GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #716: PAGE NUMBERS

 

In one way I'm lucky. In another way I'm not. To address the first, 99.9% of the people who read my books love them. To address the second, not a lot of people pick up my books. So not a lot of people have read my new book, Trail of Blood, but those who have love the shit out of it.

But everyone who read the book has one complaint, and it's the same for everyone. They all ask, "Where are the page numbers?"

I have a thing about page numbers. I don't want readers looking at them, wondering how much longer they have to go before the chapter is done. Or the book is done. If they're asking that question, then I'm not doing my job well enough.

So when I put together my first print book on my own (with only Luke Spooner's help for the cover art), I decided to not number the pages. Wow, did that backfire on me. Okay, okay, I hear you. The next book I do all on my own will have the fucking page numbers. Jesus God in Tromaville.

I'm not going back to add the numbers to this one. I already went through three hells getting that book out into the world. But for the others forthcoming? Yeah, yeah. You'll get your page numbers.

*sigh*

TOY CRIME STORY PART 5

 

CHAPTER FIVE

They all listened as Wally and Mimi returned. The two of them said nothing as they removed their jackets, put down the purse, put the car keys on a hook by the door. They went their separate ways after that. Mimi went to the downstairs bathroom, and although she tried to be quiet, the toys could hear her subdued sobs.

Wally went to his den, and when he came back he held a bottle of scotch. He thumped up the stairs and paused just outside Joey’s room.

Shit, Nightbeat thought. I forgot to open the door again. Hopefully he doesn’t notice.

Wally opened the door and shuffled into the room, casting his gaze around at all the toys on the floor. He stepped around them and sat on Joey’s bed. Angel was up there, and Wally picked him up, looking at him.

“God, Joey,” Wally whispered. He set Angel aside and popped the cork on the scotch. He took a long deep swallow and blew his breath out, grimacing. “What the fuck am I going to do? How could this have happened?”

He took another heavy drink and started to sob. His hands went to his eyes, covering them from no one.

“Joey,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there. Please. Please. Can you ever forgive me? I beg of you.”

Another swig of scotch. And again.

How long is he going to sit there? Nightbeat thought. He itched to move even at the cost of exposing himself to Wally. The investigation had him by the throat, and he knew he had to get working. The longer he stalled, the colder the case became. He had to find a way out of this.

It never occurred to him how nasty these thoughts were.

Mostly he hoped that Mimi would come up here. He didn’t know why. She had to be in a similar state, and she seemed to bear some animosity toward her husband due to Joey’s death. Maybe it was his quick acceptance of it, no matter how much grief they were both in.

An hour passed. Wally talked to his son not just like he was trying to conjure up his spirit, but as if he already had. For all Nightbeat thought, Joey’s specter probably hovered in front of his father’s pale and stricken face.

Wally drank more and more until he was three-quarters through the bottle. Then and only then did he set the bottle aside. He turned so he could lie down on the bed, his head on Joey’s pillow. He inhaled deeply as if trying to get some impression of his son. He closed his eyes, muttering to himself under his breath. In his sleep he kept saying Joey’s name over and over again.

Nightbeat thought it might be safe to move, but he didn’t dare do it. No matter how drunk Wally was, there was no telling when his eyes might inch open. Who knew what his reaction would be like upon this horrifying discovery that Joey’s toys were alive when his son wasn’t?

It turned out that this decision had been a solid one. Moments later, the door widened and Mimi stepped in. She took one look at her husband, and Nightbeat thought she might have been irritated with him or disgusted. Maybe she’d wanted to come up here to luxuriate in her memories of Joey, but instead she’d found this miserable fucking drunk in her son’s bed.

She retreated, and Nightbeat could hear her in the upstairs bathroom, unhooking the medicine cabinet. The rattle of pills. The faucet for just a moment. And, undoubtedly, bliss at having the pain taken away if only for a brief period.

Wally snored, and Nightbeat glanced up at him. He saw dark movement behind Wally, but he couldn’t tell what it was. It became apparent a moment later: Cat slithered out of the darkness and onto Wally. He lapped gently at Wally’s tears, grinning. The tears of the grieving must be very satisfying to that bastard.

Time passed, and Nightbeat knew both Wally and Mimi were deep in their self-medicated slumbers. He didn’t think he could hold back any longer. He needed to see the crime scene. He needed help, though. He crawled like a soldier under barbed wire until he found Angel. The vampire puppet played dead.

“Hey,” Nightbeat whispered.

“Go away,” Angel said. Though he took his booze through blood, he still stank of whiskey.

“I need your help,” Nightbeat said. “I need to see the crime scene.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Angel said. “You’d get caught.”

“Not with your help.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stand guard for me,” Nightbeat said. “All you gotta do is sit by the door. If you see Wally start to wake up, or you hear Mimi approaching, just make some kind of sound as a warning. I’ll take care of it from there.”

Angel finally moved, if only to glance at Nightbeat. “What if Wally notices I moved?”

“Come on,” Nightbeat said. “He drank almost an entire fifth. The guy has no tolerance. He’s a two-beer guy, and that’s only on Friday, maybe Saturday, too. He’s so plastered he wouldn’t know dick about it.”

Angel stared at the ceiling for a while, turning his head back and forth as if weighing the pros and cons. Finally: “Okay. I’ll stand watch. But that’s all, all right?”

“Deal,” Nightbeat said.

Both of them crept up to the door, and Angel took up his position. Nightbeat nodded to him as he carefully stepped out into the hallway. He looked back and forth and decided it was okay to stand. He knew which floorboards creaked, and though he was too small to set them off, he avoided them just to be safe.

Traversing the stairs was a bit difficult. Due to his height he had to lower himself down each step as quietly as he could. When he got to the bottom, he glanced around. It didn’t take him long to find the puddle of blood. No one had bothered to clean it up yet. Nightbeat saw that it had not been an arterial injury due to the lightness of the stain. No spray, just leakage. If it was an accident, it was very coincidental that Joey landed in just such a way that he would die instantly.

From this vantage point, he looked back up the stairs, seeking anything that might be out of place. Halfway down he saw a scuff mark that continued down each step. He thought it might have been made by Joey’s head. It implied in his mind that Joey had been thrown down the stairs and only hit halfway down. He wasn’t a forensic specialist, but it felt right in his detective’s heart.

Murder, sure enough. But who did it? Why?

“Hey!”

Nightbeat looked up the stairs. He recognized the whisper as Angel’s. That could only mean one thing. Nightbeat jumped to the side of the stairs and hid himself in the nook between the step and the wall.

Footsteps thumped on the stairs. They were labored and uneven. Nightbeat thought it had to be Wally. A moment later he saw Wally’s lean form stagger into the kitchen, probably looking for something to kill the hangover. Or maybe he was still drunk. Nightbeat thought now might be a good time to sneak up the stairs and play dead in Joey’s room.

Unfortunately, he had to jump to get onto each new step. It took a lot of energy out of him, and he was grateful when he finally rolled himself up over the top step. He lay on his back, staring exhausted at the ceiling.

“Uh . . .”

Nightbeat whipped his head up and saw Mimi staring at him. Oh shit. She had obviously seen him move. Was it too late to play dead?

She rubbed her eyes and shook her head, and Nightbeat thought she might believe she’d hallucinated. He stopped moving just as she looked back down at him. She stared for a while and then nudged him with her foot. Nightbeat didn’t move a centimeter.

“Huh,” she said to herself. She bent down to pick up Nightbeat, and she looked at him closely. “I must be fucked up.” She unceremoniously tossed Nightbeat into her son’s room. He landed flat on his back on the carpeted floor, no worse for the wear. He caught a glimpse of her moving down the stairs. He heard a distant conversation between husband and wife, but he couldn’t tell what they said.

“Did you find something out?” Angel whispered.

Nightbeat nodded. “I wasn’t entirely sure it was murder before. Now I know it’s murder.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“I don’t know. Yet. I’ll have to continue the interviews later. Why? You suddenly interested?”

Angel shrugged. “Just want to be in the know.”

Right. Nightbeat figured he’d done enough for today. He relaxed and let slumber take him. He had a big day planned for tomorrow.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #715: NEVER HAVE I EVER

 Short one tonight. Also, I'm posting this a little early because, as a birthday gift to myself, I took tomorrow off from work, thus giving me a full weekend. I'm going to take advantage of this by getting MEGAHIGH tonight. I anticipate not being able to put together two words much less a sentence.

Have you ever heard of the game Never Have I Ever? It's a drinking game. The idea is to have a group of people. The more, the merrier. One by one, each person says, "Never have I ever," and then they mention something that they've never done. If anyone else *has* done the thing, they drink. I've never seen the end of such a game, so I can only assume that the last person standing wins.

There are two songs that I would love to play that game with. Admittedly, the conceit of the songs is that the people performing actually have done those things, but I'm willing to turn a blind eye to that rule. Of course playing this game might be more entertaining if we did it in the UK and south of the Mason-Dixon in the US, respectively. Those songs are:

"So What?" by the Anti Nowhere League

and "Redneck Shit" by Wheeler Walker, Jr.

For the record, I'm not doing a lot of drinking during the former. I've been a lot of places, and I've had a lot of alcohol. I've had scag and speed. I've had a fair amount of sex, but "this" and "that" implies objects, and to the best of my memory I've only had sex with people. So it doesn't count. So four drinks. Five if we go with Metallica's version which says the clap instead of the pox. As for the latter song, I'm having five drinks. Guess which ones . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #714: I WANT TO BELIEVE

 I'm a sucker for aliens, and seeing as how UFOs (or whatever they're calling them these days) are big in the news right now, it's kind of cool being me for a little bit. For the record, I do believe in aliens. As to whether or not they've visited us? I'm up in the air on that. I'm pretty sure they haven't. But it's starting to look like I might have been wrong about that last part.

My favorite podcast, hands down, is Hardcore History, and I get Dan Carlin's Substack. In the most recent one he talks about aliens. It's a weird topic for him if you've listened to as many HH episodes as I have. And it took me a while for me to realize why he was talking about aliens and UFOs, etc. And it really blew my mind because I'd never thought about it like that before. Here's the passage I'm talking about:

For me, I have my own pet hope if the big alien reveal happens in my lifetime. If extraterrestrial life is real, and if it has indeed been visiting our planet for a very long time, they likely are going to know more about our history than we do. They might have the equivalent of photos, or hi-definition videos of major planetary events. Their “History of the Earth” files would answer questions about our past that we didn't even know to ask. They might even have the capabilities that would allow us to travel back and see the long-gone people and events from centuries or millennia ago. Of course this sounds like the most ridiculous, crazy science fiction fantasy imaginable. Which is why it might blow our minds if in the near future it wasn't science fiction anymore.

HOLY SHIT! The thought that aliens might have footage of our history that WE don't even have makes me feel like this guy right now:

Dammit, Oppenheimer! Not again!

What if the aliens were there on the day Jesus got crucified AND they have video of it? What would you give for hi-def video of the CIVIL FUCKING WAR?! I'm positive aliens did not build the pyramids. I totally believe that slaves did that. But what if aliens have the proof of that?

Please let this be true. I need this to be true. And please let us find out about it before I die. I beg of you, world.

Of course, that's assuming that the aliens aren't interested in doing us like ID4 and Mars Attacks. But even if they do, I might find some comfort in at least seeing a photograph of Aaron Burr before they blast me with their death rays.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #713: MY SHAME

 Remember at the beginning of this year, when I tallied up all the books I read in 2022, how horrified and ashamed I was at that low number? It really stuck in my craw because I just hit that number for 2023, and we still have a lot of year left.

Admittedly, I was going through some shit last year. My grandma died. I lost another toe. I had to go to detox. I was in and out of the hospital a ridiculous amount of time. And then there was the constant fear of homelessness. I'm still kind of surprised we haven't gotten our notice to leave the house.

But 2020 might have been worse. I went through a lot of fucked up shit then, and I still didn't have such a low number of books read that year. What the fuck?

(Well, now that I think on it, I didn't have a job that year, so I did have more time than usual on my hands, and I didn't use it *all* for drinking. Just *most* of it.)

Never again. That's my promise now, and I've made good on it this year.

How many books is that? A few people asked me that in January, and I didn't want to answer them because I was ashamed of that low number, but I guess I'll state it now for the record.

That number of books is . . .

Whoo-boy. This is tough. Maybe I should have a Wild Turkey 101 straight up for enough courage to say this.

Okay, here we go. I only read . . .

*blows out air* Is this really that hard? I guess so. Fuck. Let's rush through it.

I ONLY READ FORTY-FUCKING-FOUR BOOKS LAST YEAR.

There, I said it. Now you know why I could barely look myself in the mirror a few months back. I have never in my entire life read less than 100 books in any given year (discounting, of course, the three years I could not read or read well).

So I'm still a little behind. If the trend continues, I expect to hit 98 books by December 31. So I have to pick up the pace.

Wish me luck.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #712: 45

 Sometime around 2 am on July 25, 1978 at the Elmhurst Memorial Hospital (back when it was on the north side of the tracks) my mom pushed out her first child. That would be me. And now I'm 45 years old. A fat, middle-aged man. Still got all my hair, at least.

But am I really 45 years old today? Technically, yes, but I'm a little older than that. It's something I hadn't really thought about before until I hit my 1 year anniversary of not drinking. I wondered, what will I do during leap years? Do I count that day? Won't it throw off my anniversary date? Because next year is, indeed, a leap year. I don't think I've thought this much about leap years since Syfy was called the Sci-Fi Channel and they used to have Quantum Leap marathons on February 29.

I guess by then it won't matter too much. What's a day, after all?

But then I started wondering about how I'm actually older than I think. So are you (as long as you're older than four). Since 1978 there have been eleven leap years. So technically today I'm 45 years and eleven days old. Kinda weird thinking about it that way.

It could be worse. My birthday could be on Leap Day. I feel bad for those poor bastards . . .

If you want to do something for my birthday, please buy my books. If you already have, please review them on Amazon or Goodreads or, if you have a review site you write for, I'd greatly appreciate you posting something there. And if you already did those things, consider kicking in for my Patreon. Even if you just do the dollar a month tier, that would be helpful.

Thank you, as always, for reading. Goodnight, you sweet, sweet fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #711: OPPENHEIMER

 

Oppenheimer was fucking great, but this isn't a movie review. There's a scene I want to make mention of, and for some reason no one online has the exact quote I want to talk about. They've got all sorts of quotes, many of them even great (especially Matt Damon's explanation as to why scientists would go out to the middle of nowhere for years), but no matter how I try to find it, most of the results I get are about the Destroyer of Worlds quote, and that's not going to do me any good here.

So I'm going on memory. There's a scene in which Oppenheimer is told that Hitler is working on an atom bomb, and he has a huge head start on America. He's asked if there's any advantage we might have over the Nazis, and Oppenheimer says, "Anti-semitism." He means that because of Hitler's prejudice, he's not giving funding to the top scientific minds, who are Jewish, and that's holding him back. But if you look at it another way, he seems to imply that Hitler's obsession with Jewish people is actually distracting him.

Huh. That sounds kind of familiar . . .

One other thing I thought was really great about Oppenheimer is the structure. I'm not seeing anyone else talking about it, either, so maybe I'm wrong in my interpretation. On the surface it seems that this is Nolan's most straightforward movie since, well, ever. It jumps back and forth in time a little, but it's not excessive and noticeable like, say, in Memento or, even more blatantly, in Tenet.

I think Nolan set the movie up so that the entire three-hour runtime actually happens in one second. Yeah, the whole movie, and possibly all of existence, happens at the very same time. I'm sure you didn't have to question why we're getting the atomic imagery and the sounds of a nuclear explosion, but what about the surface of the water? The ripples? What about the stomping of the feet in an auditorium? Oppenheimer feels these things before they even happen, which only suggests to me that it's all happening at once.

Anyone see the movie? Your thoughts on my hypothesis?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #710: LINA KHAN

 I'm kind of short on time tonight. I don't ordinarily do this, but I have something else I want you to read instead of another GF column. It's possibly the most important thing you will read today. If you, like me, are horrified at the sheer amount of corporate greed and inflation and . . . well, you've been reading these. You know me. There is only one true enemy in this country, and it is the corporations and the shocking and overwhelming power they have over our lives. Their power is so absolute that most of this country doesn't even know about it. They just think it's business as usual.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Reagan is the cause of all the financial woes of our country. If you're angry about inflation, look no fucking further. But for the first time in a very long time we have someone in Washington working for the people instead of the corporations, and she's in a great position of power. Her name is Lina Khan, and you can read about her here.

It's a long read, I know, but it's worth it. By the end you will know how we got in this situation and how we *might* get out of it.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 4

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Bunny weaved into the closet, but it wasn’t Bunny. His ears were slicked back, and he wore a pair of sunglasses. A terrible cocaine smirk rested on his face. It was Jack Bunnyson.

“Hey pal,” Jack said. “How ya’ doin’?”

“Jack,” Nightbeat said.

“This whole idea of murder is far out,” Jack said. “I can’t get my melon around it. Can you?”

Nightbeat grimly set his mouth. “I’m trying to, Jack.”

Jack waved his hand and sat. “I’m guessing you want to know where I was when young Joey passed.” He crossed himself and shook his head to the heavens, which were really just glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

“That would be helpful.”

“You know, I could probably help you out,” Jack said. “I played a detective once. No, twice. It was the same detective, but two different movies.”

“Would you take medical advice from Neil Patrick Harris?” Nightbeat asked.

Jack laughed. “Hey, ya’ got me there. All right, I was . . . indisposed.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, I think I’m going to have to plead the filth on that one.”

Nightbeat rubbed his eyes. He really needed to speak to Bunny right now, not his other personality. He remembered Bunny had been behind him as Joey’s parents tried to help. While Nightbeat was no shrink, he was fairly certain that Bunny had been horrified by the shock of Joey’s death. He was probably hiding behind Jack right now.

“I don’t care what you were doing,” Nightbeat said. “As long as you weren’t busy murdering Joey, I don’t care.”

Jack Bunnyson’s grin grew wider. “Well, in that case I was snorting down an eight-ball, and I was balls deep in one of Felix’s ex-wives. I don’t know which one. They all look the fuckin’ same to me.”

Interesting. None of the ex-wives had mentioned this. Nightbeat thought he might need to circle back on this later. It was probably nothing, but one never knew. It was unthinkable that Bunny could have done something to Joey. Jack Bunnyson, though? Not so much. He’d need to confirm this information at some point.

“We done here, pal?” Jack asked.

“Yes,” Nightbeat said. “Send in the next one.”

Just before Jack Bunnyson left, Spike burst in. “No time for more, Cock-beater. Joey’s parents just got home.”

Nightbeat let the insult go. If you let Spike know that he’d landed a good one, he’d never shut the fuck up about it. Instead Nightbeat went out into the bedroom just in time to see the toys scattering, already playing dead. Nightbeat lay down and willed himself quiet.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #709: KOLCHAK NOSFERATU

 

I've been a fan of Kolchak for many, many years. I spent a lot of my time searching for The Kolchak Papers by Jeff Rice, and when I finally found it at a comics convention, I can't tell you how happy I was. I was even happier when I read it and discovered how fucking great it was. Rice wrote like white hot lightning.

Moonstone's Kolchak stuff is sometimes great, sometimes just merely good, and often times not so great. When I picked up the book above it was with mixed expectations. John Everson has a story in this, and I like his work. I knew I'd at least like his story (big surprise, I did), but I'm kind of surprised that I liked them all.

The one I liked most was written by Christopher Sequeira, whom I'm not too familiar with. He's also the editor, which is sometimes a hit or miss proposition. Even great editors, when they put their own stories in their anthologies, sometimes falter. But this was pretty fucking good. A group of Nosferatu groupies, er, scholars, puts together the uncut original version of the movie with plans to screen it . . . except a real life Nosferatu starts stalking victims in the vicinity. The explanation behind why this is, and why Nosferatu can walk in the sunlight, is really good. It's a very unusual story, and I'm definitely going to keep an eye out for more of Sequeira's work.

My only problem is the same problem I have with all Moonstone books. The comic books seem immune to this, but the prose books? They all have a shit-ton of typos, and this one is no exception. I wish they'd hire me as a line editor.

Hey, if someone at Moonstone is reading this, I'm also an editor! And I'm really fucking good at it! I'll give you affordable rates! Plus, I'm local! Lockport is 45 minutes from me! You can contact me at tabardinnedgewoodent (at) yahoo (dot) com!

Sorry. I had to get this off my chest. I usually review books on Goodreads, but this one isn't up there.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #708: ELECTRA GLIDE IN BLUE

 Back maybe 25 years ago I decided that I loved horror so much I would go through the horror section of every video store in town. My journey began in the days when such stores only had VHS, and it ended when they were just starting to rent out DVDs. Video Magic had sadly passed by then, so I didn't get the chance to hit that store, but I hit all the others.

Incidentally, fuck Blockbuster. Yeah, I did go to all the Blockbusters in the area, but I never did like that place. I don't get why people remember that place so fondly. They had the shittiest horror sections of any video stores. Each store might have had a couple of horror movies that I'd never seen, so they were barely worth going to. Plus they were super conservative, so they didn't want to get any horror movies outside the typical slashers and Stephen King movies. Hollywood was so much better because when I started going to the one on Roosevelt I discovered, upon nearing the end of their decent horror section, that they had a section that no one else had: CULT CLASSICS. I figured, fuck it, let's go after those, too.

One of these cult classics was a weird cop movie that I loved, especially since some of it was shot in Monument Valley, which I hadn't seen a movie do since the old John Wayne westerns. I love Monument Valley. The one year that I was going out there to see it in person was the one year that there was something wrong. I forget what it was. Maybe some kind of sickness going around or a natural disaster? Something along those lines. No one was allowed in at the time. Maybe someday I'll get my chance.

Not too long ago I tried remembering what that cop movie was, and for the life of me I couldn't remember the title. Being the kind of guy I am, of course I kept a list of the horror movies I'd rented during those years, and I kept track of the cult classics, too. But that list is packed away right now, and I can't just dig it out to scratch my curiosity itch. All I remembered was it had Baretta in it. It also had the first Burke Devlin from Dark Shadows. It also had the hired gun from The Maltese Falcon who usually played supporting roles, usually a weaselly type character.

And then I finally found Electra Glide in Blue. That was the movie! And I found it streaming on Amazon. The only thing is, you need a subscription to ScreenPix to play it for "free." I don't know if I want to go through all of that. For all I know, the movie won't hold up, but there is an option for a free trial. Maybe over the weekend I'll indulge myself.

If I do, I'll let you all know how it went. Is there anything more satisfying than trying to remember something for months and then finally getting your answer?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #707: BULLSHIT, REDUX

Ah jeez, we're back to this.

 You might remember a while back I wrote a piece about people wanting to earn a ton of money using ChatGPT to write ebooks. One of the things I mentioned is that a big argument is whether or not a chatbot could create art. I said it wasn't a question we should be bothering with, and I stand by that. I'm kind of surprised no one asked which question we should be asking.

That question is, WHY ARE WE DOING THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE?!

It's become a more important question now because of the writers and actors striking for better treatment. The CEOs of entertainment companies have decided to play the long game. They don't want to share the profits from streaming because they're greedy assholes who found a loophole and are exploiting it as hard as they possibly can. So they're waiting out the writers and actors, most of whom are NOT the millionaires you all think they are. What it comes down to is, who has more money? Certainly not those on strike. It's definitely the multimillionaire CEOs of Disney and Netflix and Discovery, etc. So who is going to lose their homes first?

Let's say the bastards win, and these writers and actors are now homeless. What do these studios expect them to do? Beg for their jobs back? There might be a few who relent, but the majority are going to say FUCK YOU to the bastards. As they should. So who will the studios turn to? Scabs? Sure, there will be a few people willing to do the work but not many. Why? Do you really want to be known as That Guy? You might have a shitty paying job at a big studio, but is it worth the hate and disgust and the scorn of your peers?

And that leaves our li'l buddy, ChatGPT. And my answer for the question I posed above. Which, by the way, is to make writers obsolete. Actors? They'll just CGI their faces onto scabs' bodies. But I'm here to talk about ChatGPT.

Simon Pegg has a few things to say about it:

All true, of course (anyone really want their movies and TV shows to have the same quality as commercials?), but let's go a little deeper than that. ChatGPT does what it does because it has access to data. ALL the data. More data than you might think. I saw a rumor that if you use Google Docs, then your work, published or not, is part of the ChatGPT grist. It's apparently in the user agreement that they can do this, and there's nothing you can do about it because you clicked on ACCEPT without reading it, just like they thought you would. We all know my feelings on user agreements. I haven't looked too much into it because I don't use Google Docs. But who knows? Maybe Microsoft has something similar in their user agreement. Not that it matters because I *don't* use their online product. I have an offline app from almost two decades ago that I use. Which, by the way, I recommend if you can do it.

But getting back to the data, ChatGPT knows enough to fake it. Yes, it has never had its heart broken and has never suffered any personal tragedies, but remember, it has ALL the data, and with that much it can easily fake those things. So my unpopular opinion is, yes, ChatGPT *can* create art. But as stated before, this is meaningless.

Because there is one thing that human beings have that ChatGPT will NEVER have. It's one of the most important things about writing, and it cannot be faked because if you lack it, you can't pretend to have it.

And that, my good fuckers, is A REASON TO WRITE. Every single thing I've ever written was done with a purpose. Yes, even my two "Monster Cock" stories. Yes, even things like Dong of Frankenstein and John Holmes, Vampire Slayer and even 6669: Demon Porn. Any writer worth their salt isn't just full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. They all have reasons for writing. The only reason ChatGPT has is because some doofus typed a prompt into it. It has no other reason to "write."

ChatGPT was not created to write books. It was created "to hold a conversation with the end user," "to simulate natural human chat in an interesting, entertaining and humorous manner." Perhaps we should leave it at that.

Although to be fair I'm sure ChatGPT could come up with stories for the studios that would please everyone and not be problematic in the slightest. Maybe that's the goal. I suspect the goal might be, and here's where I get a little crazy but stick with me, that eventually the only people around will be the super rich. I always kind of thought that they needed us poors around for unpleasant tasks, but what if AI could just do that instead? Why keep the poor around? Why not better humanity by getting rid of them all. And then, after a hard day's genocide, let's kick back and say to my computer, "Tell me a story."

Pretty grim. A little terrifying. Possibly a conspiracy-of-one theory, but it's better than what those Q shit weasels have. I wish them the best of luck with that whole JFK Jr-is-alive thing.

Anyway, did you know that ChatGPT is on our side on this argument? A clever wit posed it an interesting question, and we got a perfect answer, so ChatGPT isn't entirely bad. I'll end with this:

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #706: ONE MOTHERFUCKING YEAR (and two days)

In case you missed it on my social media I did, indeed, make it to one motherfucking year without booze. This calls for a celebration! WHO'S FUCKING DRINKING?!?!?!?!

It's motherfucking booze time!

Woo-hooooooooo!!!!

Just kidding. It's apple juice.

See?

I know, I know, it may seem like a cruel joke, but to be fair I did test the waters out earlier this year. I mentioned, I think on Twitter, maybe not Facebook, that for April Fool's I should tell people I'd relapsed. Surprisingly few people objected, and a handful said they would think that was funny, so what the hell.

Here's a weird thing I didn't expect. The instant I put the ice in my Wild Turkey glass I felt this weird sensation. I wouldn't call it pleasure or pain, just weird. I only drink Tang out of my Wild Turkey glasses now, and you don't drink Tang on the rocks. It would dilute the awesomeness that is Tang. But I used to actually drink booze out of these things. On the rocks. And it set off a weird tripwire in me somewhere.

When I went to take the picture of me drinking, my body didn't want to do it. I had to remind my own body that it wasn't actually whiskey. I had to smell it again to confirm it before I actually put the glass to my lips. It was kind of weird sitting there with the rest of that glass by my side, just like I always used to have a glass of whiskey at my side whenever I got out of work. Just looking at it made me feel funky.

Did detox put me through the Ludovico Technique?

NOOOO! NOT BOOKERS!!!!
"Bookers? Eh, can't be helped."

If so, why did they not put everyone through it? Because I know people who were there with me who relapsed.

What if I had poured whiskey in there? Would my body have let me take the drink? I'm starting to wonder. It's possible that I might not even be able to drink anymore. Like, physically. If I tried I think my body would freeze and wouldn't let me.

Perhaps there's comfort in that. I guess if I ever do relapse, then I'll have to force myself to do it. I can't be the only one who thinks that. Any other addicts out there who are sure they'd have to go out of their way to relapse?

GOODREADS GIVEAWAY FOR TRAIL OF BLOOD

 

Check it out here. Good luck!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #705: 364

 As you can surmise from the title of this column, I am at the 364 day mark of my non-alcohol life. One year ago tomorrow I went to detox and got cleared of my physical booze dependency. It's been surprisingly easy. I have yet to relapse. But let's not get cocky yet. I still have time to go before I make it to my official one year mark. There is still one liquor store in Elmhurst open, and it's there until midnight. So who knows? Maybe I'll lose my shit after I post this and get drunk. I doubt it, but the possibility is still there. I kinda wish 365 was today, as I don't post GFs on weekends. Ah well.

So let's celebrate something else. One year ago tonight I was getting wasted for the last time. I remember I had maybe three fingers worth of whiskey at the bottom of a Flesichmann's handle. I also had the same in a fifth of Wild Turkey 101. Lastly I had my whiskey barrel that was maybe three-quarters full.

Earlier that day I was thinking about maybe putting an end to the madness. I was covered in bruises I no longer recall the cause of. I'd been found wandering the house naked and out of my mind. I'd broken some shit in my bedroom, and I think it was because I fell on top of it all. So yeah, the end was definitely nigh.

Before I ripped into the booze one last time, I thought I was sober. Looking back, I probably wasn't. When I turned myself in to detox, I thought I was sober, but when they asked me to blow I was well above the legal limit to drive. That made me think about all the times I thought I was sober and actually wasn't. How many times did I drive not knowing that I was actually fucked up?

Anyway, while I thought I was sober I called Sonny. I'm pretty sure I mentioned him before. When I was in and out of the hospital with pancreatitis, gastritis, gastroenteritis, kidney failure, etc., they'd send in all these shrinks to try to help me see my own alcoholism, and none of them worked. Then they sent Sonny in. He's possibly the most Italian guy I've ever met outside of my own family who wasn't a parody. And he cursed like a sailor. He didn't take it easy with me. He shot straight, no bullshit. So I called him when I'd had enough, and he scheduled a pickup for me the next day.

Before and after that, I tried calling a few friends looking for some kind of advice, which is odd for me because it's not something I ever do. A couple of my friends actually picked up. One before I started drinking, one after. I ripped through the Fleischmann's and Wild Turkey pretty quickly, and when I was done with all of this, I decided, okay, tomorrow I'm going to detox. Time to get fucked the fuck up RIGHT NOW. Who knows? This will probably be the last time.

A part of me laughed at that. Yeah. Right. I had no illusions about myself. I knew I would drink again, and sure enough, while I was in detox, I started planning on drinking when I got out.

So I settled down and emptied the whiskey barrel, and I drank that for the rest of the night until I was nearly comatose. I do remember taking that last drink, though, and it was pretty fucking good. It hit the spot. I was in just the right mood to sleep. Not too fucked up, not short of being fucked up, being just the right amount of fucked up. I was the Baby Bear of being fucked up on booze.

The next day I looked around for the usual hair of the dog, surprised to find none. I'd planned on having another drink before getting picked up, but I hadn't planned well enough. That was fine. I was sure that by the time I got to detox, I'd still be in good shape. Just in time to give me drugs to keep me from withdrawals and possibly seizures.

But I started getting twitchy. I thought maybe the withdrawals kicked in already. By the time I got to detox, I was certain of it even though I scored pretty high on their breathalyzer. I was shaking pretty bad by the time they made me sign the mountain of paperwork. I was so rough that even after they finally gave me Ativan, all I could do was stay in my bed. I didn't want to do anything else.

And so my booze-free life began. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I was seriously tempted to drink again. I don't know how I didn't. I don't even know why. I made plans to drink on my birthday last year, which would have made it my second day out, I think. Maybe third. I was going to get food and stop off at Williams Liquors and then have myself a solo birthday party.

When I drove to the liquor store I didn't stop. I didn't even look at the place. Like I said, I don't know why. I don't believe in a higher power, and I'm not in AA. I'm not a twelve-stepper. The only step I've taken is the first one, and I don't have interest in any of the others, especially not Step Two. Who knows? Maybe it's because I expect to drink again someday. I have my list of things that could get me to drink, and it's solid. A lot of it's not likely to happen, but some of it? Maybe.

Anyway. 364 days. I was about to toast to another 364 but, well, you know.

MY PATREON IS LIVE!

 Check out the details here.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 3

 

CHAPTER THREE

Felix slumped to the floor while Nightbeat found some construction paper and a pencil to take notes with. The eraser towered impossibly high over him, making him look like a Lilliputian.

“I’ve got the perfect alibi,” Felix said. “I was passed out drunk.”

“I know,” Nightbeat said. “But you got up to a lot of shifty things back in the day.”

“Hey, I lived in Hollywood. Everyone was up to a lot of shifty things. I was lucky. I was just into broads and booze. Maybe a bit of weed here and there.”

“You liked the broads a bit young, though, didn’t you?”

“What the fuck do you mean by that? It was all legal and above board.”

“’Legal’ is a subjective word, wouldn’t you say?” Nightbeat asked. “Back when you were chasin’ tail, fourteen was a bit more acceptable than it is now.”

“Goddammit, Nightbeat. What’s the all about? Yeah, I did some things. Maybe someone accidentally died here and there, and my people took care of it. It’s standard fare, and you can’t do a fucking thing about it. This isn’t about my good old days. This is about Joey. You know I didn’t do it.”

“It’s possible,” Nightbeat said. “Maybe even probable. But what if the drunken mess was an act?”

“You know me,” Felix said. “I’m drunk all the time, usually waaaaaaay too drunk to even walk. You think I could have murdered Joey in a state like that?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh fuck you, Nightbeat. Can I fucking go?”

Nightbeat nodded. “You know I’ll be checking this so-called alibi.”

Felix threw up his hands. “I know, I know. Don’t forget to cross the i’s and dot the fucking t’s.” He stood and shuffled out of the closet.

Next came three of Felix’s ex-wives. He knew from the get-go that he couldn’t trust any of them to tell the truth. They were gold diggers, through and through. He didn’t know why. He highly suspected that Felix had zero money and was living off the charity of those who remembered his movies back in the day. Maybe they knew something he didn’t. It didn’t matter. They would want him behind bars or worse: unstuffed.

Sure enough, they lied through their insufferable smiles. They didn’t know anything. Nightbeat chalked it up as a loss.

Felix’s kids didn’t know anything, either. They were young and didn’t understand that their loving father had disavowed them. They were still full of hero worship as if they’d just watched the old time movies fresh before coming in for the interview. Nightbeat dismissed them quickly.

Next in was Don Snowy. He hauled his considerable girth into the closet and plopped down. “Yo!”

“Don Snowy,” Nightbeat said. “You were quick to send me in Felix’s direction. How long did you know he was passed out in the closet?”

“Long time, sure,” Don Snowy said. “Him ‘n’ me were gettin’ fucked up on hooch, scoping chicks, you know.”

Come to think of it, Don Snowy did smell faintly of gin. “Why are you still sober while Felix was, as you say, ‘fucked up’?”

“Old fucker’s a lightweight. You’d think after all the shit he went through in those old Hollywood days, he’d be better off, but I gotta lotta weight on him. Prolly why I’m still standing.”

That sounded true enough. If it was, Felix was off the hook. Nightbeat knew he’d have to gather more information before he could be certain of that. He asked, “Do you know if it was just booze Felix was using?”

“Jus’ booze?” Don Snowy asked.

“Maybe he picked up some other Hollywood habits. Maybe pills? Heroin?”

“No! Felix is a drunkard, not a junkie, yo!”

Nightbeat nodded. “So you were with him while Joey was being murdered?”

“I don’ know nuthin’ about no murder,” Don Snowy said. “But when Joey was dyin’? Yeah, I was wit’ Felix.”

Nightbeat sighed. “Okay, you can go.”

Don Snowy stood, and a fart escaped him. “Whoops! Old age, ya’ know? Hey!” And he left.

Nightbeat interviewed a few other toys over the course of the next couple of hours. And then the next of his suspects arrived.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #704: NON-WRITING WRITING WORK

 

Today I did a lot of writing work that didn't include actual writing. For example, I updated my website. Some of my stuff went out of print. So did some of the free stories, sadly. I took down the links that no longer worked. I also took some other stuff out. It sounded too much like a younger, brasher me than I liked. I also took the nudity out. I doubt anyone wanted to see my dick on that website. If you did, then it has immortal life in print. You can find it in Tabard Inn issue two if you like.

I also went through the process of setting up a new Goodreads giveaway. Those usually are pretty successful for me. It's going to be for Trail of Blood, so when it gets approved, I'll post the link.

I also looked into Bookbub, which I don't think I'll be doing. Your Kindle books need to be part of Kindle Unlimited, and mine aren't. They won't be until they change the 7-day return policy. If you don't know what that is, people who are members "buy" your book, and you get paid your share. They read it in under 7 days and return it, and then you have to pay Amazon back, which is something I'm not willing to do.

I put out a few book review requests, but I haven't had much luck with that so far.

But the big thing I did today was begin the process of starting up a Patreon. It's been something people have suggested for a while, but I was always concerned that I'd put it together, and no one would go for it. Ah, fuck it. I'm doing it. I'll post the link when it's approved. The idea is to treat it like a Middle Ages patron. They helped keep artists alive by paying for room and board, etc. So for the basic pledge, you'll get a newsletter of sorts with writing updates, peeks at works in progress, links to new publications, news releases before anyone else gets to know, occasional giveaways, etc. To let you know that your money is going toward something. Higher pledges offer the opportunity to have your works in progress assessed by me, or if you're not a writer, I'll name a character after you in something that will definitely be published. Not to mention being mentioned in the acknowledgements of all my books going forward.

That's how I spent my day. More news to follow.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #703: "FIRST YOU GOT TO COCK IT"

 

There's this great scene in Unforgiven. Hell, all the scenes are great, but there's one I think about a lot and how it's a lesson in gunfighting, but it can be applied to a lot of things in life. Little Bill and Beauchamp are discussing the fine art of killing people with guns (with guns) while a beaten and raw English Bob rests in the jail. The salient point of the scene is this: if you're trying to be the fastest, you will fail. Accuracy is more important than speed. Sure, you might fire first if you're trying to be fast, but you'll probably miss. If you take your time and go for accuracy, you will always hit your mark, and that is of paramount importance.

The reason I think of it is because not too long ago I found my old journalism textbook from when I was in college. This is the thing that made me think of Unforgiven:

I hope you can read that. It looked fine when I took the picture, but it looks kind of blurry here. It's late at night, anyway, so maybe it's just that my eyes are failing me. That's OK. They've been failing me since I had to get my first set of glasses in 3rd grade. Ethics in journalism made me think about how much the world has changed since I took that course and wrote as a journalist for the Leader. For reference, the year I'm talking about is early 2000, when the internet wasn't fucking everywhere and an integral part of one's life.

Our project for the semester was to find a part about Elmhurst that not a lot of people think about and write about that. Half-joking (but kinda serious) I said, "Latent bigotry." So my professor made it my assignment. I did research and found out that not all bigotry in Elmhurst is latent. On the one hand, there was a sign at a local park saying that the basketball court was meant for neighborhood kids only . . . because Black kids from Berkeley would walk down here and use it, thus invading the white neighborhood. The sign didn't say that part, but it was the latent part of "latent bigotry." Then I discovered that there were actual cross burnings on lawns not too far from where I used to play when I was a kid. A Black college student maybe ten years before my time at the college was harassed for dating a white woman, and his car was vandalized with the n-word keyed into it. That's the tip of the iceberg and not quite so latent.

My intent with the piece was to get my fellow Elmhurstians (is that a word?) to find that place inside of themselves, to look at their own actions (or lack thereof) and ask, "Am I racist? Do I do something that contributes to the bigotry of my community?" But the discovered intent was, "Holy shit, there are real full-blown racists here, and the community just lets that happen?" My lesson was this: no matter what you think is going on, it is your duty to print the truth. That's what ethics in journalism is about.

But the problem is, now that everyone gets their news from the internet, it's next to impossible to live up to journalistic ethics. Because the one thing that the internet values over all else is SPEED, not ACCURACY. Investigative journalism has taken a back seat because that shit takes time. You have to research. Talk to people. Look at all the angles. And so on.

But no, everyone wants to get the scoop, and if you get it wrong? Who cares? Just issue a correction that no one will ever read, and you're gold. I have my doubts that any online news site even has fact-checkers anymore. Maybe not even editors. It used to be that an editor had to go over the story, check everything out, make sure you can't get sued, and then (ONLY THEN) rack it up for print.

As a disclaimer, I feel it is necessary to note that even back then, when I was in college writing for the Leader, not everyone was ethical. Here's something that happened on a regular basis: newspapers printing shit they get off the AP without vetting it. Or even worse, printing press releases word for fucking word without a second thought as to accuracy. And then there were journalists who got fired for flat-out making stories up. And, going all the way back to the infancy of journalism, fighting with advertisers. If you write a story that an advertiser doesn't like, guess who's getting a kick in the ass? Hint: not the guy who pays for the paper's existence. But my point is, ethics in journalism used to be possible.

Now? I can't think of a single journalist with ethics. It doesn't help that on 24 hour news channels that opinions have taken the place of reporting. Almost every talking head you see is spouting an opinion as fact. And those who don't? They're pretty people reading things off a teleprompter. They've done none of the legwork.

That fucking sucks. I used to dream of being a Kolchak-type reporter (or, more to the point, a Spider Jerusalem-type reporter) dedicated to the truth at all costs. Worm out the evil pricks and reveal them to be what they really are and HAVE THE FACTS TO BACK IT UP. But no one wants that anymore.

It's too bad. It used to be that journalists like that kept the lying cocksuckers at bay, but without a watch dog, well, look around. See what I mean?

Here's an added bonus to tonight's GF, warning journalists about their own sexism:

I'm glad to say I currently pass the test, but I can't help but think that the general attitude of this is kinda sexist in and of itself. The textbook seems to assume that the journalist in question is a man . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #702: 642 THINGS TO WRITE ABOUT

 Not too long ago I wrote about how Illinois banned banning books in libraries. If you want a refresher, check it out here. I stand by every word of this, but one of my friends brought up a news story that he found troubling, and it made him want to side with the book banners on this one thing.

He sent me a link to the news story, and I read about how an Ohio mayor threatened to charge teachers with child pornography if they didn't resign because of certain reading material in their classes. It turns out the mayor was referring to a book called 642 THINGS TO WRITE ABOUT by a collective of writers from San Francisco. And I kinda-sorta get why this is a big deal, but it's an apples to oranges argument when it comes to what I was talking about.

Here's what happened. These teachers got their students this book because those 642 things are writing prompts. They were using them as exercises to help their students learn how to write something longer than a Facebook post. They assigned innocuous writing prompts from this book.

However. Perhaps one of the students read more than the assignments. Or maybe a parent read the whole thing. Regardless, the teachers probably did not realize that one of the prompts in this book was to write a sex scene you wouldn't show your mother, and then to write one you would show her. Let's set aside for the moment that the students who were given these books were studying for a college course credit, which means in all likelihood they were 18. This book, which is *not* a textbook should not have been assigned to high schoolers. There is even a warning in the advertising that this book is for readers 18 and older.

Maybe it should be more like 21 or older because one of the prompts in there is to drink a beer and write about how it feels. I can see why parents are upset about this kind of thing. It was kind of stupid to not vet the book before assigning certain passages from it. But remember, *this is not a textbook for children.* I usually adhere to the John Waters rule that if someone is old enough to ask about something, they are probably old enough to read about it, but that's probably not something a high school should do.

But to accuse the teachers of being "groomers" is absurd. This was a stupid mistake. Groomers, by the way, is a useless phrase. Parents, teachers, clergy, political authorities, the police, EVERYONE is grooming someone to be something. By writing this, I would be considered a groomer to all of my readers. It's meaningless bullshit meant to make a stupid error sound like an insidious plot.

I'm not siding with the book banners by saying this book shouldn't have been at that school. I wouldn't put The Anarchist Cookbook in a school library, just like I wouldn't put a Rape of Nanking picture book there, either. In a regular library? Sure. But calling these teachers groomers and child pornographers is batshit fucking insane.

Another thing that's kind of crazy is the rewriting of children's books due to things that might have been OK 30 or 40 years ago but aren't now. Like what Roald Dahl's work is going through now. It's not really all that new. When I was a kid we were stuck with revised versions of Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn with all the n-words taken out. I'm not good with that because it changes the author's intent. No one on this fucking planet would ever accuse Mark Twain of being racist. He was giving racists a beatdown in his books, and watering that down is not cool. It eliminates the scourge of racism Twain was fighting. Instead of giving kids neutered versions, maybe don't have them read the books at all. Let them discover these books as adults. Besides, how many kids today would identify with Tom or Huck? I mean, really. Neither of them has a cell phone or the internet. I'll bet any kid given these books as reading material today would find it a real slog.

But that's not what the book banners are really after. Almost all of the books challenged by them are written by or about people of color, women and LGBTQ+ people. Sometimes all three. This isn't really about age-appropriateness. This is about ensuring that the youth grow up today hating the wrong people. Instead of going after corporations and politicians, the corporations and politicians want the youth to go after those who have been historically marginalized so that they can never be truly accepted and treated like the humans they actually are.

So I reiterate: FUCK BOOK BANNERS.

Let's end this on a let's all get along kind of vibe. Everyone agrees JFK was a great president, right? Perhaps the privilege of being assassinated ensured that he would always be remembered as a great president no matter which side of the political spectrum you're on. So I'll let him have the final word on this.

 

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #701: THE NOT-SEE PARTY

 Ever see Tusk? A lot of people hate it, but I fucking loved it. I love a lot of Kevin Smith's more unusual movies. I even loved Yoga Hosers. What, I hear you ask, about Jersey Girl? Eh, let's not get too crazy. Besides, I said "unusual."

(Stop before you bring up Cop Out. See previous answer.)

Anyway, in Tusk, Justin Long and Haley Joel Osment play podcasters, and their show is the Not-See Party Podcast. Which, naturally, gets Long in trouble when he tries to get into Canada. "What do you mean, the Nazi Party?" Guess it's not so funny now, eh?

When I first started taking calls at my job, I had to find my voice, my script, my style. When someone calls in wanting their windshield repaired over replaced, I have to qualify them. Depending on whether it's a chip or a crack, I would ask them, "Would you be able to put a quarter/credit card over it and not see the damage?"

I didn't really think about it until I realized how it sounded to others, and then I wondered how the hell no one ever stepped in and said, hey, don't ask the question that way.

I finally figured it out. Now I ask, "Would you be able to put a quarter/credit card over it and not be able to see the damage?" It sounds a lot better and not very likely to get me into trouble. Holy fuck, what if someone thought I was speaking in code? "The way he said 'not see' implies that this company is a safe place for Nazis." Kind of like the Klan used to speak in code to assure each other that they were in like-minded company.

Honestly it still feels weird when I say it, but that's only because I know how I got to that place and why. Just thought it was a strange thing that a lot of people don't really think about otherwise. Your mileage may vary.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #700: WALTER BISHOP IN CHINATOWN

 There's an episode of Fringe in which Walter Bishop gets lost in Chinatown. Remember, when we first met him, he was on a psych ward and had been for almost two decades. Now he's been out for a while, but people have to keep a close watch on him because, well, he's an old man with the sensibilities of a child. He yearns for more freedom, but he just can't have it. So in this episode he defiantly goes to Chinatown on his own, and sure enough, he gets lost. He's stranded without any hopes of contacting his son Peter or the rest of his Fringe Division team. He's a brilliant scientist who figured out how to go to a parallel universe, but when it comes to more mundane things? He doesn't have a good grip on things. He's practically helpless.

It reminded me of Gramps from a long time ago. Back then he worked at Dulles Cleaners in Elmhurst. The store he used to work at is no longer there. I think the flagship still is, but I'm too lazy to look it up now. Regardless, from my house to Dulles is a five minute drive, and that's allowing for a lot to go wrong. It's about a mile and would take me--in my prime--about 30-45 minutes to get there by foot.

Gramps needed a ride to work, and I told him I would give it to him when I got back from running errands. He expressed some concern that I would not be back in time, and I told him that would be no problem. I'm usually very punctual. When I'm hanging out with friends, I usually arrive to the minute I say I'm going to be there. When it's something else, like work or a signing or some kind of event, I'm almost always early (except for Printers Row, but that's a story for another day).

I ran my errands, but I did run a little later than I expected. I told Gramps I would be there at 4:50 pm, and he had to be at work by 5. I said this expecting to be done with everything by 4:30, but like I said, I ran a little late. I still made it back at 4:49. I honked the horn. Gramps didn't come out. The clock switched to 4:51, and I went inside to find out what's going on.

Gramps wasn't there. I searched around until I found Grandma in the basement with the laundry. She said that Gramps left a half an hour ago ON FOOT to go to work. That stubborn old man guessed I wouldn't be there on time. I asked her why she didn't stop him, but I needn't have.

Angry, I got back in my car and sped down the road, keeping an eye out. I found Gramps about three-quarters of the way, and he was looking rough. By that point in life he was already bowlegged, and he struggled to keep moving forward. It was more of a hobble than a walk. There was no way he would have made it.

I pulled over and unlocked the door, pushing it open and shouted to get his attention. When he saw it was me, he got in the car, and I drove him the rest of the way. I was so fucking angry with him that I let him have it with both barrels. Not a second went by without me yelling at him, not even when I pulled into the lot by the side of Dulles. I sat there for a little while longer, because I had another couple of minutes to rant at him. I forget how much time has passed, but he was probably in his early eighties at the time. How could he think that he could have walked all that distance when he had difficulty going up and down stairs? He could have been hurt. What if I didn't see him? What if he fell down and had to be brought to a hospital? What if . . . and so on. I can still feel the heat of my anger right now as I type this out.

And he sat there and took it without a single fucking word. Finally, when I ran out of steam and it was 4:58, he said, "I'm sorry, Dodge. I am. But I have to go into work now."

And so he went. I was his ride home that night, and I spent a lot of my time thinking about other angry things to say to him, but when I picked him up we didn't say anything.

And now here I am, a few weeks from turning 45, and I understand why he did it. No one ever wants to admit that their best days are behind them. Someone who used to walk miles and miles all the time doesn't want to get used to the fact that they can't do that anymore. No one wants to admit to themselves that age is getting the better of them. That they can't do the things they used to. That youth is gone and all that remains is the time you have left with your own ever-increasing decrepitude and how long that takes to wear you down to the pencil nub they'll put in the ground at the end of your life.

Because I feel that now, and I'm only half the age Gramps was when he went out for his walk. I, too, used to walk a lot. At least a mile a night. Just for the fun of it. I can't do that anymore because of my bad foot. My joints are going bad on me. Not too long ago I thought I had rheumatoid arthritis, but it turned out to be trigger finger instead. Still, it's pretty debilitating. I'm going under the knife for one of my hands soon, and I've been advised that it will be out of commission for a while so it can heal. My right hand. The one I write with. One of the hands I need to type with. I thought about just ignoring the doctor's warning, but then I thought of Gramps on his way to Dulles. Walter Bishop lost in Chinatown.

And I thought about the years ahead of me. What happens if my bad foot needs to be amputated? What if I lose the other one, too? What if my hands go so bad on me that I can't just charge forward, doing whatever I want to do anyway? Who is going to do these things for me?

I don't want to admit that one day, if I live long enough, I'm going to need someone to take care of me because this getting old thing doesn't show any signs of stopping. And I don't want to give up and sit in bed and wait for the end to come. I want to walk to fucking Dulles, for Christ's sake!

But I can't. The world has moved on and will always move on. I, too, have moved on.

O Discordia!

TOY CRIME STORY PART 2

 

CHAPTER TWO

Cat rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

Spike said, “Nightbeat’s always serious. Bleedin’ wanker.”

“What makes you think it was murder?” Angel asked.

Nightbeat hesitated. He didn’t know if it was a good idea to answer this question, at least not in front of everyone else. The truth was, he didn’t know for sure. He had a gut feeling, nothing more. “There is going to be an investigation. For the time being, I’d rather not tip my hand.”

“I can only assume I’m the number one suspect?” Cat asked. He waved a mittened hand near his face like a fan. “Be still my beating heart.”

“You’ll know soon enough,” Nightbeat said. He didn’t think Cat did it, despite the long list of horrible things he was capable of. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the misanthrope out of hand. Nightbeat needed to be objective.

He glanced around. Everyone was there. It meant nothing. The killer could very easily have snuck back in while he wasn’t looking. Wait, there was someone missing. “Where’s Felix?”

“Yo!” This from Don Snowy. “He’s over here!” Pointing.

Nightbeat walked over to Don Snowy, who pointed into the closet. There was Felix the Cat, passed out in a puddle of his own sick. He reeked of gin.

“Jesus Christ,” Nightbeat said. “Hey Felix! Wake up!” Nudging the black feline.

“What the fuck do you want?” Felix muttered. “I’m sleeping. Go ‘way.”

“Goddammit, Felix. Wake up!”

“Have my secretary autograph a picture for you. She’s great. Better at signing things than me. Great big hooters, too.”

Nightbeat could feel his teeth grinding against each other. “Felix! Joey’s dead!”

That must have broken through the booze haze. Felix’s eyes straightened out, and red as they were, they locked with Nightbeat’s. “Joey? Can’t be. He’s just a kid.”

“Took a header down the stairs,” Spike said.

“What happened? Did he trip?”

Nightbeat kept a poker face. “I think he was murdered.”

“Murder?” Felix shuddered, remembering the old Hollywood days. Back when he was a star instead of this washed up bum getting drunk on cheap gin. How many scandals? Lies? Truths? Bodies buried? “Who would murder Joey?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Nightbeat looked out at the crowd. They buzzed with the news. With sorrow. With anticipation of the possible adventure about to begin. He would have to interview them all, and he would need help. Angel and Spike used to be detectives, although he didn’t trust Spike. He was a bit slippery.

Nightbeat approached Angel. “I’m going to need help with my investigation. You up for it?”

Angel waved a dismissive hand. “Those days are behind me. Besides, I was only ever good for beating the shit out of people. My team usually did the investigating.”

“Cheer up, mate,” Spike said. “You’re also good at whinging and brooding.”

“Oh shut up, Spike.”

“I could use the help,” Nightbeat said. “Come on. This isn’t your first rodeo.”

“No,” Angel said again. “Just . . . no.” He walked away, seeking out a pint of alcohol-infused blood.

Nightbeat sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it alone.” Thinking about how much longer this task was going to be without Angel’s help. He looked to everyone else. “All right, all! Line up here.” Pointing to the edge of the closet. “I’m going to use this closet as an office. One by one, I’m going to interview you until I’ve talked to you all. Understood?”

“Oh bother,” Cat said. “I’d rather not play this game of sillybuggers. I have souls to eat.”

“Namely Joey’s?” Nightbeat asked.

“No need to be so crass,” Cat said. “But maybe.” He slinked away, tail twitching.

Nightbeat had an urge to stop Cat and have him be the first interviewee, but this was not time for pettiness. He had enough on his plate as it was, and nothing but the cold hard facts would help him in this time of need.

The others had lined up, Felix at the front, since he was the closest. He weaved slightly, probably still drunk.

“Okay Felix,” Nightbeat said. “You first. Let’s go.”

Felix staggered into the closet with Nightbeat, closing the door just enough so the others would have to strain to hear what they had to say.