Monday, December 31, 2018

"2016" by John Bruni

[2016 was a shitty year by anyone's standards. In the story you're about to read, you will see all the horrible shit that happened personally before the year was even halfway over, except the part about the car. That happened to a friend. Mostly this is a response to my dad's unexpected death. 2017 and 2018 were pretty rough, too. I hope to fuck that 2019 takes it easier on all of us.]



“He’s gone. Dad’s dead.”
My guts fall. It can’t be. My brother has to be wrong. Dad’s a survivor. He was in the air on 9/11. He beat lung cancer. He beat kidney cancer. I was certain he’d survive this heart attack. He wasn’t even sixty yet.
I can hear the tears in my brother’s voice, and they drive my own. I can hear my step-mom crying in the background. It seems all too real. Years ago my mom passed. We’d all expected it, so it came as no surprise. But this? None of us saw this coming.
Neither of us can talk anymore, so we hang up. When I can get a hold of myself I arrange my travel plans. Before I know it I’m at the cemetery. Rain pours down, saturating us all. I don’t care enough to use an umbrella. I let the world cleanse me.
The coffin lowers, and I think about how miserable 2016 has been, and it’s only halfway over. I don’t care about all the celebrity deaths. I mean, I do, but I don’t take it personally like everyone online does. It doesn’t have an impact on me.
On New Year’s Day I slipped on frozen snow and broke my tailbone. I should have taken it as an omen. That’s three months of agony, and nothing can be done about it. I got some great pain pills, but that’s it.
In February I got pneumonia. In March I suffered from a mystery illness that had me puking and dry heaving for about a month. In April my grandfather started suffering from dementia, and shortly after that his body started failing. He could barely walk, and he soiled himself and the floor and the chair he sits in all the time even though he wears diapers. Also in April I had to have a horribly expensive dental procedure because of a rotten tooth in the back of my mouth. Good thing I already had pain pills, but I got more. In May my girlfriend was mugged and beaten so badly she suffered from brain damage and has to be confined to a hospital bed, maybe for the rest of her life. Also in May I got laid off from a great job and have yet to get a new one because no one accepts applications in person anymore. Let’s not forget when my parked car was destroyed down to the frame when a drunk driver hit it at ninety miles per hour. And here we are in June. My dad is dead.
It’s just me by the grave now. The rain is stronger than ever. I realize that the true villain is not a man or a beast or even a god.
I turn my face to the sky and unleash a primal scream. It’s my declaration of war. I don’t know how, but I’m going to find 2016. And I’m going to torture it. And I’m going to kill it.
I start at the library. I head for the reference desk and ask how I can find 2016. The librarian adjusts her glasses and examines me, perhaps looking for an indication that I’m joking. She doesn’t find it, but she raises both eyebrows. “No one has ever asked me that before. Interesting way to think about a year. I’m afraid I have no idea on how to help you.”
I ask to speak to her supervisor, but it turns out she is the supervisor. If anyone knows how to help, it would have been her. “Have you tried Googling it?”
No, I haven’t. She leads me to a computer station and logs me in as a guest. I poke around for a bit, but no one online is willing to treat a year as anything more than a measure of time.
I send a Tweet to Neil deGrasse Tyson, who is maybe the smartest man on Twitter. Ten minutes later he sends me the definition of a year. No one seems to understand me. It’s frustrating.
Maybe a private investigator can help. I consult with a few, and none of them are willing to accept the way I see 2016. One says, “2016 sucks, but it’s just a year.”
I guess I can go to the police and swear out a warrant on 2016, but after the way everyone has treated me I don’t want to run the risk of being arrested. I’m out of options.
Or am I? What does a Hollywood detective do when they run out of leads? They hit the bars.
That’s exactly what I do. All the bartenders react the same way as everyone else.
But in my fifth bar I catch a lucky break. The bartender gives me the usual you’re-crazy speech, and I prepare myself for the next bar. I’m heading for the door when I hear a croaky voice. “Hey kid.”
I’m thirty-eight, but I guess anyone under seventy is a kid to this ancient man. “You talking to me?” I ask.
“Yeah. Buy me a drink, and I’ll help ya out.”
I’m reluctant to do this. It could be a trick. But he’s an old guy. I feel kind of bad for him. He’s scrawny, and he has a white Civil War beard that goes down to his chest. He’s so wrinkled it looks like he’s spent the past year in the bathtub. What the hell? I buy him a drink—and one for myself—and I sit down on the stool next to his.
He downs his in one go and wipes his beard with the back of his hand. “Thanks.”
“You can thank me by telling me how I can find 2016.”
“Why you wanna find 2016?”
“2016 took a lot from me. It just murdered my father. I want to find it and kill it.”
“No one’s ever killed one’ve us,” the old man says.
“One of us?” I ask.
He smiles, showing rotten teeth. Some are missing. He holds out his hand. “2015. Pleased to meetcha.”
I don’t shake his hand. “You were pretty bad to me, too.”
“I get that a lot. Sounds like shit’s been bad for ya fer a while.”
That’s certainly the truth. “2016’s been the worst.”
“Yeah. Well. You can probably find 2016 hanging out at the Dairy Queen in Columbus, Ohio.”
That can’t be right. That’s like finding out God lives in a trailer park in Walla Walla, Washington. “You can’t be serious.”
2015 shrugs. “You asked a question. I gave you an answer.”
“All right. I’ll check it out. And if I don’t find 2016 . . .” I lean in close and stare him down. “. . . I’ll be back for you.”
2015 seems unconcerned. “I prop this bar up ever’ night.”
I fly out to Columbus the very next day. There are three DQ’s out here, and I stake them all out. I question employees. No one seems willing to help. No one has seen 2016. I feel like Steven Seagal in Out for Justice. Anybody seen Richie?
I’m starting to think 2015 lied to me just to mooch a drink. Maybe he wanted an ass-kicking. I’m just about ready to head to the airport when I see a suspicious person. He wears a trench coat and has not shaved in a while. His wild hair hasn’t seen a comb in months. He’s prematurely balding. He’s slightly overweight, and his teeth are filthy. When I get closer to him I smell his BO. Under it all I can sense a musky odor as if he’s been masturbating and not washing his hands.
His hands. I can see a light brown crust on his nails. I think it’s dried blood.
He orders a burger and sits at a table on his own. Slobber hangs off his chin as he takes his first bite. He chews with his mouth open, and wet crumbs fall and stick to his lapels. I notice he’s not wearing a shirt. Is he a flasher?
I approach him. He turns his muddy boozer’s eyes on me. He smiles, showing off the food and tartar stuck to his teeth like barnacles.
“Are you 2016?” I ask. But I know.
“Me? Ah . . .” His eyes roll around the room, looking for escape. “I mean. Uh . . . How can I be a year? Years can’t be people.”
“You killed my father. And now I’m going to kill you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret it. I could have made a really clever Princess Bride reference.
“Hold up there, pal. I—”
I let him have it. One punch directly onto his left eye. Something crunches, and as he falls backwards out of his chair I see I’ve fractured his socket. The eye bulges with the lids bunched up around it.
He tries to stand, but I boot him in the side. He grunts and falls on his back, flailing like a turtle on its shell. I ball up his burger and throw it in his face, spattering him from chin to hairline. A whine whistles out of him, but I don’t feel bad. I slam his tray down on his face over and over, mashing his nose and cutting his lips.
Desperate, afraid, he tries to kick my shins. He misses by a mile. To discourage him from doing so again I stomp his balls. He loses his ability to breathe, and he also loses his lunch . . . on my shoes.
They’re not fancy, mind you, but no man wants an asshole to puke on his shoes. I clean them off by repeatedly kicking him in the balls. I’ve never seen someone in so much pain. Ordinarily I would be horrified by something like this. Doing it would be unthinkable. But with each blow I think about my girlfriend. My grandfather. Myself.
I think about Dad.
2016 dies a brutal death, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. There must be no evidence of its existence. I wonder if maybe I can break him open like a piƱata. Would my dad and Bowie and William Schallert and everyone who died this year fall out?
I finally run out of gas. As I straighten out I hear a faint sound, like a breeze. It gets louder and starts to sputter. It’s a fart, and it’s coming from the corpse. It keeps getting louder until I have to cover my ears. The Dairy Queen customers and employees look like they’re screaming in terror. The sun dims. All of the summer heat slips away, freezing the world. Snow falls in boulder-sized clumps, shattering windshields and burying pedestrians. The ceiling sags.
I think I know what’s happening, but the knowledge doesn’t prevent me from pissing myself.
2016’s belly bulges, and the new mound pushes down. The fart is suppressed, and I see the legs involuntarily spread. The pants rip, and something explodes out of the corpse. It’s a baby, and it screams like a siren.
It turns its hateful eyes on me. “Do you realize what you’ve done?!”
“Yes, I think I do. Are you 2017?”
“Yes! I am, you moron! You’ve doomed humanity! I’m not ready to take over yet!”
That is kind of weird. We just lost half a year. That means I’m thirty-nine now.
“This . . .” 2017 waves his chubby little hands around. “This . . . It’s crazy. I don’t know how to do this. 2016 was supposed to teach me the ropes.”
The thought of 2017 learning from 2016 is horrible. It would guarantee another shitty year. “Don’t sweat it, kid. You can’t do a worse job than 2016 did.”
“But—”
“Wing it. That’s what the rest of us are doing.”
“I—”
“One more thing. If you bother me or my family or my friends, I will find you. 2016 is all the proof you need.”
I walk out of DQ, leaving a flustered baby year behind me. The air is brisk and fresh. Full of possibilities. I head to the airport confident that 2017 will be good.
FOR DAD

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #281: SWEAT

This is the conclusion of my third day without booze. I have yet to get a decent night's sleep. I'm tired all the time. My blood sugar is down, and my blood pressure no longer makes my eyeballs pulse, but holy shit. I thought it would help with my sweating. I sweat a lot, so I have a lot of fans around me, even in winter. I become a flop sweater when I'm drinking. I figured without that, my sweating would get better.


It has gotten worse. I'm hot on my train in the morning. I sweat before I leave for work. When I'm twisting and turning while trying to sleep, I sweat. My balls sweat in bed, and that doesn't happen when I'm drinking. What the fuck?


I have an inch of that Canadian rotgut I drink when I don't have much money. I have an inch of Wild Turkey 101. I have two bottles of wine and several airplane bottles. I have access to beer. I can't afford to buy anything, but it is taking all of my willpower to not drink right now. My body has to acclimate, right? At some point I've got to get a good sweatless night of sleep, right?


I decided that if this doesn't happen by the end of the week, I'm going to drink everything. EVERYTHING. And it will be wonderful. I'd rather fight a hangover than insomnia.

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #280: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY

I graduated from high school in 1996. I remember at the family party afterward, I was given a crisp $100 bill. I have held onto it ever since. I considered it my last move. In case of emergency, break glass. If I ever had to spend it, that would mean I was in absolute trouble. I kept it in several books over the years.


Fast forward to today. I had to dig that motherfucker out because if I didn't, I would be in far greater debt than I have been so far, one that probably wouldn't end.


So that's it. I have no more cards to play. I have two fives and four ones to my name. I get paid not this Friday, but next Friday. Holy fuck, this is grim. Let's fly this fucker with no safety net. Also, please buy my books.

Monday, December 10, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #279: A CHANGE

It has been a long time since I've spent a day without drinking. It used to be a weekend thing, or something for a special occasion. And then I developed these horrible headaches that it turned out were caused by an exposed nerve in one of my teeth. The thing is, I couldn't sleep without downing a significant amount of alcohol. The pain is gone, but I found out that booze helped me sleep pretty fucking well. I'm an insomniac, so getting to sleep 100% of the time really helped me.


The thing is, my blood pressure has skyrocketed as a result. I make nurses and doctors uncomfortable when they put the cuff on my arm and take my resting pulse. There are times that I can see my pulse. Not by looking at a blood vessel or anything, but because my eyes throb.


There were a few nights recently when I went to bed without drinking, but that was because I was in the hospital and had morphine instead. People who drink excessively every day, like I do, sometimes get a physical addiction to booze. If you go cold turkey, you have a seizure and die. It happened to that one actor from True Blood, the guy who played Lafayette. The last time I was in the hospital, a doctor told me that I don't have any alcohol in my body, so I didn't have the physical addiction. I didn't have to do my reduction plan.


As luck would have it, I don't have money and won't until next Friday. Therefore, I can't afford booze. Now's as good as any time to give this a shot, so to speak. I'm not trying to quit, but I need to seriously reduce the amount of booze I drink. Maybe get it back to weekends and special occasions. Not this weekend, though. I'm broke as a joke.


Doug Stanhope does this bit about trying to sleep sober and how horrible it is. I identify with that bit a lot. Tonight's the first night. I suspect that I will get maybe an hour of sleep, and I will want to murder the world tomorrow morning. Just be glad that I don't have nukes. All I have is a fart gun.

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #278: HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES?

When I was a kid, my mom would always take me for walks. If I was lucky, it was down five blocks to the guy who had an apple tree in his backyard. I thought that was weird. If you wanted something to eat, you didn't go to the grocery store? You just picked an apple off a tree in your backyard?  Mom knew the guy, and he was always happy to let me have one. And I just ate it fresh from nature.


I think maybe that's the reason why the only fruit I can tolerate in the world is an apple. And I mean tolerate. I had pears when I was a child, and fuck that shit. Get away from me with those bullshit nasty bananas. If that tomato isn't in the form of ketchup, then get it the fuck away from me. Do you realize that all that shit comes from nature? It's not natural to eat natural things! I need processed food, dammit! If anyone thinks otherwise, I challenge you to drink directly from Salt Creek. If you don't get sick, I will . . . probably not do anything. But if you get sick, I will laugh.


*sigh* Maybe I just need to stop going to the hospital. Just got out from an overnight stay due to a horrible illness. It's over now. Thankfully. And hey! For all the drinking I've done lately, my liver is in exceptional shape! I figured it would be crouched in my body like Gollum begging to be set free.


Sorry, bud. You're stuck with me for a while longer.

Sunday, November 18, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #277: 33 YEARS

My dad read a lot, but he was not a creative. Not like we think of. He was a cook. His mom was a teacher. His dad was a cook. On his side of the family, you were either cooks or teachers. So it didn't come from his side. No, it came from Mom. She was an amazing artist. She could play piano like nobody's business. I knew it came from her. After knowing Gramps for all my life, I know where she got it. Gramps didn't read or write or do anything creative, but he had a way of describing things that convinced me that if he were born in other circumstances, he could have been a creative.


I remember when I was a kid. I wrote my first story, and I was infatuated with myself for doing so. I showed it to my mom, and she was so proud. But she said, "You have to date it."


"What do you mean?" I asked.


"You should write the date on your story. That way, you know when you wrote it."


"That's stupid," I said.


"No, it's not. You'll thank me later."


"No,  won't." I was a stubborn asshole of a kid.


"So rub it in my face," she said. "When you're writing stories for a living, you'll know exactly when you wrote your first story."


"Nuh-uh!" I was only interested in writing the next story.


That was 33 years ago to the day. I know because despite my misgivings, I listened to Mom. I wrote the date on my first story.


My mom has been gone for many years. My dad has been gone for, what, a couple? I want to thank the both of them. You hear all of these horrible stories about parents who tried to lure their kids away from the arts because, unless you're extraordinarily lucky, that's not a good way to make money. My dad got it, and he blessed my course in life. I'm glad I was able to gain his pride before he passed. My mom got to see the beginning of my writing career, and she could not have been more supportive.


I remember when I discovered Mom's journal from when I'd been born. It was interesting to read. I'm so glad I had something that bore her soul. Not a fake bullshit thing that she wanted to censor. It was an honest accounting.


I like to think I'm an honest accounter. That's not a word, obviously, but you see where I'm coming from. That's what I do on these GF essays. Honest accounting. Mom is where that comes from. She would have been 61 by now. She had me at a young age. Dad was 60. I suspect I was an accident. But what the hell. I'm here. I write. I get published.


I am my mom and dad's legacy.

Thursday, November 15, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #276: TRUTH BE TOLD

It's a hard truth to admit to. I've been writing stories for a long time. In fact, as of this Sunday, I will have been writing stories for thirty-three years. Every day writing. Every day editing. But when my grandfather fell ill and died, I dried up. There were a few other factors, one of which I have been strictly forbidden from talking about, but that was the main one. Days went by without writing. Sometimes weeks. I hid in a bottle for a while. I had a nervous breakdown. Shit got horrible for my creative life.


I tried to get myself together, but I did something stupid. I tackled a very, very personal thing for me and tried to turn it into a novel. Everyone advised me against doing so. I should have listened. Sure, I got my 2,000 words a day on it, but I fucking loathed every minute of it. I finished the first draft, and I was disgusted with it. Maybe someday I will try birthing it again, but not anytime soon.


I continued writing after that, but it was not a regular thing. I didn't like any of my output. Speaking as someone who wrote every day for decades, it horrified me.


Do you know what turned me around? If you follow me on Twitter and Facebook, you know that I've been working on this horrendously offensive thing. It might even be the most offensive thing ever written in America. I offended myself writing it.


Those of you who know me really well know that I thrive on being offended. Not like other people, who become offended and feel that their voice matters enough that they spout it on social media. Being offended, for me, is a rarity. I've led a fucked up life. It takes a lot to offend me, so when someone pulls it off, I'm awed and impressed. The Girl Next Door by Jack Ketchum deeply offended me. It's one of my favorite books ever. The same for A Serbian Film. I'm talking art, not real life. It's easy to offend me in real life. The idea that we, as Americans, are the bad guys in the world right now offends me to a ridiculous level.


But we're talking art right now. I offended myself with this thing, which surprised me and made me happy. I loved working on this thing every day. The first draft is done, and it got me back into writing. Now I've written several stories that I'm in love with. I'm working on a novel that pleases me greatly and a short story that thrills me. Without this super-offensive thing, I would not be where I am today.


I'm not publishing that one under my own name, by the way. That's how offended I am. Some day you all might read it and be just as offended. Please know one thing, though: that piece of fiction saved my ability to write. It brought me back from the brink. The world will hate it (and my pen name will get a shit-ton of death threats), but this horrendous thing saved me.

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #275: I DON'T THINK THIS ONE'S GONNA MAKE IT

I remember when a boss at a previous job got two of his fingers cut off with a chainsaw. Perhaps I should clarify. I wasn't there. I just came in to work one morning to see two of his fingers thickly bandaged. He told me that he'd taken his son out into the wilderness to cut down a Christmas tree. He told his son to hold the tree while he capped it, but his kid wasn't paying attention. The chainsaw slipped, and my boss got two of his fingers chopped off. This guy was a real tough guy, too. He collected his fingers, put 'em on ice and drove himself to the ER, where they reattached the fingers despite one of them being "degloved." Don't Google that. It's what you think it is.


Fast forward a bit to when he'd just come back from a doctor appointment. I asked him how things were going, and he held up the index finger. He said the doctor said it was looking good. Then he calmly tapped the tip of the middle finger, the one that had been degloved. I can't reiterate enough how calmly he said this: "I don't think this one's gonna make it."


I couldn't fathom how he could have been so nonchalant about it. I'd be going out of my fucking mind. He just accepted it as a fact of life.


It made it, by the way. Both fingers healed and healed fast. The last time I saw them, they didn't bear so much as a scar, which I can't believe to this day.


Anyway, the point of this does relate to me. I remember when three different doctors told me that my big right toe had to go. I felt absolute terror at the idea. I consulted family and friends, and while they brought me comfort, they did not help me make up my mind. I had to do that on my own. It came down to the moment when the podiatrist said that either I let him take my toe, or he'd have to cut halfway up my foot in a week. I let him take the toe.


Then the toe next to it started looking bad. I didn't fuck around with this one. I went to immediate care, and to my glee they said that it was fine, it just looked ugly. Then I saw the podiatrist, and he said that I wasn't out of the woods yet. I had a ways to go toward healing. Worst case scenario: he'd have to cut off half of that toe, probably less.


When he told me that, I felt utterly calm. I didn't realize it until late that night as I tried to go to sleep, but I was channeling my old boss. My mantra became, "I don't think this one's gonna make it."


Thankfully the podiatrist said that it's looking better, but I now understand how my boss felt way back then. Maybe it was because of the trauma of the first amputation, I wasn't quite so scared of the possibility of a second. I don't know if that's good or bad. If you know the answer, run it by me.

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #274: LETTERS FROM NOWHERE

As I arrived at the train station, I noticed a piece of paper taped to the wall of the south side platform. I wondered, would it be political or religious? I leaned toward the latter, as the midterms are over, and politicians no longer feel the need to send their servants out to local train stations.


It was addressed to "you." As in me. As in anyone who would care to stop by and read it. The writer went on to talk about how we are strangers and have no idea who each other are. And it went on to say that "I love you" and "you are important." Okay, even a jaded asshole like me can admit that that's kind of touching. It's nice that someone went out of their way to bring a ray of sunshine into someone's day.


But as always, the dark side of me kicked in. What if I was a serial killer? Or a pedophile? Or even worse, a politician trying to get elected?


Maybe it doesn't matter, though. If one were to ask, say, Jesus (the one in the Bible, not the legions of backwards Christians who claim to follow in his footsteps) about this, he would probably say that love is the answer, one way or the other. I don't buy it, but then again I'm not the son of God. Unless Mom forgot to mention something to me, that is.


It reminded me of the first time I'd ever gone to Bachelors Grove. I found a whole bunch of notes, identical, on each gravestone. It was from a lonely goth girl looking for people who might want to hang out with her, maybe become friends. I wonder whatever happened to her. I hope she found what she was looking for.

Monday, November 12, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #273: BROKEN PROMISES

When I was a kid, around junior high and high school, my grandmother feared that I would get diabetes like her husband. I drank a lot of Coke back then, and since I couldn't afford my own shit, she decided that she would change up what she bought at the store.


She started buying Caffeine Free Diet Coke, and I had no choice but to drink it. It was vile. It was one of the worst things (at the time) that I had ever ingested. I fucking hated it. I loathed it. But I was stuck with it.


(Interesting aside: I ate McDonald's every night from my last year of junior high to my last year of high school. I wonder why she didn't care about that shit. When I graduated high school, I weighed 245 pounds and looked like Chris Farley in my graduation video.)


When I got my first job, I could finally afford something I really wanted to drink: pure, unadulterated Coca-Cola. I promised myself I would never drink Caffeine Free Diet Coke ever again. It was fucking glorious, but I eventually did get diabetes, and my blood pressure is through the roof. It was to the point where once a dentist refused to operate on me because my blood pressure was too high. I still, to this day, shock ER nurses with my 180/92 blood pressure. There's an ad at the train station which shows an old guy with a horrible scar over his heart. "This is what high blood pressure looks like." The listed blood pressure is a mere 145/80.


So yeah. I recently kicked the caffeine habit (again). And then the whole thing with my toe happened. Suddenly, I find myself needing to drink some kind of carbonated beverage. I'd restrict myself to water, but for some reason it gives me heartburn if I drink it all day. I need something else to go with dinner. Here's the problem: almost all carbonated drinks that don't have sugar are loaded with caffeine.


Except for one. Oh yeah. Guess what I drank with dinner tonight. You bet. And it's still as disgusting as I remembered it.


Yeah, I've been thinking about my health recently. I was doing such a good job before the toe amputation. If I were one to believe in a higher power, and I don't, but if I did, I would have no choice but to believe that this higher power wanted to send a message to me, and that message was to not try and be healthy. Don't be healthy, or I'll take more toes. Don't worry, like I said I'm not one to believe in that kind of thing. Besides, it sounds kind of crazy. So I'm supposed to spend the rest of my short life giving in to temptation and losing pieces of my body as I got older? Eh . . . no thanks.

I'm working on quitting fast food again. I did so well for so long, but I relapsed. My plan is to also get to the point where the only sugar I get in the course of the day is my beloved Tang in the morning. Diabetes can take everything, but it will take Tang away from my cold dead fingers. And yeah, I'm trying to drink less booze. I'm up to a handle every three days. I think it's time to cut back. I want it to be a weekend thing only.


This also means I'm going to have difficulty sleeping. I guess it also means that I will be posting more GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. Hence, this thing that you're reading right now.


So get used to hearing from me at the end of every night. Unless I fuck up again. Let's hope I can keep to the straight and narrow-ish.

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

BOOK SALE!

My short-term disability check may have finally cleared, but I'm still in deep water with my creditors. While I'm doing this week of shameless self-promotion, I figured I'd dig into my own stock and see what I've got. Sure, you can buy these through Amazon, but if you buy them from me, you can get them signed. If I can physically put these books in your hand, there is no shipping charge. If I have to mail it, though, there will be a $2 shipping charge. So here's what I've got. If you see something you want, let me know. First come, first served.


--BLOOD (8 copies) $10 each


--STRIP (1 copy) $12


--STRANGE SEX 3 (1 copy) $7


--DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN (1 copy) $5


--TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE (1 copy) $10


--ZOMBIE! ZOMBIE! BRAIN BANG! (2 copies) $10 each (contains "Pack Rat")


--POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS (1 copy) $10

Monday, October 15, 2018

WOULD YOU LIKE TO READ BLOOD FOR FREE?




So you want to read my latest book, BLOOD, for free, but you're too cheap to buy it. Well, I have a solution for you. I have a PDF just dying to be read, and I'm willing to send it to you for no monetary exchange whatsoever. All I ask in return is an honest Amazon/Goodreads review. Surprisingly, I have zero reviews on this so far, and I want to change that as soon as possible. Let me know on Twitter or Facebook if you're interested. If we aren't connected on any social media, send an email to editor@talesofquestionabletaste.com.

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #272: YOU'LL UNDERSTAND SOME DAY

It's easy, when you're a child, to say, "I hate you, Mom!" Or, "You're not listening to me, Dad!" Or, "You don't understand!" And you can't ever swallow the pill you're given. "You'll understand some day." Nope. That's impossible. I'm a child, and I know better. You're just a stupid adult.


Sometimes they're right. Sometimes they're wrong.


I remember when I was nine or ten. I was playing ball with my cousin across the street on the Prairie Path. It was time for us to go home, so I got ready to cross the street. I glanced back and forth and crossed when I saw no cars. I came home to my mom screaming at me for not looking both ways. But I did. I didn't turn my head, but I looked both ways. I screamed and cried at her, but she never bought it.


I see her point of view today. She was deranged because of her own perceptions. It's understandable when you look back at it from the ripe old age of 40.


Another time, with my dad, we were at his girlfriend-at-the-time's family reunion (she eventually became his second wife). We were driving around, and I was in the back with my cousin and my soon-to-be stepmom's brother. I was stuck in the middle. I hate being in the middle. It's uncomfortable for me to hold my legs together. I was in physical pain. So when the time came to get back in the car, I begged Dad not to let me be in the middle. He thought it was because I didn't want to be next to his soon-to-be brother-in-law because I thought he smelled. That wasn't even a factor. I was tired of holding my legs together. I tried to explain, but he didn't buy it. I got stuck in the middle again.


I see his point later. Maybe I could have been a bit more subtle. I liked the guy who would eventually be my step-uncle. He played the Simpsons boardgame with me. But perception changed everything. The kids are rude and explicit, and only adults can dictate reality.


It's the whole cops-think-the-teens-are-lying syndrome from 'Eighties slasher films.


But conversely, there are the things where the adults were right. When I was five, my grandparents were having the roof redone, and the roofers just flicked their smokes down below. I found one and pretended to smoke it. Sure enough, Mom cleaned my mouth out with soap. Then there was the time I went camping with Dad. He only ever struck me twice, and this was the first time. Looking back, I totally understand why. I went off on my own. He couldn't find me and panicked. In his panic, he slapped me several times on my bottom. The number one fear of a parent is losing their child. He went crazy, and I completely understand it now. I hated him at the time, but now? I get it.


I went to visit my grandfather's grave recently. I sat down and had a chat with him. Look, I know that he didn't hear me. I don't believe in the afterlife. It just made me feel better. I told him if he ran into Mom and Dad, to tell them I'm sorry for all the times I scared them. It's not about reality. It's about therapy. Aaaaaaaaand maybe just hedging my bets.


But it was 100% about love.

Thursday, July 19, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #271: WHAT I HATE ABOUT STAR TREK

When I was a kid, I found something unusual. My father and stepfather hated each other, but they agreed on one thing: I should watch Star Trek. That was back when there was only the original series and a couple of movies. My father took me to my first movie ever, and it was STAR TREK 3: THE SEARCH FOR SPOCK. So I watched Star Trek in reruns, and I thought I'd seen every episode.


Then came Star Trek: The Next Generation, which I grew up with and loved. Again, I thought I'd seen every episode.


Deep Space 9 came along, and I didn't watch. Same for Voyager. Same for Enterprise. I have yet to see the animated series and Discovery.


Then I got Netflix. I saw I hadn't seen every episode of TOS and TNG. I went on a trek to watch it all. I've seen all of TOS, TNG, DS9 and V. I'm almost done with Enterprise. All shows have one thing in common that I absolutely can't stand.


They all have opening credits that last longer than Rip Van Winkle was asleep. Holy shit, I hate a long opening sequence. I love credits that last five seconds and no more. TOS is insufferable. TNG is worse, and DS9 is even worse. V is horrible, and E is the worst of all. "It's been a long time . . ." No shit. If you cut back 90% of the opening credits, we'd have more time for the show. Hell, as much as I hate advertising, I'd take that over these ridiculously long opening credits. I love Star Treks, but this is something that bothers me. Thankfully, on Netflix I can fast forward through that shit, but still.

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #270: GRAMPS

For all my life, I thought that Gramps dying would be the worst thing to happen to me. When he actually started dying, I went kind of crazy. Some of you were there for that, and I'm ever grateful for the help you offered.


I'm still not over it. There are days when I don't think about him, but they aren't often. I dream about him a lot, like he's still alive. Sometimes I even wake up thinking I'll see him when I go downstairs. But I'm much better now. The worst I could imagine is done, and I think I'm stronger for it.


Sometimes I go out to visit his grave. I bring an airplane bottle of Jim Beam for both of us. I remember when I was a kid that he had a couple of shots after each dinner to aid with digestion. The first hard alcohol I ever drank was Jim Beam because I trusted his judgment, and I was right to do so.


I'd sit at the grave and visit with him. I'd pop the tops off of each bottle, and I would pour his onto his side of the grave while I drank my own.


Those who know me very well know that I hold alcohol to be sacred. This should tell you how much I valued Gramps in my life. I poured perfectly good whiskey onto the ground in honor of him.


God, I miss him. I miss him so much.

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #269: I WAS PART OF A NIELSEN FAMILY

I wasn't allowed to talk about it because they were afraid that if I mentioned I was part of a Nielsen ratings family, friends would want me to watch their shows to make sure they got renewed. So I kept my mouth shut.


Here's how it worked: I had to wear my meter wherever I went so that it could keep track of all media I consume, even if it's something as innocuous as the overhead music in a grocery store. That leads to my part of the ratings system, which led to whether a show, TV or radio, got renewed or canceled. It also determined how much money a network could charge for advertising. So I wore it everywhere. I can't tell you how many people asked me, "What, is that a pager?" As if I was a loser, or maybe they were looking for shit to make fun of me for. I told everyone no. When they asked what it really was, I told them, "It's a secret." So if you were one of the people who got that response from me, now you know the truth.


It's funny. If I had gotten this thing just a month earlier, I could have helped #SaveConstantine. Ah well. Here's something I noticed: while I wore the meter, all of my shows prospered. When I turned the meter in, my shows started getting axed left and right. What the fuck? Was my meter that important?! The bastards almost got GOTHAM, for fuck's sake. I'll bet it would have gotten canceled if it wasn't a Batman show. As it is, they're only renewed for a final half-season, anyway.


I didn't matter for very long, but for the brief period of time I had that meter, I MATTERED.

Monday, July 16, 2018

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #268: IT'S NOT SCARY ENOUGH

I remember when I was a child. Maybe six, seven years old. That was back in the day when parents were getting super protective of their kids going out on Halloween. I forgot my costume for that particular year, but it was very dark in color. So dark that a driver might not see me. My mom demanded that I put a reflective strip on my costume.


This, of course, was blasphemy.


"NO!" I shouted.


Why not?


"BECAUSE IT'S NOT SCARY ENOUGH IF I HAVE A REFLECTOR THING ON ME!!!"


She made me put the fucking thing on. I figured that I would go out with my friends and rip the thing off as soon as I was away from home. But oh no. Mom decided to come with us, foiling my plan. The ironic thing is, it never occurred to me that my candy sack, complete with a smiling child-friendly ghost, was not scary.


Fast forward a couple of years. I wanted to go as a murderer, but I needed a giant scary knife. Mom got me this cheap plastic looking thing that was obviously fake.


"NO!" I shouted.


Why not?


"BECAUSE IT'S NOT SCARY ENOUGH IF I HAVE A FAKE LOOKING KNIFE!!!"


Moms never get it, do they? Once again, I was stuck with it.


Fast forward to when I was in high school. My friend, Rob, and I decided to do Halloween as characters from The Dark Half. He was Thad Beaumont, and I was George Stark. Can you guess what I really wanted to have to be realistically scary?


Oh yeah. This time, though, Mom wasn't around to foil my plans. I got an honest-to-God straight razor, and we hit the streets. Thinking back on it now, that was probably a very shitty idea. Could you imagine what would have happened to me if a cop tried to give me trouble?  They'd find the straight razor, and there I go to juvie or worse.


But damned if I wasn't scary that Halloween.

Friday, July 6, 2018

THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #61: OF IMMORTALITY

[This will probably be the last installment of this so-called museum. It's a bit long, but it goes to show you what happens when an idea gets stuck in your head, and you want to write about it even if you don't know what you're doing with said idea. I learned an important lesson from this one: never force a story. The idea may linger in the back of your mind for a long time, but eventually you'll figure out what to do with it. Just be patient. That said, this is still a pretty interesting story about manipulation in the name of immortality.]



     The room fell silent as everyone stared at Orville Ramone.  No one could believe what he’d just said—-not in the church basement decorated with Sunday school art projects, old ‘Seventies paneling, and yellowed nicotine stains.  Not in this circle of metal folding chairs, inhaling cigarette smoke from ten years ago and freshly brewed coffee.  Not with the taste of stale doughnuts on their tongues, powder on the fronts of their shirts and smeared on their pants where they’d wiped their fingers.
     But Orville’s words had power, and they sparked interest in everyone’s hearts.  No one wanted to be the first to speak, but excitement thrummed in the air, the ghost resonance of a guitar chord.  They all wanted to make his words a reality, especially Nelson Ramsey.
     He thought back a month to when the doctor had first diagnosed him as terminal.  At first he didn’t believe it.  In fact, he still didn’t believe it after he got a matching second opinion.  Yet when he started feeling the debilitating effects of his cancer, he came to know the truth.  Despite a life of living healthy, eating healthy, and leading a responsible existence, he would be dead in three months, no matter what treatments the whitecoats put him through.
     It pissed him off to think about everything he’d missed out on out of some insane idea that if he avoided vices and ate healthy and got enough exercise, he’d outlive everyone.  Out of anger, he got drunk that night for the first time in his life.  The altered perception felt good at the time, but when he woke up the next day, shame and guilt convinced him to never try it again.  He poured out the remainder of the booze and hid the bottle deep in the garbage so the trash man wouldn’t find it.
     He glutted on fast food, which he found more to his liking.  He no longer cared about getting fat; the cancer would never let him, not even if he ate like a Roman emperor crossed with a sumo wrestler.  As he stuffed himself with Big Macs and mozzarella sticks, he wallowed in all of the things he’d never get to do.  His life meant nothing.  His sole purpose on earth consisted of waiting to die.
     Now he would never get to leave his mark on the world.  His job always prevented him from starting a family, so he couldn’t even pass on his DNA.  Maybe that was for the best, though.  As far as he could tell, this cancer came from genetics.  His own father had gotten it at a young age, but everyone figured it was because he smoked two packs a day.
     Nelson didn’t have many friends, just some co-workers he sometimes hung out with.  As a result he didn’t have anyone to talk to, not until he started attending this group therapy.
     Orville had cancer in his lungs, just like Nelson.  Jeff Feldman had AIDS.  Tonya Slattery had breast cancer.  Al Garton had a tumor eating away at his brain.  And Barton Malek, despite being only twenty, had MS and needed to get around with a walker.
     Every Tuesday and Thursday at seven in the evening, Nelson saw these people.  He shared their misery and complaints.  He knew them intimately, but to hear such a surprising suggestion from Orville?  That knocked everyone for a loop.
     “Think about it,” Orville continued.  “We’re all toast anyway.  Why not go out in a blaze of glory?”
     “What about God?” Barton asked.  “I’ve been doing a good job of being good.  I don’t want to mess it all up in the eleventh hour and wind up in Hell.”
     Orville snorted.  “You really believe that?  That God’s watching over us?  Come on, kid.  Look at yourself.  You barely had time to live.  If He’s out there, He did this to you.  I say fuck Him.”
     “But the devil—-“
     “I don’t want to get into a discussion on the problem of evil,” Tonya said.  No surprise, as she was a philosophy professor before she retired.  “I’m more interested in the problem of us.”
     “Right now, our lives are meaningless,” Orville said.  “Nothing we do from now till the moment we die will make a jot of difference in the big picture.  Don’t you guys want to change the world?  Don’t you want to leave a mark for all to see, proving that at one time, we did indeed exist?”
     Those were the words that convinced Nelson.  He cleared his throat and spoke:  “I agree.  I’m sick of this terrible hand I’ve been dealt.  I don’t want to go quietly into the night.  I want to strike back.  When I go, I wouldn’t mind taking a few of the bastards with me.”
     Al looked at him, his eyes freshly cracked eggs.  “Hold on.  I’m all about making some symbolic gesture, like that monk who torched himself to protest ‘Nam, but killing people?  Actually murdering them?  That sounds . . . you know.”
     Orville shrugged.  “Why not?  Why do they get to stay here and we get to die?  What’s fair about that?”
     “Besides,” Nelson said, thinking of Al’s jaundiced, watery eyes, “you know what they say about omelets.”
     Orville nodded, and Tonya asked, “You didn’t just bring this out of the blue.  You’ve clearly been thinking a lot about this.  Do you have a target in mind?”
     “Target?”  Al pshawed.  “What are we, terrorists?”
     “No,” Orville said.  “We’re artists.  Our subject is humanity, and if we can somehow expose people to their own hypocrisy before we go out, maybe our lives will have been worth it.”
     “So we’re rebels?” Barton asked.
     “Suicide bombers, more like,” Al said.  He shook his head.  “I can’t get into that.”
     “You didn’t answer my question,” Tonya said.  “What’s our target?”
     Orville cast his gaze over each face before him, as if gauging everyone’s trustworthiness.  Finally, after considerable judgment, he said, “I was thinking about the city post office.”
     For a moment, the room remained silent as everyone tried processing this.  Their brains came to the same conclusion at the same time, and everyone broke out into laughter . . . all except for Jeff.  He’d kept quiet throughout this conversation, but now his lesion-pocked face leaned forward with excitement.  “No.  Dude.  This is actually brilliant.”
     “Nobody uses snail mail anymore,” Al said.  “It’s all email now.”
     “That’s where you’re wrong,” Orville said.  “The USPS still ships packages, but they’re good for one other, very important thing.”
     “And that is?” Al asked.
     “Christmas cards.  No matter how new technology gets, people still insist on being old fashioned when it comes to sending Christmas cards.”
     “And ‘tis the season,” Jeff said.
     “Think of how many millions of Christmas cards and gift packages run through the city post office during the week of Christmas.  It’s one of the central offices, so practically all correspondence in the country passes through it.”
     “So what?” Tonya asked.  “So we blow up a post office.  All we do is make sure a lot of families are disappointed this season.  Is my life worth that?”
     “Yes,” Orville said.  “Americans don’t give two shits if they lose their rights, but take away convenience?  It’s the end of the world.  Think about how annoyed you get when you’re stuck at a train.  Or if Sears doesn’t have that Bluray player you want.  Only when people see how angry they’re getting at nothing will they realize what kind of people they really are.  Things have to change after an epiphany like that.”
     Al snorted.  “You know what?  I hate the USPS.  They’re insanely incompetent.  They lose stuff all the time and won’t even take the blame for it.  And then!  Then!  They have the gall to regularly raise their rates!  Can you believe that?”
     “Genius,” Jeff said.
     Barton nodded.  “I don’t have a problem with blowing up the post office.  I just don’t want to kill anyone, that’s all.”
     Orville fidgeted in his seat, his mouth open but producing no sound.
     Nelson stepped up.  “There are no guarantees in life, Barton.  We can try to make this bloodless.  That’s the best we can do.”
     Everyone looked up to him, even Orville.  Rather than letting all parties have a vote, Nelson made the decision for the group.  They accepted this without question.
     “Well, if we’re to do this, we shouldn’t plan it here,” Tonya said.  “Anyone have a place we can gather?  Somewhere private?”
     “My workshop,” Orville said.
     It was late, so they agreed to meet at Orville’s place at six tomorrow.  Jeff joked to BYOB, but Orville said he had plenty of booze, if it came to that.
     Nelson stuffed his face at White Castle with Sliders and went home, where he dreamt of blowing up the city post office.  He marveled at the flying hunks of brick and shards of glass, cutting down all who were unfortunate enough to get too close.  He took glee in watching the pirouetting flames lick the sky as they consumed the lumpen mass of the building.  He laughed as others wept and screamed and begged.  He felt his own body disintegrate in the fire.
     When he woke up, his underwear stuck uncomfortably to his crotch.
#
     Orville lived in a neighborhood where there were more boarded up windows than glass ones, where every face peered suspiciously from porches or grungy living rooms.  A dog barked constantly from a block over, and streetlights flickered overhead, on the verge of death.
     They arrived more or less at the same time.  Orville greeted them all at the door and offered each a drink.  He poured various alcohols into several glasses.  One thing Nelson noticed about the terminally ill:  very few stayed away from alcohol.  What was the point?
     Orville led his guests to the basement, to his workshop.  “I already got the blueprints to the post office, and I looked around online for some bomb recipes.  I managed to find some good stuff—-cheap, too—-in the Anarchist’s Cookbook.  Take a look.”  He waved his hand over the bench like a game show host would to prizes you could win.
     “Wow, blueprints?” Barton said.  “How’d you get those?”
     “The county clerk,” Orville said.  “It’s not like I bribed some official or anything like that.  Who do I look like, James Bond?”
     Al shuffled through the bomb making instructions, eyes narrow.  “I can’t believe this.  These are all household items.  Is this for real?”
     Orville nodded.  “There’s nothing in there I have to sign for.  Nothing I need to show my ID for.”
     “When do we do this?” Tonya asked.  She’d picked a cigarette out of her purse, but she only fiddled with it.  When she stopped, she held it between her index and middle fingers, as if she were smoking it.
     “People want their cards to arrive just before Christmas.  The post office is closed for both the day itself and Christmas Eve.  So we’ll want to hit them when they’re at critical mass, on the twenty-second.”
     “Makes sense.  Do we hit them before or after hours?”
     “Why not during?” Nelson asked.  “We need to make sure people get the message.  Otherwise, why do it at all?”
     “No killing people,” Barton said.
     “What, blowing up a federal building on Christmas week won’t get the attention we need?” Al asked.
     “Nobody pays attention if no one gets hurt,” Nelson said.
     “Then you can be the sacrificial lamb,” Al said.  “You alone.  What do you think of that?  Not so interested now, are you?”
     “I’d rather die in an explosion than alone in some hospital, shitting into a stainless steel pan and having strangers give me baths.  And you should know that, Al.”
     Al stared at him, his eyes suddenly hollow.  He wanted to say more, his mouth even moved to say more, but he couldn’t find the moral strength.
     “It doesn’t matter,” Barton said.  “I don’t want anyone’s blood on my hands, not even Nelson’s.”
     Jeff offered a sickly smile, showing dingy teeth too big for his receding gums.  “How about mine?”
     Barton grunted.  “That won’t kill me any quicker, friend.”
     “Maybe we should just forget the whole thing.  It sounded like a fun thing to think about back at Group, but things are starting to feel weird.  I don’t like it.”
     “No guts, no glory,” Jeff said.  “I kind of like the idea of giving the world one big fuck-you before I die.  This place has never treated me and my kind well, so I don’t give a damn.  Let’s torch the post office.”
     “This isn’t about revenge,” Al said.  “It’s supposed to be about sending a message.”
     “Let’s all take a step back,” Orville said.  “We’re getting a little heated.  We’re thinking with emotions.  Let’s call it a night and resume our talk tomorrow at our Thursday meeting.  What do you say?”
     They murmured their assent and finished their drinks before leaving, all except Nelson.  He couldn’t stop looking at the blueprints.
     “How can you reduce something as complex as a building to a two-dimensional drawing on paper?” he asked.
     “The same way the world reduces a human being to a dying hunk of meat,” Orville said.  “No artistry.”
     “It’s not right.”
     “That’s what separates you from the others,” Orville said.  “You’re outraged by this fact, and you want to do something about it.”
     “They might chicken out, but I won’t.  This is all I have left.  I won’t even leave someone behind to mourn me.”
     “Don’t worry.”  Orville touched Nelson’s shoulder and gave a tight squeeze.  “We will change the world.”
#
     On Thursday, two of them did not show up.  Orville arrived first with a bag of doughnuts, and he turned on the coffee machine and moved all the chairs into a circle.  Nelson came next and sat to the right of Orville.  Both greeted one another amiably, but they were too nervous to say much more than small talk.  Jeff was third, and he stuffed his mouth with doughnuts before sitting at Orville’s left.
     When Tonya arrived, she looked around the room, surprised, as if everyone there wore no clothes.  She recovered quickly and took her seat, reaching into her purse for the cigarette she would never smoke.  Her hands trembled as she stuck the butt in her mouth and closed her eyes.
     “What’s wrong?” Orville asked.
     “I didn’t know if you guys’d be here or not,” she said.  “Not after what happened.”
     “You mean, last night at Orville’s?” Jeff asked.
     She blinked, her eyelashes long enough to flutter in the breeze.  “You haven’t heard?  About Al and Barton?”
     Orville and Nelson looked at each other, confused.  Jeff shrugged.
     “I got to know them pretty well,” she continued.  “They don’t really have anyone else, you know.  I mean, Al had his wife, but they’d been separated so long he didn’t even know where she was.”
     “What happened?” Orville asked.
     “I didn’t know they’d both made me their next of kin.”
     “Oh.  Damn.  Damn and hell.”  Orville leaned back, hands against his face, fingers pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes.
     “They’re . . . ?”  Jeff said no more.
     Tonya nodded.  As she pretended to smoke, she told them about Barton first.  Since he lived alone with no one to look out for him, he had to go up three flights of stairs to get to his apartment.  He kept meaning to switch to a first floor room, but he thought that would be an admission of defeat.  Besides, he liked the exercise.  He believed it kept him strong.
     The walker made things difficult.  This time, he ran into too much difficulty, and he fell backwards.  He went down two of the three flights and broke his skull open.
     “That’s horrible,” Orville said.
     “That’s nothing compared to Al,” Tonya said.  They all knew odd ideas had been occurring to him for the last month as his tumor ate away at his common sense.  He thought going to the bathroom on a dinner buffet was normal, and saying “fuck you” was just the same as saying hi.  The incidents were few and far between, but they were starting to add up.  This time, it got into his head to walk in front of a train.  No one saw it, but investigators determined that he’d been dragged five miles before anyone noticed a thing.
     “I can’t believe it,” Jeff said.  “We saw them just yesterday.”
     Nelson said nothing.  He thought fate had smiled upon them by removing the only two people who wanted nothing to do with their plans for the city post office.  How convenient.  Now they could move ahead with no interruptions.  Now they were free to make sure the world remembered them when they were gone.
     Finally, Tonya yanked the cigarette from her mouth and stuffed it back into her purse, among the coins and tissues and old receipts.  “I just can’t do this anymore.  When I hang out with dying people, should I be surprised when they die?”  Frustrated, she backhanded a tear from her cheek, leaving a smudged trail of eyeliner on her porcelain skin.
     “We know how you feel,” Orville said.  “I—-“
     She stood, violently pushing her chair back into the wall.  “That’s the problem.  I have a family who loves me, and I keep pushing them away because they don’t understand.  Meanwhile, you guys—-who do understand—-keep dying off.  Why am I wallowing in this?  I’m running out of time.  I should be spending it with those who will stay.  Those who will remember.”
     “It must be nice,” Nelson said.  “Having someone love you, I mean.  Someone who will tell people about you when you’re gone.”
     Tonya stifled a sob.  Eyes shining with regret and loss, she said, “I’m sorry, Nelson.  That’s all I can be.”
     And she left.  None of them saw her again.
     Orville looked at the remainder of his group.  “Do you guys want to continue?”
     “With this meeting?” Jeff asked.  “Nope.  We have more important things to do.”
     “Let’s go to my place, then.”
#
     After talking for a while over a few beers, brainstorming, Nelson went home and made himself a sandwich.  As he ate and watched a TV show he didn’t like, he thought about notoriety.  People remembered killers.  Osama bin Laden would still be talked about a century from now.  So would Hitler, Stalin, Attila the Hun, Jack the Ripper, Timothy McVeigh, John Wayne Gacy, and a host of others.  Why not join their ranks?  A hundred years from now, he wanted people to remember Nelson Ramey, the cancer patient who changed it all.
     He went to bed and once again had his dreams of destruction.  Of death.  Of self-immolation.
     Of immortality.
#
     The next day Nelson blew off a doctor’s appointment to visit with Orville and Jeff, to plan more of what they were going to do.  When Orville greeted him at the door, Nelson smelled something funny on him, but he couldn’t quite place it.  It made him think of devils and fire, though.
     “Jeff’s already here,” Orville said.  “Follow me.”
     They went into the basement, where the smell nearly batted the nose off Nelson’s face.  This time he recognized it:  sulfur and gasoline.
     “It’s lucky there are three of us,” Orville said.  “I made some bombs, three of them.  After some careful thought, I came to the conclusion that two wouldn’t be enough to completely destroy the building.”
     “We were looking at the blueprints before you arrived,” Jeff said.  “In order to total the place, we need three bombs put in strategic places.  Check it out.”  He unrolled the blueprints and pointed.
     “I don’t know what this means,” Nelson said.  He felt stupid for this confession.  A man with murderous, destructive intentions should know how to read a blueprint.  He regretted showing up and wanted to go home.  He wanted to forget all of this.
     “It’s cool,” Jeff said.  “This is the front.  We need to have two bombs here.”
     “Isn’t that overkill?  Why not spread them out?”
     “We need the most explosive power there,” Orville said.  “The most people will be present, waiting in line or behind the counter.  Plus, it’s the store front, meaning it will take out a few bystanders outside.  Best of all, there’s a police camera out there, pointed at the building.  It’s close enough to get the details, but not close enough to be a danger.”
     “Oh.”  Nelson thought that was sensible.  They wanted to make sure this was remembered forever, right?  What was the Kennedy assassination without the Zapruder film?
     “It will also help the third bomb, which must come through the back.  Here.”  Orville pointed.
     “And the bombs are all set to go?” Nelson asked.
     “Put the finishing touches on last night.”
     This was it.  This was for real.  They were really going to do this.
     “We just need surveillance,” Jeff said.  “Gotta’ know the busiest time to strike, right?”
     “Then we just walk the bombs in and boom?”
     “I’ll put them in packages, so it’ll look like we’re customers,” Orville said.  “I’ll take the third bomb, the one in the back.  You guys get the front.  We’ll synchronize our watches and everything.”
     Nelson stared at the blueprint and tried to match it with the building in real life.  He tried to imagine what it would look like after the explosion.  He tried to construct what the news anchors would say.  What history would say about him and his compatriots.
     Then, he realized that he knew he would die on December 22.  How many men knew what their ultimate fate would be and when?  It made him feel different.  Special.  No longer a part of the herd.
     “Let’s do some research then,” Orville said.  “And let’s try not to be obvious.  Remember where the camera is and remember how paranoid people have been about federal buildings since 9/11.”
#
     Orville sat in the coffee shop with Jeff, drinking hot java and nibbling at muffins.  Both looked out the front window at the post office across the street, trying to look engaged in newspapers instead.  They sat at different tables, since they thought it would be prudent to not be associated with each other in public.  Somewhere behind the post office, Orville presumably did the same thing in his own fashion.
     It was the third day they’d been doing this.  Every time the numbers turned out the same.  They could do their best damage at ten minutes past noon.
     Five o’clock rolled by, and as the government employees locked up, Nelson and Jeff abandoned their posts at the coffee shop.  They walked three blocks down and turned a corner, where Jeff’s Camaro waited.  He was the only one with a car, so transportation duties fell to him.  Well, Orville had an old Caddy in his garage, but he told them it didn’t run.  “I kept meaning to restore it to its former glory,” he’d said.  “Now?  What’s the point?”
     He hadn’t arrived yet, so Jeff got in behind the wheel and Nelson called shotgun.  They waited, peering out at the city life around them.  Most people rushed home from work while others—-the early birds—-took to the streets, eager for the surprises the night would bring.
     It took a moment for Nelson to notice the car was shifting back and forth, as if they were on a boat.  When he looked over, he saw Jeff nervously fidgeting.  “What’s up?”
     Jeff favored him with a pained glance, almost like he had to go to the bathroom really bad.  Finally, he said, “I killed them.”
     Odd.  “Um, who?”
     “Barton and Al.  They weren’t accidents.  Orville told me to do it, or we’d all be screwed.  But you’re not supposed to know.”
     “Oh.  I see.”
     “Please don’t tell Orville.  It’s just . . . I couldn’t keep it in anymore.  It hurt too much.”
     “That’s all right.  I understand.”
     “Really?  Orville said you might not like it.  You’re not mad?”
     “No.”  He was furious.  Why the need for secrets?  Did Orville not think he was worthy?  “They had to go.  They were too dangerous to our cause.  I just wonder why he didn’t include me in this plan.”
     “Well, he said he didn’t know how strong you were.  He knew I was a mad bastard, so he came to me.  Except, I’m not that much of a bastard, not like I thought.  Jesus, I’m crying.”
     Nelson looked over in time to see Jeff rub tears out of his eyes.  He was about to say more, but the back door opened, and Orville slid into the car.
     “Let’s go back to my place.”
     Jeff turned the car on and drove, steady and tearless.  Nelson started to wonder if their conversation had actually happened or not.
#
     Back at Orville’s place, they decided over drinks that they’d take out the post office at 12:10 pm on December 22nd, which meant they only had three days to live.  No long and drawn out conclusion in antiseptic beds, surrounded by strangers for this crew.  No, the grim reaper acted on their terms.  It felt good to have power for once.
     “But we can’t just walk in and blow the place up,” Orville said.  “We have to leave a record of our intent behind, so they know why we did it.”
     “A tape,” Jeff said.  “Terrorists always send out a tape.”
     “Right.  I have a camcorder.  It’s old.  I haven’t used it since my kids were little.  I have an old VHS of Perfect Strangers I wouldn’t mind taping over.  How about it?”
     He gave them each a script while he searched for his camcorder.  Nelson read over his lines and liked them.  They had the right apocalyptic tone to them.
     They shot it in one go and settled down to watch the results.  Jeff spoke first, but Nelson didn’t care too much about the performance.  He was more interested in himself.  The camera zoomed in on his hollow face, sunken eyes and all.  He looked so awkward and empty.  There was no glamour in this.
     “My name is Nelson Ramey, and I am thirty-three years old.  I have been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.  They say the wisest of men are those who know they’re dying.  Maybe that’s the case.  I do know that we can speak the truth without fear of reprisal.  Why not?  By the time you see this, I’ll be dead.”
     Nelson watched the image of himself staring down at the script.  He hated reading aloud because he always sounded like he was reading.  Not this time.  He could feel his words burning off the screen and into his soul.
     “I died on December 22nd at 12:10, and I probably took someone you love with me.  Why did I do this?  Because you didn’t care enough.  You were too wrapped up in your trivialities.  Your indulgences.  Your conveniences.  People died on Black Friday this year from shopping.  Only in America can something like this happen.  A good deal on an HDTV flat screen is worth more than human life.  This has got to change.”
     Tacky though it may seem, Nelson felt a chill at his own words.  Did Orville know him so well?  How else could he have written this perfect script?
     “We cannot protest the human heart,” his image continued, “no more than we can protest breathing or eating or fucking.  Terror, however, works better than anything else.  Only when you fear for your own lives will you change your ways.  Those we sacrificed at the post office, including ourselves, are a wake-up call, America.  Become better people.  Abandon your avarice.  Be decent to each other.  My life is my present to you.  Merry Christmas.”
     That last part should have seemed silly, but Nelson knew he’d hit the right tone.
     “Perfect,” Orville said.
     “Aren’t you going to record something for yourself?” Jeff asked.
     “No.  There’s nothing I can add to your performances.  Any more would spoil the whole thing.”
     All three nodded, silent for a moment.  Then, Nelson said, “So, do we just mail the tape to the authorities?”
     Jeff let out a guffaw, but Orville merely smiled.  “I think we should trust this one to FedEx.”
#
     Nelson Ramey began his last day on earth hacking out a sizeable hunk of lung.  He woke himself up coughing, and it wasn’t the first time he’d spit out blood in such a fashion.  However, it was the first time a piece of his insides had come out.  It rested on the cold floorboards of his bedroom, glistening in the morning sun coming through the sparsely latticed window.  He stared at the meat and wondered how this errant piece fit into the puzzle of his body and what his lungs looked like now.  Ragged and dog-eared?  Did this make him less of a person?
     He picked up the lung loogey and carted it to the bathroom.  Holding the slimy former piece of himself, he wondered if he should throw it in the trash or flush it down the toilet, like a dead goldfish.  What did one do with something that used to be a living part of themselves?
     He coughed again and spat blood into the sink.  Then, in the mirror, he saw a streak of blood running from the corner of his mouth to his jaw line.  Coupled with his pale demeanor and hollow, angular cheeks, he looked like a Hollywood vampire.
     Nelson wiped the crimson from his face with the back of his hand.  Then, he opened the medicine cabinet and placed the piece of lung on a plastic tray next to the half-dozen prescription bottles of pills that would never help him.  He closed the mirror like a coffin lid and thought that by 12:11, the lung hunk would be the only piece of him left in the world.  The rest of him would be incinerated beyond dust.
     He got a big, sloppy breakfast from Denny’s before taking the bus to Orville’s neighborhood.  Jeff’s car stood parked at the curb like a waiting hearse.  Nelson realized his last car ride would be in a beat up, rusty Camaro.
     Inside, Orville offered drinks.  “But don’t get drunk.  We don’t want to mess this up at the eleventh hour.”
     Eleventh hour?  Nelson had heard those words recently.  Why did they chill him now?
     Jeff mixed a White Russian for himself.  Nelson declined.  He wanted a fresh, sober mind when he left this world.
     As Orville ate a Pop Tart, he explained how things would go down.  “The explosives are on a timer, which is synchronized with my watch.  It’s important for you guys to be in the building at 12:10 sharp.  Got your watches?”  As they all looked at their wrists, Orville said, “It’s 10:33 . . . now.”
     They looked up from their watches and glanced at one another, knowing that their remaining life could be counted in minutes.
     “Take the packages with you,” Orville said.  “Spend the rest of the morning any way you want to.  Just remember to be in post office at 12:10.”
     “What are you going to do?” Jeff asked.
     “Sit around.  Drink some Scotch.  Look at pictures of better times.”  He had an odd smile on his face when he said this.  “I want to see my kids again, but pictures are as close as I can get.”
     “You want us to pick you up, then?”
     “No.”  He waved a dismissive hand.  “I’ll catch up on my own.”
     Nelson did want a ride, so Jeff dropped him off in the city.  “I’m going to a strip club,” Jeff said.  “My last moments should be spent with young, nubile bodies.”
     Nelson thought that was a good idea.  He’d never gone to a strip club in his life, but he knew that Jeff meant a male strip club, which wasn’t Nelson’s thing.  Instead, he went to a museum.  Probably not the most inspiring way to waste his last hour on earth, but it was better than nothing.  The paintings and sculptures didn’t do anything for him, though.  What did art amount to, anyway?  Everyone dies.  Things of beauty could never change that.
     He grabbed an unremarkable hot dog from a street vendor and washed it down with a tasteless diet cola.  Just another meaningless exchange in his life.  It would be, however, the last time he would give anyone money.
     Nelson arrived at the post office at noon sharp.  There was a long line, as predicted, and Jeff was already in it.  They made brief eye contact before looking away.  Just two strangers in line.
     The last line.
     Nelson saw the clock in the post office and chuckled when he saw it was three minutes fast.  It already said 12:10.  A glance at his watch showed the truth.  These people would all die without knowing the proper time.
     12:08.
     He moved further up in line.  An elderly man coughed wetly into a handkerchief.  A young woman chattered ceaselessly into her cell phone.  Two biddies gossiped about the neighborhood slut.  They all moved one minute closer to death, completely unaware of how trivial their final moments were.
     12:09.
     Nelson hoped everything would go in slow motion.  He wanted to see the package in his hands bloom with flames—-a death flower—-sending his fingers off in all directions like giant horseflies.  He wanted to feel every inch of his self-immolation.  He wanted his vision to fill with fire until his eyes evaporated in their sockets.  He wanted to see split-second desperation in all these victims’ faces as they realized they were about to die and could do nothing about it.
     He grinned, thinking this was what making a difference in the world felt like.
     His eyes locked with Jeff’s, and he was surprised to see fear in his compatriot’s face.  How could he not feel angry, exultant, and defiant all at once?
     “Hey everyone!” Nelson shouted.  His heart raced as he felt the seconds tick away to zero.  “Nelson Charles Ramey says FUCK YOU!”
     12:10.
     Nelson felt nothing.
#
     “Holy Jesus.  They did it.  They actually did it.”
     Tonya stared at the footage of the city post office exploding.  She watched as TV anchors tried to keep their composure while relating the news.  She watched officials making statements about how they were going to get the scumbags responsible.  Fox News already blamed Al Qaeda.
     Things calmed down later, when they started showing footage of Jeff and Nelson giving their speeches, their reasons for such a wanton act of murder and destruction.
     No mention of Orville, though.  Weird.
     Weird until she saw his photo on the news from an unrelated story.  The caption said his name was David Fischer, though, and he was wanted in connection to a high profile bank robbery that had taken place across the city from the post office, exactly at the same time as the explosion.  He’d gotten away with 10.8 million dollars.
     At first, this confused Tonya, but when she figured it out, she wanted to cry.  Instead, she stuck the cigarette she always fiddled with into her mouth and lit it.  She inhaled deeply and blew a plume of smoke up to the ceiling.
     Then, it dissipated and was gone.
THE END