met the Prince of Pot

It was eight-thirty in the morning. I had been up all night drinking free beers, celebrating the success of the first show of the theater I have been living in for the past couple of months.

Flux53. Horrible name, but not a bad place to pass out in, even if it is a little cold and dusty at times. It was our first official show as Flux53, a Circus Cabaret, and it went better than I had hoped to imagine considering how utterly unprepared we were. But we pulled it off somehow, and once I realized just how good it was going to be I began to drink especially heavily.

Did I mention it was eight-thirty in the morning? I had been working almost non-stop for over two days at that point but the success of the party had left me in such high spirits and combined with all the leftover beers we didn’t sell, the next thing I knew it was eight-thirty in the morning, I was rip-roaring drunk, and I had the absurd notion in my head that I needed to see the ocean. Immediately.

Nevermind the fact that I was slurring my speech, could barely walk without breaking into my patented drunken stagger, and as usual had no money. Nevermind the fact that I was supposed to be at an important political event that I had helped organize, a people’s tribunal to help spread awareness about the growing problem of police brutality in Oakland.

I needed to see the ocean. I had lived in the Bay Area for nearly two months and I had yet to look upon the Pacific Ocean. I wasn’t okay with that at all. And I felt it was time. I told my activist friend whom I’d convinced to work security that I wasn’t going to be attending the tribunal I was going to the Beach and if he didn’t like it he could fuck off. He fucked off.

I shook down the place for cash, finding three dollars in the tip jar on the bar, and fifteen in the cashbox under the desk we were using as a box office. I loaded my backpack with a couple bags of leftover chips, a quarter bottle of whiskey someone had left behind, and as many cans of Budweiser as the bag would hold.

I had an interesting conversation with a fellow all-nighter who was also headed for the BART station. We drank beer, and later had cheap coffee and cake from a Mexican bakery, as we stumbled down the street and talked about who was getting laid, who wasn’t, and why.

At the station I bid goodbye to my friend, who was headed south, and bought my first BART ticket. Four bucks to the beach, or at least as close as the train would take me, I’d have to take a bus or walk the rest of the way.

I drank beer the entire time I was on the train going across the bay. It was only when I offered the gentleman in the seat next to me a shot of whiskey that I learned there were security cameras in every car. Oh well.

I had decided to get off the BART at the Colma station and walk to the nearest beach, which I later learned is called Pacifica, but while I waiting for the bus to Pacifica I met a young kid, nineteen or twenty, and gave him a beer and a smoke. He was from the city and he said he knew not only where there was a nice unpopulated beach but also where we could score some good weed on the way.

The kid’s name was DJ and he seemed cool enough, so I changed my destination and went back into San Francisco. We jumped off the train at 17^th and Mission and walked around for a couple hours while DJ tried to find some pot. Just as we were about to call off the hunt, the roommate of yet another one of DJ’s friends who wasn’t home took pity on us and tossed us down a big joint, free of charge. Waiting for the bus to the beach we ran into another friend of DJ’s who bought him a twelve pack, and we chug one and reload the depleted backpack while we wait.

The beach was well worth it. It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect weather, warm sun and sand, and those cool blue waves crashing against the shore. We find a good spot on the dunes and plop down, taking off our shoes and opening a beer. This had to be about number thirty for me by then, but I had made it to the Ocean at last, and I felt damn good.

The beach patrol cop was down by the water’s edge harassing a woman with an unleashed dog, so we had to wait a bit before sparking up our gifted joint but when we did it made the perfect day just a little nicer. DJ and I, who are almost as close as brothers by this point for some reason, start a deep discussion about true love, of all things. About the difficulty of finding the one perfect woman, and how you would know if you did.

We get stoned, and we get good and drunk, and after the sun has started to set a bit we are joined by a young woman. She told me her name twice but I’m afraid I don’t remember what it was. She was from Canada, the really French part, and her accent was a little hard to understand, especially in my inebriated condition. She wanted to smoke marijuana but all we had to offer her was alcohol at that point so she had beers and a couple shots of whiskey with us.

We walked down to the water, leaving DJ behind with our stuff, and splashed around a bit, talking and laughing and flirting awkwardly. She wanted to watch the sunset and then go to a club and party but I was really smashed and knew I’d never make it through the night even if she was buying.

She was a nice girl and I might have at least stayed to watch the sunset with her but DJ had to leave before dark, he was going across town to see a friend who was dying of gunshot wounds, and I was unsure of exactly where I was at and didn’t trust the foreign girl to get me home. I have a few friends in the city I could have called but I didn’t bring anyone’s contact info. I only wanted to see the Ocean, not friends.

So we began the trek back towards the BART, and I was drinking beers the whole way, even on the buses. Nobody cared. I am totally blitzed at this point, loudly talking shit to anyone around and probably annoying the hell out of my new friend. Getting off the bus to transfer over, I fall in the street, something I haven’t done in a very long time. I realized I might not make back to the East Bay in my current condition.

I ask DJ if I can just go crash at his place, but he’s a street kid, he doesn’t have a place. He says he knows where there is a car I can sleep in and I say what the fuck are you crazy, but he says no it’s cool, and I’m in no position to argue. I know I’ll be fine if I can sleep it off for an hour or two and a strange car is better than the street. We walk a few blocks, and he opens the door of this minivan. It’s warm and surprisingly clean so I hop in back and pass out. I don’t know if I said goodbye to DJ but I know I forgot to get my backpack from him.

I wake up to the sound of the van driving down the street. Fast. I crack an eye open and see two guys I’ve never seen before in the front seat. I’m wondering if this is how my life is going to end, if I decided to pass out in the wrong tweaker van, when the driver, an older guy about sixty or so, says, “Hey he’s awake!”

I can tell by the way he said it that he means me no harm, so I sit up and say, “Good evening gentleman, I had a little too much to drink at the beach today and DJ said it was cool for me to crash here for a little while. Is everything alright?”

“That’s cool” says the passenger, a younger guy about twenty-five or so, “we just didn’t know who you were. I was gonna kick you out but Dennis said no, you was okay.” “Yeah” says the driver, who I now assume is named Dennis, “I don’t care if people sleep in my car, that’s why I never lock the doors. What’s your name kid?”

I tell Dennis my name and a little more about how I came to be passed out in the back of his car. A minute or so later we drop off the passenger and I climb in the front seat. Dennis tells me I can sleep on one of his couches. He says I really should check out his place, he lives in a pink castle with a blacklight garden. When we park outside his building I see he wasn’t kidding, it really does look like a pink castle. We go in through a side door, into a kind living room/den area, and Dennis has me a roll a joint from his stash. It’s such high quality shit we both have to put it out less than halfway through.

He shows me around the rest of the place, a huge space with three stories spread out over two separate buildings. In between is an incredible blacklight garden, covered in psychedelic paint, with a nice hot tub midway through. The castle acts as a reasonably priced, all inclusive Bed and Breakfast. Every bedroom has a private balcony with a breathtaking view of the city below.

The whole place is decorated with pro marijuana legalization stuff; signs, banners, artwork, etc. I start to get the feeling that I know this old hippie, or at least I should. I’m looking at a framed copy of High Times magazine with my new friend on the cover when it finally hits me.

It turns out that Dennis is actually Dennis Peron, arguably the greatest marijuana rights activist of all time, and a true counterculture legend. This old man who found me sleeping in his van is one of my personal heroes. He opened the very first medical marijuana dispensary in California, and was instrumental in the passing of Prop 215. I had just smoked a joint with the Prince of Pot.

He gives me a glass of juice while we chat with his brother for awhile in the main kitchen, then, sensing my exhaustion, he shows me to a comfy couch in the living room of one of the suites. I fall asleep knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I wake up in the early afternoon and go upstairs to the kitchen. Dennis and his brother are there and we have coffee and blueberry muffins, then enjoy a relaxing soak in the hot tub. Dennis talks about his accomplishments in the movement, and about the cannabis clubs today, how they are mostly just about making money.

Feeling better and only a little hung over, I bid Dennis and his brother goodbye, thanking them for their more than generous hospitality. Dennis responds by smoking another joint, and gifting me a signed copy of his book. He invites me to come back whenever I’m in the city, an invitation I fully intend to take him up on.

As I’m walking the few blocks to the BART station, I take a look what he’s written inside the front cover;

Dear Robert,

Keep your dreams!

Stay High!

Dennis Peron

San Francisco ‘09

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbCiNnLvvDY

The Oscar Grant Saga Continues!

2009-01-16T18:26:00.000-08:00

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/justice-for-oscar-grant-rally-january-14-oakland-clip-three/2305843012836487899/?icid=VIDURVENT01

Wednesday, January 14th, 2009

I was a bit late arriving to the rally, and missed the opening statements, when it was announced that Mehserle had finally been arrested. The crowd was much bigger and more diverse than before, and so was the police presence. They were itching for a fight I think, many of them wore zipties in their belts, to be used as handcuffs if need be. I listened to speeches by members of C.A.P.E. the coalition against police executions, and M.O.N.A. mothers of never again.

I took part in a demonstration where we lay on the ground in front of the stage with our hands behind our backs, imitating Oscar Grant’s position when he was shot and killed. They read the names of many other people who had been killed by police, and after each name we cried, “Please don’t shoot!” Mayor Ron Dellums took the stage, to a chorus of boos, and encouraged the crowd to “Take pride in your activism.” He also encouraged everyone to remain peaceful, a sentiment that was echoed many times throughout the night.

A group of young people read the five demands of the people. Here is a brief summary of those demands.

1. Immediate indictment of Johannes Mehserle for murder.

2. Resignation or retirement of Tom Orloff, District Attorney of Alameda County.

3. The release of the names of all officers involved in the shooting of Oscar Grant, and the filing of any and all charges relating to said shooting.

4. The creation of a BART P.D. citizens review board.

5. BART and the city of Oakland to give restitution to the community to be used in the creation of programs to stop violence and police brutality.

Next, rapper and Oakland native Too Short briefly took the stage. He said the protest rallies and marches and the resulting community togetherness and organization were a “very intelligent effort” and stressed the need to keep it peaceful. A prayer was said, and then the evenings march began.

We marched from city hall to the Alameda County Administrative Building, near the courthouse. I followed close behind a group of black clad anarchists, keeping an eye out for the pretty troublemaker from before, but while there were some of the same people from the night of the 7th in attendance, she and her boyfriend were not among them. Once again, cries of “No justice, no peace!” and “I am Oscar Grant!” filled the air.

At the Admin Building, there were more speeches given and more chanting and sign waving. I stayed with the anarchists, standing atop a brick wall across the street. As the speakers took to the podium, among them Oscar Grant Senior, I spoke with some of the anarchists, and felt confident that they weren’t there to destroy stuff, but if someone else started it, they would be happy to join in. I think I was a little hard on them last time, most of them are good kids, if a little misguided. (Okay, so some of them are a lot misguided.) One of the speakers read a letter from a death row inmate that prompted a robust round of cheering from the crowd.

On the march back to city hall, I found myself in the absurd position of holding one of the anarchist banners. I agreed with the sentiment painted on the cloth, but they thought I was one of them, when if they only knew that I was in fact the Lonestoner I would have probably been jumped and soundly beaten.

The march back was uneventful, and I left immediately following the closing ceremonies of the rally, confident that the anarchist kids would cause no trouble. And indeed they didn’t, but a group of young people did attack a Wells Fargo bank that night, and after once again dispensing tear gas, eight arrests were made.

In other news, there’s a walkout for Oscar Grant on January the 16th, and yet another, and probably the final, rally and march to ensure justice for Oscar Grant and to help end police brutality, will be held on MLK day.

Monday, January 19th, 2009. Assemble at 11:30am at the west Oakland BART. March begins promptly at 12 noon. Commemoration rally 12:45pm, Bobby Hutton Park. March continues through west Oakland, with a concluding rally at 2pm, back at the west Oakland BART. Organized by the International People’s Uhuru Movement, with a little help from yours truly. That’s correct, this time I actually AM one of the organizers! Come out and help us bring an end to 41 years of systematic killing by those sworn to serve and protect! For more info or to join the movement: http://www.inpdum.org/ inpdum_oakland@yahoo.com

http://www.revolutionaryworkersgroup.org/

rworkersg@yahoo.com

Anarchy in Oak Town!

2009-01-11T21:23:00.000-08:00

Anarchy in the Streets of Oakland

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HeDjJf02fac

How a peaceful demonstration against police brutality turned into an all out riot that left downtown Oakland aflame and in shambles.

Wednesday January 7^th, 2009

It was just supposed to be a protest rally seeking justice for the cold blooded murder of an unarmed man at the Fruitvale BART station on New Years day. Oscar Grant, a twenty-two year old father of one, was shot in the back while lying on the ground by BART cop Johannes Mehserle and later died from his injuries. In an attempted cover up, Mehserle’s fellow officers began confiscating cell phones of commuters who’d witnessed the unprovoked murder. In spite of their efforts, not one but three separate videos were soon all over the internet and television news.

The killer was allowed to walk away from the scene, and was placed on PAID leave pending an investigation. He later resigned from the BART P.D. on January 7^th, having still not spoken with investigators.

Not having a television or reliable internet access in the theater I’m currently residing in, I first learned of the murder of Oscar Grant when I received an invitation to the rally at the Fruitvale BART station where Oscar Grant was killed via my Facebook account. Not being a fan of law enforcement in general, and outraged at the merciless killing of an unarmed civilian and the resulting miscarriage of justice, I immediately decided to go to this protest rally and lend my support.

The rally was scheduled for three to seven P.M. and it was just before three when the bus deposited me at the BART station. There was a good size crowd already, and once the speeches began, the crowd began to grow at an almost exponential rate. It was a really diverse group of folks too, of all ages and from all walks of life. Among these were a couple of anarchist kids, girlfriend and boyfriend. For some reason I disliked them immediately, especially the girl. I had the strange desire to punch her in the mouth with a roll of quarters and I couldn’t understand why. I was really conflicted, because I don’t have anything against anarchists, I used to call myself one in fact, and this girl was really sexy, she had beautiful eyes peering out from atop her black bandanna, and beneath her bandolier belt she was all curves. There were a lot of anarchist kids in attendance, and she wasn’t the only hot chick, but none of the others made me nervous. Something about her made me not just uneasy but a little worried and slightly angry as well.

I tried to forget about her and drank one of the two beers I’d brought with me as I listened to some of the speeches, collected some literature, and bought a “Stop the Violence” CD that later turned out to be blank. (If I ever see that dude again, I intend to have my two dollars or I’m going to START the fucking violence!) The crowd grew so large the BART people shut down the station to prevent the arrival of more demonstrators, although when I asked them they claimed to have closed it due to the unruliness of the existing demonstrators, a bullshit lie if I’ve ever heard one. I noticed a complete lack of BART cops, there were only the Fruitvale Village security guys, and the police helicopter, which along with every news chopper in the Bay Area, filled the sky above the station like a flock of mechanical birds of prey.

An impromptu march was scheduled, and roughly half an hour later, enough time for my other beer and some hastily scrawled notes, a group of demonstrators began to walk, down International towards downtown Oakland. Reports are conflicting regarding the total number but I would say at least four hundred, conservatively, and many people joined in as we slowly made our way towards downtown. The marchers, like the protestors at the BART station, were a mixed group; black, white, young, and old. Sure, we were intermittently chanting “Fuck the Police!” but it was still just a peaceful demonstration.

Remember the anarchist lovebirds who made me feel a little uneasy? A few blocks before the shit hits the fan, I’m smoking a recently bummed smoke (I had quit the night before) when I see the girl run over to the side of the street. She empties the entire contents of a free newspaper machine into her open backpack and rejoins the crowd. I’d first noticed she was part of the march about half a mile back, when one of the organizers of the rally had attempted to turn the march around, and she’d told him to “stop trying to run shit.” I knew it was just a matter of time before our previously peaceful demonstration took a turn for the worse, and it wasn’t long before she proved me right.

Near the closed down BART police station was a single police cruiser, it’s two officers standing on the corner across the street. The mob halted to shout a few choice obscenities. My sexy/creepy anarchist girl decided to use this opportunity and her recently acquired stash of paper to light up a nearby dumpster. A group of the white anarchist wannabes, almost as if they had just been waiting for this signal, push the dumpster over by the cop car while still others began to damage the cruiser itself.

A frenzy ensues as the mob mentality begins to take hold of the crowd, the lights and windshield of the black and white are smashed out, and then a group begins trying to flip it on it’s side. I contemplate joining in the destruction for the only time that night, I think one more person and they could have rolled that damn car, it was already leaning precariously on two wheels. I hesitate, and in my indecision the option is taken away from me, as several cans of smoke and one can of teargas are shot off in the street around the crowd.

At this point, most of the younger and older members of the march have had enough, they put an egg in their shoe and beat it. What’s left is the anarchist kids, a number of teens and young adults, all of the above feeling rowdy and pissed off, and myself and the few members of the press who’d chosen to follow the march instead of remaining at the rally. Also a few of the more hardcore protestors who, while not willing to resort to violence, are not yet ready to stop protesting and go home either.

I see the first police in riot gear arrive, and form a line directly ahead of me, so I decide to detour around the block. On the way I meet Bryan Wiles, one of the aforementioned hardcore but peaceful protestors, and since we both want to be where the action is and yet not necessarily take part in any mayhem and destruction, we “buddy up” and decide to watch each other’s back’s, and as we make our way around the block to where the police are making the first of the many arrests that night, we form an exit strategy and discuss what to do if one or the other of us is arrested.

Sometime between the ignition of the dumpster and the detour, the mayor led a small group of the original march to city hall and gave a brief speech. Previously, he couldn’t be bothered, and so he sent a flunky of some sort to the rally at the BART station to deliver a half-hearted apology. I missed the mayor’s undoubtedly stirring words, en route to what would become the front line of the war zone the evening would eventually become.

14^th and Broadway.

At first it appeared to be a kind of totally one sided Mexican standoff. Lines of police in full riot gear blocked either side of Broadway. In between them, completely blocking off any traffic, are the two dozen or so protestors. Some of the anarchist kids remain, but the lovebirds are nowhere in sight. Perhaps they were so excited by their little trashcan fire they felt the need to rush home to Suburbia and make love in their evil lair located in his parent’s basement, or maybe they were tear gassed and had to pack it in early. I like to think it was the latter.

There are still a couple of bullhorns left in the hands of the remaining protestors, and they aren’t shy about using them. They lead the crowd in chants like, “No justice, no peace, fuck the police!” and “We are all Oscar Grant!” I was even pleasantly surprised to hear, “Hey cops, you better start shakin, today’s pig is tomorrow’s bacon!” It reminded me of Hunter. I think he would have been both pleased and disgusted with the way the night played out, pleased that so many had gathered to speak out against injustice and police brutality, and disgusted at the senseless destruction and vandalism that had nothing whatsoever to do with Oscar Grant or police brutality, it was just kids having fun; breaking shit and setting shit on fire.

It starts with another garbage fire, this time not a dumpster, just a regular sized can on the corner. It’s lit up and then kicked over, but the police seem uninterested, so the can on the other side of the street is set ablaze and knocked over as well. Still no reaction from the police, so a few bottles get thrown.

That pissed them off a little, so they order the crowd to disperse, and when no one seems to be dispersing they start herding us down 14^th. This pisses the crowd off a little, and car windows start being broken, and a USA Today machine is kicked over and smashed. One of the cars with broken windows in set on fire when someone throws what I believe was a small Molotov cocktail inside it, in seconds there’s flames pouring out the windows and extending three feet over the roof of the vehicle. This was approximately eight-thirty, but I only know this from the newscast I watched later that night while having beers at Bryan’s place. I had no way to know what time it was at that moment, my ipod claimed it was just after three in the morning, which I knew couldn’t be right.

Several people refused to be herded like cattle, and I saw a couple sporadic skirmishes with the riot cops break out, usually ending with the person in the way being slammed to the ground, although one lady was simply picked up and carried away. I nearly catch the bums rush myself as I’m hastily scribbling notes and only Bryan’s tug on the shoulder saves me from becoming a doormat. “No justice, no peace!” chants the crowd, continuing on it’s path of destruction. It’s extremely violent, and just as senseless, the mob destroys things and sets other things on fire indiscriminately and completely at random.

I hear from a nearby photog that the police have closed down Madison, which intersects 14^th about a block down the street. As he’s telling me this, I watch a kid looting the cars with broken windows. No one says a word to him, there’s so much anger in the air I don’t think anyone cared. A scary looking SWAT vehicle, armored and with some kind of gun turret, rolls by, loaded down with riot police, some of them wielding bean bag shotguns. One of them jumps off the vehicle and begins chasing the looter kid on foot, and then two more jump off and give chase. When they catch the kid I see all three of them pile onto his back, their knees on his shoulders and neck, one of them slaps the cuffs on, and another blasts him with a taser. By that time the kid was completely docile, and the taser was just a little bit of old fashioned police brutality.

We’ve reached Madison, and sure enough it’s blocked off by a line of cops. We’re forced to turn left on Madison, which prompts another volley of thrown bricks and bottles. Once again I’m saved from being trampled under the feet of the riot police by Bryan, who thankfully is paying attention to them while I’m busy taking in the sight of all the property damage and trying to write down as many details as I can. I see another small skirmish, a couple of men attempting to have a fist fight with the riot police. It doesn’t last long. More shit gets thrown, more shit gets broken.

At 15^th and Madison, another car is in flames. I see a man across the street holding a fire extinguisher and go over and ask him why he didn’t put out the fire. “I was going to,” he told me, “but the cops told me to stay back. Dude said let it burn.” The power on the street goes out, and before it comes back on a minute or so later, the only lights are the car fire and the police Mag Lites. Someone says the cops cut the power so we couldn’t see them shoot us, which is both ridiculous and a little scary.

Once again, helicopters fill the sky above me. I see a well dressed man emerge from a nearby side street, speaking into a walkie talkie. “Keep the chopper right here, over me.” Says Supercop, for now I can see his badge and gun, both hanging from opposite sides of his belt. This is at 17^th and Madison. The SWAT tank rolls by again. The distance between cars with smashed windshields and windows has grown longer. The worst seems to be over with. By mutual consent, Bryan and I make the decision to call it a night. There was nothing more to see, and we were not helping matters hanging around.

Turning down Lakeside Drive next to Lake Merritt, we pass a badly smashed Taxi whose driver wants no part of us or our fare. There’s some damage to cars and property down by the lake but not nearly as bad as the last few blocks have been. After a long wait at a bus stop, the buses are allowed to start rolling again and we hop on the 40 and ride it back to my place, where I immediately dig my old pack of smokes out of the trash and light one up, before going to the kitchen for a beer. Helluva night.

What should have been a show of support for the family of Oscar Grant III instead became a series of senseless acts of destruction that destroyed the property of small business owners and private citizens. (I make no mention of city or police property because I could give a shit about any of that.) A small group of white kids all hopped up on “Anarchy” as they understand the concept, ruined what should have been a good thing. Taking the focus off of the cop who shot an unarmed man in the back and the system that allowed him to, and instead placing it on a bunch of idiots breaking windows and burning cars. Way to go kids, you sure showed ‘em!

Late night rambling part deux!

2008-12-31T03:31:00.000-08:00

Insomnia is a real bitch. Sometimes sleep is a luxury you just can't afford.

I've been thinking, of a little place down by the lake, they got a dirty old road leading up to the house, I wonder how long it will take...

I have no business posting anything when I'm this FUBAR but I don't give a damn anymore. It's not like anyone is reading this drivel anyway. Fuck it. I can't sleep and I'm too fucked up to do anything constructive so this is what I'm going to do.

Projectile vomit with a toothache beats my broke ass down, hands tied behind my back I could eat that clown, with a knife and fork just go to town. Fuck your entire existence, you have no strength for more than token resistance.

Pass the marijuana, any old kind of way. I like it when you pass around the pipe, make sure the mood is right....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYW7BUc2bCQ

Hey honey, take a walk on the wild side!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pAE5G5OBzw

It's time for another installment of Late Night Rambling.

2008-12-31T01:47:00.000-08:00

Brought to you by Sunny Brook whiskey, Vicodin, and Marijuana!

The NEW breakfast of champions!

For when you just want to push the "pause" button.

I don't give a fuck what you think, I'm not writing this for anyone but me! I hope no one ever reads it because you are not worthy.
;+}

There's something almost indescribably "magic" about the Bay Area of the west coast of California. I say almost indescribably because Satan knows enough people have tried to put it into words, much wiser heads than mine. Kerouac, Kesey, Ginsberg, Leary, Wavy Gravy, just to name a few. HST came closer than anyone to date, but even the good doctor never put it into laymans terms. Perhaps it can't be done. Is it some kind of strange hippie haven, a misfit Mecca of sorts? Did the "Summer of love" cause some kind of vortex that continues to draw in the eccentric? Call it what you want, it is undeniably, indisputably, the freak kingdom Hunter said it was. But why?

Why here, and not someplace warmer? Even those amongst the best and the brightest who don't reside in this particular region have some inextricable connection. The influence of Nor Cal is worldwide. Fuck fake ass Hollywood and their phony bullshit, the real culture is right here! NYC is a close second, but still no substitute!

As far as I can tell, it started with the great California gold rush back in 1848 or so. The miners needed bars, casinos, whores, and opium dens, and so the first remnants of counterculture for the area were imported from all over the world. After the gold began to become scarce, new sources of revenue were needed.

"In 1930, California had 5.7 million residents, and the population shrank as 120,000 Mexicans were repatriated. In the 1930s, farmers from the Midwestern Dust Bowl states, especially Oklahoma and Arkansas, began to move to California; 250,000 arrived by 1940, including a third who moved into the San Joaquin Valley, which had a 1930 population of 540,000. During the 1930s, some 2.5 million people left the Plains states.

The Modesto Bee on September 30, 2008 reviewed Dust Bowl migration to California. A series of wet years in the 1920s led farmers to believe that the Plains could sustain annual plowing to produce wheat. Drought in the 1930s allowed dust storms to carry away top soil, darkening the sky even at mid-day.

As families realized that the drought and dust storms would not end, some sold what they could not take and began to drive west on Route 66. Many hoped to become hired hands on California farms, learning how to grow fruits and vegetables while living on the farms where they worked. However, California farms typically hired seasonal workers only when they were needed, and used farm workers to perform specific tasks rather than learn how to become farmers in their own right.

The experiences of Okies and Arkies were memorialized in John Steinbeck's 1939 novel, "The Grapes of Wrath." It told the story of the fictional Joad family's migration from the Oklahoma Dust Bowl to California, which was considered the Promised Land. Dorthea Lange's 1936 Migrant Mother photo (www.migrantgrandson.com), taken at a pea-pickers' labor camp in San Luis Obispo county, is often used to symbolize the plight of the Midwestern migrants in California."

From: http://migration.ucdavis.edu/RMN/more.php?id=1355_0_6_0

Thanks to the dust bowl, the central valley became a farmer's dream, westward expansion kept the population steadily increasing and to this very day there's no end in sight. Move ahead a few years and you find the beginnings of what would later be called the Beat generation. Yes, it started in New York, but like all good things it made it's way to the west coast, improved, and stayed right here.

"The sun may rise in the east, at least it's settled in a final location."

The Beats begat the Hippies and Flower Children, and later the Punks, and from all that is everything counterculture is today. I live in the coolest place in the world, bar none.

Contact Info

2008-12-28T13:51:00.000-08:00

Email: lonestoner916@yahoo.com

Robert J. Day
278 Fenner Rd.
Jackson, GA 30233

At Last it's Finally Over!

2008-11-05T11:30:00.000-08:00

I hear Canada is real nice this time of year...

“In a nation run by swine, all pigs are upward-mobile and the rest of us are fucked until we can put our acts together: Not necessarily to win, but mainly to keep from losing completely.”

- Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson

Like anyone who isn't suffering from severe mental retardation, which is a little better than half of us if you believe the numbers, I'm glad Obama won. That being said, I've never been more disgusted or ashamed to be an American.

I'm serious.

www.smartvoter.org/2008/11/...ate/prop/

What the fuck California? I thought we were going to open the political door to a whole new way of thinking, lead the nation in tolerance, understanding, kindness, and open-mindedness. But I was wrong. Oh boy, was I ever wrong. It's worse than I could have imagined in a thousand nightmares. I guess Matt Taibbi was right, the douchebag.

"Americans no longer have the energy to do anything but lie back and allow themselves to be jacked off by the calculating thieves who run this grasping consumer paradise we call a nation."-MT

A bit of poetry...(Not Mine, I try not to do that to you)

2008-09-29T17:36:00.000-07:00

I heard this on the XM radio on the way to Burning Ham and loved it.

What We Might Be, What We Are

If you were a scoop of vanilla
And I were the cone where you sat,
If you were a slowly pitched baseball
And I were the swing of a bat,

If you were a shiny new fishhook
And I were a bucket of worms,
If we were a pin and a pincushion,
We might be on intimate terms.

If you were a plate of spaghetti
And I were your piping-hot sauce,
We'd not even need to write letters
To put our affection across.

But you're just a piece of red ribbon
In the beard of a Balinese goat
And I'm a New Jersey mosquito.
I guess we'll stay slightly remote.
-- X. J. Kennedy

New Short Story

2008-09-29T16:17:00.000-07:00

Mr. Hyde is a real nice guy!
By: Robert J. Day Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day

"I think there's a whole region of images and feelings inside us that rarely are given outlet in daily life. And when they do come out they can take perverse forms. It's the dark side. Everyone, when he sees it, recognizes the same thing in himself. It's a recognition of forces that rarely see the light of day." - Jim Morrison

"Here's your breakfast dear" the man’s wife said cheerfully. He took his eyes off the morrning paper long enough to glance down at the plate she'd place in front of him. Bacon and eggs. Every goddamned morning, it was the same fucking thing. Bacon and eggs. Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't the stupid bitch fix something different once in a while? "Thank you darling" he said, giving her his best smile. "Would you like some toast, or a glass of orange juice?" What I would like is for you to just once surprise me with some French toast or waffles, you fat, lazy cunt. "No thank you sweetheart, this will do just fine."
.
He finished his bacon and eggs without tasting them, rinsed his plate, silverware, and coffee mug, and then put them in the dishwasher like the well-trained dog he was. "I've got to be getting to the office now honey, I'll see you tonight." He gave her the obligatory kiss on the cheek, and managed not to grimace in disgust, then grabbed his briefcase and overcoat from the hall closet and headed out the door.
.
As she watched him leave, the woman thought to herself, as she often did, that she was extremely lucky to be married to such a wonderful man. He was just such a nice guy...
.
I wouldn't give a shit if I never saw that ugly bitch again, the man thought to himself as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. "Good morning Mack!" he said to doorman as he stepped out of the elevator. You worthless sack of shit. "Good morning to you sir! How bout those Giants? Gonna go all the way this year I'm thinkin." Who gives a flying fuck what you think you goddamned old drunk? Fucking dumbass mick. "You betcha Mack, take it easy, don't work to hard okay?" Like you ever have. "I won't, you have a good day sir!" replied the doorman.
.
Ernie "Mack" MacDougal smiled as the man stepped out into the street. Nice guy that one. Helluva nice guy.
.
"Where to mister?" the cabbie asked as the man got in, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him. Back to India or Saudi Arabia or wherever the hell you came from raghead, thought the man. "21st and 6th please" he said politely. The cab driver nodded as he reached over and switched on the radio. Immediately the cab was filled with the most awful noise the man had ever heard. What the fuck is this shit? the man wondered. How can he stand it? I suppose this crap is what passes for music in your country Habib, but you're in America now, you asshole. Jesus fucking Christ.
.
He tried going over some reports during the ride to his office, but the horrible sounds that continually blasted forth from the cabbies speakers ruined any hope of being able to concentrate.
The man thought about what it would be like to reach forward and stick his expensive pen (a Christmas gift from his wife) into the side of Ali Baba's neck again and again. He imagined that his surprised screams of pain and anguish would probably sound quite a bit like the utterances of the dickhead who was currently singing that goddamn foreign gibberish shit on the radio. His head was pounding by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the soulless glass and steel tower that housed the offices of his company, and countless others exactly like it.
.
In spite of his headache, he gave the raghead a five dollar tip and a cheerful, "thanks a lot sir!" wondering as he handed over the money if he was helping to fund terrorism. What a nice guy, thought the cabbie as he drove away.
.
On his way to the elevator, the man spotted Artie Jenkins from accounting. Please don't let that schmuck get on this elevator he thought, I can't stand that whiney little son of a bitch. Artie stepped into the elevator just before the door was closing. "Hey, glad I caught you!" Artie exclaimed. He then began a rambling narrative that had something to do with his wife's sister, the man wasn't sure, Artie's voice was so high and whiney he was never really sure just what the hell Artie was talking about, it was hard to think with that shrill voice ringing in his ears. He tried to nod in the right places, occasionally throwing in a "really?" or a "you don't say?" when he thought it might be appropriate, but his headache was getting worse.
.
At last he reached his floor, just as he was seriously contemplating choking Artie to death with his cheap necktie. "Take it easy" he said to Artie, who was already moving on to his next victim. "Super nice guy!" said Artie to the bored-looking advertising executive next to him, pointing to the man's back as he stepped out of the elevator. "Seriously, just an all around good guy!"
.
"Good morning Karen." Karen was the man's secretary. She liked to flirt shamelessly with him but he knew if he tried to go anywhere with it she'd sue him for sexual harassment so fast it would make his head spin. "Morning handsome, you're looking sharp as usual. Anything I can do for you?" Bend over your desk and hike up that skirt you cockteasing whore, and put your fist in your mouth to muffle the screams because I'm going to wear that pretty little ass out. "Just the usual coffee, thanks." And your tits. Your firm, perky tits all over my face. He watched her pour the coffee, bending way too far over to put back the pot, causing her already short skirt to rise up and give him a nice look at the cheeks of her ass. "How is it?" she asked, after he'd taken a sip. A little too sweet, not unlike your wet cunt my dear. "Just right, thank you Karen."
.
What's with this guy? thought Karen. She'd been practically throwing herself at him for as long as she'd been his secretary and he was always a perfect gentleman. He was just too nice. "Mr. Sondenfield would like to see you when you get a moment." she said.
.
Barry Sondenfield was supposedly his boss, despite of the fact that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground and when he bothered to show up at the office at all he generally drank his lunch. What the fuck does that incompetent moron want from me now? thought the man. How long am I going to have to do both our jobs? When will my poor head stop hurting?
.
"Outsourced? I'm afraid I don't understand Mr. Sondenfield, how could this have happened?" And why the fuck am I only just now being told about it, you nasty old piece of drunken dogshit? "Times are tough..." said drunken dogshit with a nervous grin, "the company is making cutbacks and laying off all over the place. Hell, I was lucky to get promoted just before the shit hit the fan or else I'd be in the same boat as you. Unfortunately, one of the conditions for my new promotion was that I'd have to be the one to break the bad news to everybody. Don't shoot the messenger buddy, ha, ha."
.
He continued to speak, but the man was no longer really listening, his anger wouldn't let him concentrate and his headache was so bad he thought his head might explode. That fucking rat bastard sold me out. Really fucking screwed me good. Now who was going to be around to fix his fuckups, the retarded son of a bitch. He could have easily put in a good word for me and had them find me a spot somewhere. What the fuck was he supposed to do; he had a stack of unpaid bills and next to nothing in the bank. With the job market the way it was, it could be six months or more before he found another job, shit maybe even a year.
.
Drunken Dogshit was saying something about how he really appreciated all the hard work, but the man's head was throbbing so hard he was seeing black spots, and his hearing seemed to be fading in and out. Something Sondenfield said earlier had stuck with him, and kept repeating over and over in his brain. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger...
.
"And of course I'm more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation." Sondenfields speech had come to an end it seemed. "Thank you very much sir." said the man, rising from his chair and walking toward the door. "If you wouldn't mind doing that now, I've just got to grab something from my desk and I'll be right back."
.
Without waiting for a reply he left Drunken Dogshit's spacious corner office and walked down the hall towards his own modest little cubicle. Shoot the messenger? Oh no, he had something much better in mind. Reaching his desk, he opened the bottom drawer and took out the 9mm automatic and the extra clip he'd been keeping in there for several months without really knowing why. Or perhaps he'd known all along. He released the safety just as Karen came walking in. "What are you doing with that?" she asked, looking completely unafraid. "Shut the fuck up bitch." he said, and shot her in the face at pointblank range.
.
The man shot and killed thirteen and seriously wounded six of his colleagues and co-workers that day before he was killed by police gunfire. Among the dead was Artie Jenkins from accounting, his boss Barry Sondenfield, and of course Karen Leary his secretary. The story made headlines across the country, and everyone interviewed by the media said the same thing, surviving co-workers, college friends, the taxi driver who'd brought him to work that day, family members, even his grieving widow.
.
"It makes no sense, I just don't understand, he was such a nice guy."

The End?

Jesus meets Dirty Sanchez!

2008-09-24T16:47:00.001-07:00

Check it out!

2008-09-22T16:42:00.000-07:00

An article I wrote for the Black Rock Beacon's website after Burning Man 2007 has finally been put up on the site! I stumbled across it accidentally and was pleasantly surprised!

http://bitethe.com/brb/