I write short stories every day in my gchat status,
then post them here. If that doesnt do it for you,
well I don't know what.

its raining in dark city and the electrodes have the white house

I’m not gonna say we weren’t following orders but its just not true, the directions were just from the ape-lizard running through the rain demanding for us to follow him and by that time we just did, by that time we had no one to count on, we were a band, a war party, we were trying to get each other through. This was our St Elmo’s Fire kind of moment and the thing is that you are Demi Moore right now, it is 3am in San Diego and a time either the same or different where you are and I am a young Rob and Emilio and Andrew cutting the bars and climbing the fire escape and banging down the door.

Then we save you and succeed and we’ve all learned something and then there’s a fucked up soundtrack, oddly enough its Aesop Rock and you’re all “no one but shithead hipster bros listens to this shit” and I’m like “yeah baby” and I pull out a copy of Fight Club and Trainspotting and Catcher in the Rye and I ask you if you”re into this shit, this is the real shit, and then I get serious and tell you if you really want to know me you’ll read Infinite Jest or better yet Finnegans Wake.

At this point you’ve made your decision, you leave me through the back window and Woof the ape-lizard catches up, he watches you go and asks me if you wronged me and if he should catch up and eat you and I say no it’s cool, and then we put our arms around each other and laugh and there’s a freeze frame and a sweaty sax solo. Rob Lowe plays the drums.

You’re Falling Asleep, Quick Do Something Awesome

I can’t tell you how many nights are like this, listening to Rave Down on repeat and reading issue 7, pages 4-13 over and over to crack the code. Someday we will own a motorbike, someday we will drive a lime green Vespa across Europe just like Wendy did, someday we will design That Winning Thing, someday we will live up to the promises we made ourselves, or maybe we are already but it’s happening in slow motion, maybe we thought the future would be faster, maybe it only moves quickly when you are satisfied, maybe we are never satisfied, maybe we say this like we are proud but the truth is we are bored, maybe we are always trying to fill a hole inside us, at least that’s what Tom Peyton said but you haven’t heard that record, that’s 1971 and that was a lost year, don’t bother Googling this, it’s an alternate history, someone call the Time Police you’re getting old, I’d tell you my brother wrote this but he can’t write, he’s living in El Paso and he never leaves the house, not like me not like me. I heard you were in a band, good for you, have a good summer, I heard you joined the Navy, I heard you went to summer camp, I heard you backpacked through Europe, good for you, have a good summer, I heard you got some autographs, I heard you made the play, I heard you got the girl, I heard you got pictures of the whole thing, I heard it’s in a place where people can see, I heard you’re using something called the internet, your father and I don’t use the internet, I heard you saw a lot of bands this summer, I heard you went on a lot of walks, I heard you beat the heat, I heard you became an elf-wizard, I made up that last one, I heard you played soccer, let’s talk turkey, let’s talk about why you’re proud, let’s talk about 11 ways to rethink architecture, let’s talk output, let’s lay down the law, let’s remember Diane hasn’t forgotten you, let’s try this trick and spin it, yeah.

You and the Ones You Love

I have this theory that real writers don’t talk about writing, that real druggies don’t talk about drugs, that real depressives don’t go around telling you how sad they are. This makes it easy not to be impressed by people who feel the need to convince me that they Go Hard — if you have to say it, you’re not doing it, friend.

I knew this guy and it took me three years to figure out he was a fraud. The funny thing was he’d been telling us all along he was one, but I attributed it to the statute above and logically assumed the opposite; that he was the Real Fuckin’ Do.

But I was wrong, see, and copping to fraud was the only honest thing he’d been telling us, buried in lies. This guy was a joke. It was so obvious in retrospect that he was a feeb dressed up like Joe Cool. I should have known it when he wouldn’t skinny-dip in the ocean. I should have known it when he told me his zodiac sign was Shark.

Never Sleep Never Die

It was an architecture of strange adventure and furious blood, and I hadn’t seen its like since you were kneehigh. From the driver’s seat you kept squealing but I couldn’t be assuaged; this was problems built of short attention and a headlong drive into the future, and we couldn’t stop now. I remembered you when you were young and interesting. This fop you put on parade wouldn’t fool the real people. It wouldn’t stop the dogs from chasing you. You were trouble, no pun intended, and soon you’d know what side your toast got buttered. Soon you’d know you were old now and very little changed.

Kid Eternity

Kid Eternity watched his eyeballs bleed out of his skull. He turned to Doku the Parrot to point out the obvious, and saw that Doku’s eyes had bled out too. They laughed at each other for having no eyes, then looked up a recipe for cooked eyes, and started scooping what was left of their eyes from their cheeks and the floor. When they eyes were done they cooked their brains, then fed their brains to each other with small spoons. The meal got funnier and more delicious. When they were done they washed the dishes, cleaned the sink, and put their leftovers in the fridge. In the morning they took the leftovers to work to eat for lunch. They had to label their food. Everyone had identical tupperware containers full of brains and eyes. Everyone laughed and in the afternoon it was someone’s birthday. 

No One’s Sure Who Didn’t Fix the Oldsmobile

Brands ain’t like they were. Cars ain’t like they were. When you was a kid, ain’t no one gonna buy an Oldsmobile. That’s your parent’s car. That ain’t no humbucker! That ain’t no burner!

Now it’s different now. Hydraulics is what’s in. Beefy is what’s in. You need you power to get off the ground in the modern speeder, kid. You ain’t gonna stick to the ground in you tired old cars. You gonna get some air under you, so they take the old cars and they gut ‘em and they fit ‘em with hydraulics and they fit ‘em with subpolar reverse thrusters, they get you hovering and you fly off and you friends think you cool, you fly, you drive a cloudkicker bro. And them hydraulics ain’t no joke, you need five people in the backseat just to give that shit some weight so it down’t flip on you. There’s no concern about it dropping out of the sky; there’s just the very-real that it gets away from you, flies you halfway to Arkansas and burns off half your ass. (The other half is not burned off but it is what we like to call a “meatpie.”)

So all of a sudden it’s not cool to drive alone, it’s cool to drive in herds, so we got us all piled in just to go to the supermarket, we like yous great-greats who drove around America in effed-up vans, and we paint ‘em on the sides just like they did, we all driving the effing Mystery Machine, we all get designations and someone is always, always Scooby-Doo.

An’ you don’t wan’ be someone’s Scooby, when you Scooby everyone imitates the words you say in Scoobvoice and throws at you dogbiscuits, and you get so sad, so sad you think when you driving high enough you pitch yourself just out the backseat into airspace just so no one Scoob you no more, and then it’s an epidemic, all them Scoobs fallin’ from the sky and landing everywhere in puddles of dog soup, Scoob-soup so we start callin’ you a Scoop, so when a Scoob turns sad he goes from Scoob to Scoop, an’ you think it’s the future so we all got more sensitive to the cruel anthropological biorhythms of social hierarchy, but that ain’t what’s true, what’s true is a systematized way to drop the loser from your pack quite literally, you drive ‘em high and watch ‘em toss themselves, they’s falling stars and each time one drops we all stop and do our best Casey Kasems; as a culture we pulls a Shaggy and we says “Zoinks!” and we watch you go, we itemize you, we write you the most beautiful poems, we cast ‘em into the Scoop and we ain’t for sure we miss you, but damn it if we gotta find ourselves a next-gen Scoob afore the hydraulics pitch us for lack of good weight distro; good-bye good-bye Scoob, you ain’t no one else’s dog.

The Heaviness of Metal

You can find a new comic story written by ME in the new family-friendly issue of Heavy Metal Magazine, issue #270! This is the second time I’ve appeared in HM, and also the awesomest time. The new story is called “Brom Kah,” illustrated by Garrett Adderley and digitally painted by David Bollt. FEEL THE EEEEVIL.

Heavy Metalllll

This Dog Could Be Your Hero

Woof was running around the apartment in circles screaming, screaming, and the thing of it when a bipedal lizard who can run on walls is running mostly all you’re doing is ducking and screaming to each too at the same time saying “what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck can we fucking do” and so Cil, Cil, she was crawling, sort of dragging herself across the floor because she didn’t have her legs on, fucking smart, and she had great upper arms of course so she got herself to a pair of legs, just legs, not horse legs or spider legs or fucking wheels, but these were robo go-gadget legs and she sucker-cupped herself against a floorboard and then clicked a thingie and launched herself through the bedroom door and stretched her arms and tackled the motherfucker and they tumbled through space, for a moment like satellites intertwined.

While me and Laura went outside to look for Mr Box who was supposed to have a handle on this shit, Cil and Mufti got Woof pinned down and demanded Guru Fuck get some drugs to calm him, but Fuck insisted it wouldn’t do shit because Woof was Stage 3 — we all asked what Stage 3 was and if it was serious and Fuck started babbling in this lazy version of Spanish and then we realized once again he’d ate all the drugs.

Mr Box was nowhere to be found down back of the box canyon where we were staying with a nice contractor and his agoraphobic boyfriend; we felt bad because we’d never be able to pay for the half of the house that just wouldn’t be anymore by the time we left.

We got Woof breathing slow anyway, and we all said “hi” to each other, “hi hi hi hi hi” till his chest wasn’t palpitating anymore. We asked Woof what was the matter with him. He said, he said slow and in a lizard accent, he said: “Fuck what have I done. We are all part of an organism that has digested itself and we are remnants trying to justify ourselves.”

We all told him that was some hippie shit and he needed to snap out of it and did he want some chicken. We told him stop complaining about needing things to live for, he sounded like our parents. We told him to stop blaming himself for the future and for not living up to his own ghost. We told him to stop staying up late on the feeds looking for punk bands he had not yet discovered, we all knew it was Katy Perry that got him rocking, maybe if he would let himself just listen to her without shame he wouldn’t get so fucking aggro. 

He said in his lizard speak, “Fuck aggro, a cyborg and an amputee are sitting on my chest” and Cil and Mufti both hit him, and since Mufti has four arms you can do math and it hurts.

Woof is calmer now and mostly drools but it’s still the afternoon. Sometimes I read about kids my age who are famous already and I do the math and wonder why I’m so unsuccessful, but I remember Cil is fucking 34, goddamn ancient, driving around in a busted hydraulic with a crew of losers, kids and psychos trying to be the next Tribe 8, so what are your dreams, you don’t have fucking dreams, you’re a figment at the end of a disaster but we like you because you can jump across a room.

This Band Could Be Your Girl

Gonzo Woof (which he sometimes asked us to call him, according to Mr Box) had a serious problem with the pollutants in your average bag of Cheetos. And I don’t mean they made Woof sick the way they made everyone sick because they were made of mercury, saline and fish heads; I mean Woof could not get enough of this shit. I swear we could get him paid in Cheetos and he wouldn’t mind twice. They made him scamper; I don’t know a basilisk’s physiology but it was like hot damn, 15 bags of those things and we was up a wall. We had concern for what it was doing to him the way you feel about a dog eating garbage; you try to stop him but then he snaps and it’s not like he’s gettin sick, anyway.

When he wasn’t eating Cheetos he was eating pigeons, which was harmless and I guess we could have hired him out as an exterminator if we’d wanted, but we didn’t stay in one place long enough to get a toll-free number. Woof was like a really fast sloth; he was probably much happier upside down, looking down at you with his mouth dripping feathers and cheetos dust. Woof and Mr Box was like living a game of chicken; they was with us until they tried to kill us or eat us, like; you might argue we felt bad for them as animutants had no place left to go after the gene-wars ended.

We’d woken up in the car out back of a seven-eleven about a hundred miles above the earth one afternoon and Woof was sprawled out in the back of our hydraulic sleeping, his hand full of lipsticks and Guru Fuck covered in Lime Crime (Guru Fuck does not wear lipstick except on mescaline) and Mr Box sort of sitting crouched on our back hood; the little guy was holding a wooden staff and an amulet glowing green and he looked at us and blinked one eye than the other, like this; and when a goat rabbit blinks his eyes slow like that and has no pupils you just kind of push the basilisk to one side and get driving and hope no one gets eaten.

We tried asking once where they come from and Box looks us over and says “Dont you know dont you know dont you dont you” and ran in circles very quickly. When Woof’s asleep he quotes us chapter and verse about the night we met them but it sounds like we weren’t ourselves, and all we know is we stay away from whatever the hell they put in Lime Crime.

Our Fucking Band Could Be Your Fucking Life (vol 2)

There were 9 of us driving a fucked-up 8 seater, an old hydraulic you wouldn’t have believed could hover, much less fly, but one of us had got it on cinderblocks and then up and running, I can’t say who because I wasn’t born yet, but I remember flying over the old cities, you wouldn’t know it but the smog was thin enough in those days to make each block an archipelago.

The centaur was Cil, and she was our Bob Dylan and our Henry Rollins both — she was driving the machine. She’d gotten her legs chopped by fucking choice during the transhuman riots, I don’t know what the point she’d made was but she made it all right, and had a lot of different legs and wheels and rotaries but the body she was known for was the fuckin’ centaur, and I’ve seen it live and up close and there’s no point in lying to you, you see a 9-foot butch with a ginger dreadlock mohawk staring down at you from the body of an android horse, you cream your jeans, there’s no other suitable response. 

Mufti was the other turning heads, she was a four-armed cyborg bounty hunter who’d met Cil in a bar when they both needed someone. Mufti had brought Johnny on with her — Johnny was an Aboriginal ex-surfer with a problem, namely the semi-sentient tape-eels that had taken up residence in his nervous system and digestive tract, giving him extra-sensory perception and a serious existential streak, but also no way to get ahead.

There was Floyd, he was the android butler proper - probably too square for our set and maybe just enough naive; he didn’t quite fit but who did? I forget where he came up from.

There was Cil’s personal Guru but really he just sprouted truisms and scored us drugs; we couldn’t stand him so we called him Fuck. He had one parlor trick where he could Ohm and float, and his beard was impressive but other than that he smelled worse and talked a total skeeze. Guru Fuck rode backseat and we couldn’t shake him loose.

There was Woof and Mr Box, and I’m not sure how to even lock down their function. Woof was a bipedal basilisk, sort of an ape-lizard with bad posture and Mr. Box was a goat-rabbit with a knack for shamanism; it kept him small and nervous. Both were what happens when it’s 30 years after a gene-war. They were serious lower caste, not even near-humanoid, but they kept to themselves and ate little. I think they just liked the comfort of numbers.

There was me and there was Laura. They called me Muscles, or Skin, or Face — I’m not sure where those others came from but the Face was because of my face. The bones growing out of it. I sand them down now, you hardly notice. But I was young then. You know how adolescence is on your damn bones.

There was Laura. She’d come up with Mufti, and made her weaker. We were all a little in love with her, and she deserved none of it. She reflected back our light. I remember sitting next to her on the front seat while Cil careened between skyscrapers. I remember her hair at sunset. I remember perfect times.