“What’s it gonna be Luigi?” Mr. Leather said with his tommy gun.
Luigi paused and slowly lowered me to the ground. Leather pointed his tommy at Michaela.
“You’re not gonna get away with this,” she said.
“Beat it bitch,” he replied.
Luigi quickly reached for his sidearm. Mr. Leather unleashed his machine gun, blasting holes and blood everywhere. Luigi smashed through the window, falling five stories to the ground.
If the bullets didn’t kill him, the fall certainly did.
Michaela pulled a single shot derringer out of the bosom of her dress, hitting Mr. Leather in the stomach. She ran out the room. I ran over to him.
“We gotta get you to the hospital,” I said.
“Can’t. They’ll take me to prison.”
“I was a medic in the Army, I can probably stop the bleeding,” I replied.
“I’d rather go to prison.”
I helped the blood soaked Mr. Leather to the car. As we sped out of there, he took out a cigarette.
“Where you taking me?” he asked.
“The only place we can go.”
We arrived at the Big Bear cabin early in the morning. Isabella helped carry the wounded man inside.
“Who is this guy?” she asked.
“You know,” I thought for a moment. “That’s a good question.”
As Mr. Leather began fading in and out of consciousness, he began speaking to Isabella.
“Am fost îngerul păzitor al tatălui tău. Și sunt și a ta. Dar timpul meu este aproape terminat. Ai încredere în acest om prost,” he said.
“Am știut întotdeauna,” she replied.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“It’s not important,” Isabella said. “He doesn’t have long.”
“Obviously!”
“Just let me die,” Mr. Leather said. “It’s time.”
“Are you ever going to tell me who you are?” I asked.
“Fuck off,” he replied.
I shrugged and did what I could to stop the bleeding. I stayed by his side all morning.
“What’s the deal with Isabella?” I asked him.
“Poor girl,” he said. “Vito had her mother killed when she was just a little girl. Vito never understood his daughter. She grew up lonely, neglected by her own family.”
“Why did Vito kill her mother?” I replied.
“I’ll never tell.”
“Did you kill her?”
There was no reply. The mysterious man was no more.
I buried him that evening.
Isabella joined me outside over his shallow grave. I took out another cigarette.
“I don’t know if this guy was a pervert or your guardian angel. But either way, I think he was your biggest fan,” I told her.
“Michaela will find us,” she replied. “We gotta move.”
I handed her the money out of Mr. Leather’s wallet, then I emptied out my own.
“Take this,” I said. “Go to New York. Go do Broadway. Go do stand up. Go do something with your life. That’s what our mystery man would have wanted.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“My father buried an entire arsenal from his time in Korea under this land. I outta put it to use.”
I burned the apartment complex down while making nachos. After the court cases were settled and 20 people were made homeless, I needed the money.
A strange man walked into my office. He laid his briefcase on the desk and pulled out his revolver.
“I’m here to offer you a shot at redemption,” he told me.
“What’s the case?” I asked.
“You’re the worst private dick in town,” he said. “I need a moron, a dipshit, a loser, a complete piece of shit that would be willing to take the fall when things go south.”
I took out a cigarette and thought for a moment. Fuck it, I thought. I needed the paycheck.
“Give it to me,” I said.
“A mafiosos daughter has gone missing. She was last seen in San Diego. Here’s her picture.”
She looked like a woman that could eat your heart out and save room for dessert.
“What’s the dame’s name,” I ask.
“Isabella Maria,” he replied. “She was a spoiled brat. She dropped out of law school to pursue a career in phlebotomy but got caught up in the wrong crowd if you know what I mean.”
“Drugs?”
“No, improv comedy. She was terrible.”
“Well,” I said. “I’ll need a $5,000 deposit and a list of references.”
“Just send me the bill. Everything you need to know is in this briefcase.”
The briefcase was a Boccio. Italian leather. Not sure why he bothered. A Manila folder would have worked just fine.
“I didn’t get your name sir,” I said.
“My name’s not important. But what I represent is.”
Fuckin weirdo.
The man left and I told my secretary to not take any calls. I went back into the office and pulled out a handle of Everclear. After popping my Zeldox and Zoloft, I lifted the glass up to a picture of my dead mother.
“Welp, things are shit and they ain’t getting any better,” I said.
I don’t like doing these kinds of posts. Just posting a video seems lazy to me, although I have done it before.
But there’s something about this performance that I want to discuss.
Everyone knows The Human League and their songs “Don’t You Want Me” and the one above, “Human.” Some know Human from those insurance commercials a few years ago (if you’re in the US), so there’s a tendency to dismiss it as just another cheesy 80s song.
And that’s where everyone is wrong.
I mean, it sounds alright in the studio recording. But live, it becomes something else.
At least during this live performance, the song’s subject, the regret of infidelity and the simultaneously true yet stupid excuses to justify it (“I’m only human”) becomes much more potent.
The performers don’t do much. Nothing really. But as the song comes to a close, watching Phil Oakey meander to the back of the stage, get uncomfortably close to the drummer, and gaze at the crap flashing across the background like he’s having a mental breakdown on stage is a subtle piece of performance art.
He has no words.
He knows what he’s done, and has to live with it.
This is done to the soundtrack of a haunting keyboard and a drum beat that absolutely slaps. I don’t know if it’s the acoustics of the room, but there’s a dimension to the bass keys that, well…it just hits you.
There’s something about this video that just hits.
So I was crying in a corner, just minding my own business when the FedEx guy delivered a letter.
“Have a good day sir,” he said.
“Fuck off”
I opened the letter. It was from Bob Oglesby, Head of Productions at Trainwreck Studios. It read:
“Dear Mr. Less
We read your screenplay ‘The Virtues of Drinking Bleach’ and have a few notes. Please reach out to your agent Pablo Dunbar to set up a meeting. We are having trouble reaching him.
Best Regards,
Bill”
So I finished crying and called Pablo. When he answered the phone, I heard some screaming followed by gunshots. Then silence.
“This is Pablo,” he said.
“Hey! Bob Oglesby has been trying to reach you. Where the hell have you been?”
“Sorry I’ve been in Thailand on the set of the new Paul Schrader film. I’ll reach out to Bob soon.”
That week, Pablo and me drove out to Burbank. When we arrived at the studio, the doors were locked. Out of the third story window, Bob yelled: “Sorry, I’m the only one here. Everyone has COVID.”
Bob threw down a rope and we climbed up. Then he offered us a Bloody Mary.
“No thanks,” I said. “I just got my one month chip.”
Bob shrugged and downed the drink himself.
“Now boys,” Bob said as he sat down behind his desk. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. We all want to make money. A fuck ton of money. And the only way to do that is to give the audience what they want. And they want sex. They want violence. They want full on sexual penetration. They want erect penises. They want sopping wet vaginas. They want tits. They want ass. They want to see EVERYTHING.
Unfortunately we can’t give that to them. We have to abide by what they call ‘rules’. Plus we have to consider the Chinese market. So we looked at your screenplay and said that this is the next best thing. Therefore, after all the sexual harassment lawsuits are settled, we are fully prepared to give this thing the green light. What do you boys think about that?”
Pablo and me looked at each other.
“Sounds good?”
“Good,” Bob said. “But we have a few notes for you. First, gay sex. There’s a lot of it.”
“I assure you that it’s all in service to the plot,” I replied.
“Oh yes, I noticed,” Bob said. “What I mean is that I want more of it.”
“For the film?”
“Yes”
“So you want more gay sex in a martial arts film set in outer space?”
“Yes”
“Anything else?” I asked.
Bob stood up from his desk and looked out the window. “Boys,” he said, “Hollywood is dying. Too many kids on YouTube drinking cat piss for a laugh. Too much internet pornography. Too much competition from the streaming services. The days of good storytelling, of compelling performances, of sweeping scores, of looking at the silver screen in awe and wonder…they are coming to a close.”
Bob paused and looked me in the eye.
“I’m counting on you to save my job,” he said.
I looked over to Pablo, then back at Bob.
“In that case,” I said. “I’ll have that Bloody Mary.”
They say that rewriting is the actual art of writing.
Thank god I’m not a real writer.
Writing is homework. I’ve never liked homework. I enjoy the immediacy of art, the spontaneity. Unfortunately writing is the only medium I can do.
Let me be real for a sec: I’m suffering from burnout. Not just from this blog, but from things in general.
Life’s too short. We can’t spend our entire lives looking at a screen. But we’re headed in that direction.
Rarely do we stop and think how amazing it is that we can experience anything. Consciousness is an extraordinary phenomenon.
I watch my son experience the world for the first time. I’m envious. It’s beautiful to watch. He appreciates life far more than I do.
Children understand something that we don’t. They aren’t burdened with the baggage of cynicism and jadedness that life hands us. They see the world for the miracle that it is.
It sounds naive, but we need to see the world as a child does: it’s beautiful, it’s sublime. Words are merely an approximation of what can be described.
Why waste this brief time being a cog?
Why waste it on hate and loathing?
This is just pointless meandering on my part. I’m just a day dreamer. Not a writer. Not anybody important.
I just need a break.
Maybe I’ll be back tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll never come back here. 🤷♂️
“It’s a tale as old as time: man has fallen from Grace, Creation has been cursed, but God will restore Order in an apocalyptic Revenge.
Chaos will be no more, and mankind will forever live in Peace under this coming Kingdom.
It’s a powerful idea.
It’s also fantasy.
But we are sold this fantasy outside of the religious institutions. This eschatological mentality has infiltrated the supposed secular realm of politics.”
While sitting around the fire, Dale was free style rapping like a shitty 90s PSA.
Then the first explosions went off. A booby trap was tripped. Dale and I threw on our bandoliers, our machetes, and our AKs.
I tossed an AR-15 over to Nicky. “When in doubt, just spray bullets indiscriminately across that tree line,” I told him. “If they catch you, go ahead and use the weapon on yourself.”
Both Dale and I penetrated deep into the woods, deep into the cold of night. Another explosive went off. Someone, somewhere was close.
“Drop your weapons,” we heard.
We dropped them.
We obviously made shitty commandos.
Dale and I were surrounded by men in black uniforms and state of the art technology. They patted us down and escorted us through the dense woods to a large, portable, tank-like structure that resembled something out of Avatar.
How this structure moved undetected through Southern California is a mystery.
We were brought up to the bridge of this mega tank, and just like when Dale and I faced Honda, we were placed on our knees and presented with a series of theatrics that culminated in a villain presenting himself.
“Cut the bullshit, Randy,” I said. “We know it’s you.”
“Damn,” he replied. “But this tank is pretty cool, huh?”
“What are you and the dumb syndicate up to now?” I asked. “Poison the world’s food supply? Creating a race of super humans for world domination?”
“How did you know?” Randy replied.
“Just leave me out of it,” I said.
Then the black shirts brought in Nicky and placed him in front of Randy.
“We found this asshole with a rifle in his mouth. He didn’t even put up a fight,” one of the soldiers said.
“Damn it dad!” I said. “You were supposed to at least get off ONE shot before you offed yourself!”
“Sorry son,” Nicky replied. “I’m just not very good in firefights.”
Randy spoke up.
“Son? Dad? What’s this about?” he asked.
“Nicky’s my dad,” I replied. “I may die today, but at least I’ll die knowing who my family is.”
“Nicky’s not your dad,” Randy said. “I am your dad.”
“Bullshit,” I replied.
“It’s true! I thought I told you. Guess I forgot 🤷♂️. Anyhow, your mom and me were partners in another syndicate before we joined TOILET (Terrorism Or the International League that Engages in Terrorism). Unfortunately it was the 80s, so we were coked up and fucked, then you were born. So she left the syndicate.
Years later, the syndicate wanted to cover up its tracks, so I deployed my other son, Nicky, to kill you and your mother. But then the FBI shot the fuck out that strip club and Nicky got amnesia. After realizing that you were just some loser, the syndicate decided it wasn’t worth spending resources to kill you.
So Nicky, I’m also your father.”
I felt the world disappear beneath my feet. My heart sunk. I knew it was true.
“So what do we do now?” I asked. “I know the truth.”
“Excellent question,” Randy said.
Out of the shadows appeared Anthrax in full battle rattle. “I say we finish the job,” she said.
“Great idea!” Randy said.
“Traitor,” I said to Anthrax.
The soldiers grabbed Dale and placed him up against the wall. Randy took out his flame thrower and began taunting us.
“This has been quite a reunion,” Randy said. “You thought that Anthrax was your friend. You thought that you could stop me. But your plans just went up in flames.”
Randy then unleashed the full wrath of hell onto Dale. There were no screams. Dale just danced around as a gigantic flame before falling to the ground. What was once a man was now just charred, smoldering, remains.
“Was that supposed to scare me? Because I just shit my pants,” I said.
Just then the structure began to violently shake. Then there was a massive explosion and soldiers began to man their stations.
“You know, I lost a testicle too in a savage kidnapping plot,” Dale said to me while we were setting up C-4 explosives.
“Did you get it back?” I asked.
Dale and I were putting up booby traps around his cabin outside of Norco. We knew Honda was going to strike again so we wanted to establish home field advantage.
Nicky (my alleged father) was sitting around the campfire staring down the barrel of his .44.
“No no dad,” I said as I took the gun out of his hands.
All three of us sat around the campfire under the Norco moonlight. The air reeked of cow shit.
“What a god forsaken place,” I said.
Dale took in a deep breath of shit stained air.
“I was born here. I grew up here. I lost my virginity here. I got married here. I got divorced here. Got married again. Got divorced again. Lost everything I had. And never gained it back. I’ll probably die here,” Dale said.
“Probably so,” I replied.
Nicky spoke up. “You know, I’m just glad that you boys are out here to protect me. When the FBI shot up that strip joint, I remember that I completely blew out my pants. Shit got everywhere. When they arrested me, they made me sit in my shitty underwear. Then I cried.”
“Don’t worry about it dad,” I said. “Dale and I have faced Honda before. We know what to expect.”
“By the way,” Dale chimed in. “Who the fuck is Honda and why are we in this mess?”
We all looked at each other and shrugged.
“It’s important to not think too much on this,” I said. “The important thing is that we are family, except for Dale, and that we are all going to help each other out this train wreck we find ourselves in.”
We nodded and started to enjoy the campfire.
Finally I asked Nicky, “So what do you remember about mom?”
He smiled and said, “what a lovely woman. Legs, ass, tits. The whole package. Eyes as blue as the sky. But a warm heart. She knew how to brighten up my day.”
I looked back at the fire and thought that doesn’t describe mom at all.
Finally Dick called.
“Aye lad, I’ve been tailin’ Anthrax all dee. I’m watching her outside a trap hoose n Pasadena,” Dick said. “I donnae think you’ll like who she’s with mate.”
“Randy,” I said.
“Aye”
That bitch, I thought. I knew she was going to double cross me and I fell into her trap. Instead of a battle, we were now facing a war on two fronts.
“Then you might get your M2s, M4s, AKs, AR-15s, 44s, 94, and 22s,” I told Dick. “We’re headed for a Mexican standoff.”
The Internet Ruined Everything 