“untitled” (part II)

“Sorry about shattering both your legs, pelvis, 14 ribs, and rupturing your brain,” Patricia told Eric, “but I couldn’t take you to the hospital. I hope you understand. That would work out best for both of us: I wouldn’t get fired and you wouldn’t accumulate massive medical debt. But I’m rich, so I will pay you a lot of money to keep your mouth shut.”

“Yeah, no I agree,” Eric replied as he sipped on his tea. Patricia spent the previous few days nursing him back to health in her own home. “I don’t trust doctors anyway,” he continued, “I just hope you cauterized the head wound to facilitate a full cognitive recovery.”

Patricia shook her head. “I’m sorry but you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a trained physician.”

Eric was stunned. It never occurred to his half witted (and heavily damaged) brain that a woman could be more knowledgeable than him. “B-b-but, I thought you were a banker!” he stuttered.

Patricia rubbed her temples. “It’s a long story,” she explained. “I have an MD and an MBA. The important thing is that I’m fully capable of healing you.” She then stood up at his bedside and slipped on a robe. “You should lie in bed for the next few days,” she continued, “don’t over exert yourself. I’ll compensate you for all your lost wages.”

“Shiiiit,” Eric said, “I’m making more money in this bed than I’ve ever made in my life. But my family’s gonna wonder where I’ve been. My mom’s probably gonna kick me out of the house for going missing.”

“Just make up something. Besides, aren’t you 33 years old? Why are you still living with your mom?”

“Living on my own? In this economy?! Yeah right!”

“Anyways!” Patricia said. “I’m going to work. Please stay in bed. And if you need anything, I’m at your mercy.”

Eric watched Patricia leave the guest room and close the door behind her. “Maybe I have a milf fetish,” he thought as he whiffed her lingering scent. The thought of her examining his body easily aroused him.

Meanwhile, Patricia returned to work after a week of tending to Eric’s needs. “So who’s the lucky fella?” the President and CEO of Fifth National Bank, Harvey Whinestine, asked as she walked into her office.

“Pardon?” she replied, fearing her secret has been discovered.

Harvey laughed. “I just figured you escaped to the Caribbean with one of your boy toys. I didn’t think we’d see you again.”

“Oh,” Patricia said, drawing a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, I’ve been sick all week. I’ll get with Debra and we’ll get caught up on everything.”

Harvey stepped into her office and shut the door. “I do hope everything is alright,” he said. “If you ever need anything…”

“Harvey, I’m fine,” she interrupted. “I haven’t had a drink in two months. There’s no urge. You have nothing to worry about.”

Harvey shook his head. “I’m glad you’re hanging in there, kiddo,” he said. “Take all the time you need to get caught up.”

But Patricia instantly started answering emails after Harvey left the room. She opened the top drawer to her desk to find a notepad. Then she paused when she noticed what was inside: tucked away under a bunch of papers was a picture of her son.

“I’m sorry Carson,” she said to the photograph.

Her hands began to shake uncontrollably as she closed the blinds to her office window.

TO BE CONTINUED…

untitled (part I)

Remember, for the month of October, this is the story that AI told me to write:

A woman in her sixties, who can be quite compassionate.

A man in his early thirties, who can be quite aggressive.

The story begins in a nightclub.

Someone is driven out of their home.

It’s a story about greed.

Your character reluctantly becomes involved

So here’s the story. I don’t know what to call it.

“I don’t piss in public toilets,” Eric shouted above the music to Don Lemon. “The toilets are connected to the publicly funded municipal sewer system which then goes to a treatment facility. From there, hazardous chemicals and biologicals are removed from the water where it is then discharged into receiving waters like lakes and rivers. Downstream, other municipalities treat that same water so that it is safe for human consumption. That’s socialism. I’m a libertarian. I don’t believe in using such systems. Besides, REAL men piss outside.”

“Look,” Don replied, “I’m just saying that there’s no sense in holding your piss in! If you gotta go, GO!”

Eric and Don met in college. Despite their paths diverging after graduation, the two remained close. Now in their early 30s, Don was killing it selling Mazdas at the local dealership. Eric was still taking odd jobs stocking shelves and slinging pizzas.

“Mazda is a quality machine, Eric,” Don would always tell his friend, “I could get you a good job down at the dealership.”

This made Eric chuckle. “Don, you know I’m a Hyundai man.”

Don was happily married. But his friend Eric wasn’t blessed with the skill of communication. Or even empathy. He’d pity his friend as he watched him fumble around with women throughout their dorm days. But Don’s obligation to his best friend never wavered. Though knowing it was futile, he’d encourage Eric to mingle, hoping that some lucky lady would relieve him of his duty to his awkward friend.

Now the two pals were batching it up at the club. Don sipped his cocktail, leaning against the bar. Eric was pounding the rum and cokes, ignoring the patrons.

“She’s cute,” Don said, referring to the girl on the other end of the bar. As opposed to the other girls in the club, this one was closer to Eric’s age, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt.

“She’s alright,” Eric replied.

“Buy her a drink!”

Eric stumbled his way across the bar. After seven rum and cokes, he was easily able to overcome a vague sense of nervousness. “Hi, I’m Eric,” he slurred, “can I buy you a drink?”

The disinterested girl nodded. “Wh-what do you do?” Eric asked.

“I’m a graduate student.”

“What do you study.”

“Middle Eastern Studies.”

“I love the Middle East!” he exclaimed. “Did you know that since the US invasion of Iraq, the economies of various nations in the Persian, or Arabian, Gulf have exploded: the UAE, Qatar, Bahrain, Kuwait, etc. And they did so without much help from public subsidies. A perfect example of the power of unbridled capitalism. This, as opposed to Iran, who, US sanctions notwithstanding, drove their economy into the ground by nationalizing most of their industries. What a shame.”

“Uh-huh.”

Moments later, the girl’s friends came to collect her. “Gotta go! Thanks for the drink,” she said.

“Fuck this,” Eric thought. He signaled the bartender to close his tab. “Are you leaving?” asked Don.

“Let’s face it, Don,” Eric explained, “females just aren’t interested in an intelligent, nice guy like myself. They want bad boys to treat them like rag dolls and whores. I’m done with this shit.”

“At least let me drive you home,” Don pleaded to his friend.

“No! Those are public roads! I’m WALKING home.”

***

Across town, in a much quieter bar, Patricia was lamenting her 60th birthday. “To god for allowing me to live one more year on this godforsaken planet!” she toasted to her friend.

“Maybe you should stop drinking,” Debra replied. “If you get one more DUI, you’ll surely be fired from you VP job at the bank.”

“Poppycock!” Patricia yelled. “Without me, that bank wouldn’t run!”

“Just take it easy, you gotta be at work in the morning.”

Patricia looked down at her watch. “Oh fuck, you’re right. I better go.”

“Well let me drive you home,” Debra pleaded.

“Sit the fuck down bitch,” Patricia replied, “you’re acting like I never drove drunk before.”

Patricia pulled out her keys and revved up the engine to her red Porsche 718 Cayman GTS. She cranked up Def Leopard’s Hysteria album and sped out of the parking lot.

On down the road, while walking home, Eric finally had to relive his bladder. With his deep-seated hatred for all public works, Eric pulled out his penis and began pissing on the street. Patricia, meanwhile, was singing at the top of her lungs to Animal as she burned down the road.

Suddenly, mid-piss, Patricia clipped Eric with her Porsche. He helicoptered into the air before landing on the pavement, unconscious, and covered in urine.

TO BE CONTINUED…

what a terrible day

While watching nonstop coverage on the destruction of Florida by a cataclysmic hurricane overnight, I found solace in one thing:

“At least Coolio is still alive,” I kept telling everyone.

Artis Leon “Coolio” Ivey Jr (1963-2022)

Coolio was essentially the soundtrack to my childhood growing up in SoCal during the 90s. Gangsta’s Paradise still fucking kicks, in fact, all his shit is dope.

This is a terrible day in American history. Kids will read about “December 7th, 1941” and “September 11th, 2001”, but they will never read about “September 28th, 2022”: the day Florida got fucked up and Coolio died.

RIP Coolio

Never Forget 🇺🇸

A.I: Artificial Intelligence

My October is booked the FUCK UP! That doesn’t mean that I’ll stop writing though, that ain’t happening. But that does mean I’m gonna need a little help from artificial intelligence.

Now I don’t have a clue what my short story will be about. Therefore I turned to a random story generator from writingexcerises.co.uk. I had to refresh it a few times to get a story I liked, and here’s what it generated:

A woman in her sixties, who can be quite compassionate.

A man in his early thirties, who can be quite aggressive.

The story begins in a nightclub.

Someone is driven out of their home.

It’s a story about greed.

Your character reluctantly becomes involved

So there you have it. October’s short story will be about an older woman and an incel “falling in love”. Hell yeah dude 👍

What a time to be alive, eh?

Blade runner

Soooo, did I ever talk about Blade Runner on this blog?

I’ve always had a lot of opinions about the film, but it seems like every film buff has wrote a dissertation on it. So what’s the point of clogging up the internet with one more, ya know?

But after ripping off it’s ending in my latest short story, I can’t stop thinking about it.

For the record, and I’ve been very open about this, Blade Runner 2049 is the superior film. By a fucking mile too. Ridley Scott is an interesting visual filmmaker, but all of his movies lack heart. This is true for not only Blade Runner, but Alien, Gladiator, The Martian, etc, as well.

Additionally, I find the script to be underwhelming. Even the film’s most memorable moment (the Tears in Rain monologue) was largely the result of actor Rutger Hauer’s ingenuity and not so much the writer’s. I don’t blame Hampton Fancher and David Peoples for this (the latter would later write Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven). The final script was probably the result of compromise during a troubled production.

Nevertheless, Blade Runner works because everyone else behind the scenes CRUSHED their role, from F/X artist Douglas Trumbull, DP Jordan Cronenweth, composer Vangelis, concept artist Syd Mead, production designer Lawrence G. Paull, and everyone in between.

In Scott’s defense, I believe he sees himself as more of a “CEO”-type filmmaker, or one that brings together highly talented people to do their thing, as opposed to being an auteur himself. So in that respect, he did his job really well. Nevertheless, likely because of this approach, there is an “it” factor that’s lacking in Blade Runner which prevents it from becoming one of the great classics in cinema.

Strangely, I think MOST cinephiles agree with this: Blade Runner is visually and conceptually one of the most influential films of all time. But is it a great movie?

Personally, I think that question is more interesting than the film itself.

But where I disagree with most other fans of the Blade Runner universe are on the Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer) scenes. Hauer feels like he’s acting on an island in this film. While that’s a deliberate choice, his scenes drag the movie down. And to be completely honest, the movie is not nearly as interesting without Harrison Ford on the screen.

Now Ford’s performance is somewhat controversial. It’s noted for being his first “mature” role, and a lot of people don’t like it. He often comes across as detached, grouchy, and needlessly aggressive in some parts. Ford’s performance is a bit dialed back, as opposed to Hauer, who isn’t afraid to be hammy and childish. Unfortunately, Ford acting choices were better suited to the Blade Runner universe and, despite being the leading man, he doesn’t feel like he’s in the film enough.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve got to say 🤷‍♂️

Meet William Shitz (part xii)- conclusion

After I shot Archibald for his supposed “dereliction of duty”, he managed to survive.

“Maybe we’ll just call it even,” the old butler said as he held his hand over the gushing shotgun wound. He placed his arm around my shoulder and I carried him back to the estate.

Darla regained consciousness after being choked out by her dying, naked father. “Is he finally dead?” she asked.

I nodded.

“About fucking time,” she replied, “let’s leave that crazy old bastard’s body out in the woods.”

Everyone agreed.

We all returned to the estate and shared a bottle of brandy. Archibald was looking a little pale due to the massive blood loss. Darla was happy to be home. “What the fuck was up with that arctic fox?” she asked.

I swirled around my glass while I pondered. “I guess it symbolized Mr. Shitz’s soul,” I said. “At his moment of death, the fox took up his spirit. Now Mr. Shitz is truly free; free from man-made constraints, free to live the life he always wanted. And more importantly, he took up my spiritual burdens by becoming the Angel of Death, and bestowing up me full humanity; the greatest gift he ever gave anyone. Or some shit like that. I dunno.”

“Okay good. Glad I wasn’t the only one that saw it,” Darla replied. “Because I was REALLY tripping balls out there.”

We all had a good laugh, including Archibald who continued bleeding all over the couch. Then it occurred to me:

“Did we get Allen Funt out of that hole?”

THE END

*****

Like what your read?

No?

Well the other day, while I was harassing strangers at the airport, I saw a gentleman carrying around these books:

After pestering him for a few minutes, he asked me “are you some kind of fucking moron?” Then he told me where I can find them: Dead Star Press. Moreover, to get me to leave him alone, he said I can use the promo code ‘BM5’ to get 5% off when I checkout at the website. (Then the police escorted me out of the terminal)

And after reading Joseph D Newcomer’s ‘Darkest Day’ and the Press Anthology, it occurred to me: “I’m terrible at this writing business.” So now I leave all that nonsense to Newcomer and his stable of talented writers at Dead Star Press and I will never write another sentence again.

Plus they make really dope shirts:

So stop writing. And stop reading other writers for fuck’s sake! It’s over. And Dead Star Press won. So use the code ‘BM5’ to get 5% off your next purchase!

Meet William Shitz (part xi): tears in rain

“Pull the trigger, Jim Grey,” William said as rain poured down his face. “That’s why you’re here, after all.”

I stood frozen in an awe-inspired fear. The nude figure that stood before me transfigured into a dark angel. He was still man, but appeared to possess the powers of hell.

I was unable to pull the trigger.

But before I could react, William grabbed the barrel and slammed the butt of the shotgun to my face. Still conscious, I fell backwards into the muddied forest floor. I could taste something from the corner of my mouth; it was blood, assisted by the rain, streaming down from the wound on my forehead.

I had never bled before.

William now held the shotgun but threw it aside as he stood over me. His cock was inches from my face. Finally, the rush of panic kicked in and I sprinted aimlessly through the woods.

But the newly minted demonic angel was never far behind.

Then I reached an obstacle: a gully nearly 100 feet deep but a little over 10 feet wide. I had no time to think. I leapt across the crevice but my feet missed the landing on the other side.

My life was hanging perilously over the side of a cliff, fingers barely maintaining a grip on a wet, slippery rock jutting over the edge.

William looked down upon me struggling like a helpless creature. For the first time in his 70 years, he felt something he previously thought impossible: sympathy…compassion. Mr. Shitz then entirely hurdled the 10 foot gap and kneeled down before me.

“It’s quite a thing to live in fear, isn’t it?” he asked. “But that’s what it means to feel alive.”

Right as my fingers slipped, William grabbed my wrist and single-handedly pulled me to safety. As he dropped me on land, I impulsively wiggled backwards up to a tree, not knowing what to expect.

The arctic fox wandered up and sat obediently next to Mr. Shitz. The old, dying man gazed upon the animal and sat down before me.

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe,” William told me, “I’ve had shits like fire from a baconator in Hoboken. I watched Harry Reems and Arthur C. Clarke cheer as they masturbate. Now all of those moments will be lost, in time, like the career of David Blaine.”

A look of sorrow fell over William Shitz’s rain-covered face. “Time to die,” he uttered. And with those words, the clouds departed, and the fox trotted off into the sunset.

I laid there for what seemed like hours, pondering Mr. Shitz’s last moments. And in his waning hours, he bestowed upon me the gift of humanity; his last, and perhaps only, act of benevolence.

Then I heard a voice from across the gully. “I guess he’s through, eh?” it asked. It was Archibald, holding the shotgun.

“Finished,” I said.

Archibald tossed the shotgun to my side and started to walk away.

Then he paused.

“It’s too bad I won’t live,” he pondered aloud, “but then again, who does?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Meet William Shitz (part x)

“I found him!” Allen Funt screamed through the torrential rain. It was our second day of hunting for the surprisingly evasive Mr. Shitz. The terrain in the sprawling forest proved to be formidable.

Archibald, shotgun in hand, ran towards Allen’s screams. Darla and myself weren’t far behind. “Where is he?” Archibald asked as he approached.

“Right there,” Allen said.

The butler looked down and was puzzled. “That’s just a hole in the ground,” Archibald replied.

Allen cocked his head. “But I thought that’s what this was,” Funt said, pointing to his ass.

Darla had enough. “This excursion is pointless!” she yelled. “Just let my father die naked and shitting himself in the woods, just as he wanted!”

Allen Funt seconded the notion.

Archibald tuned out the noise as he gazed into the woods ahead. “There,” he pointed.

Less than a 100 yards away was the majestic arctic fox. The creature contrasted like an apparition against the wet and drab forest. “Follow that fox,” Archibald ordered.

The butler proceeded forward while Darla and I followed in his footsteps. Allen Funt fell into the very hole he pointed out moments before.

“Help!” he screamed.

No one came to his aid.

We watched closely as the fox trotted forward a few feet. As the animal neared a meadow, a totally nude Mr. Shitz fell out of a tree and onto Darla’s shoulders. “Father!” she cried, but Mr. Shitz was delivering a rear naked chokehold, quite literally, as he was hanging on to her rear, he was naked, and had her a chokehold.

“Release her!” Archibald ordered.

Darla lost consciousness and fell to the ground. With an open shot, Archibald raised the shotgun and fired. But the spry Mr. Shitz dodged the shrapnel and disappeared into the shadows.

“Goddamn, he’s like the Vietcong,” Archibald said as he reloaded the shotgun.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“He’s too dangerous like this,” Archibald replied. “If you see him, kill him.”

Right then, Mr. Shitz swung around a tree and knocked Archibald out cold. The shotgun flew forward to my feet.

I kneeled down to pick up the weapon. But Mr. Shitz was close enough that I could see the rainwater dripping off his ballsack. I slowly picked up the shotgun and returned to my feet.

It was nearing dusk and the rain was falling harder. But the red in Mr. Shitz’s eyes pierced the dark through the booms of thunder and brilliant flashes of light.

TO BE CONTINUED…

another blippi BANGER

Square, circle, star, diamond, octagon, pentagon…goddamn I love this song:

What? Is a grown ass man not allowed to like kid’s songs? My son and I jam to this all damn day. Just admit it: this tune SLAPS!

Plus, I think we can all agree. Those dance moves…

They’re pretty good.