So this is modern life. What wonders.
Peer into your phone.
The modern Oracle.
This is what we live for now.


If nothing is meaningful without transposition into pixels and code,
then how can I have meaning?

Take that selfie.
There you are. Ones and zeros in dots of light.
That’s better. Now you’re something.

Share it.
Like it.
Tweet it.


Why is it all so empty?
Why do I hate myself?
Why do I hate the ones I love?
Why am I empty?
What do I have?
What do I want?
What do I need?
What am I?

Who am I?

There are no answers for this most important question in your new Oracle.

A sea of likes and circle-jerk positivity will only muddy your mind.

Don’t worry too much though.
Though it wounds like a thorny parasite worming its way through you,
shitting cancer as it goes,
this is the modern condition.
The gift of consumer capitalism.
Suck it up.

They have pills for you to numb the worst of it now.

Ask your doctor what is right for you.


A Pirate are Ye?

Say! Those are some swell tattoos.

So, you’re a pirate, huh? Cut your teeth sailing the high seas, raping your way across the Caribbean in search of Spanish gold?


Have you even been on a sailing vessel?

Again with the no.

Then I suppose it could be said that all your tattoos of pirate iconography just make you look like some kind of poseur hipster cunt.

Good thing for you that you’re appropriating the unearned badges of honor of a bygone criminal underclass. This way you’ll never need to have that, “so, tell me, where the fuck did you earn that ink? Who you with?” conversation with an actual, real life hardcase.

If you ever met a real pirate your booty would be the booty.

Hedda and Lance: a Love Story (part four)

by Balls Malone

part one here

part two here

part three here

part five here

part six here

In the club still. The Purple Onion. Hedda was dancing with Lance and fellow model, Ariana. Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, was hanging back in the cut taking pictures with his phone, watching them get frisky.

After some time, all four of them were together in the ladies bathroom’s handicapped stall. Rupert was sitting on the toilet, snorting cocaine off the back of his phone. Lance was leaning back against the wall. He had his shirt off, thrown over his shoulder, having wiped his sweaty body down with it, and was spooning cocaine into Hedda and Ariana. The models were kneeling in front of him, their faces upturned right in front of the enormous bulge in his Adidas short shorts. Lance knew for a fact that it would only be about a minute before Hedda pulled his cock out and presented it to Ariana to suck, so the bulge was getting bigger by the second.

Hedda was comfortable; in the zone. Her favorite zone. She knew Lance would perform just as she desired, and knew that Ariana would take it. Like any well trained mount, Lance moved as directed when handled correctly. There was nothing Hedda liked better than fucking other women with Lance.

The only unknown was how Rupert was going to react when Lance really started going to work on his girlfriend. All his signals of being down for voyeuristic cuckolding aside, there was no telling how he would deal with the reality of it.

Well, whatever Rupert’s reaction would be, they were about to find out. Sufficiently high for what was about to come, Hedda reached up and began stroking Lance’s cock though his shorts. Then, she reached down and gently took Ariana by the hand.

Some asshole started banging on the cubicle door.

“Occupied!” Lance yelled.

“Yo! Rupert! You fuckin punk! Don’t think we didn’t see you come in here, bitch! Get the fuck out here!” a man yelled, banging on the stall door again.

“Oh, fuck me,” muttered Rupert.

“Motherfucker! This is the ladies’ bathroom! Get the fuck outta here before I come out and show ya somethin you do not want to see!” Lance yelled.

The man started banging on the stall door again, and did not let up with a steady, rapid cadence like a jackhammer. Hedda and Ariana stood up and moved to the back corner of the stall as Lance squared up to the stall door. Rupert hurried up finishing his cocaine.

“Okay, motherfucker, you have my attention!” Lance said as he unlatched the door and swung it open.

Facing him were two gangbangers: one in his teens and the other his twenties. Both were serious and tough. Their eyes flared wide when they took Lance in, standing as he was in nothing but his pristine white tennis short shorts and shoes; his fuzzy wrist and headbands still in place. His full chest and stomach of prison gang tattoos matched his sleeves and left absolutely no doubt as to their origins and his affiliations.

“What?” Lance barked, when the gangbangers just stood there glaring at him silently.

“We need a word with our boy Rupert there. Hey, Rupert! What up, bitch? Ya got my fuckin money?”

“What’s the problem?” Lance asked calmly.

“The problem? The fuckin problem is that bitch is in here snorting shit with you when he owes me almost five grand! That’s the fuckin problem!”

“No, that’s not the fucking problem,” Lance said quietly. “That’s your fuckin problem. The problem is that yer fuckin up me getting my dick sucked in here. You can take your shit up with him another time. Are we clear?”

“What the fuck? Yer fuckin crew aint deep up in this bitch, motherfucker. You got one chance to get you and whatever bitch is with you outta here before I make his problem your fuckin problem. Right?” the lead gangbanger said.

As though of one mind, both the gangbangers stepped a little back and raised their shirts to show Lance the pistols in their waistbands. The lead banger simply flashed his piece; the younger one put his hand on his and looked imminently ready to use it.

“Okay, man. You hard, homie. You hard. I feel ya,” Lance said. He turned back into the stall and spoke to Hedda calmly. “Baby, you and Twinkie here are coming out with me. Rupert, sorry man, yer gonna have to fuckin deal with this yerself. Right?”

Lance turned back to the gangbangers. “Okay, back the fuck up so’s I can get the ladies outta here and I’ll get out of yer shit and leave ya to it. All right?”

“Oh, come on, man!” Rupert whined.

They assented, each taking a step back, but kept their mad dog glares on Lance the whole time. Lance stepped out into the bathroom, and Hedda led Ariana out of the stall after him. She pulled the bathroom door open and pushed Ariana out in front of her. Halfway through the door herself, Hedda paused, looking back at Lance to see what he was going to do next. She pulled the door tight against her to block anyone else’s view into the bathroom.

Lance winked at her. He raised his right foot up and set it on the edge of the sink. Stretching his legs out, Lance gave them all a glorious view of his bulging lower ends.

The lead gangbanger stepped up to Lance, almost bumping him with his chest. “Okay, get the fuck out now, bitch. I won’t tell ya again!”

“Hold on, man. Hold on! Just getting myself presentable. Gotta look good for the ladies! You players know how it is, right?” Lance said. He took his time pulling his sock all the way up his knee and then smoothed it down nicely.

Knowing what Lance kept in his right shoe, Hedda watched his hands carefully as he fiddled and fussed with its laces. She was just able to spot him palm the straight razor before dropping his foot down to the floor.

Lance’s T-shirt was still draped over his shoulder. He grabbed it by its collar with his left hand and snapped it like a towel, as though to shake it out. Both the gangbanger’s eyes followed the misdirection.

With a fluid sweep of his right hand, Lance cut the throat of the lead gangbanger. He cut the carotid artery and both jugular veins on the left side of the neck. This immediately sent a jet of blood spurting against the mirror and wall. Lance pivoted around the falling gangbanger, adroitly avoiding the blood that continued to pump out of him, and closed on the younger one.

The young gangbanger stepped back, away from Lance, pulling his pistol as he did. Lance lunged and slashed his wrist with a downward flick of the razor, and then came up across the face with a backhand. The gangbanger dropped the pistol and recoiled.

Lance kicked the back of the gangbanger’s knee, grabbed him behind the head, and kneed his face as he went down. Then Lance cut the lad’s tattooed throat from ear to ear. He kept steady eye contact with Hedda the whole time he performed the final act.

“Take her to the car, baby,” Lance said to Hedda calmly.

Hedda did just that. She took Ariana by the hand and led her out of the club, across the street, and over to Rupert’s parked car.

“What happened?” Ariana asked.

“Nothing, sweeties. They talk a little. We wait for our men.”

Some of the louts waiting around in line outside the Purple Onion looked like they were contemplating following Hedda and Ariana over to the car, but Lance and Rupert joined them quickly enough to disrupt that.

Lance had his shirt back on and looked the same as ever: all pristine white Adidas and bulging muscles. Rupert threw up beside the car. However, this meant his key fob was now close enough to the car that it could be unlocked, so while the acclaimed glamor and fashion photographer took care of his business, Lance opened the driver’s door and popped the trunk.

Hedda put Ariana in the back seat and got in beside her. Lance got his Adidas tennis bag out of the trunk and sat in the passenger seat with it. Then they all waited for Rupert to finish up.

Lance unzipped his bag and dug around in it for a bit. He then turned around and handed two capsules to Hedda.

“I guess you both are real upset about those two assholes back there, baby. Why don’t ya take a couple of these. They’ll help ya settle down.” He looked Hedda in the eye significantly and then flashed his gaze over to Ariana. “Maybe you aint that upset though, Hedda. But I think Twinkle here could definitely use something.”

Hedda nodded and got a water bottle organized to help Ariana take her medicine. Lance had not been wrong: she really was rather upset. Pliable to the end, Ariana took the capsules.

When Rupert finally joined them, Lance did not give him a chance to settle in.

“Here. Hold this,” Lance said. He produced a Glock pistol from his bag and set it in Rupert’s lap; the barrel pointed right into his crotch with the handle in easy reach for Lance. “Drive, bitch,” he instructed Rupert.

Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, did as he was told.

Lance dug around some more in his bag and got out a big Ziplock bag. Then he arched his back, thrusting his crotch up towards the windshield to reach down into his shorts. He came out with a folded up stack of paper towels stained dark with what Hedda knew could only be blood. He stuck the wad into the Ziplock bag.

“Okay, bitch. Pull over,” He told Rupert.

Rupert complied, parking on the side of the road next to what looked to be an abandoned warehouse. Ariana was already dozing off next to Hedda in the back seat.

Lance pulled the bloody straight razor out of the Ziplock bag, carefully holding it inside one of the paper towels. He unfolded the blade and looked it over closely. Then he grabbed Rupert’s hand off the steering wheel and pressed his thumb down on the face of the razor’s blade. Rupert was so out of it, he did not even register what Lance had done until after he had finished.

Lance folded the razor away into the Ziplock bag which he then sealed and put away in his Adidas tennis bag.

“Okay, bitch, listen carefully now. Hey!” Lance gave Rupert a slap across the mouth to get him focused. “Listen, I said. There’s gonna be two DNA blood matches on that blade. I wiped the blade down before. Two bloods, one fingerprint now. Your fuckin fingerprint. Fuckin fingerprint in blood on a murder weapon. Slam dunk prosecution.”

“What?” Rupert asked.

“Well, cops start asking us questions, maybe you say one thing and I say another. Maybe Hedda says the same thing I say. How that plays out is anybody’s fuckin guess. But a fingerprint in blood on the murder weapon is another fuckin thing entirely. D’ye follow me now, bitch?”

Rupert looked like he was going to throw up. Another slap in the mouth got a nod and a very quiet, “yes,” out of him.

“Now, don’t worry, though. This is all just insurance for me. A little peace of mind. It aint gonna come to that. We’ll work something out. Now drive.”

Lance had Rupert drive them back to the Family Mart. There, Lance and Hedda helped Ariana out of the car and over into one of the lowriders.

“We’ll be in touch,” Lance said to Rupert. “When Hedda sends ya a message, you fuckin reply, right? Okay, fuck off now.”

Hedda watched Rupert’s Mercedes pull out of the parking lot, feeling even more optimistic about her career prospects than she had at the start of the evening. She just knew things were really going to take off for her now.

Having Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer, as a friend was going to be very good for her indeed.

When the Mercedes could no longer be seen, Hedda got into the lowrider with Lance so they could figure out where they were going to take Ariana for the next part of their night.

What your zodiac sign says about you:

You enjoy reading vague generalities about your personality. You are special and unique, except in comparison to the 1/12 of the population that you are exactly alike. One time you stubbed your toe and it really hurt. You feel strongly about many of the people in your life, but sometimes get frustrated with them. Because of your positive personality traits, people have taken advantage of you. You have an anus.

If you’re a Scorpio, you’re a cunt and likely a rapist.

Hedda & Lance: a Love Story (part three)

by Balls Malone

part one here

part two here

part four here

part five here

part six here

Hedda eased back into the Mercedes’ well-worn, custom leather front passenger seat and let the warm, night sea air bathe her through the open window. The joint she had just shared with the car’s other two occupants was sitting marvelously with the light dinner she had allowed herself. Hedda was feeling good.

She opened her eyes to take in more of the night. The sea and the beach with its boardwalk and attractions flowed by her window in a wash of light, color, and sound. It was Saturday night and the heavy traffic on the seaside drive was moving slow, with people in no hurry to get anywhere but where they were.

The car was getting old, and was not running quite as smoothly as a luxury vehicle should, but it was still a lovely accessory for the evening. It’s owner and driver was Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer. His girlfriend, Ariana, was seated in the back.

Hedda knew exactly why Rupert had invited her to sit in front. It did not take him much longer to get to it.

“You know what I was thinking I’d like to do? I’d really love to go dancing? Do you ladies want to go dancing?” he asked.

Hedda smiled out the window and left Ariana to answer affirmatively from the back.

“Thing is, I’m all out of blow, and dancing just isn’t the same without it. Don’t you think? Say, Hedda, you don’t know where we could score some blow, do you?” Rupert asked with all the practiced nonchalance of a total cokehead asking someone they barely know for a hookup.

Hedda had known Rupert and Ariana just a few days. He was the photographer on her latest modeling job: the biggest she had booked yet. Hedda was not sure if Ariana was actually his girlfriend, or just the model he had chosen to fuck for the duration of that shoot. Either way, he had paid Hedda next to no mind until the day before when he discovered she had cocaine.

That her cocaine was straight-up fucking right meant he was really into her from that moment on. The shoot had wrapped that afternoon and Hedda had consented to be targeted by him afterwards. He was, after all, Rupert Cornelius: glamour and fashion photographer.

The restaurant he took her and Ariana to for dinner had been nice.

“I could like a dance,” Hedda finally said. “But I have no coke now.”

She sat in silence and let that sink the mood in the car for a while before she relented and continued:

“But I can get some. My boyfriend, he gets. It’s no problem.”

Hedda ignored Rupert’s verbal massage of her over this suggestion and got her phone out to track down her boyfriend, Lance Johnson. It turned out he was not far away at all.

“Okay, we meet. He’s at Family Mart just back in road,” Hedda finally said.

“What, the Family Mart at the Old Pier? That place? Really? Uhhhh… yeah… Okay!” Rupert responded.

The convenience store they were talking about was located right down at the dodgy end of the seaside drive, before it drifted inland into skid row. The cruisers who liked to drive up and down the strip to check out the vehicles and the girls tended to use the parking lot as their turnaround. The site was also a hotly contested gang spot and a known drug corner. Shootings were common there.

Rupert pulled into the lot and parked opposite from the squad of gangbangers clustered around two lowriders and three sports bikes taking up way more parking spaces than they ought to.

Hedda tapped the screen of her phone a couple of times. “Okay. He come.”

Rupert and Ariana barely had time to panic properly before Lance emerged from the crew around the lowriders and prowled his way towards their car.

That night Lance had on his vintage early-70s Adidas tennis outfit, all white with red piping: tennis shoes, socks pulled up to just under the knee, short shorts, and really tight tee. The ensemble was rounded out with fuzzy head and wrist bands. Pristine white all. He was also wearing his mirrored Ray-Ban aviators and had blow-dried his hair into a puffy miracle.

“Hey, baby! What the fuck! I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight! You’re lucky I aint gettin my dick sucked over here!” Lance said as he leaned down to peer through Hedda’s window. He grabbed the massive bulge in his short shorts and gave it a squeeze and a shake to punctuate his last point. He went on:

“But now that you’re here, I guess you’ll be able to take care of that for me. Isn’t that right, baby.”

Lance pointedly eyeballed Rupert across Hedda as he spoke. As he did, Lance put his left arm on the Mercedes’ roof and stretched low with his right hand on his hip. This gave everyone in the car a good look at his marvelously sculpted upper body. Both of Lance’s chiseled arms were covered in full sleeves of prison gang tattoos; some actively incorporating his many scars.

Rupert started to respond, but Hedda cut him off:

“We don’t want a fuck now, Lance. We want blow and then to go dance.”

“Yeah. I guess I could sort ya out. Ya got the money?” Lance asked Rupert, who enthusiastically assured Lance that he did.

“Cool. Cool. That’s cool and the gang. Yeah, I can sort ya out. No prob. I’ll join, huh?” Lance said.

“Oh, yes please, baby,” Hedda said, before Rupert could say anything to the contrary.

“Kay. Hold up. I got my bitch holding my shit down,” Lance said. He wandered back toward the lowriders and gave a shrill whistle. After exchanging some words with one of the gangbangers, he came back to the Mercedes.

Lance knocked on the back passenger window to get Rupert to unlock the door and then climbed into the back seat next to Ariana.

“Pop the trunk,” Lance said to Rupert.


“Pop the trunk, bitch! My boy is gonna put my shit in there.”

“Uhhh… I don’t know if… Okay. Alright.” Rupert popped open the trunk and one of the gangbangers ran over with a vintage Adidas nylon tennis bag. When that was shut in the trunk, the guy came around to the driver’s window and leaned down.

“Tell him what ya want,” Lance said.

“Wait, that wasn’t the stuff he just put—” Rupert started.

“No. I told ya. That shit’s mine. He’ll sort ya out. And don’t worry, the shit will be right. It aint what they usually slingin here, that’s fer fuckin sure. And he’ll be givin ye the friend price, so don’t be a bitch about it.”

Rupert handed his money over to the gangbanger who wandered off and had a youngster run the cocaine over to the car. While they were waiting, Lance turned to Ariana beside him and looked her up and down with a wide leer.

“Hi, baby!” Lance said to her.

“Uhhhh… hi.”

“I’ve been called feral!” Lance said.

“What’s that mean?” Ariana asked.

“It means that I’m like a wild animal.”

“Like, on the dance floor?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, right, the dance floor. Yeah, or in a parole hearing. Some shit like that.”


“No parole for me, right?” Lance went on. “No! They never pinned a fuckin body on me. But they still violated my ass plenty for every other fuckin thing they could. So I did the full ten years, straight up! Fuckin pigs got nothin on me now, right? No parole officer getting up in my shit. No piss tests. Just walk out the fuckin door free and clear after doing the time straight up like a fuckin man. That’s the fuckin way to do it!”

Once Rupert had the cocaine, he pulled out of the parking lot and they were back to driving the strip.

“Okay, then, dancing,” Rupert said. “Where do you want to go?”

“Nowhere south of 60th,” Lance answered. “And no metal detectors!”

They settled on a club called the Purple Onion: a nice compromise between the higher-end clubs, where Rupert would not want to be seen with Lance, and those too far down the spectrum, where a lack of metal detectors would definitely be an issue.

The Purple Onion was a just a little off the strip in a semi-industrial area. They parked in an empty lot almost across the street and spent some time getting in the right frame of mind with Rupert’s newly acquired cocaine. Of the four of them, Lance barely partook. Rupert, however, was into it enough for the both of them.

“This is,” Rupert went on excitedly between snorts, “exactly the shit I hoped you could hook up, Hedda! You are a god! And Lance! What can I say? This shit is right! Your shit is right!”

In the club, things went predictably marvelously. Much as eggs, sugar, butter, and flour can be combined to create something wonderful, so too did the four talented and beautiful people combine with the electronic music in the dark crowded club. (Of course, the drugs didn’t hurt.)

Mostly, it was Hedda and Ariana dancing either side of Lance, with Rupert watching from the shadows and taking pictures of them with his phone. Within an hour, Lance had thoroughly familiarized himself with Ariana. Once he had, Hedda took the lead on the three of them working out a rhythm together.

Watching things develop, Rupert stayed in his lane as their audience. It was all very sexy; with nothing but open road ahead that looked sure to take them somewhere very marvelous indeed.


Hedda & Lance: a Love Story (part two)

by Balls Malone

part one here

part three here

part four here

part five here

part six here

“Eat my ass, you dirty fuckin slut! Eat it! Lick it out, you fuckin hoor!” Lance Johnson yelled as he pulled his huge cock out of Hedda’s sopping wet cunt and pounced to reverse position and squat on her face.

Lance and Hedda were finishing up another of their nooner sessions where he would fuck her hard on her sofa while watching videos of bare knuckle street bouts off his phone on her big-screen TV. Lance slid his fingers over and into her pussy while she licked his asshole. It took less than a minute of this for Lance to explosively jet semen all over her stomach, leg, the backrest of her sofa, and the big teddy bear propped by the armrest.

“Oh, baby, that was fuckin awesome!” Lance said. He dragged her up off the floor and onto the sofa.

As was usual when he fucked, Lance had left on his shoes. This time they were pristine Adidas tennis shoes, circa 1982: white with blue stripes. He now planted one of them on the coffee table and did some stretches, showing off his magnificently chiseled physique. Hedda masturbated while she watched him pose, quickly getting herself off yet again. Lance then picked up a throw pillow off the floor and used it to wipe off his cock, balls, and asshole.

“Are you two done fucking? You know what? I’m getting really sick and fucking tired of you two– Oh, what the fuck?!” yelled Hedda’s roommate as she stomped into the living room and was treated a view of Lance in all his glory.

“Well, I told ya, Trixey, you wanna join in alls ya gotta do is ask. Whatever ya want! I’ll let ya take yer pick. If yer too fuckin prissy and stuck-up to toss salad, then I’m sure Hedda would let ya work cock for her while she sorts that out herself,” Lance said with a happy smile, stroking his cock.

“Fuck you, pig! For the fucking tenth time, my name is Roxy, you asshole! And put some clothes on, you’re fucking disgusting! Oh what the fuck!” Roxy had just noticed her teddy bear, Chester, all covered in Lance’s semen.

“I knew it was some shit like that. Tinky or Twinkle, all the same kinda shit with you peelers. Yeah, sorry about yer fuckin bear, he had to take one fer the team. If you were there to block fer him, he woulda been fine. Okay, then, see ya next time, Tammy!” Lance said as Roxy snatched Chester of the Sofa and ran to her bedroom to slam her door.

“Ya wanna go get something to eat? I mean, besides my ass,” Lance asked Hedda.

“I should tell a sorry for Roxy,” Hedda said. She got up and started getting dressed. Lance intercepted her as she bent over for her panties, cupping her ass to pull her into a sloppy kiss.

“Why don’t ya let me go and talk to her, baby. I’ll be extra nice. Then we can all have a shower together and see what happens. You know how much I love watching you eat pussy, baby.”

“Is not good time for three way, baby. She is anger about bjørn,” Hedda said.

“Who? Whatever happened to that asshole, it aint got shit to do with me. Give me those,” Lance snatched Hedda’s panties out of her hand and held them up between them. He smelled them and then tried to stuff them in Hedda’s mouth.

“No! It’s her bjørn. Her Chester. You made love explosion on him.”

“What, her fuckin bear? Whatever. Stupid bitch. Fine, then, let her be a cunt about some fuckin toy. We’ll just bring someone else home and make her jealous. What are ya doin this afternoon? Let’s go down to the beach.”

“I have shoot. I tell you. You say you want to watch. Will you come?” Hedda asked, slipping free from Lance. She finished getting dressed, got a dish towel from the kitchen and wiped up the sofa in a half-assed way.

“Yeah, whatever. But I’m hungry so lets hurry up.”

“I just have shower and tell sorry to Roxy. Then we go,” Hedda said.

She had a quick shower and changed into some yoga gear before going to talk to her roommate. The two had danced together at a higher-end strip club for a few months before Hedda’s modeling took off. The apartment had been Roxy’s, but she needed a roommate to help cover rent, since most of her money was going to pay for graduate school. Hedda had been paying more than her share of the utilities for a while now and it was getting a little tense between them.

Hedda ignored Lance jerking off to a video of her blowing him in a toilet stall and knocked softly on Roxy’s door. There was no answer, but Hedda let herself in anyway. Roxy was sitting on the floor hugging Chester, with a bunch of used wet-wipes next to her.

“I am sorry for Chester? Is he clean?” Hedda asked Roxy, taking a seat next to her.

“It’s not about the fucking bear. That motherfucker is an animal, Hedda. You have to break up with him! I can’t believe the way you let him talk to you!”

“Is just fucking talk. Is hot.”

“It’s abusive and demeaning. I think maybe you don’t understand just what it is he’s saying,” Roxy said.

“I am Norwegian, not stupid. You think I am some a kind of a fucking Swede?”

“I know you’re not stupid, Hedda… or Swedish. It’s just I think he’s taking advantage of you. He’s fucking dangerous! I mean, he’s covered in prison gang tattoos, and Dave said some of them are really hardcore. Like, you can’t get them unless you…”


“I don’t want to accuse him of anything, but some of that ink you can’t get unless you’ve killed someone on the inside. You need to be careful.”

“Oh, yes, the killings in the prison. He tell me about all it. He likes the knives fight. Don’t worry, he’s very good. He always wins!” Hedda said proudly.


“What?” asked Hedda.

“You know? He’s told you he’s killed people and you stay with him? I don’t even know what to say.”

“I don’t need what you say. I like real man. He is my viking war man! If you want to go a three way sometime, we can. He says your pussy looks really fresh.”

“No. I… No. I need to think, Hedda. I think I need to ask you to move out. I can’t have this anymore,” Roxy said.

“Okay then. I go. Just pay me money you owe and I go. About two-thousand now, yes? You pay and I go. I’m a sorry for Chester love explosion. He is a good bjørn.”

Hedda left Roxy with her sulking and went to get Lance moving. If they did not hurry they would not have time to rerlax over lunch before he took her to her photo shoot, and she did not want that.

God and the Illuminati

I think people invent conspiracy theories for the same reasons that others cling to religion; they are just coming at it from an slightly different position.

The religious believe there’s this big Daddy in the sky who has everything under control; there is a plan and we all have our part to play. Comforting, so long as you’re one of those lucky people for whom God’s plan isn’t getting raped to death over the course of a decade from childhood.

The conspiracy theorist has at least taken it down a notch. They look at the world and say: “Wow, this is really fucked up.” While they don’t cut and run with the old, “God works in mysterious ways,” they still require the comforting illusion that someone, somewhere, is in control of all this. There is still an order and a plan.

The Charlie Manson gods of the big religions love you and have a plan; just relax, everything will be fine. Daddy has the wheel. The Illuminati and the Masons don’t love you, but just relax; there’s nothing you can do about their plans, and at least someone is in control of this mess.

The truth is, there is no order and there is no grand scheme. There are simply basic human impulses and frailties being played out millions of times over. Sure, patterns emerge, because patterns always do; and our minds are programmed to detect them. Those in power are simply focused on keeping power and keeping score against each other.

There is no one at the wheel, and we are all collectively choosing extinction for the sake of our creature comforts.

Like bacteria in a petri dish. Gobbling up the food. Expanding consumption. Spreading. And now, at the cusp of poisoning ourselves with our own waste.

As natural as can be. Just more organisms, doing as organisms do.

No God. No plan. Just nature.

Lady in Red

There is a lady in the place when I stop in near closing time.

She has red leather pants and a bad attitude. Which one led to the other, I wonder? There’s no way they’re not connected. A chicken and the egg scenario I’m determined to get to the bottom of.

Leather pants. Man. What could be going on in a person’s life where they think that’s some kind of solution?

She’s hostile. Surly. Mean. Just my type.

She knows it now too. Can smell it on me. Watched me metamorphose into a moth to be drawn to her flame. Now she’s engaged. Wants the power I offer her. Wants the chance to wound again.

She smiles at me. Oh man, am I ever in deep shit now.

At least I’m gonna find out if the bad attitude is something that will peel off of her along with those pants.

A warm, funky mess waiting to be discovered.