GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #577: ANDOR

 

So when they announced Rogue One, I couldn't help but think, we don't need this shit. The story of how the rebels got the Death Star plans? Fuck that. But then I saw the movie, and it turned out to be pretty fucking good. In fact, it has the greatest ending to a Star Wars movie that isn't called The Empire Strikes Back.

And then they announced the show, Andor, based on the past of one of those characters from Rogue One. And I couldn't help but think, we don't need this shit. Fuck that. But in the end, I loved the show. It had a rocky beginning, and I almost checked out of the show, but around the middle it got really good, and by the end it had blown me away.

Star Wars has had a long history of saying fuck The Man. The evil empire needs rebels to take it down and give freedom and peace to everyone. Andor continues this tradition on a much starker level. There are no lightsabers and Jedi. Darth Vader does not make an appearance. This is all about rebellion and making The Man pay dearly for his widespread policy of oppression.

It's kind of weird when I see Star Wars fans siding with the government on a lot of things, especially when they're voicing their opinions in favor of oppression. People worry about the rail workers going on strike and ruining their day, for example. They want the government to stop that strike from happening by throwing those rail workers a bone instead of giving them what they need. I wonder if it ever occurs to them that they're encouraging a very real evil empire. I don't imagine they watch Star Wars because they agree with the Emperor.

It puzzles me even more that Disney allows this to happen. What are the biggest corporations in entertainment? Don't bother to Google it. Disney is number one with a bullet. You don't get to be that big without being in bed with the evil empire that rules you. Disney essentially is the Empire, and yet it's giving us this story about how important it is to rebel against the Powers That Be? Very strange.

Then again, these are strange times. But to quote a great man, "They always were."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #576: RIP NEGAN AND FRIENDS

 I was a fan of The Walking Dead for a long time before the show premiered. I knew the team of Kirkman and Moore before even the first issue came out. I was a huge fan of their previous book, Battle Pope, and at my first comics convention I bought a Battle Pope shirt off of them personally.

In case you're not familiar with Battle Pope

When I saw that they were putting a book out through Image about the zombie apocalypse, I got very jazzed. Bought it fresh off the press. The Walking Dead #1. I eventually got it signed by Kirkman and Moore. This was in the days just before the show started. Kirkman was easy to get. He wasn't even on the list of guests. He was just hanging out at the Image booth. I got to talk to him while waiting in line for Moore, who had been on the guest list. Our talk went so well that he gave me volume one of the Invincible omnibus for free. That's a hell of an expensive book, but it paid off. I got all the others in the series, too. Moore was a lot harder to get, and that's a story for another day because this isn't about the comics.

It's about the show. I remember when the first episode aired. It was a double episode, if I recall. I made it very clear to my girlfriend at the time that no matter what we did it would involve watching The Walking Dead. So we did. I loved the hell out of it, and after getting fabulously drunk and having lots of sex, we both passed out only to be woken up in the middle of the night by the replay. Specifically by the car alarm scene because I'd left the TV blaring when we passed out.

But after that first season the show had its ups and downs. A lot more downs than I would have hoped for. It got to the point where I was baffled by the writers because they weren't doing anything cohesive with this. If they found an opportunity to make a tangent, they would do so and follow it until they had no choice but to go back to the story. They lacked focus. But every once in a while they fired on all cylinders, and that kept me engaged.

And then they introduced Negan. They handled the end of his first episode poorly. His second went pretty well when he out-Neganed the comics Negan by killing Abraham and Glenn. That was pretty sweet. But Rick and his crew kept descending into madness and stupidity until I reached the point where I thought FUCK THEM. I want Negan to kill them all and take over the show.

And so Negan and Friends was born. And when I got tired of Fear the Walking Dead, I started calling it Where's Negan and Friends? But then it got really good and I started calling it The Adventures of Victor Strand in the Nuclear Zombie Apocalypse. And now it's going to be stupid again, so it's back to Where's Negan and Friends?

They really should have called Dead City Negan Lives, but what the hell. It will probably get bogged down by Maggie's bullshit, so I'm calling it Negan and Friend. The Daryl Dixon show? I won't bother. Maybe it will be Friend of Negan? Don't even ask me about the Rick and Michonne one. I have the least interest in that one unless Rick and Michonne die horribly in the first episode. It could be called Negan and Friends: Pee-Pee Pants City.

World Beyond? What's that?

PS:

PSS: This always makes me laugh.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #575: DEAD FISH

 When I first started my current job there was a fish tank at work. There were only two fish in it. One of them died months ago, but the other, a suckerfish, remained. After a while they got some new fish. Tiny ones. Mostly danios. A couple of them died over the months, and on Friday the suckerfish joined his friend in that fish tank in the sky.

But it wasn't removed from the tank until this morning. It had been in there for the weekend, and I had to wonder what that must have been like for the other fish. "Holy shit! Mike's dead! And he's, uh, sticking around, I guess. Maybe let's not swim too close to him." By the time I saw the fish today it had started to rot. It reminded me of Earl.

Over the years I've tried to keep things alive at my desk. I had Sea Monkeys at Conference Plus for many years, but I went on vacation once. I figured putting the office vegan in charge of keeping them alive would do just the trick, but she overfed them and killed all but three of them. I nursed those three back to health, and soon I had a tank full of the li'l fellas again. Until I went on vacation again, and another coworker knocked the tank over, killing them all.

I also had a spider plant that went with me from Conference Plus into the Arkadin years and then I took it to Call One with me. When I left Call One and entered into the Year of Fucking Not Working it died.

And then there was Earl. He was a little blue beta fish I had when I first started at Conference Plus. My friend who had referred me for the job got Earl for me as a cube-warming gift. She gave me food and stuff to clean the bowl, etc. And she said that these things were supposed to live for a long time with minimal effort on my part.

I did everything I was supposed to. I followed her instructions to a T. And you've probably already guessed what happened.

That's right. Soon Earl started swimming on his side. I'd tap the glass, and he'd straighten out, but eventually the day came when he didn't. I saw that he'd died late on a Friday. However, I had to be somewhere by 6:30 that night. I got out at 5, and it took me about an hour to drive from Schaumburg to Elmhurst. So yeah, I was in a hurry. I figured I'd give Earl his toilet funeral on Monday.

When I got back I saw that he'd rotted pretty quickly. He had moldy spots all over him, and his fins had fallen off. I took him to the bathroom and took him out of the bowl with his net. I wasn't about to just pour everything into the toilet. I wanted to keep the pebbles and the decoration for the next fish I planned on getting.

I took Earl to the toilet and flipped the net upside down. He did not fall out. I shook the net, and nothing happened. I flicked the back of the net, and he still stayed in there. It took a while, but he finally dropped out of the net and hit the rim on the way down. He left a blue Earl-shaped mark on the porcelain that was kind of disgusting. I wiped it off and flushed him.

And then I saw that there were blue drops on the tile behind me from the sink to the stall. I cleaned up the rest of Earl's remains and washed out the bowl.

But I didn't get another fish. I lost my heart for that kind of thing pretty quickly.

I currently have nothing alive on my desk except for the bugs that live in the office. There are many spiders and other things I can't identify. They have traps all around us, but the little fuckers still manage to get around. But I just don't have the heart to try to keep something else alive after all this time.

RIP Earl and that big suckerfish. His name might not be Mike. I don't know. I made that part up. But maybe Mike and Earl are together in the great beyond. Hopefully not in an office. If there's an office in the afterlife, then I'm probably going to be stuck there. I've spent the last 15 or so years hoping I don't die at work.

Poor bastards who do.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #574: LOW KEY THANKSGIVING

 This was the first Thanksgiving without Grandma. As a result it didn't feel like much of a Thanksgiving. She really kind of held the family together.

My aunt usually comes visiting from North Carolina, but she moved out to East Moline and decided not to come. My cousin and her husband and kid usually showed up, but this year they probably stuck to their own. My brothers in Crystal Lake haven't stopped by for a holiday in years. It was just me and my brother this year, and he slept through most of the day. I was left to my own devices.

I actually slept pretty late, myself. I'm usually up and out of bed by eight on my days off, but I slept to almost ten yesterday. I treated it like it was any other day off and did my usual shit. I didn't even eat turkey, but I made myself an excellent batch of spaghetti and meatballs. I'm really fucking good at that, and they were delicious.

So I'm pretty sure the time of family holidays are over for me. That's all right, I guess. Although it doesn't bode well for Christmas. I'm sure that's going to be another bummer.

I did miss drinking my usual handle of Wild Turkey 101, though. It was a rare Friday that I woke up with any memory of Thanksgiving, but I always enjoyed what I remembered.

GGMF to all who celebrated.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #573: FUCK BLACK FRIDAY

 I know I'm in the minority on this, but fuck Black Friday. If you've been around me for a while, this does not shock you. But I absolutely despise the naked greed of people who fight over stupid shit for a deal that really, in the big picture, isn't all that much of a deal. So here is my annual reminder to not give in to our corporate overlords. DO NOT GO OUT TOMORROW.

Do not camp out overnight at some store's doors. Do not give back all that money you make to the corporate scumbags you made it from. Do not resort to violence for stuff that you don't need. Don't do any of it.

And here's my entreaty to the corporate overlords: don't make your employees work on this day. Give them a fucking break. Let them stay home with their families. Let them take a day to do what they want to do, not what you want them to do.

I only ever worked retail one year during which Black Friday happened. Spoiler alert: I didn't work that day. Sears had a mandate, from the tippy top, that every employee must work Black Friday. I did not show up. I made it very clear to them that when they hired me, I could only work weekends. This was a supplemental job for my real job, where I made real money.

When I showed up for work the following Saturday the acting boss of the shoes department asked me why I wasn't there the day before. I told him exactly why. This isn't my real job, and if I lose it because fuck Black Friday, then so be it. I didn't tell him that I actually had the day off on Friday because, in case I haven't said it enough, fuck Black Friday.

I didn't get fired. I think it's because my boss felt doomed at that job, himself. Maybe he saw that I still had hope to escape the clutches of Sears. Now that Sears is gone I wonder what happened to him. It must have been a terrible day for him. I genuinely feel bad for him.

So yeah. Don't go out tomorrow. If enough of us stop doing this, Black Friday will stop being a thing. Let's make that happen.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #572: GI JOE #300

 

The final issue of GI Joe came out today. You may have noticed it wasn't The Best Comic Book of the Week. I have my reasons.

Back when I was a kid I read two comic books: The Transformers and GI Joe. Both series ended before their time, and now both have been finished decades later by IDW. I was very glad that both books came back, but the GI Joe one was better. It was great to see the adventures of these Joes in their neverending struggle against Cobra. Some months it dragged, but many months (especially recently) kicked ass.

I thought this might be the end of an era, and that was the plan going into this GF column for about a month now. But there is a reason why it wasn't the best this week. Because . . . well, I suspect it's not the end of the series. If you haven't read it, from this point on there are spoilers.

So the action continued heating up as Snake-Eyes, now "resurrected" by Dr. Mindbender and his lunatic experiments, sets about killing just about every bad guy on Cobra Island in the bowels of Cobra Casino. Meanwhile the other Joes are in a heated battle trying to save those who had been trapped during the resurrection of Serpentor in his new form, Serpentor Khan. And the battle keeps going and going, building into a fever pitch, and I genuinely had no idea how Larry Hama was going to tie up this entire story in just a few pages.

And then it became very obvious. Because the last panel says TO BE CONTINUED?

So yeah. If I had to guess, Hama still has a job. I'll bet he's working on the new Joe book for Robert Kirkman. This might be the last IDW Joe book, but I have a sneaking suspicion that Skybound's first Joe issue will be numbered 301.

I'm not complaining. This is a great story, and I'm glad I'll have more of it. But at the same time it was kind of a letdown that I didn't get the ending I was expecting. Then again, one of my rules is that you should never blame a piece of art for not being what you wanted it to be. So I guess that's on me.

I was originally going to call this The End of an Era. But I think I'll have to take my cue from Brian Pulido: The End is the Beginning . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #571: FOUR DAYS

 I used to look forward to this time of year. Since I started working office jobs in my late twenties, I have always gotten a miniature four day vacation when Thanksgiving rolls around. Four lovely days. Four days of sleeping in and forgetting that I was otherwise chained to a job that would forever haunt me. Four days of freedom. Of things I want to do instead of things I have to do.

I miss those years gone by. Well, in 2020 it didn't mean much to me because I was unemployed. In 2021 and now this year I work at a job that has very little concern for days off. We only get Thanksgiving Day off. That's it. And since it falls on a Thursday--my usual day off--it means nothing to me. Well, it means a little. I get holiday pay. But in all honesty I would rather have an extra day off, especially now since I don't have any vacation or PTO days and won't until 2023.

Maybe someday I'll know what that four day weekend feels like again. I have my doubts. But it would be nice.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #570: A NEW WAY IN

 So I'm working on this story, but I'm taking a much different approach. It's rare when I sit and think about what I'm going to write. Story comes naturally to me. Execution? Not so much. I know right away if something is going to be a short story, novel, etc. I know the POV right away. The tense. What it's about. The stuff that is going to happen. More often than not, I know how it ends. Most importantly, I know how it begins. Can't start without something that grabs the reader by the proverbial (sometimes) nuts.

CHAAAAAARGE!

I usually just sit down and charge, full speed ahead. Don't stop. If I fuck up, I fix it as I go. Sometimes I write myself into a corner, but then I can unfuck it pretty quickly. I do my best to have my first draft resemble the final draft fairly closely so that editing is mostly fine tuning, not reinventing the wheel.

This story is making different demands of me. I'm open to it. The story needs whatever it needs. That's my philosophy. So I had to actually sit and think about this one. I had the idea first. What kind of character should this be happening to? And what other characters do I need? Wait, the guy I thought was the protagonist isn't. It's this other guy over here. It makes more sense that way. But how do I let this guy know what's happening to the other guy? Because this story depends a lot on that other guy being alone for a lot of the story.

There is an object at the center of this story. Who did it belong to before this guy? What happened to that owner and why? Is it something to do with the previous owner? Of course it is. So how do I get my new protagonist to find out about that stuff? Especially since I'm basing it in the 'Nineties when the internet was in its infancy and Google didn't exist yet?

These are usually the kinds of things I think about when I go out for night walks, but I can't do those anymore because of my bad foot. Not unless I want it to be amputated sometime soon. Thankfully I have meditation, and that usually helps me find a new way in. 

I haven't gone so far as to have an outline. I'm not that crazy yet. But this is an interesting experience. Maybe someday you'll all read this story. Hopefully in a venue that will pay me a lot. We shall see.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #569: 37?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

 

Holy shit. I've been writing stories for 37 years. To give you some perspective, I'm 44 years old. That's right. I barely had enough of a conscious life before I decided that writing was what I wanted to do with my life. That's crazy.

I know it's been 37 years because my mom made me date my first story, and that goes back to this day in 1985. To give you an idea of how different the world was then, here is a list of things that happened in that year.

Calvin and Hobbes debuted.

Gorbachev became the leader of the USSR.

Coca-Cola introduced New Coke.

"We Are the World" happened.

Michael Jordan was the Rookie of the Year.

Nintendo was released in the US.

And if that's not enough, the price of gas was $1.09 per gallon. A house cost $22.1K. Monthly rent was $375.00. You could buy a brand new car for less than ten grand. And so on.

To quote a great man, "The world has moved on."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #568: HEALTH UPDATE

 I had two doctor visits today: one for my endocrinologist and one for my podiatrist. It was nice to get an update on how I've been doing, especially since it's my 125th day from booze.

My endocrinologist told me that my A1C is down! It was horrendous in March this year. A whopping 10. Not good. Now it's down to 7! It's getting to the point where I have low blood sugar incidents on occasion, which is fairly new to me. She wants to see if we can move away from insulin and stick to oral meds by the next appointment. It would be nice to stop stabbing myself four times a day.

My blood pressure is up, though. Not as bad as it was when I made ER doctors nervous but still. I'm sure my primary doctor is going to put my hypertension meds back up to a higher dosage when I see him next year.

The podiatrist is happy with the progress on the hole in my toe. It seems to be closing up, so maybe I won't lose this little piggy. He gets to keep eating his roast beef.

Now if only I can get this fucking tennis elbow to go away . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #567: SICK

 Here's a thing I miss about drinking. Whenever I started feeling sick, if I caught it just in time, I could drink the illness away. I did that for a good portion of my life, and as a result, I only ever got sick once a year, not counting pancreatitis and other organ issues. I'm talking about sneezing, coughing, congested, gimme some NyQuil sick. That one time a year would usually be around January or February.

So I've been sick for the last few days. I started feeling it a little on Friday, and it got worse over the weekend. I think I'm on the better side of it now, but it pissed me off. If I'd still been drinking like a fish I would have got it in time.

Does this mean I'm going to get sick like everyone else now? What the hell?

It made me long for the good ol' days of noticing a sneeze, maybe a runny nose, and then slamming a fifth of whiskey to make sure the germs didn't take hold. Those days were fun.

Yeah, there was a part of me that wanted to get a handle on Friday and take care of this like I used to. But Friday was my 119th day from booze. Today is #124. It would suck to top out now. I'm just going to have to suck it up, I guess.

And by it, I mean the Quils. DayQuil for work, NyQuil for home. I'm slightly high from cold medicine right now.

Bourbon would probably feel better. At least until tomorrow.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #566: WEIRD

 I came to Weird Al as many my age did: through "Eat It." And then a friend of mine played me "Nature Trail to Hell" and I knew I'd be a fan for life. So of course I had to watch Weird: The Al Yankovic Story. It's on Roku, so it's free if you want to wade through the commercials. I'm pretty sure this is the first thing I've ever watched on Roku. I loved the hell out of it.

If you're looking for the true story, you're in the wrong place. He's the greatest living parody song writer on earth, so why would he not parody his own life? Going on from here, we have some spoilers, so beware.

I love that it starts with the usual don't-do-that-crap-you're-going-to-be-famous-for-someday stuff from his dad to the point where he viciously beats the shit out of an accordion salesman. No, Al has to get a job at the factory where you don't get to know what they make there until you get the job. (He doesn't even find out when he does get the job!) Of course, guess what his father used to be when he was a kid? That's right, an accordion player. It tore his heart out, and he wanted to stop his son from treading the same waters. Oh yeah, and Mr. Yankovic grew up in, um, an Amish paradise . . .

Did you know that "Eat It" was the original song and Michael Jackson ripped him off with "Beat It?" Did you know that Al was in a torrid love affair with Madonna? Did you know that Al got the idea for "Like a Surgeon" when he was brought back to life in the ER after a vodka binge? Most importantly, did you know that Weird Al was assassinated live on stage by Madonna?

One of my favorite parts is when he comes up with "Another One Rides the Bus," and no one knows who the bassist for Queen is. Rainn Wilson as Dr. Demento and Jack Black as Wolfman Jack are astonishingly funny. And I love that Daniel Radcliffe continues his trend of doing batshit crazy things in his attempt to leave Harry Potter behind him.

Although I have one problem with this movie. When Al goes to kill Pablo Escobar, why on earth did they not put Radcliffe in the Rambo body suit from UHF?!?!?!?!??!!! Talk about a missed opportunity.

I got to meet Weird Al twice. Once was when he was on his Off the Deep End tour at Drury Lane, where I would eventually get a job selling season tickets to theater. The second time was for his children's book tour. He was at Anderson's in Naperville, and when I told him about that concert and said that it was odd to see people stage diving at that theater, and he said, "I didn't stage dive, did I?" No, he didn't. And he told me that was probably the last time he could have gotten away with doing something like that in his life. Seeing him live was a lot better than seeing Gallagher live. Weird Al is a classy act. Always has been, always will be.

Did you notice who the real Weird Al played in the movie? One of the Scotti Brothers!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #565: GALLAGHER

 

So Gallagher died.

My first memory of him was when my stepfather and I would walk to Nu-Time Video, which is loooooong gone now. I preferred Video Magic, but I was stuck with Nu-Time because my stepfather didn't want to drive across town. He would let me get something first, and then he would plant me in front of a row of VHS tapes. "Stay here," he said. He then went through the batwing doors into the back room where they kept the pornos. It just so happened that the videos I was looking at were of Gallagher's specials.

Eventually I tried them out. I was probably seven or eight at the time. Who cares about the talking parts? I was there to watch him fuck shit up with the Sledge-O-Matic. I thoroughly enjoyed that shit. I wanted to be in the front row with no tarp to pull over me. I wanted to bathe in the glory of all that filth.

Fast forward a whole bunch of years. I'm pretty sure this was either during that stretch of 2020 when I was unemployed, or maybe it was during 2021 and I was on sick leave at work due to one of my bouts of pancreatitis. I remember because it was the middle of the week, and I wasn't worried about going to work the next day. Whichever it was, I was at a forest preserve reading when a friend texted me to say that Gallagher was going to be in Bolingbrook, and I should come hang out.

What the hell? Why not?

It's the place that Tailgators in the Zimventures is based on. If you have even rudimentary Google skills, you can probably figure it out what place it is. I remember showing up. I didn't have money, so my friend paid cover for me and got me a drink. And then Gallagher came out.

Whoo-boy. It did not take him long to get into the racist shit. There was standing room only at that point, and my leg was killing me, but even if I didn't have that bad leg, I probably would have made some excuse to get away from that mess. I took my drink outside to the porch, and my friends came with me. Instead of listening to that garbage, we just hung out and got drunk instead.

I heard he eventually got to the watermelon-bashing, but by then I didn't care about it. After he'd finished I heard someone bragging about how she got some watermelon almost in her pussy. To be fair, Bolingbrook is an area that is a bit more aligned with the idea of racist comedy, so the fact that he was cheered was not surprising.

On the way out I saw a sign advertising Gallagher's appearance that night. It proclaimed him to be a "living legend." I pointed this out to my friend and made a jerk off motion.

So yeah. Now he's a dead legend. Oh! And you might have been wondering why I killed Gallagher in this part and this part of Zim Air! Yeah, that's why.

And another thing. Gallagher came to that gig with the idea that people were going to boo him for being racist. No one did, but he had his comeback ready anyway. "Oh come on! I'm old!" Welp. Not anymore.

If someone mentions Gallagher to me, this is who I think of now.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #564: OUT OF PRINT

When I changed my tactics in regards to promoting my work on social media, I noticed a few things. Naturally I always went to my own website for the links I post to Twitter and Facebook. There's just one problem.

More and more of my stuff is going out of print. It's the nature of the beast, of course, but I'm kind of surprised by how quickly those publications are vanishing.

Right now, as I write this, there is a bunch of stuff on my website that you can't buy anymore. It's irritating because it's not something I can fix then and there. I've been putting it off until I have enough time to do it properly. Time isn't my friend right now.

It could be worse. Imagine you're a writer, and you're going on the most popular podcast in the genre, and you will surely get a bump from this appearance, and when the interview starts, it's brought to your attention that your website has vanished.

That's what happened to me the second time I was on The Horror Show with Brian Keene. I tried to play it cool, but I went a little crazy in my head at that moment. I knew I wasn't behind on my payments. How the hell could it have happened?

I didn't get it resolved until I got back home, but I was fairly panicked in that moment. I was able to pull up the website itself, but all the different pages where the important stuff was, like links to where you can buy my books, had vanished. I don't recall what the issue was, as I was very drunk and angry when dealing with it, but I managed to get the issue resolved after a couple of nerve-rattling days.

I also remember during 2020, when I was at the worst point of my life, when I almost considered giving up on the website. That would have been sheer madness, but I found myself chipping away at the expenses until I had the bare minimum I needed to continue having that website. I was very, very close to not having any money at all. That would have truly sucked.

Maybe I'll have time to look at this on Sunday. I don't think I have anything going on then. Fingers crossed. In the meantime, feel free to peruse the site here.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #563: STEPHEN KING AND OBSESSION

 

I was in Anderson's not too long ago, and I broke my new rule about not buying any books. I'm moving soon, and I don't want to add to my burden. But I saw the book above on the shelf, and it occurred to me that I haven't read anything about King since, well, probably since he got hit by a van. And this book said it would talk about everything that happened after.

I thought, why not?

I used to obsess over a lot of things, and chief among them was Stephen King. I went out of my way to ravenously read everything he had available and a few things he didn't. I wasn't going to wind up stalking him like that guy from Finders Keepers, and I certainly wouldn't hold him captive like in Misery, but everything within reason? I would do.

I used to do this with a lot of things, and for some reason I stopped doing that. Maybe because there's just so much stuff out there nowadays. It's easy to overdose on stuff now. I blame the internet.

But it was nice to visit with an old friend. Bev Vincent is probably one of the biggest King experts currently on this planet, and he has access to a lot of very interesting things, which he showed us in this book. I very much enjoyed my time in this. It's neat that Fairy Tale was included, and I had my doubts that it would. But then, along the way, there are two mentions of a possible third book in the Jack Sawyer trilogy. It would have been nice, but if it happens, it will have to be without Peter Straub. It could work. King tried imitating Straub while writing The Talisman and Black House, so . . .

It's also interesting to see that King's next book will be about Holly Gibney. Well, a lot of things can change, of course, but it will probably happen. I'll bet it's going to be excellent. He's currently better than he's ever been right now. That will probably stick in a few craws, but I firmly believe that.

Funny story. One score and, like, a bunch of years ago my friend, Rob Tannahill, wrote and illustrated a few Stephen King stories using Beavis and Butt-Head as characters. The first of them was The Dork Half. So I decided to make photocopies and send it to Stephen King. I got a letter back from his assistant at the time saying that he enjoyed it a lot and was a huge Beavis and Butt-Head fan.

Fast forward to his Bag of Bones tour. I got to meet him, and I managed to ask him a couple of questions. First was for a paper I was writing for college. My thesis was essentially: Why is someone like Nathaniel Hawthorne taught to death in schools while current novelists (like King) are strictly ignored. It irritated me that I'd been taught The Scarlet Letter about four times throughout my academic career, and that's why I was writing this thing about canon. King's answer: "Because he's dead."

I'll bet that I'm the only one in that class who got a direct quote from one of his subjects in person.

The second question? I asked him if he remembered The Dork Half. He did. And then he did what I never expected to hear from him. He imitated Beavis and said, "Fire! Fire!"

It's a memory I will treasure for the rest of my life.

Sad story: Not long after I sent The Dork Half to Stephen King, there was a horrible accident that involved the loss of one of those pages. On a lighter note, if King kept his copy, he has the only complete copy in existence.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #562: YOU CAN ALWAYS GO FUCK YOURSELF

 So here's this thing that has always bugged me over the course of my current job. I haven't run into it at any other sales job because the things I was selling before were pretty singular. Books, for example. Or season tickets to theater. But there are a lot of options for the same auto glass. Many companies do that work.

The thing that bugs me? People who get offended at our prices. Especially if it's over, say, a windshield job that clocks in under $200 when most of the jobs are up in the $500 range. I'll be in the middle of quoting someone a price, and they'll whistle. Or they'll hang up. I get that, and I'm cool with that. But it's the others that get to me. The ones who say, "That's fucking outrageous." Or, "Does that come with a blowjob?" Or, "You're crazy if you think I'm paying that much for whatever."

So you're offended at our prices. Fine. I'm willing to negotiate where I can, but if you're going to be a dick about it, I'm much less inclined to help you. Plus I have about twenty people on hold who might be more receptive to our prices.

"Well, I got such and such a price from this other company!" is a retort I get often. Good for you, Chuckles. Buy from them. There isn't a law that says you have to buy from us. Stop wasting my time so I can help someone else who isn't going to be a dripping goat's penis.

I realize this might make me sound like an asshole, but I'd like to point out that these are things I think. When people are dicks to me, I double down on politeness. There is no fathomable reason why you should react like that when you're just shopping around, anyway. I'd much rather you rudely hung up on me. That saves me from talking to a brick wall, and it helps me move on to the next person on hold.

What could possibly be going through someone's head that they would react so poorly to me giving them a mere quote? Is it some form of self-entitlement? Some holier-than-thou kind of thing? "Dammit, I'm better than everyone else, so I deserve a better price?"

I've been laying off cannabis. For reasons. But my patience with the world is getting thin. I probably need to chill the fuck out.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #561: COLD SHOWERS

So a while back I was taking a shower, and when I went to turn off the water I heard a crack in the wall, and the water did not turn off. The handle felt loose, so I knew right away something was broken. I remember thinking, well fuck. How the hell do I fix this without involving a plumber?

Because I have no idea how much longer we have at this place. I'm expecting our eviction notice any day now. I predicted it would happen between Halloween and Thanksgiving. Once that happens, we'll have 30 days to get out of here. If we don't have much longer here, well, fuck the shower. Let it be the bank's problem.

I fixed the issue by doing something that has never been done, at least not in my memory. There is a tiny door that my brothers and I always jokingly called the door to It's lair. It's in the wall on the other side of the shower. I don't think anyone has ever, not even Gramps, opened that little door. It's to the point where we put a dresser there thinking no one would ever go in there. Guess who had to move the fucking dresser.

That's right.

And then I had to unscrew four screws, which was difficult because there isn't a lot of room to maneuver down there. Once I got through that, I had to pry the door open because at some point Gramps painted over the door. Thankfully he wasn't much of a painter, and I was able to get the door open. I half expected an army of spiders to come marching out all over my feet.

(Actually, I was sitting at the time, so they would have marched up the legs of my boxers and all over my junk. You're welcome for that inviting picture in your head.)

So every time I need to shower, I have to move the dresser, open the door and turn on the two spigots back there. Then, when I'm done, I turn them off and put everything back in its place. It sucked because when the faucet broke, it broke on the colder side of warm.

Fast forward to last week when the city shut off everyone's water on the block due to a possible lead contamination. The water has been back on for a while, but whatever they did caused further problems for me. The cold spigot works fine. The hot spigot does not. All the other water in the house works the way it's supposed to.

Which means I've been taking cold showers, and this will likely continue through the next month or so. My dick has crawled so far up into me that I can taste it on the back of my throat. I don't think it's ever coming down again.

I've taken to filling up a bucket of hot water from the kitchen sink to bring in there with me. I do the mad sprint through the cold water to get wet, and then I step out of the path of the water to suds up. Then I take a washcloth and dip it into the hot water to clean that off of me. When I'm done I pour the hot water over me, and any soap I still have left on me needs to be removed by the cold water. This has made this travesty bearable, but it will never be a good thing.

The bank really should reconsider letting us live here. There are electrical and plumbing issues all over the house. The ceiling on the second floor is soggy, so I'm expecting rain to start leaking through at any moment. Oh yeah, and the ceiling just under the second floor bathroom is soggy, so I expect the bathtub to fall through to the first floor at some point.

Maybe leaving this place will be a good thing. One thing I know for sure: the bank is going to regret acquiring this place. They're going to spend a lot more money fixing this place up than they can possibly imagine. I find comfort in that.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #560: 115

 The other day I could smell blood. That's a precursor of my seasonal nose bleeds. It happens every time we get a drastic change in weather. So I figured that since winter is coming, it might be time to visit my grandparents one last time before it starts to snow.

Today is my 115th day from booze, so yesterday was 114. Whenever I visit Gramps I take an airplane bottle of Jim Beam with me. I usually have one for myself, too, but times change. I went to the liquor store and bought one (1) of them. I asked for an airplane bottle. I was told that they're called shooters. The clerk wondered why I said airplane bottles, but after she thought about it, she figured it out.

I went out to the cemetery and visited with my grandparents. It was a nice day. Possibly the last nice day we'll have for a while. I sat cross-legged on the cold ground, and after maybe ten minutes I pulled out the Beam.

This time I remembered that I wanted to smell it before pouring it out on Gramps's side of the grave. I'd heard that recovering alcoholics can't stand the smell after a while, and I had my doubts because I always loved the smell of whiskey, bourbon in particular. So I took a whiff and nearly recoiled. Huh. So it *is* true.

I'm honestly surprised that I haven't had a drink since detox. I planned on drinking for my 44th birthday and then just . . . didn't. I also had plans to drink for Christmas, but the closer we get to the day, the more I realize I don't want to do it. Here's the kicker: I'm kind of scared to. Fear doesn't come easily to me, so it very much surprised me. I've felt pretty confident that I could just have one drink and be fine. Hell, maybe two, right? Three, tops.

But what if I decide, hey, I've come this far, why not four? I've always liked fives, so maybe I should bring it up another level. But I also like even numbers, so why not six? Did I have six already? Maybe I should take one more for good measure. Wow, I'm fucked up. Hell with it. I'm already this far gone. Might as well finish the bottle.

But it's good to know that I don't like the smell anymore. I can only imagine how horrible the taste would be now.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #559: THE FILMWALKS

Theater no more.

You may have noticed that a friend of mine, Rob Tannahill, has been doing readings of my work and posting them to YouTube. I've known him for many years. Holy shit, I think it's been 30 years. Anyway, he started up a blog recently, and it's pretty good. However, I think you should read this one before continuing here.

So yeah. I'm Bubba. And I remember Glam Kid, though I have no idea what he's been up to. I'm pretty sure I haven't seen him since high school. And I remember that walk, although I'm pretty sure we didn't see Wayne's World. I remember that night specifically because on the walk back to Rob's, Glam Kid had to take a piss behind what I think was a White Hen back then. As Rob and I waited, a stranger came up to us with a lost dog poster. He asked us if we'd seen a Rottweiler, which we had not. When Glam Kid came back it was in a slight panic because he'd heard our conversation, and as he stood by a dumpster with his dick in his hand, all he could think about was a Rottweiler running at him in the darkness and biting his junk off.

There were two Hillside theaters, and neither of them are still there. Oddly, they're both churches now. Rob's thinking of Hillside Square Theater, and you can see the church that's there now in the picture above. And the nearby office buildings he mentions didn't become office buildings. There's an old folks home there now, but the weed smoking and the ghost stories are accurate.

Oak Brook also had two theaters back then, but neither one of them is there anymore. Even weirder, there are two theaters there now, neither where the old ones were.

The wilderness we walked through to get to Oak Brook.

Rob's talking about Harger Road. It's a shame that it's no longer the wilderness it was back then. There's a forest preserve nearby where I go to read sometimes, but a lot of the woods we walked through on that road are gone, replaced by homes. There's even a home where you have to cross a bridge to get to it. It's technically not a moat, but if I lived there, it would be a moat. Luckily there is a small stretch of woods still there, and I occasionally drive down there if I'm feeling nostalgic.

I remember one winter night when we went back there and saw the flashing lights of a couple of police cars. Rob got super paranoid, and I had yet to learn a healthy fear of the cops. They were not there looking for teenagers to hassle, though. A car had skidded on the ice so badly it had flipped over and was on its side. The cops were too busy with real shit to bother us that night.

I do remember the night of Se7en very clearly, though. I know exactly why he tried the running jump. Even back then it was very difficult for a horror movie to get to me. Very few of them do. But the Sloth scene in Se7en did the trick, and Rob was very pleased that something had finally got to me. He wanted to run and do a pirouette around an old fashioned street light near a bench in sort of a victory move, like he was in Singin' in the Rain or something, and that's when he tripped and fell. Much hilarity ensued.

Although he does exaggerate my fame maybe more than a little. Having said that, though, I would have never imagined, at that age, that I'd be in the position I'm in now, and that is very cool. People read my books. Strangers read my books, which is even more surprising. A few name horror authors have read my books, which I think is the most impressive thing of all.

But even if those places are gone, I'm certain that he's right. Our ghosts cavort in those places, and the people who live there have no idea. Unless they catch a whiff of Rob's weed . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #558: BORN TO BE MILD PART 2

 When I was a kid I thought skateboarding was so cool. I wanted to learn how to do it, having no idea that my lack of balance would work against me in such an endeavor. After having discovered my stepfather's porn, the next thing that fascinated me was his skateboard. It was like none of the ones I'd seen at the time. It was very old fashioned and didn't look cool, but I wanted to learn how to ride it.

I made the mistake of expressing this to him. He flew off the handle and called me all kinds of names. "Crazy" and "stupid" were the least of them. He went on this tirade about how people who rode skateboards died at a young age, and their lives were miserable because their bones were broken all the time. I found it hard to believe because he clearly was a skateboarder at some point in his life. Why else would he have this old thing from the 'Sixties?

If that had happened now I would have held up a doll and asked him where the skateboard had touched him. I suspect that he had tried to be a skateboarder when he was a kid, and he failed miserably. Hard and often. I have no idea why he didn't just throw the fucking thing in the garbage.

But then? I bought it all and decided, no, riding skateboards was not worth the broken bones and other injuries that I would probably suffer. It was probably for the best. I think I've talked here before about how I "learned" to roller skate. That . . . did not work out well. I can't imagine how badly I would have fucked up skateboarding.

Yep. This rebel was born to be mild.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #557: THERE'S JUST ONE MORE THING

 OK, one more Halloween post, and I'm done. Jeez, I hear you say. For someone who doesn't care much about Halloween you sure write a lot of Goodnight, Fuckers about it. Yeah, I guess I do. But this will be it for now.

At work we have employee engagement activities once a month. This one was on last Friday, so it was Halloween themed. The first activity was a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey type thing. One of my supervisors gave me a blindfold, and I thought OH SHIT.

Why? Because having been a heavy drinker for decades I have lost my ability to balance properly. I never had a lot to begin with, but if I close my eyes--even dead sober--I lose my balance and risk falling flat on my face. At that point I hadn't had a drink in 100+ days, but from my understanding, once you lose your ability to balance in such a fashion, you never get it back.

Add to the fact that she was going to spin me around a few times while I was blindfolded? I fully expected this to end in a trip to the ER.

I gritted my teeth and hoped for the best. As soon as the blindfold was on, I felt my legs go to rubber. She then spun me around a couple of times, and I thought for sure I was going to turn into a puddle. But then she said go, and I walked forward with both arms out. It was a sticker, not a needle, so I had that going for me. I surprised myself by making it to the board. I even managed to put the sticker on the board. Nowhere near where it was supposed to go, naturally, but I got it there.

Not bad. Maybe that sense of balance isn't as far gone as I thought it would be. I wouldn't put too much faith in that, though. I still have a bad foot, and it was like walking with a shoe made of Jell-O.

THE TROUBLE-SHOOTER: EXECUTIVE ORDER by John Bruni

 If you've never read "The Trouble-Shooter: Gender Studies," the first in this series, you might want to do so here. In this world there is a ticketing system for people dissatisfied with the way the world runs. For example, in that story a woman is sick and tired of being pushed around by sexists, so she reports this one asshole to the Trouble-Shooters, and they work on resolving the issue. The punishment usually fits the crime in such a way that the victimizer winds up having to see the world from the victim's point of view.

So here we have "The Trouble-Shooter: Executive Order." I don't think you'll have to stretch your imagination to figure out who the victimizer is in this situation. The reason I'm posting this is that I wrote it during the 2020 election, and when a certain dipshit lost I felt I no longer needed the world to see it. But said dipshit might be running again in 2024, and the midterms are coming up next week. So maybe the world does need to see it. Anyway, there are some pretty grim scenes in this. Reader discretion is not just advised but probably mandatory. To quote Frankenstein, "Well . . . we've warned you."

THE TROUBLE-SHOOTER: EXECUTIVE ORDER 

By John Bruni 

 

The President of the United States rolled off of her, breathing heavily. His hair—a giant comb-over on TV—lay askew, showing off his mostly bald pate. He wiped his mushroom head with a tissue and stood, putting on his pants. 

“You were terrific,” he said. “My lawyer will pay you off. I’m heading to the office. I know, I know. Having sex with me is the greatest experience of your life. You might need some time to get yourself together. I would appreciate it if you’d be gone in an hour.” 

He shook his head to one side, and his comb-over slid magically back into place. He went to the mirror and put on his red tie. Moving his head side to side, he admired his face. “Maybe I should hit the tanning bed.” 

He left, and Monique Baker sighed with relief. She could finally let out her tears. They flowed so swiftly they wet the pillow case through entirely. Her body shook with revulsion. This hadn’t gone as she had expected. 

She was a reporter for her college paper, and she’d been lucky enough to score an interview with the president. She suspected she’d gotten it due to her extraordinary beauty. It opened a lot of doors for her, and it also left people—men, mostly—vulnerable to her. None of them expected her to have much of a brain. She used it to her advantage and had hoped to get the president to say something stupid. 

She had not expected to be raped by the most powerful man in the world. 

She wanted to wash him out of her. The thought of going to the police occurred to her, but they wouldn’t believe her even if she had DNA evidence. When powerful men want something, “accidents” happen to people who stand in their way. Besides, she didn’t want everyone to know what had happened to her. She didn’t want people leering at her, suggesting that she had it coming, or she shouldn’t have gone into the president’s suite alone. 

But she had to do something. Sobbing, she picked up her phone and went to the Trouble-Shooter’s app. There was an anonymous option, so she selected that. She filled in the blanks and hit send. Only then did she shuffle to the bathroom. 

# 

A notification dinged, and the Trouble-Shooter checked the queue. A new ticket had been submitted. He assigned it to himself and opened it up. He read the comments. 

An anonymous report on the president? It happened all the time. Nothing usually gets done because it was almost always bullshit. People wanting to bitch. Most of these went into the circular file. 

This was a rape, though, and the Trouble-Shooter always took this kind of thing very seriously. He checked a few things and was able to confirm that the anonymous report had been made within property owned by the president. He gained access to the security cameras and watched as the person showered, crying as she scrubbed vigorously between her legs. 

Circumstantially it checked out. The Trouble-Shooter couldn’t make the call on this, though. He had to go to the big boss. 

The Trouble-Shooter marked himself as “in a meeting” and headed for the elevators. He took one up to the top of the building and approached Mavis Stark’s desk. 

“Hello Mavis,” the Trouble-Shooter said. 

“Look at you!” Mavis said. “I don’t see you much these days. How are you?” 

“Fine. I actually have to get Caleb Malcolms’s approval on something. It’s pretty urgent.” 

“Okay, let me check his schedule.” 

“It’s about the President of the United States.” 

Mavis rolled her eyes. “Another one?” 

“This one’s pretty big. It’s a rape charge, and so far it checks out.” 

“Okay.” Mavis closed her eyes, and they moved violently beneath the lids, as if she were locked into a REM experience. She opened her eyes. “You may proceed.” 

The Trouble-Shooter thanked her and ducked into the rear office. From there Mavis buzzed him into the main room. 

Caleb Malcolms floated in a tank of whatever solution it was that kept him alive. A skinny runt of a man, he’d been born without all five senses to a mother exposed to radiation tests back in the ‘Fifties. She didn’t know what to do with him, so she dumped him in a river. Somehow he survived. The Trouble-Shooter thought that perhaps being born without sight, scent, hearing, taste and touch helped him evolve unheard of abilities. He guessed this because he knew for sure that Caleb Malcolms was a telepath. 

“Proceed,” Caleb Malcolms said inside the Trouble-Shooter’s head. 

The Trouble-Shooter’s eyes closed, and he could feel something probing his brain. It was an unpleasant suppurating feeling. It felt like someone sucking at his brain like he was a fast food soda. 

It retreated. “You have no plan.” 

“Not my department,” the Trouble-Shooter thought. 

“Fair enough. You seek my approval?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“You have it.” 

The Trouble-Shooter felt his brain invaded again. Information flooded into his head as Caleb Malcolms downloaded procedures for punishing someone of such high stature. 

“Thank you,” the Trouble-Shooter said. 

“Keep me apprised. And when you’re done, I want to see the vice-president.” 

“Understood.” 

“Dismissed.” 

The Trouble-Shooter backed out of the office and took the elevator to his floor. There he put himself back into “ready” and filled out a form with his notes. He entered Caleb Malcolms’s validation code and sent it off to Action. He smiled, wondering how this would be handled, eager to find out. 

# 

Secret Service Agent Joe Norton opened his door, surprised to find Dennis Fariolla on his doorstep. Dennis grinned, his mustache highlighting it, and he held a package that looked suspiciously like a bottle. 

“Joey!” Dennis said. “How ya’ doin’? Long time.” 

“Hey Dennis,” Joe said. “What can I do for you? Come on in.” 

Dennis stepped past him into the Norton family room. Mrs. Norton watched TV while two kids played with toys on the floor. Dennis introduced himself with a jovial inflection. 

“Let’s go to my office,” Joe said. 

They went to the back of the house, where Joe closed the door and indicated a chair with his hand. Dennis sat and held out the package. “For you,” he said. 

Joe took it and unwrapped it, discovering a twenty-year-old scotch. “My favorite. Thanks, Dennis!” 

“Sure thing, pal. It’s the least I could do, considering why I’m here.” 

“So it’s finally happened?” Joe asked. 

“And it’s gonna be on your watch.” 

Joe blew out his breath in what he hoped would bring relief. It did not. “Tony does that shift with me. What about—?” 

Dennis held up a hand. “I already visited Tony. He’s on board.” 

Joe nodded. “Understood. Drink?” Holding up the bottle. 

“Nah, I’m in a hurry. Remember the protocol for this kind of thing?” 

“Like the back of my hand.” 

“Good.” Dennis stood and shook Joe’s hand. “Thanks for making this easy.” 

“Thanks for the scotch.” 

They said their goodbyes, and as soon as Dennis got back into his car, he updated the ticket. He then texted the Strike Team so they knew everyone was on the same page. 

# 

Joe met up with Tony in the White House locker room. They nodded to each other as they got dressed and armed for the job. The silence between them felt awkward, like maybe one had fucked the other’s wife. 

Finally: “Hey Tony. Dennis visit you last night?” 

Tony gave a nervous chuckle. “You, too, huh?” 

“It’s pretty crazy.” 

“About time, you ask me. All the shit we’ve seen him do? His alt-right minions would be sick at themselves.” 

“True. You ready for this?” 

Tony held up the syringe. “You’d better believe it.” 

“Let’s do this.” 

Both Secret Service agents walked through the corridors of the White House to the Oval Office, where POTUS sat at the famed desk, tiny fingers working at his phone. Five would get you ten that he was on Twitter, as usual. 

Ted and William, two other agents, nodded from behind the president and moved to make way for their replacements. The president didn’t even acknowledge the changing of the guard. 

They waited until Ted and William left, then gave it a little more time. Joe was about to give the signal when the president turned around. 

“John. Tommy. I’m expecting a visit from one of those broads today. You know the ones. They’re on TV all the time. I can’t tell ‘em apart.” 

Neither agents even considered correcting the president on their names. 

“Make sure she gets up here without a problem. If that ni . . . uh, n-word is with her—what’s his name?—make sure he gets distracted. I’m planning to lay a bit of presidential pipe, if you know what I mean.” 

Using the phrase “the n-word” in such a way surprised Joe. Nothing should have by this point, but this POTUS, unlike any others he’d served under, seemed full of surprises. “Understood, sir.” 

The president turned back to Twitter. Joe looked at Tony and gave him the sign. Tony jabbed the needle into the back of the president’s neck, hitting the plunger immediately. 

The president barely noticed as he slumped forward on the desk. 

Joe made the call to Dennis. “It’s done.” 

“Beautiful, Joey. You done good.” 

Joe and Tony backed away to let the Strike Team take over. They secured the president and secreted him away through the subterranean corridors beneath the White House. 

# 

Bill O’Hanrahan wheeled the president into Raj’s private hospital room. Despite being loaded up on Raj’s special sleepy juice, the president was bound tightly to the stretcher. 

“Got a delivery for you, Raj. Your wildest wet dream come true.” 

“I heard,” Raj said. He approached the president with a clipboard, which had a tablet on it. He double-checked his information, then looked at his new patient. “Wow. It really is him.” 

“On a silver platter.” 

Raj cocked his head to the side, smiling. “More or less.” 

“What are you gonna do to him?” Bill asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

“Bullshit. I bet you’ve fantasized about this moment since the inauguration. You’ve got all sorts of ideas.” 

“Well . . . maybe.” 

Bill sighed. “Have it your way, Doc. He’s all yours.” 

Bill left, and Raj continued to smile. He did have quite a few ideas. Usually the punishment fit the crime, but he didn’t think it was a good idea in this case. Two rapes did not make a right, at least not in Raj’s book. In a case like this it would be too unimaginative. Considering all the horrible things the president had done in his time in office, the punishment had to be bigger. 

Raj changed the president into a hospital gown and attached an IV of his sleepy juice. 

The operation took four hours. He didn’t need to do much—just tweak a facial feature here and there. The difficult part would be the formula for skin pigmentation. He needed to expose the president to it for a month, or it would fade after a couple of days. Raj took a great deal of pleasure in watching the president’s skin go from a trashy orange to a rich brown. Raj let him grow a mustache for an enhanced effect. 

# 

A month later the president opened his eyes, wondering if he’d drifted off to sleep in the Oval Office again. He hoped he hadn’t missed the chance to fuck what’s-her-name. He wanted to ever since he saw her porno, the one produced by her mom. 

No, wait. He was on his back. In a hospital bed? What the fuck? His doctor said he was fit as a fiddle. He couldn’t possibly— 

Did he have a heart attack? Oh shit. That meant his vice-president was acting president. That guy was a Jesus freak. What was he doing to the president’s America?! 

Then he saw the man in the white lab coat. “What happened to me, Doc? How long have I been here?” 

“About a month,” Raj said. “You’ve undergone serious surgery. How do you feel?” 

“Like shit.” The president noticed his brown hands. “Oh God. What did this? Am I going to live?” 

“You will. But . . . well, perhaps you should see for yourself.” Raj handed the president a mirror. 

The president grabbed it like he owned it, holding it up to his face. Shock registered immediately, and he couldn’t breathe. His eyes bugging, his mouth open, the president finally drew in air. “You turned me into a fucking spic!” 

Raj clicked his tongue. “I think you’ll find the term ‘Hispanic,’ or maybe even ‘Latinx,’ will be more favorable than that racist word.” 

“What the fuck?! How . . . why . . . fuck you, sandnigger!” 

“Monique Baker,” Raj said. 

“Who the fuck is that?” 

“Hm. Interesting. You raped her, and you don’t even remember her name.” 

“The college broad? She was asking for it. I grabbed her by the pussy, and she melted in my hand.” 

“Wow. You have no idea how awful you are. You’re completely unaware of yourself.” 

“I’m a very important man,” the president said. “I don’t have time for this. Fix my face, or I’ll sue you for all you’re worth.” 

Raj smiled. “No.” 

It was a word the president didn’t hear often. It confused him. How dare someone say it to him? Only he could say it to others when trying to win at the Art of the Deal. 

Raj liked the sensation of saying no to the president, so he said it again. “No. Now it’s time for beddy-bye.” He hit the sleepy juice, and the president slumped into unconsciousness. It wasn’t Raj’s finest work, but it was certainly his most satisfying. 

He entered his notes into the ticket and handed the president over to Transportation. It gave him great pleasure to close this one out. He sent off a message to the front line, notifying them of the resolution. Then it was back to the business-as-usual tickets. 

# 

When the president opened his eyes, he found himself squinting into a scorching-hot sun. He shaded his eyes against it as he sat up, looking around. All he saw was desert for miles. Somehow he felt like this wasn’t an American desert. It felt like . . . 

“I’m in fucking Mexico,” he muttered. 

“¿Necesitas ayuda?” 

He turned, surprised to see the group of Mexicans he’d missed the first time around. The man who spoke to him wore a cowboy hat and boots and a thick brush mustache under his nose. He looked sweaty and tired. Probably hadn’t showered in a month. 

“What did you say to me?” the president asked. 

The man, confused by hearing English from an obviously brown man, repeated himself. 

“This won’t do,” the president murmured. He said, “I don’t speak Mexican.” 

The man stared back at him. 

Fuck. Maybe if he tried louder? “I don’t speak Mexican! I’m an American! You have to speak English if you’re going to talk to me!” 

Some of the people behind the man chuckled. The man did not. He latched onto the word “American.” He smiled.  

The man said,“¡America! ¡Vamos a America!” 

“Yes. I know. I’m great, and my country is great. The best in the world. I should know. I know it’s hard to tell through this brownface—which I think is very distasteful and rude—but I’m the President of the United States.” He held out both hands as if expecting applause. 

He got laughter instead. Even the man broke down at that one. The president didn’t understand, but he smiled serenely at them. He knew he killed in America, but it was nice to know he could kill south of the border. 

“Are you going to America?” he asked. 

“Sí.” 

“You really shouldn’t. There’s a wall there. It’s huge. You’ll never get around it. It’s the best wall, really. There are also soldiers there. Good soldiers. The best.” He brought his hand across his front, fingers tented out like he was holding a pencil. 

“Vamos a America,” the man said. 

“Where is America, anyway?” He looked up at the sun, as if it could help him. Did it rise from the east or west? He could never remember that one. 

“Vamos a America.” The man rejoined his people and walked away. 

The president followed. He figured he’d work something out with the border guards. His family would vouch for him. It would be nice to see his wife’s tits again considering how much he’d paid for them. What were the names of his kids again? He knew one because he’d named the kid after himself, but the others? He drew a blank. 

The walk lasted several days, all of it miserable. The Mexicans shared their food and water, but he never got enough. As a white man the president felt entitled to more, but he never got it. He promised to himself that he would turn on the Mexicans when they got to the border. 

He hadn’t walked this long in . . . ever. Sweat sheened his body, and his muscles ached. Didn’t they have limos in the desert? 

They crossed the border into Arizona without even knowing it. They got almost a mile into America when an H2 came out of the dust and screeched to a halt. Four guys in civilian armor and wraparound sunglasses jumped out, hooting and hollering like frat boys around a passed out woman. 

“Woo-wee! Looks like the caravan finally fuckin’ showed up!” 

“Look at them assholes! Think they’re gonna get our jobs? Our healthcare? Hell no!” 

“Murderers and rapists.” The one who said this spat into the sand. 

“Gentlemen,” the president said, “I appreciate your vigilance in these dark times.” 

“Well, well, well! This one talks American!” 

“La-dee-dah!” 

“You don’t understand. I’m the President of the United States. I’ll need you to—” 

“Fuck this wetback,” one of the men said. He drew a handgun from his holster and fired two shots into the president’s considerable center mass. He dropped dead, never to finish his final executive order. 

“Damn, Hank! You ain’t fuckin’ ‘round!” 

“That was awesome, dude!” 

“Can’t have no wetback talking shit about my president.” He spat again, this time on the president’s corpse. 

“What about them?” A man pointed to the backs of the fleeing Mexicans. 

“Fuck ‘em. They had their taste of America. We won’t see ‘em again.” He paused, drawing a survival knife. “How do you boys think about me scalping this guy?” 

# 

The vice-president never liked seeing Caleb Malcolms. Creeped him out each and every time. He hated the telepathy most. Knowing that someone existed who could read his thoughts was absolutely horrifying. He had too many secrets, and if they were known everyone would think him a hypocrite. His political life would be over. 

But he had to do this. To refuse Caleb Malcolms was to invite suicide. 

“Hello, Mr. Vice-President,” Caleb said in his mind. 

“Hello,” the vice-president said. 

“This might startle you, but I’m about to download some important information into your mind.” He then shoved everything in Monique Baker’s ticket into the vice-president, who grimaced like he had brain freeze. 

“Jesus God!” the vice-president said. “You killed the president?!” 

“Thereby making you the president.” 

“Holy fuck.” The vice-president blinked and suddenly smiled. “I’m the president of the United States! Wait ‘til I tell Mother!” 

“Just remember this,” Caleb said. “No one is above the rules. Not even the president. Especially not the president.” 

The vice-president felt his guts tighten and chill. 

The twisted visage of Caleb Malcolms almost smiled. “Good luck, Mr. President.” 

# 

The Trouble-Shooter checked on the president’s ticket, and he was pleased to see how it all turned out. He smiled when he saw that Caleb Malcolms himself put the final notes in the ticket. He found Monique Baker’s email—even though it was, in theory, supposed to be anonymous—and sent her one final message. After he copied and pasted this into his notes he permanently closed the ticket. 

# 

Monique watched as the vice-president was sworn in as the new president on TV. No one knew where the previous one had gone. With any luck, he was in a shallow grave somewhere. She liked to hope that her anonymous ticket had something to do with it, but her ego would never allow her to accept this. 

And then the email dinged on her phone. It was from Trouble-Shooters. She didn’t wonder how they knew about her if it was supposed to be anonymous. Instead she felt an overwhelming urge to read it. 

When she did, she couldn’t help but smile. 

THANK YOU FOR USING TROUBLE-SHOOTERS 

FOR ALL YOU TROUBLE NEEDS. 

HAVE A GREAT DAY! 

THE END