Mer Rouge (Part 67)

“Knock knock mother fucks,” the Brother said.

The intruder had his eyes fixed on the conquistador and his lieutenants. Fornier reached for a sidearm and was met with a shotgun blast from the brother. The deputy narrowly missed the shrapnel and he rolled to his right. The intruder stepped forward a few more feet. “Everyone up,” he said.

They all stood. DuPont and the gang on one side. De Soto and the deputies on the other.  With the garage lit up, DuPont noticed about a half a dozen nitrogen gas cylinders to the right of where the brother entered. It was a miracle that none of them were hit in the barrage. The sheriff kept his hands raised. The Brother focused all of his attention on the conquistador. “So,” he said to the armored man, “as I live and breathe, Hernando De Soto. The Butcher of Mabila.”

“Junius,” De Soto said. “Praefectus Castrorum.”

“I’m afraid he’s dead. Killed by your deputy here.”

“I’d give my condolences under different circumstances.”

“Spare me your pity.”

De Soto nodded. “Aye. So Flaminio. Primus pilus. Last of his legion.”

Flaminio said nothing. He was stone faced and motionless with both weapons in hand. De Soto continued. “And what does the last Roman legionnaire have in store for us?” he asked.

“I’m aiming to kill ya.”

De Soto spat. “Then let’s get it over with.”

The legionnaire held his finger on the trigger. The .50 cal loaded with incendiary tracers. The Priest noticed something he didn’t think possible. A faint trace of perspiration forming on his brow. The Priest returned his gaze to De Soto and the old conquistador laughed. 

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked. “If you kill us all, the charade is over. Your life’s mission. The chase. 500 years we’ve been doing this. What will you do with yourself now that it’s over?”

Flaminio was silent. 

“So that’s it then?” De Soto asked. “What does a soldier do when the fighting is done? I too have asked myself this for half a millennium.”

The Roman squeezed the trigger ever so tighter. DuPont slowly shifted his right hand over the holstered .44. Then the old conquistador got in one last parting shot. 

“Since I’ll be dead soon, I don’t envy you Flaminio. It’s lonely to be the last of your kind.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

My cousin Dani

From a toilet outside of Bismarck, my cousin Dani was running her mouth on Threads. This time she was saying that the Klingon scene at the beginning of Star Trek: The Motion Picture was the “best” Klingon scene of all time. Unfortunately this post was seen “41,000” times and had just under “800” likes. This means that whatever bullshit falls out of her brain gets more views and likes than any of my THOUGHTFUL and WELL RESEARCHED blog posts. If this isn’t a sign of the impending apocalypse, I don’t know what is. But despite her being a dumb bitch, I think she’s right.

So I’ve been listening to Jerry Goldsmith’s soundtrack nonstop for seven days straight. It’s great. Mahler’s 9th Symphony is a piece of shit compared to it. And what makes this soundtrack so haunting is that badass blaster beam. Just watch the scene for yourself:

There’s a lot of gravity to that sound. It makes you wonder why more soundtracks don’t use it. It’s a top five for sure.

But what’s also great is that opening shot. After showing a giant ominous space cloud, it cuts to three approaching D7 Klingon cruisers. The camera lingers on the center cruiser as it passes underneath and drift toward the opening of V’ger. Imagine seeing that on the big screen. Picture yourself in 1979 and being a fan of some decade-old cheap ass sci-fi show and seeing this. It gives me goosebumps just to think about it.

Unfortunately, this is the most terrifying that Klingons will ever appear. No shade at all to subsequent Klingons though. It just highlights how incredible this scene is. Mark Lenard, as the captain, appears as if he’s Satan himself. The bridge glows like the fires of hell. When the captain speaks, his orders crack the air like a lashing from a cat o nine tails. This is the full wrath of god confronting the cool indifferent force of interstellar space. And god doesn’t stand a chance.

This was the introduction to modern Star Trek. And they sure don’t make em like they used to.

But because of Dani’s newfound influence on Threads, I have delegated her to be my representative. So don’t message me. Don’t contact me whatsoever. Send all your unsolicited dick pics to her. She told me to say so.

Mer Rouge (Part 66)

Dirk appeared over the shoulder of the conquistador and Fornier flanked him on his right. Both stepped forward and cocked their shotguns. The priest saw this and chuckled. “You’re a goddamn cosplaying fool,” he told Castor.

“Silence!” the old conquistador yelled. “It appears that we have reached the end. Hundreds of years. Hundreds of bodies. Time is a ceaseless hostility. But we can draw blood for so long. Give up the fight, old friend.”

The priest stepped forth and spat. “Fuck you old buddy. What do you think about that?”

Castor nodded. “You know how much it pains me to kill one of my own.”

“Yeah well, it pains me to wipe my ass with the bathroom rug. But you gotta do what you gotta do.”

“A court jester till the very end.”

The priest waved him off. DuPont spoke up. “I suppose you want us to surrender our weapons?” 

“If you wish,” the judge said. “But your weapons have no power here.”

DuPont smiled. Hutch shouted out from the back. “Since we’re gonna die anyway, I just want to tell Fornier to eat my ass!”

Fornier lowered his shotgun and waved his finger in his direction. “Hey fuck you pal! It was the Moorhouse Parish Jail! I ain’t runnin no Hilton!”

“More like the Hanoi Hilton! Amirite?” offered Moses.

No one laughed. 

“Enough with this nonsense!” the judge ordered. “I must inform you all that you will be summarily executed in a baptism of fire…”

Interrupting him were faint echoes of gunshots from a distance. There was some shouting and men crying out in agony and then total silence. Castor looked to his men. Fornier and Dirk looked at each other. Moments later, the silence was shattered by a .50 cal ripping through the walls. Each hole pierced through the dark. Everyone fell to the floor. The storm of bullets and splintered wood prevented anyone from moving. Then the hellish roar of gunfire stopped. DuPont looked up to see the entire garage ripped apart. Before anyone could move, a foot kicked in the battered door and a pair of leather boots stepped in. All eyes saw the last standing brother of the Nine. He was holding the .50 cal in one hand and a shogun in the other.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 65)

Everyone jumped to their feet. All except for Moses. He was still recovering from a bullet to the shoulder and an axe wound to the chest. “C’mon Mo!” the Priest shouted.

“Can you guys give me a goddamn minute?! Jesus fucking Christ!” 

Hutch knelt down and carried him up. He threw his arm over his shoulder and the pair followed the others down the corridor. The mansion was far more complicated than DuPont anticipated. He halted and grabbed Hutch’s shirt. “Where’s the staircase?” he asked him.

“Past the kitchen,” Hutch said. “There’s a huge parlor on the other side. At the other end is the staircase with the doorway to the spring right behind it.”

The sheriff waved his hand. “Let’s go!”

They entered the rear of the kitchen. DuPont walked in first with his reloaded .44 leading the way. It was abandoned. On the other side was another corridor leading to the right. If they were to be ambushed, it would be there. The sheriff whispered to Oren. “Give me a stick of dynamite,” he said. 

Oren reluctantly agreed and handed him a stick. DuPont put a cigarette to his lips and took out a zippo. He lit the cigarette and used it to light the explosive. He waited for the long wick to burn down to just centimeters before tossing it down the hallway. When he did, the gang collapsed to the ground. A second later, a mighty wave of ether swept over them followed by calamitous sounds and clouds of debris. Silence followed. As the dust cleared, DuPont leapt up.

“On your feet!” he ordered.

And like a unified regiment, all the men jumped to their feet and rushed the entry to the hallway. They unloaded one shotgun shell after another but as the smoke settled, they again found no resistance. “We need to get the fuck out of here now,” Oren said.

“Yeah,” agreed the sheriff. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

They turned around and bolted toward the garage entryway. As the last man crossed through the threshold, a hidden metal slide from the doorframe  slammed the entrance shut. They were trapped in near total darkness.

“Shit,” Moses said aloud.

And no one spoke. There was a clanking against the concrete. Everyone turned towards it. The clanking continued as if it were taunting them. Moments later, a single light pierced the dark and before them stood an old conquistador with a sword in hand.

TO BE CONTINUED….

hands where I can see them

Hello. I see you scrolling by.

Why don’t you have a seat right there.

You’re free to scroll to the next blog if you wish. But there’s something you should know. I’m Chris Hansen played by Robert Pattinson in Primetime and we’re doing a story on adults who haven’t purchased Stories No One Should Read online.

How old are you?

Would you like to try that again?

I know you’re 56 years old. You work at Taco Bell, thrice divorced, and are suffering from crippling diabetes. You have no retirement savings and no future worth mentioning. This is a book written specifically for people like you. So why haven’t you bought Stories No One Should Read on Kindle for $2.99?

There’s buying it and not buying it and you haven’t bought it. For that, you only have yourself to blame.

No decisions have been made yet. We don’t know which segments will air. But I’m gonna have to ask you to leave and go to Amazon or Dead Star Press to buy your copy today.

Stories No One Should Read by Beau Montana

The official ©️ book of A24’s Primetime. In theaters September 25th

Neither A24 nor anyone associated with Lance Oppenheimer’s Primetime is connected to the release of this book. The author, identified as “Beau Montana”, is mentally unwell, has a small penis, and functionally illiterate. His legal team pleads with A24 to keep that in mind before pursuing legal action.

take a seat

After watching all 24,000 hours of Chris Hansen’s investigations into online predatory behavior (in one night) I’ve arrived at a radical conclusion: Chris Hansen is not a journalist. That’s a view for the simpletons. He’s something a little bit more.

He’s a provocateur. A performance artist.

I’m not throwing shade at Hansen necessarily. Indeed, if my interpretation of him is correct, he’s the greatest to ever do it. Unlike all the other firebrands, Hansen didn’t rise up through stand up comedy or cheap political punditry. He captured the public trust by doing legitimate investigative journalism. But as usual, the times make the man. And Hansen stumbled upon a subject matter that was alarming, darkly provocative, and timely. After the Satanic Panic and Stranger Danger era of the 80s and 90s, followed by the intense paranoia and entrenchment of the surveillance state during the early 2000s, Hansen invited us to take a seat and peek into the world of online predatory behavior towards children.

As mentioned in the video above, To Catch a Predator always had its controversies, specifically regarding the media’s relationship with law enforcement, entrapment, etc. Initially, the program dedicated time towards educating parents on how to protect their children online. So there was, in a sense, an educational component. But then the show kinda morphed into something else. Something a bit unsettling and much more difficult to put your finger on.

We all know the setup. After baiting a predator, a “decoy” (usually a paid actor playing an underage girl or boy) waits at a sting house for the individual to show up. The predator comes into the house, the decoy disappears, and out comes Chris Hansen asking the man to “take a seat”. What follows is an uncomfortable conversation where Hansen attempts to understand the predator’s motivations and intentions. The first few interviews, you’re like “hahaha fuck that guy.” But the more you watch, the sadder it becomes. Eventually you have to ask yourself: “what are we accomplishing with this?”. Even in the rare moments where the predator is calm and honest, we really don’t learn anything that we couldn’t have deduced ourselves. So the interviews are like watching a trapped animal. The predator spins their tires until the interviewer gets bored and says “I’m Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC”. The man panics and tries to leave until they are busted by a whole squad of cops. It’s the strangest and most unsettling bit of television you will ever see.

Sure they catch a predator. But Chris Hansen presents himself as a predator of a different beast. With his access to primetime television and absence of a court of law, Hansen becomes the judge, jury, and executioner. You and I, as viewers, are his co-conspirators.

But as with any good art, there’s an undercurrent of themes presented but left to the viewer to ponder on. Male loneliness. Declining social mobility. Mental health. Rarely, if ever, were these subjects outright discussed but were nonetheless screaming at us through the television. Moreover, the pretense of journalistic intent was addressed only in the most halfassed way. If Hansen was truly concerned with online sexual predators, more attention would have been paid to victims of it.

Instead, Chris Hansen chose to turn a disturbing subject into spectacle. That’s why it’s not fair to call his work in the subject “journalism”. Not to knock To Catch a Predator and its successors though. It not only provided spectacle but it also gave us insight into ourselves and our times.

That’s what good art is supposed to do.

On pooping your pants in public

Thank you for joining me for this very special emergency post. We have witnessed reports coming out of Beijing of a woman defecating herself during an athletic competition in front of god and all the Chinese. Despite the embarrassing situation, the woman, identified as Joanna Wietrzyk of Australia, finished first place in the HYROX competition all whilst fecal matter visibly seeped from her spandex shorts and down her legs.

From the perspective of The Internet Ruined Everything, this is an athletic feat on par with Bill Moro bowing a perfect game on 9/11 or Dock Ellis pitching a no hitter on LSD. Yet Wietrzyk’s achievement has stirred up an international controversy. Many are left wondering if the HYROX committee should have removed Wietrzyk, paused the competition, and disinfected the course.

I have reached out to an expert on the matter, the scatologist Dr. Peter Houndmouth of the University of Tampa Bay at the Jacksonville campus in Ocala.

Montana: Dr. Houndmouth, thank you for joining me.

Houndmouth: My pleasure, Beau.

Montana: So tell me, what were your initial thoughts when you first heard the news out of China?

Houndmouth: I tell ya, I dropped everything and immediately searched the internet for every image I could find. So far, I’ve collected 378 images and clips. So this is all I’ve been doing for the last 24 hours. It’s been nonstop staring at Ms. Wietrzyk’s buttocks and the spew of poo streaming down her legs. I tell ya, this is every scatologists’ dream.

Montana: Well many on the internet are concerned about sanitary safety, particularly for the other athletes. Is there any merit to these concerns?

Houndmouth: Beau, I’ve been in this business for over 20 years. Do you know how many bike seats I’ve put my nose up to? How much ass sweat I’ve gotten on my fingers while doing “research” at the gym? I’ve only gotten pink eye a few dozen times. I assure you, eating ass is a totally healthy way to build your immune system and bring pleasure to your partner. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be a sexual thing. Lots of people enjoy the sights, sounds, smells, and even taste of poop. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I recommend to your audience that every night, particularly after physically strenuous days, to remove your underwear and place it over your head. Breathe in deep the day’s stank. And if you go commando, you can always steal a your wife’s dirty pair. But whatever you do, don’t let her catch you or else…

Montana: …Okay, so to get this conversation back on track, in your professional opinion, Wietrzyk’s incident did not pose a health risk to others?

Houndmouth: Gee, ya know, it’s difficult to say. If I had more physical evidence, I could give a more definitive answer. One way that we could get to the bottom of this is if Ms. Wietrzyk sent me her soiled shorts. Since this news has broke, I’ve been pinging her DMs relentlessly to no avail. So Joanna, if you’re reading this, please send me your dirty shorts. If you can’t send me that pair, then any pair of underwear will do. I promise to use this clothing for research purposes only. I have not, and never will, get an erection from holding a woman’s soiled underwear because I’m a real doctor from a real college and…

Montana: …alright! Thank you, Doctor. And thank you to all of you for joining me for this emergency post 🙏

Goodnight!

Mer Rouge (Part 64)

The tracer rounds momentarily stopped. The priest launched up from behind the burning squad car and unloaded several shotgun shells in their direction. DuPont stood up and fired the .44 up at the overhead window. As shards of glass rained down from the roof, Moses lurched toward the boxes of dynamite.

“Ahhhahahhhahaaa!!!!!” he screamed.

Oren and Hutch sprinted behind him and they kicked over the wooden boxes and grabbed as many sashes as they could. In a span of seconds, they collected eight sashes and then made a beeline towards the left end of the house. Moses was about to make a sharp right into the building when an axe launched itself into his chest. “For fuck’s sake!” he yelled.

Oren and Hutch stopped dead in their tracks. Holding the axe stem was none other than the butler. A quiver of arrows wrapped around his chest. Oren lifted his shotgun to parry the blow of the axe as he swung it toward him. The blade lodged itself into the metal. And as the butler raised the axe again, Oren swung his fist onto his attacker’s face and his head bent backwards. In this brief moment of victory, Oren attempted to overtake the butler but the butler grabbed ahold of Oren’s lapels and crashed the crown of his head onto his opponent’s nose. 

Oren stepped back in a daze and collapsed into the grass. 

Seconds later, DuPont and the priest rounded the corner to find Hutch swiftly and gracefully dodging the edged weapon. It was almost as if he had done something like that before. With two shots left in the cylinder, DuPont fired at the butler’s shoulder and blew it clean off its socket. The axe fell to the ground but without flinching or recoiling, the butler reached down to take it in his left hand while his right arm was dangling by his side. His lethality didn’t diminish an iota. He resumed his charge at Hutch.

DuPont fired again. The bullet lodged itself into the head of the axe and blew it clean off its handle. The butler dropped the piece of wood and reached into his dinner jacket. With his left hand, he launched shuriken after shuriken at Hutch and DuPont. But the priest drove the butler backwards with his few remaining shotgun shells before the men manning the .50 cals repositioned themselves. When DuPont noticed them, he rallied Hutch and the priest into the house and helped Moses and Oren to their feet. 

Without a second to spare, the .50 cals opened fire. DuPont and his men laid flat on the floor while shattered glass crashed down onto them. The firepower was relentless. 

Then it stopped.

They laid silent for fifteen seconds. DuPont, with glass cracking below his feet, lifted his head. The gunmen, along with the butler, were gone. “Let’s go,” the sheriff ordered.

“This has got to be a trap,” Oren said.

“No time to worry about that.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 63)

The half a dozen or so wooden boxes of dynamite sat atop the flame retardant grass. Chaz sat them a safe distance away from the Honcho before his horrid death. But the bullets whizzed overhead. The squad car could only provide so much protection. DuPont considered his options under the mounting heat and gunfire. 

“I think we’re dead, folks,” he announced to the others.

“You son of a bitch!” Oren said.

“Chill!” called the priest. “C’mon Mo. We gotta do something here.”

Moses remained flattened to the ground next to Hutch. He briefly lifted his head. “Respectfully father, you can go fuck yourself,” he said.

Another flaming arrow whizzed from the sky and blew the priest’s cossack right off his head. “My cossack!” he screamed. 

“It’s a hundred fucking degrees out here! Why are you even wearing that?” DuPont asked him.

“The arrows are coming from the second floor window!” Hutch cried out. 

Arrows and shurikens were quickly hurled towards Hutch and Moses and the two climbed to their feet and rushed toward the crowded back end of the squad car. Everyone was trapped. “We at least got to try to get to the dynamite,” the priest said. 

“Fuck that!” Moses yelled.

“Mo! What other option do we got?”

“Surrender!”

“Are you stupid? They’ll kill us no matter what and you know that!” 

“We need to get to the boxes before they start shooting at them!” DuPont said. “If we’re all gonna die, let’s at least die together!”

“What’s the plan then?”

“There’s not much of one. When the tracers stop, I’ll unload the shotgun in their direction. You, father, direct your fire toward the second story window. The rest of you grab as many dynamite sashes as you can before things get too hot and then bolt it towards the other end of the house. We’ll give you fire cover the entire time. At least until we run out of bullets and shells. Goddamn, I wish I had some lemon frags!”

TO BE CONTINUED…