Airports ROCK

I never understood the hate that airports get. They’re like a social black hole. All known laws of civility break down once you enter one. Personally, I think they should inspire the same awe in us as the cosmos do to astronomers. And if you don’t feel that way, you’re probably a sociopath, unlike me. I always shows up at least six hours before takeoff to cast judgement upon complete strangers.

But there must be something about air travel that makes people insane. It makes sense. Airplanes go against the laws of god. Yet sometimes i wonder if people are conscious of their actions. Take TSA for example. No one likes to go through it. But you’ll have a much better chance of making your flight if you simply comply. What won’t work is getting pulled aside, which isn’t uncommon, and rock back and forth like a drug fiend and forcefully argue your case. But that’s just my two cents.

Now, personal space. Being an early bird, I like to show up early, find a nice little eatery at my gate and sit in a quiet corner before my day invariably goes off the rails. But what I REALLY love is when a group of loud, hungover women sit next to me in an empty restaurant and bitch about their hotel room and then resume their night’s revelries over dozens of Bloody Mary’s at 4:30 in the morning. That’s some pro level shit. I can’t even be annoyed at that.

Sometimes I try to catch a nap before I board. “Why not sleep on the plane?” you might ask. Cuz fuck you. That’s why. But it’s hard to sleep when you’re sitting next to some Charles Napier-lookin jackass who reads his texts out loud. You see, ever since hearing that story about that dude who got decapitated on Greyhound, I’ve had a fairly rational fear of sleeping next to strangers.

So for the life of me, I can’t understand why people loathe air travel. It’s always been a rewarding and insightful experience into the human condition. Don’t piss and moan. Throw on your best Werner Herzog internal monologue and have fun.

Anywho, I’ll be in Phoenix soon. I’ll be waiting in the Derby Dames bout parking lot. 4:30. Don’t wuss out.

Warning Phoenix AZ

For the first time in 25 years, I’ll be stepping out from under my rock and into the shit-reeked air that you commoners whiff to sign books and promote the release of Stories No One Should Read.

Want a shot at me?

Well the third of October will be your lucky day. I’ll be at 2517 W. McDowell Street, Phoenix, AZ 85009 from 4:30pm to 8pm waiting on you. So you think you can take me? We’ll see what you got big dog!

While you’re there you can purchase my book and I’ll sign it. Or are you too much of a puss to show up? Lucky for you, you can purchase Stories No One Should Read at Amazon or at Dead Star Press.

So to all my enemies living in the Phoenix area talkin SHIT, here’s your chance. Come out to the Derby Dames bout on Saturday!

Don’t be a 🐓

Mer Rouge (Part 69)

“C’mon. Give me a stick of dynamite,” DuPont urged Oren.

Without taking his eyes off the flesh colored blob, Oren reached for the sash across his chest and ripped off a single piece of dynamite. De Soto and his men watched on. DuPont cut the fuse. As soon as it was lit, Dirk and Fornier opened fire on the men and escaped back through the side entrance of the house. DuPont and Hutch were struck from the back and the dynamite fell on the ground.

“Hutch!” screamed Oren.

“I ain’t gonna make it,” his brother said.

The priest shouted at them. “We have five seconds to get the fuck outta here!”

Oren threw his brother’s arm around his shoulder and they scrambled behind the blob towards the outside entrance. The garage exploded. Everyone made it out just in time. As light debris rained down on the yard, Oren and Hutch limped towards the grass. Hutch was ready to throw in the towel. “You’ve been a good brother to me,” he told Oren. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Shut your fuckin mouth!” his brother shouted.

Noticing what happened, the priest ran over to their side. Oren lifted his brother’s shirt and saw that the bullet went clean through his abdomen. Blood was pooling around them. “It don’t look good,” the priest said.

“We gotta stop the bleeding,” pleaded Oren.

“No time for that. Dont know how to do that no how.”

“We can’t leave him here!”

“Oh I gotta solution son. But you ain’t gonna like what I have to say.”

“I know what you’re gonna say. How long do you think we have?”

“Bout 20 minutes I reckon.”

Storm clouds were forming above. A slight mist drifted down and lightly covered the smouldering garage. DuPont was checking his wounds. The priest looked him over and saw the exit wound went out his upper chest. “Want me to take a look at it?” he asked the sheriff.

“No!” barked DuPont.

“But sheriff, you’re—“

“I’m fine goddamn it!”

The priest arched his eyebrow but he backed down. He turned his gaze over to the pile of rubble. “Think we got him?” he asked.

“Don’t know how we couldn’t have.”

“Well get yourself fixed up sheriff. Hutch is mortally wounded. We gotta move fast.”

“What does it matter? He’s dead already.”

The priest spat. “Come now sheriff. We at least got to save the kid.”

“Kid? He’s 38 years old. Unless you’re thinking—“

“Yes I’m thinking that.”

“Now you know for a goddamn fact that you would be cursing him to a fate worse than death! You’ve said so yourself!”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“How is eternity complicated?!!”

A roar came from the direction of the rubble. There was some movement underneath the fire and ash then a heavier dash of rain swept down. Everyone clutched to their weapons. “There’s no way,” the sheriff said from underneath his breath. Then the rubble split open and rising like a phoenix was Flaminio, fully nude like he was born anew.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 68)

The last Roman was stone faced. De Soto and his deputies glared unflinchingly at him as they stared down his .50 cal. No attention was paid to DuPont and his men. As tension mounted, the conquistador smirked. “Well. We’re waiting,” he taunted.

Flaminio was milliseconds from the trigger. From behind him the Butler, with his arm still detached, swung a rifle at his head. The Roman was momentarily discombobulated and he fell forward. The butler overtook him but was at limited capability. The two tussled. Maintaining a firm grasp on the incendiary loaded .50 cal, none of the others intervened. With the shotgun torn from his right hand, Flaminio threw the butler over his shoulder and he landed near De Soto. The Roman immediately aimed and pulled the trigger on the .50 cal and the butler exploded into flames.

“My god!” exclaimed De Soto.

Flaminio instantly recovered and returned to his original position by the nitro cylinders. With both hands on the machine gun, he aimed it at De Soto for the last time. “See you in hell,” he said.

Noticing an opportunity, DuPont reached for the .44 and emptied the cylinder into each of the six canisters. A burst of cold smoke hurried into the bullet riddled garage. Everyone turned and shielded their eyes. De Soto fell to the ground and when he regained his sight, through the fog he saw that the last Roman stood as a frozen statue. When they saw what he saw, there was a moment of silence. But with little hesitation, the priest picked up the discarded shotgun and aimed it at Flaminio.

“Vale in aeturnum, mea dulcis,” he said.

He pulled the trigger and the former Roman soldier, along with the incendiary loaded 50. Cal, exploded into a million pieces and collapsed to the ground like a house of cards. Satisfied, he blew the smoke away from the barrel and pointed it back at De Soto. “Now. Back to business,” he said.

“Wait a minute!” yelled Dirk. His eyes were fixed on the shattered remains of Flaminio.

When everyone turned, they saw that the pieces were quickly melting. Between the small fire of the exploded butler and high noon, the garage was sweltering. Small chucks of blood and flesh colored ooze were all drifting towards each other to form a singular mass. Witnessing this, Oren raised his eyebrow.

“You didn’t use fire,” he said to the Priest. “Are you sure you killed him?”

“I don’t know,” he said, slightly stupefied.

But the mass grew and all were speechless. It continued to grow until it slowly morphed into something resembling a kneeling nude man. “Hmm,” the priest wondered aloud. “This answers a lot of questions.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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

~~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.