Vampire Workday


The bloke’s name was Cortena, or something. A handful in the cage, a cheap suck, my afternoon tickle. He had ratty, brown hair and a beard that looked like something dead and wild was trying to eat his face. Third of a group of four that walked into the coffee-fuck shop that morning, and I should have known better than to look, and judge, and tremble in anticipation of the collision of flesh.

And to think that Howard still wants me after this. Poor Howie, alone and unflinching before the travesty of his life, my breasts in his hands eternally, and he thinks a finger offered is a finger sold.

Demonshine off the last one in. I paused – I guess I was reluctant. Sheep; not necessarily my favorite meal, but hunger is as hunger wants. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

The coffee tastes like something a hairy nomad took a bath in.

My teeth extended across the room.

This bloke, Cortena, was a vampire hunter. And now, I’m dying, naked and alone – just like the little girl I thought all this would take me away from.

Awful, this death. And not without regret.

It was the drugs.

God Has a Monster Face



Captain Yazoshea, on his daily whirlwind tour through the ratty shoebox drugstore under his bunk, finds a placid serenity in the embrace of the umbilical duty of mankind on the frontier. His fingers bleed from razor molestation – a side effect, perhaps intentional, of the routine rummage. He finds, without looking, a wooden child’s toy, a bottle of strangely colored capsules, a syringe, a mysterious powder.

Sound erupts across the bridge as the alert is raised, and is joined in chorus by the thunderous clatter of all hands manning their stations from sleep-induced akinesia in seconds flat.

Our Captain, so low for mighty, dumps a good amount of the mysterious powder on his palm. He then places one of the strangely colored capsules in the small mound before dumping the contents of his palm into his open mouth. The twitch, expected, shudders into a full body cringe.

Outside the massive ship which floats in space, a writhing darkness teases the cockpit with its smoky tendrils.

Near the termination, again expected, of his illustrious career, Yazoshea strides purposefully to the forward deck and stares at his god through the thick viewport.

“How long has it been like this?” the Captain asks his crew.

No one answers, but the creature’s strange smoky appendages multiply and seethe over the ship’s hull as the bulk of the entity moves toward it.

Captain Yazoshea turns and notices, as he has for the last thousand years, that no one is in his ship but he.

The darkness seeps into the ship by some sinister means and embraces the dead captain, again.

“Down with the ship,” he mutters.


Enter the Ampersand

Ludwig took the short route down the toilet. With his pants around his ankles and holding the stump of his left arm, he took a long dive through the vines and into yesterday’s paper.

“He’s a dirtbag, a commie, a shite,” she says – she being her, the one, the all, the wretch.

Ludwig took the short route down.

We, the human race as you know it, are the bear clawing at the cliffside. In twenty centuries, troglodytic ant-people will throw virgins from the edge of that precipice in the name of cheap diapers and cheaper diadems. They’ll flail in their catatonia, a breeze blowing back their hair in a Hollywood Boulevard snapshot pose for the ages.

Handy Hal, resurrected on a death ship on the dark side of Andromeda’s fifth arm, will read Ludwig’s fate in a Dick and Jane style hardback.

“See Luddy fall. See Luddy fall. Fall, Luddy, fall.”


Ludwig’s mother was a cockroach of a hyena – slick winged and virile, a hambone dangling from chains looped around her carapace in double helices. He sucked ichor from a rigid tit while the dog-faced homemaker imbibed his essence through the proboscis extended outward from between her diamond sparkle eyes – impaling him and his visions of grandeur.

Handy Hal sees poorly drawn Kirbyesque caricatures of Ludwig’s father in various comprising positions with Russian diplomats in a twisted, fucked up, living art sculpture of Ouroboros. The text is in red, but blue crayon streaks the page in shades not dissimilar from the blue stripes on his jumpsuit denoting Handy Hal as “fresh”.

“Trouble?” the instructor man squeaks.

Trouble. A word, a spittoon filled and tipped and slipped in. Broken back, hardwood, gypsy hoedown in giggle-squiggle Giclée.

“He’s a dirtbag. A commie. A spittoon,” she says – she being her, the other, the doppleganger, the wiggly-fit twitchmonster at the edge of Luddy’s visions.

Handy Hal’s circumspect crèche-minders pilot the Great Machine through a star and all hands go limp – pencils rain to the floor, lead flows, and time waits.

In the parhelion mirage, Ludwig’s countenance floats in akinesia. He’s a mythical man, a mythical myth, a trombone solo in the wasteland of overconfidence. Hal’s eyes widen and inflate and he takes in the scene around him.

The scene is old and cold. Has-beens strolling up dive stairs in fur coats and Converse knee-highs. Writers hold up the bars with their darkened souls, misunderstood. Broken women paw at the latest hopscotch-fucking douchebag Gable, twirling mustachioed pomposity like the Teuton who invented the thimble.

You don’t find art here in the wonderland beyond.


Handy Hal grows up to be a blogger. Handy Hal manhandles the helpless harpy-sharp followers into handouts for has-beens masquerading as never-weres … or … reverse that. You give him credit for weaving the woven word of wicked recycled wealth. I beg, therefore I write, therefore I yam, therefore and hitherto referred to as sweet potato divebomber widows.

The bombs fell in time with the placentas. The bear falls in time with the failed salmon, the unfit, the weak fishtail fuck. The star is poisoned with iron and steps on stage one last time – sun dogs in the wings holding wires for the grand swan dive finale.

The pipe is clogged, and Ludwig sticks like semen in the back of the throat. Fall ends, and summer begins. The trees fall off the leaves. The water runs up the leg, fills the sac. Perhelion mirage dissipates, and again.

Handy Hal turns the yellowed page.

“See Luddy play God. Kill, Luddy, kill.”

Ludwig stands up and grows a pair. With three hands and a handful he wades through the has-beens and the never-weres to take his place at the end of the bar.

“Talisker, neat,” he heaves.

Gravity bends the brass – pint glasses sail past each other in the night. A woman paws at Luddy, mistaking him for a douchebag.

“I thought you were eating something else,” she says – she being him, Handy Hal, the resurrected Messiah, who sewed up her hole and grew a pair.

The glass spins, the scotch sizzles as it coats the foodpipe. A gulp, a breath, a heaving sigh, and Luddy eats the world.


Things You Thought You Knew



Jasmine wasn’t listening.

While you were plugging insanity to the room, this tart galloped to T. Ragsdale’s hippie barbeque fest down the hall. That’s it – play with the fringe of last year jeans that you haven’t washed in weeks. Look down into the red plastic cup and pretend the gnat drowning is not there.

Here you are.

You wore the clever sportcoat and scarf. You’ve been tending this vandyke for a fortnight, and you look like Peter Sellers in a bad shampoo commercial tweaking Norman Tebbit’s wrinkled tit. You and everyone else in this dive-bomb after-party are wearing brown shoes and white socks. Three more shaggy-faced poets shuffle in with folk music vinyls, greedily looking for the turntable promised.

And you brought Mr. Oizo.

Jasmine re-enters the scene and starts sucking the lips of the closest humans she can find. You imagine her wearing a flapper outfit and a bomber jacket with thigh-high white leather boots and spurs. She’s giving everyone the tour and the back door is open. Even the fatty fuck Kimball in the mustard-colored sweater vest you could hide an elephant in is getting his tongue sucked. She’s making people smile. She gets her smiles and moves on.

You finger the 12-sided die in your pocket, waiting for that perfect moment to let it fall out of your pocket, but when you eyeball the thin wafer carpet with the fifty shades of brown stain just under your feet, you reconsider. P. Keller enters, his face half of a beet after his vintage 700cc Royal Enfield motorcycle exploded outside his flat. He gives you a pitying nod and lets Miss Jasmine St. John suck his tongue. He then smiles.

Someone’s switched to overkill on the spotlights around the breakfast nook. In the dark of the flat, it looks like a couple of bruisers are about to swing open a plywood door and escort in a couple of bull terriers, or rat terriers, or maybe a couple of hobos from down on Sixth. You wait for men, who get their kicks from betting on death and beating their cardboard-faced wives, to start waving fivers in the air and barking.

Jasmine wraps her thighs around your waist and shoves a tongue down your throat. You expect the vomit-tinged odor of a party-slut hoedown, but you catch parsley and beans instead. It is not unpleasant. As she pulls away, taking your pouty bottom lip with her, she frowns. You haven’t smiled.

The legs squeeze harder and she bucks in slow motion against you, trying to suck your intestines up through your throat, but still, when she pulls back for breath, your face is stone.

“I’m going to make you smile,” she purrs, grabbing your cravat and leading you away to an empty room.

You follow and you drop your 12-sided die.

You’re thinking Sir Baboon McGoon as she closes the door behind you both, and then she drops to the carpet and vomits. Deftly, you step over her and back into the vapors.

You take an inventory of the pharm-teams as you sprawl yourself across the Davenport of despair – back among the plebs. J. Tucker’s passing green pipe to Arlis Scoffer and the Two-Ton Crew. Rat Patty’s lining up rails on a paper plate in the front bog – passersby piss next to him and his berserker fanatics. The dim introvert that everyone calls Rigid has a paper bag of Cubies.

On the balcony you see a naked man take a swan dive over the rail on a plastic table.

This could be anywhere. Possum Trot and Ninth, Fry and Scripture, Mac and Elizabeth.

This is then, and yesterday you were now.




Lift and Deposit. Thank you.

I have come of age but the sky looks no different. My body feels the same. It doesn’t feel like I’ve crossed this phantom threshold that everyone tells me is so important.

Today I cast my vote for the first time in my life.

There are always two candidates. My vote should be based on who my parents are, who my parents hate, what district I live in.

There is apparently an art to discerning the difference between “blah, blah, blah” and “blah, blah, blah”. If one candidate says “blah” before the other does, then the first candidate should receive 10 percent more consideration … unless he only said “blah” because the other candidate refuses to say “blah” then the refusing candidate should receive more consideration.

God forbid anyone take any account of what said candidates party has done for the past four years … let alone the past hundred years. Parties change and grow and are later revealed to have never changed at all. Our parties have been streamlined to make things easier.

We have a Purple party and we have an Orange Party.

My parents voted Purple last year. Since I have received high scores in Biology, Electrical Engineering, and have visited both the Botanical Gardens and the Subway twice in one year I am allowed to consider voting Orange. This is further complicated by my current salary which dictates that I should vote Orange so that my salary increases … my salary increased last year as well, and if it increases this year I will be automatically required to vote Purple.

I use only recycled goods, which gives me a double-vote if I vote Orange, but since I use a mode of transportation that more than 30 percent of the population cannot afford that extra vote is negated.

If any member of my family votes one color after voting the other color the previous year, he/she receives a commendation and a “get-out-of-church-free” card entitling them to one year of non-attendance of church services, followed by a homecoming and a “rebirth” into both the religion of my family’s choice and the social clique which governs it.

So many things to consider …

I wait patiently in line to cast my vote. In my left peripheral vision I see Orange and hear “blah” and in my right peripheral vision I see Purple and hear “blah”.

There is something extra that a new voter receives when he votes for the first time. There is a sacred rite that is the heart of the election process passed down century after century from the beginnings of our species on some remote planet in some other solar system. It is a secret rite that no non-voter will ever see.

This is why I am most anxious about today. We’re voting for the candidate we wish to perform this sacred, secret rite. It will be their only purpose – their only requirement.

It seems a lifetime passes before the man ahead of me emerges from the booth … and now it is my turn.

I enter and pull the curtain behind me. Here I am … me and two buttons.

One is Orange.

One is Purple.

I reach for the Purple button … but I’m suddenly distracted.

There … nearly imperceptible in the strange colored light created by the mix of orange and purple is something scratched into the wall.

It reads:

“The man in white is telling the truth”

I don’t know what this means … but still I hesitate as some strange sense of deja vu overwhelms me. Before it can deter me any further I quickly punch the Purple button and dash out of the booth … and I wonder if anyone else noticed the message.

They usher the voters into what appears to be a large arena with thousands and thousands of seats. This same scenario is being repeated in every district on the planet and likewise on every colony in the solar system. There are thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of voters, all witnessing the same sacred rite, the same race, the same colors, but different candidates.

After an hour or so, the lights dim and the crowd in my district’s arena becomes silent.

Then appear the two candidates, one in Purple robes and the other in Orange.

Boos and hisses and cheers and applause erupt accordingly as the candidates make their way to the center of the arena and shake hands. The noise is deafening.

Then, chained and bloody, a third man, a man dressed in white, is brought forth. The guards that carry him throw him down between the two candidates.

This is it. This is the sacred rite that only a voter is allowed to see.

The man in white says this: “You know what is right. You know what is wrong. You know the truth. You know that this is not the way.”

There is silence … and then the arena suddenly glows orange as a large orb hanging from the ceiling of the arena signals the results of the vote .

The Orange candidate has won. I am disappointed. I feel empty and defeated. The Purple candidate is led off center-stage to a seat that has been prepared for him. The Orange candidate raises his hands in thanks to the multitude and there are both cheers and boos for him.

The guards hand the Orange candidate a large wooden stick.

The Orange candidate begins to beat the man in White to death.

There are cheers all over the arena, no longer a single “boo” or “hiss”.

I am shocked. Shock turns to laughter as I mimic what my people are doing … new and old voter alike. We all begin to laugh as the Candidate beats the man to death in front of our eyes.

I laugh until tears roll down my face.

I laugh.

And I don’t know why.

Here Truths a Liar; There Gives a Thief



Yesterday, I was a liar and a thief. Yesterday, I was young and foolish. Yesterday, I was overweight and unhappy. Yesterday, I was tied to anxieties and my depression, not the other way around. Yesterday, I was a small tree. Yesterday, I was me.

Today, I am a liar and a thief. Today, I am older and foolish. Today, I am healthy and content. Today, I keep my anxieties and depression on a short leash. Today, I am a mighty Scots Pine. Today, I am me.

Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android. Tomorrow, I will be an android.


I had a dream in which I lived here on the page.

You couldn’t see me. I was too small.

I needed you to see what I could do, so I cut myself and pressed my flesh against the white light.

I realized early on that it would take gallons of blood to make you see.

Being only human, I started a tiny war instead.

When it ended, the page was red, and the message was lost.

Or was it?