The legend of boggy creek

If I have to go out and do research, you know you done fucked up. Which is exactly what Charles P. Pierce (not to be confused with Charles B. Pierce) of Esquire magazine did. Get a load of this article:

https://www.esquire.com/news-politics/politics/a71138108/correspondents-dinner-shooting/

My initial thoughts were ‘I don’t give a shit about this guy’s personal experience with firearms.’ So naturally, I quit reading because I ain’t reading all that shit. Annoyed, I did a background check on this Pierce fella and apparently he’s a dude. And what I mean by a dude is that he’s a guy who’s been around a while. Probably respected in some journalist circles, which is how he has the job title of “political blogger” for Esquire.

First off, respect to him for getting a cush job. If only I could be so lucky. But secondly, it made me wonder if a blogger employed by a major publication is beholden to a word count. Because that’s the only reasonable explanation for why this “blog” post has a word count that’s at, or near, 1,000. He didn’t need that many words. He’s selling a stupidly simple premise: SPOILER ALERT in light of the White House Correspondence Dinner shooting, Democrats should leave the conspiracy mongering to the Alex Jones’ of the world because gun violence is a real problem and shouldn’t be taken lightly. A fair enough premise, but the article itself appears to be a symptom of journo-brain: an overly confident and overwritten piece designed simply to take up as much space as possible to justify the writer’s job and the publication’s existence.

Don’t get me wrong, journalism is important and necessarily for a free society and all that jazz. But its importance to society is based upon its ability to provide accurate information to the public. It’s NOT based upon how clever of a writer the journalist thinks he/she/they is. Because, and future journalists take note, no one gives a shit about your personal life and experiences— as interesting as they may actually be. The only time it is acceptable to divulge that kind of information is if you are writing under a pseudonym and you’re making up stories to fuck with the reader (which I categorically deny ever doing).

But Pierce’s premise here is also partly wrong. Sure, any reasonable person would agree that a wacko shouldn’t have a gun. But arguing that the “Left” shouldn’t do “Alex Jones cosplay”? He’s completely out of touch here. The Left should ABSOLUTELY do Alex Jones cosplay. If we’ve learned anything over the last 10 years it’s that gaslighting your opposition is totally and completely 100% effective as a propaganda tool. It puts the Right in a defensive position. Does the Left actually believe that the WHCD event is a “false flag”? I dunno. And who gives a shit. The only way out of this “post-truth” society is through it. So both sides need to experience the pain of misinformation if we are to ever restore the sanctity of TRUTH. Therefore I encourage the Left to flat out lie and fuck with the Right, give em a dose of their own medicine.

Just don’t get high on your own supply.

Mer Rouge (Part 25)

Sirens wailed. Smoke from the burning barbershop towered into the sky. The priest looked to the other side of the road and saw another column of black smolder rising above the buildings. He bolted in its direction. A block and a half away, he found his beige Chrysler set ablaze. With sirens ringing nearer, the priest re-concealed the shotgun under his smock and calmly sauntered away from the fire and towards a nearby neighborhood. Down the calmly streets, children waved to him as they played in the front yard. Grandmothers smiled at him as he passed by. From a speeding pickup, one redneck heaved a carton of eggs at his back. “Fuckin Catholics!” the redneck yelled. But the priest kept his head down as he wandered down a cul-de-sac where he noticed an old 1970 AMC Gremlin. He looked around for passersby. “No one will miss this piece of shit,” he said to himself. He took the butt of the Mossberg and smashed open the driver’s side window and opened the door. He knelt down and hotwired the vehicle like it wasn’t shit. Then he cleaned up the shattered glass in the driver’s seat and sat down. When he pulled down the sun visor, the keys fell into his lap. “I guess somebody wanted this car stolen,” he said aloud. With a quarter of a tank of gas, he started down the direction of interstate 20 towards Louisiana.

But the brothers were miles ahead of him. It took them less than an hour to reach Moorhouse Parish. By that late afternoon, they took the exit off I-20 and headed north towards Oak Ridge. Near the city limits, they pulled off the empty road and climbed off the bike. A brother unsheathed a switchblade and punctured a tire and then they waited on passing vehicles. Another hour later, near dusk, a squad car rolled up. It was Oak Ridge police. The officer climbed out and adjusted his pants. “Flat tire?” he asked 

“Yessir,” one brother responded politely in a faux southern affect. “Perhaps you could give us a ride into town.”

The officer nodded. “Heh. I haven’t seen one of those sidecars since Saigon.”

“Yessir. They’re not that common.”

“Where can I find myself one of those? I have a Harley just like that and I’d like to get an attachment. You know, for the wife n all.”

The brother scrambled for words. “Uh, I’m sure you can find plenty of those down in New Orleans.”

“Nar’lens?”. The officer spat. “Is that where you boys are from? Yur tags say Tennessee.”

“Right. Well uh, our family lives down that way. My brother and I are headed back to Tennessee.”

“Jeez. Yur takin the long way. Yur almost to Arkansas!” But the officer agreed and he opened the back driver’s side door. He bent down to clear out shit in the backseat and tossed it to the front. “It might not be the most comfortable ride back here, but…”

Before he could finish, a brother pulled him up, held him, and poked the switchblade into his throat. The other brother took the officer’s service revolver and checked the cylinder. “We appreciate the ride, officer,” the brother said, “but we’re looking for Deputy Fornier of Morehouse Parish Sheriff’s Department.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Do the right thing

I’m a simple man. I ain’t in this racket for fame and fortune. It’s all for the love of the game. So I don’t require much. Except $10,000 owed in back taxes to the IRS and various creditors in and around the Cayman Islands.

Now I know I’ve said that I don’t give a shit if anyone reads my work. It ain’t all about YOU, buddy. I ain’t gonna crawl on my hands and knees and beg for money. But if you ever caught yourself thinking ‘I like this guy’s work’, then you owe me. You owe me BIG TIME in fact.

Don’t worry, I’m not a violent person. No one’s gonna come to your doorstep and bust your kneecaps. But here’s what WILL happen. Someone will come to MY door and bust MY kneecaps. Now I ain’t gonna sit here and convince you of the importance of walking. So you wanna save my kneecaps? Please go to Amazon.com and purchase Vanitas or, heaven forbid, the Detective James Series: Vol 1.

“But why would I pay for this shit when I can read it here for FREE?” you might ask.

Well if you shut up for a second, I’ll tell ya.

What you read here is all first draft stuff. That might come as a surprise. Reading this website alone, you might think I’m the second coming of Hemingway. But what you purchase from Amazon is actually a BETTER and more COMPLETE vision of my storytelling. But I can forgive you for thinking that this is apex of English literature. However, like so many other things in your life, you’d be wrong. Internetruinedeverything.com is just the tip of the iceberg.

So do something right for once in your life. Go to this Amazon 🔗 , buy one of my books, and sleep well knowing that you not only contributed to great literature, but you’re also saving my kneecaps.

God bless

Mer Rouge (Part 24)

The priest put his ear to the frail wood panel wall and focused. After one of the brothers spoke, a muffled voice responded. “Who the fuck are you guys?”. Given the clarity of the brother’s voice, it indicated that they were facing the back wall the priest hid behind. The exchange continued.

“We’re looking for the spring. Where is it?”

“What fucking spring?”

“We’re not stupid, Mr. Fornier.”

“I don’t know of any goddamn spring.”

“And the water you sell?”

“Look, if you want any of that snake oil piss, I’m a little busy right now…”

A gunshot rang out followed by the sound of a body collapsing to the floor and the Fornier man cried out. “You dun shot my knee!” he yelped. Shaken, the priest holstered the Smith & Wesson and readied the 12 gauge Mossberg hidden under his smock. By now, voices were so heightened that there was no need to put an ear to the wall. The priest quietly mumbled his prayers. 

“Who provides you with the water?” he heard a brother ask.

“I…I…it’s my cousin!”

“Where is he?”

“He’s a deputy with the Morehouse Parish Sheriff’s Department!”

“In Louisiana?”

“Yes!”

Another shot was fired and Fornier’s whimpering stopped. The priest kicked open the back door with the shotgun ready. In the brief flash of time before shots were fired, the priest noticed Fornier’s body draped in a barber’s cape with his jaw half covered in shaving cream while the panic stricken barber stood off to the side with his hands in the air. Thankfully, the priest was correct in where the brothers were standing. Without a second to spare, he unloaded the shotgun towards the brother standing on the right and the glass shattered behind him. It was apparent he missed the kill shot, yet the brother stumbled backwards and the other began ripping bullets from what appeared to be a Tommy gun. The priest leapt back behind the wall and the bullets tore through the wood. When he attempted to return fire, the brothers were already outside of the barbershop and one dispatched a Molotov cocktail. The flames roared through the shop, across Fornier’s body, and cutting off the main entrance. While the barber himself was on the floor desperately trying to escape the smoke, the priest reached out a hand. “Here!” he shouted. Yet another gun shot rang out and struck the barber in the back. The priest, now laying low to the ground, crawled back towards the rear entrance. Once outside, as smoke billowed from the building, he ran down the back alley and towards the front. When he got there, the brothers and their bike were long gone.

TO BE CONTINUED…

First Light

Things are at a fever pitch within the James Bond universe. B-heads are in a tizzy. For the first time in a long time, a new Bond video game is coming out, First Light, with the title song by Lana Del Rey. Additionally, we inch closer to production of the Denis Villeneuve-directed installment. And until the cast and title of the production is announced, this will probably be the last time I will discuss James Bond for the foreseeable future.

I’ve discussed what I think will probably happen — we’ll probably get a cerebral look into James Bond’s origins. I’ve stated my objections to this premise but it’s out of my control. The best I could offer is how to make that premise work, assuming that’s the direction they’ll go down.

But the question is: what do I want?

I’ve said time and time again, the objective for screenwriter Steven Knight and Denis Villeneuve is simple: just tap the ball. Audiences are already primed so there’s no need to do too much. I’m sure Steven Knight is more than capable of delivering a solid script. My concern is for Villeneuve. I’ve seen nothing in his filmography that would suggest he could handle the James Bond aesthetic. But time will tell. To be honest, I’d rather have a non-auteur behind the camera, someone who knows how to deliver the goods. I’m thinking of someone like Top Gun:Maverick director Joseph Kosinski.

But if I had a shot at the script, I’d simply restore the formula: a cold open that’s unrelated to the main plot, a complicated and hilariously convoluted plot, and an over-the-top yet simple villain. Are all of those things somewhat out of step with modern storytelling? Absolutely. But that’s part of the charm. James Bond is a callback to escapist cinema. Besides, it would be refreshing to see at this point. In our dark and cynical times, seeing a crazy villain out for world domination, without respect to global politics, would be a return to an older era: when good guys were good guys and bad guys were bad guys (even if Bond himself is a morally grey character working for the good guys). It would be a good jumping off point for the main plot: world leaders on edge over some realistic crisis are suddenly brought together to handle an ACTUAL bad guy. So the level headed British dust off the world renowned alcoholic, gambling addict, womanizer, and borderline sociopathic serial killer James Bond to save the day. And save the day he does. By the end of the film, the nations of the world are united thanks to Bond’s PP and his Walther PPK. Meanwhile, Bond himself couldn’t give less of a shit. While the United Nations uncork Champagne bottles and cigars, he’s in some mountain hideout and fuckin his way from one end of the room to the other. And the ending title card reads James Bond Will Return.

Audience applaud.

As for actor playing James Bond, I have no opinion. Villeneuve expressed a desire for a Sean Connery-like portrayal and I’m fine with that. But if that’s the direction they want, they’ll have to get an actor in his late 30s to 40s. In fact, Bond should perpetually be late 30s and 40s. He’s a force of nature and not necessarily a character with an origin and an ending. He’s a living myth. So no need to give him a biography or motivation. Just send him on a mission and let him cook.

THAT’S the James Bond movie I want.

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

On the city outskirts, where the cliffs drop sharply, the motorbike pulled off into a gravel pit where a shanty ice cream shack overlooked the mighty Mississippi. The brothers dismounted the bike and joined the gaggle of denizens standing in line for a tasty summer treat. When their turn arrived, the server sporting a white soda jerk hat, removed the pencil behind his ear and put it to paper. “What can I get you boys?” he asked them. But the brothers only glared at him from behind their reflective shades, their faces as unflappable as a clear midnight moon. The man nodded. “Oh okay. I’ll just get y’all a vanilla cone,” the server said. He brought them the cones, already dripping from the excessive heat, and the brothers wandered off to a lonely corner of the pit and gazed upon the wide river below with the green flats on Louisiana on the other side. 

This puzzled the Priest. There was something hauntingly serene about these two men as they shared their moment of solitude. It didn’t appear that they exchanged a word. But the priest watched them from afar. He tailed them stealthily in a nondescript beige Chrysler that he stole in a parking lot in Memphis. He’d occasionally break visual contact down Highway 3 to avoid detection. Yet the priest was beside himself when he discovered the charred remains of Deputy Ricketts and his squad car. He had only been minutes behind. Now he laid low. He looked to the backseat to check on the 12 gauge Mossberg and then he reached into his cossack to check the chamber of a Smith & Wesson .38/44. 

Meanwhile, the brothers took their sweet ass time munching down the cones. But when they finished, one climbed back on the bike and one into the sidecar and they roared their way on into Vicksburg. The priest trailed behind. A couple of miles later, the brothers entered the nearly deserted downtown area and the priest pulled off into an alleyway and readied his weapons. A block away, the brothers stopped by a lonely barbershop and dismounted. With a shotgun under his smock, the priest sauntered over to mainstreet and saw the deserted motorbike. Not wishing to attack them head on, he continued towards the alley behind the barbershop and picked its lock. Once inside, he held the Smith & Wesson and tiptoed his way through the back end of the shop. He could hear the brothers on the other side of the wall.

“Are you Fornier?” a voice asked.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Tax day II: it happened AGAIN?!

So am I against my tax dollars being used to fund Ice and various military aggressions in the Middle East? Yeah yeah yeah. I’m against that shit too. But really pisses me off is that my tax dollars go to Florida. You know, that piss pit that hangs off the continental US? If my money should be used for anything, it should be to make that place not exist. Both as a major population center and a geographical location. It’s an abomination to god. The only thing that state is good for is drunk driving, meth lab explosions, old people fuckin, and college football. It should be outlawed. All of it. Does Trump want to boost his popularity? Then invade Greenland, let the ice melt, and let’s sink that landfill once and for all.

THAT’S something I’d give money towards

Tax day

I slipped into a slight depression after filing my taxes because, for the 83rd year in a row, I learned I will be paying in. I thought I had Uncle Sam this time. I thought I had him bent over a barrel and I was gonna slap his butt cheeks blood red. Yet that wily bastard got away from me again.

Instead I fell asleep for 12 hours straight and I dreamt that I was at a protest in a Walmart parking lot where I was chatting it up with a girl. A guy, presumably her boyfriend, got protective of her, and I, reading the room, told them to have a good day and I walked away. The next day, I’m at the airport waiting for my flight. I noticed the same group of hooligans, including the girl, were setting up shittily designed explosives in the terminal. Counselor Deanna Troi and I foiled their plot and saved the day but naturally I caught the eye of the FBI. They noticed I was at both locations where the alleged terrorists were being monitored. Denying any association, I asserted that it was merely a coincidence that I was both locations. Skeptical, the feds order me to go “undercover” to track these folks down, which led me to a power plant in West Virginia. The dream trailed off from there.

But isn’t this essentially the plot to One Battle After Another? (Still haven’t seen it.) I feel like no matter how much I contribute to the economy, no matter how much I try to be an upstanding member of society, it still ain’t enough. It’s one battle after another. (Maybe someone should really explain that movie to me)

Mer Rouge (Part 23)

The screeching cicadas pierced through the cold silence as the sweat built up on the deputy’s neck. Not a peep was uttered by the suspicious duo. Not even a slight movement. They sat there hard and still like marble statues. The deputy stepped toward the grass and spat out the last remaining hulls  between his teeth. “Well boys, are you gonna show me some identification?”

Nothing changed. He looked them up and down but couldn’t make heads or tails on what they might be hiding. They didn’t seem nervous. Not even a bead of sweat was apparent under all that leather. The deputy nearly asked them to step off the bike but before he did, a rickety pickup rounded the corner and sounded the horn. “Evening deputy!” the driver shouted. It was Hopper returning to his farm. The deputy turned his back and waved before resuming his duties. And when he did, the duo was gone. Vanished. Only the bike and the puny sidecar remained. 

Ricketts drew his service revolver and searched the treeline. When he came up with nothing, he charged across the road and looked there. Out of options, he returned to the squad car and radioed in. “This is Ricketts. I’m out here on Highway Three and I urgently need another deputy…”

Before he could finish the request, a gigantic fireball exploded underneath his vehicle, lifting it a foot or two in the air before crashing back down. Then, out of the shadows, the brothers reappeared and assessed the carnage. The flames flashed brilliantly through their reflective shades. Satisfied with the destruction, they boarded the bike and kickstarted the engine. But clinging on to dear life, Ricketts pushed the drivers side door off its hinges and fell face first onto the pavement with revolver still in hand. His legs were blown off below the knees, left arm mangled, and his hair and clothes were burning into black carbon. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed with his dying breath. And in his final act, he emptied the revolver in the duo’s direction. Befuddled, the brothers flattened themselves to the ground and drew their weapons. But they watched the deputy pitiably claw his way across the road before the patches of fire spread and consumed him whole in the middle of the asphalt.

The brothers stood up and straightened themselves out and they faced each other for a hot moment. One nodded and the other returned it. Then they climbed on the bike and roared on into Vicksburg.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Mer Rouge (Part 22)

The putrid and rank possum’s corpse laid on the southbound lane headed into Vicksburg. For three days it festered under the sweltering August heat, with red guts spattered on both sides of the road before spoiling and flattening into a pancake with a few scant shit flies picking at its remains. On the northbound side, Deputy Gene Ricketts rested his squad car underneath the large sweetgum lined up on the left side entrance to the old Hopper farm by the lonesome highway. With the driver’s side door open, he spat countless sunflower seed hulls into the unkempt grass while Don Williams softly played. But when the sunflower seeds couldn’t keep his mind off the spittin tobacco, he turned to the 100 proof Jack in the concealed thermos on the passenger’s side floor. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the heat ratcheted up ten degrees every hour. As the time slowly passed, the deputy would dab a rag across his forehead. Eventually, the song faded out and the radio station transitioned to the latest country hit. And as it did, the deputy looked down the road towards the north. A mile or two ahead, through the unbearable Mississippi heat and mirage waves, a small motor vehicle came barreling towards him—an easy speeding ticket, likely his only for the day. He squinted his eyes. It was a motorcycle clearly, but with something peculiar. It had a sidecar. The deputy closed the door and cut on the engine and waited for the bike to roar past him. And when it did, the siren blared and the Warren County squad car sped away from the dirt patch on the side of the road and left a cloud of red dust lingering behind.

The bike didn’t put up much of a fight. Upon noticing the deputy behind, the driver pulled over and braked. The squad car stopped two or three meters away. Deputy Ricketts climbed out, shades concealing his eyes, and he slowly sauntered towards the offending vehicle. There were two men—one on the bike and one in the side car. Neither turned around. Neither made a sound. “Well boys,” the deputy said, “that’s one helluva knucklehead ya got there. Not sure if the sidecar is street legal. But I might let it slide.”

The two men—decked out in black leather, mud washed denim, and wearing German-made half helmets—remained silent. The deputy looked at the license plate. “Ontario?” the deputy beamed. “Canadian, eh?”

They said nothing.

The deputy strolled up to the front of the bike to gander at their faces. His brow furrowed. Like him, the two men had their eyes concealed behind reflecting shades. Their faces looked cut from stone, each sporting a dark chevron mustache. If the deputy had to have guessed, he would have reckoned they were twins. “My my,” Ricketts spoke, “don’t you two make quite a pair.”

TO BE CONTINUED…