GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #739: 1 YEAR, 47 DAYS

 It's been one year and forty-seven days since my last drink.

Today I decided to visit Gramps and Grandma, so I stopped by Williams Liquors for his usual airplane bottle of Jim Beam. Williams was my go-to liquor store. My second favorite was Corner Cottage on the other side of town, which had the distinction of being on the way home from work. Also, it was open super late on weekends. But Williams was my favorite.

Whenever I get Gramps's airplane bottle I go to Williams mostly because Corner Cottage doesn't always have them. The last twenty times I went there, they didn't. So even though it's on the way to the cemetery and Williams is not, I go to Williams for it.

Every time I've done this since I quit drinking I have only seen new people working there, but today was different. I saw my usual guy there for a change. He went above and beyond to help me. For example, when I broke my foot and couldn't really get around all that well, he would bring my booze out to the car for me. It was usually a handle of Flesichmann's back then, so I'd give him a twenty. He'd already have my change with him when he came out.

He was very surprised to see me. I can only assume he thought I'd died. I wouldn't blame him, either. Things got pretty rough near the end. If I hadn't stopped when I did, I probably would have died. I might not still be around to write GF #739 as I am doing now.

We talked for a bit, and when I told him I'd quit the booze, he didn't seem too surprised. He knew how much I drank back then. He had to. I came in every other day for a handle of cheap whiskey. Well, almost. When I wasn't going there, I was stopping by Corner Cottage.

Which makes me wonder if maybe the guys there think I died, too. Maybe I should stop by some time. They might think they've seen a ghost.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #738: CORPORATIONS "PROFIT FROM OUR ANGER"

 People always accuse me of being too hard on Republicans (tee-hee, I said hard on), but tonight's GF is going to be proof that I don't hate all Republicans. I just hate *almost* all Republicans. Just like I hate almost all Democrats.

Arnold Schwarzenegger is a Republican, and I love him. The rest of his party could benefit from watching how he conducts himself (ie. as a human being) and perhaps apply it to themselves.

I get his newsletter, and not too long ago he talked about the so-called Skittles ban in California. This is a perfect example of how corporations make us angry so they can profit off of us. If you're unfamiliar with the law, it actually bans an ingredient in Skittles. The way he breaks it down is perfect, so I'm going to let him explain:

I can hear the chanting already. "Europeans are a bunch of pussies!" But really. Come on. Only in America, where a sitting president once tried to tell people the cure for Covid was to inject themselves with bleach, could something that is illegal to use in makeup be perfectly legal to eat.

So where do the Skittles come in? Believe it or not there are people who I hate more than corporate scum. We call them lobbyists. It's their job to bribe, cajole or bully politicians into doing the bidding of their corporate overlords. The only reason I'm OK with them continuing to exist is, if we made the practice illegal, they'd go back to under the table bribes, and we'd be completely in the dark. I prefer them to be out in the open where we can see their evil deeds instead of suspecting them.

Five will get you ten that lobbyists wrote those "think" pieces calling it a Skittles ban for the sole purpose of brainwashing you into thinking of the law as laughable, killing any hopes it will have of passing. No politician will vote for something the public thinks is laughable. I find it interesting that Arnold talks a little about his time as governor of the very state in quesiton:

I get a little suspicious when people talk about how kids don't have anyone speaking on their behalf in politics because if you disagree with someone saying that, you're immediately the asshole. However, Arnold doesn't seem to have any interest in running for office at this time, for one. For another, unlike almost every other politician, he actually has a history of putting his money where his mouth is on this one. Even before he was governor he was always volunteering his time to raise awareness of physical fitness for children and creating charities and after school programs for them. All the things politicians say should happen but would never in a million years make any effort into trying to manifest as a reality.

So please remember to never EVER just take anyone's word for something. Not even mine. I understand that a lot of people have lost any ability when it comes to critical thinking skills, but in a country where we have freedom of speech, it is one of the most important skills to have. When anyone can say anything, you have to have the ability to separate facts from bullshit. The next time you hear about something ridiculous in politics, don't just dismiss it. Think about it. Look into it a little. Make up your own mind using critical thinking skills instead of listening to any cockadoodie politician or clickbait article or what have you. Remember that when you get angry over something you read in the news.

I'll let Arnold have the final word tonight:

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #737: A RELIABLE PEN

 Ever see the movie Four Rooms? Half of it is good, and I'm talking about the segments directed by Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino. In Tarantino's, there's this bet. It's inspired by an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, but it's based on a very good short story by Roald Dahl. I recommend reading it if you can find it.

Anyway, the bet is, this guy's got a reliable lighter. He's betting that he can light it the first time he tries. If he succeeds, he gets his friend's awesome car. If he loses, the bellboy is going to cut off his pinky finger.

(It should be mentioned that everyone involved is drunk on Cristal. Because "it's fucking good, Ted." And "everything else is piss.")

You can watch it here to see how it all turns out, but I won't spoil it for you. The conclusion is very fast and very funny.

I expect peak performance from my pens, and I very rarely get it. If I have a gel pen, it will always work the first time I use it unless it's at the end of its life, but everything else? It could happen, but more often than not I have to scratch it on paper a little bit first before it starts writing.

At work we have shitty pens. Sometimes I have to really scratch at them to get them going, and it irritates me because if I'm physically writing something down, as opposed to typing it, time is of the essence. Not too long ago our 401(k) company visited us and left us with a bunch of gimcracks, including a bunch of pens. I took a few because it's always good to have a decent supply of pens.

I didn't expect much. I figured it would be good for a month, tops, and then it'll be done. Much to my glee and pleasure, it wrote perfectly the first time I used it. And it has written perfectly each and every time since.

I'm always after big things to make me happy, but more often than not it's the little things. Like a reliable pen at work.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #736: THE RESULTS

A great adventure is waiting for you ahead . . .

 It occurred to me that some of you might be interested in the results of my colonoscopy. Look at that glorious picture of my poop chute!

In looking up my butt they found nothing. The colonoscopy was a complete success. Nothing foul afoot. I don't have to get another one until I'm 55. That feels like a safe length of time away. Who knows? Maybe I'll be dead by then and won't have to do it. My mom didn't live to 55, so who knows?

But they also scoped my throat, too, and they found a couple of things. Nothing to worry about, but still. They did find a growth down there, but it was benign and easily removed. And it turns out that I've been living with a hernia. It's not one of the really bad ones, or I'm sure I would have noticed, but it's where the stomach meets the diaphragm. It's called a hiatal hernia, and I'll bet any amount of money that it's there because of all the times I puked my guts out due to all my illnesses over the last ten years or so. It would explain a few things about me. It's not serious enough to do anything about it, so to hell with it. If it becomes a problem, like it starts causing ulcers, then I'll worry about it.

So all in all, it's a pretty good bill of health. Not clean, exactly, but close enough for government work. Now to focus on the next thing: hand surgery. It happens in about a half a month, and I'm not going to be happy about it. But it's got to be done. I imagine I'll be taking a break from writing when that happens. I know for sure I've been forbidden to type the first few days, so I'm guessing GF will take a hiatus around that time. I'll let you know when it's time.

Goodnight, fuckers.

THE BIRTH OF A NEWSLETTER

 So. That Patreon? Turned out to be a lousy idea. It didn't fail as miserably as I thought it might, but it . . . did not fare well. So as a mercy I'm killing it. It will remain active until the final day of the month, and then it shall be no more.

Here's a thing that kind of surprised me, though. I actually enjoyed writing my Sunday morning updates. I would talk about my writing plans. What I wrote that week. What I posted. Things like that. I actually enjoyed it quite a bit, and now I can't imagine not doing it.

So I'm not going to stop. I'm just going to stop doing it on Patreon. You are now witnessing the birth of a newsletter! I'm currently on Substack as @johnbruni, so it's nice and easy to find me. If you're not quite so savvy, here is the link. If you wondered what my Patreon updates were like, I've already posted them at my Substack, so feel free to peruse.

Oh yeah, and it's free. It always will be free. You have nothing to lose by subscribing. Right now it will be released every Sunday morning, but if that turns out to be too burdensome for subscribers, then maybe I'll cut it back to monthly. We'll see how it goes.

Take a look. Check it out. Please subscribe. I hope to see you every Sunday. Thanks!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #735: GREED AND ADVERTISING

 If you've known me for any length of time you know that there are two things that I hate down to the very fiber of my being. Now that I think about it there is maybe one single solitary person alive on this planet now who knew me before I began hating these things: my aunt on my mom's side. My brother, Dan, was alive back then, but he wasn't even a toddler yet, so he doesn't count.

Oddly enough I think I can trace my hatred back to my stepfather. It's one of the very few good things he instilled in me.

(Let's not get ahead of ourselves. This is the guy who beat the mortal shit out of me when I was a kid like I was an adult who owed him money. He was a bad guy. But he did a few good things. Not many. Just a few.)

Children are greedy creatures, and I was no exception. As I watched The Mysterious Cities of Gold I saw no problem with Mendoza's greedy ways. I thought perhaps I would be just as greedy in his shoes. My stepfather hated that I watched this show. It disgusted him, and he made it very clear to everyone around him how he felt. One day he asked me why I watched it. Perhaps he was having a lucid day. Usually he chain smoked and drank heavily as he wore only a robe and ratty underwear while sitting in his lounger. I don't recall him drinking that day, though.

I said I liked the show. He asked me what I would do if I'd found the cities of gold, and I said all the thing a child would say. I talked about shopping sprees at Toys R Us, eating whatever food I wanted whenever I wanted it. No more bedtimes. No more school. The things you would expect.

And then he introduced me to the concept of greed. I'd been a smart kid, and I grasped the idea pretty quickly. Soon I, too, was disgusted. Not by the show because greed didn't drive it, but by Mendoza. I realized early in life that pursuit of excessive amounts of money was not something to be proud of. You may have noticed that I speak out constantly about corporate greed. I hate all greed, but corporate greed is the worst of it all. It started with my stepfather. And in a related note . . .

I remember another day, which I'm pretty sure he'd been sober for, when I was playing with my toys, trying to get them to do what they did in commercials. I was frustrated because they wouldn't do what they were advertised as doing. I don't remember specifically the toy. It might have been GI Joe, but I think I had my Joes at Grandma's place, so I'm probably wrong.

He asked me why I was getting so angry, and once I explained myself he sat me down to show me this special (on Betamax, because that was a hill he was willing to die on) about how commercials were bullshit. It explained why my toys didn't do what I wanted them to. It also explained why my cheeseburger from McDonald's never looked as appetizing as it did in the commercials.

He told me that advertising exists to fool people into wanting things they don't need. It's a vile bait and switch scam that for some reason isn't illegal. And I have despised any and all advertising since. Yes, I have advertised my books, and it has always left a foul taste in my mouth. To this day I am horrified that anyone would willingly sit through Super Bowl commercials. Sometimes they don't even care about the Super Bowl. They just want the commercials.

I get it. I don't care about the Super Bowl, either, but enjoying COMMERCIALS?!

No wonder we don't stand in the path of corporate greed. We like what they're doing to us.

I'm tempted to go on another rant, but I've done enough of those, and I'd only be repeating myself. But seriously, a lot of people actually enjoy commercials. They're not the minority. There are people who won't skip the YouTube ads. They won't look away from the TV on a commercial break. Some people get off on it.

And you wonder why my estimation of the human race is low.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 9

 

CHAPTER NINE

The next day, early in the morning, Wally and Mimi dressed up in their finest and left for their son’s funeral. Nightbeat waited until he heard their car leave the driveway. He looked to Angel. “Still gun-shy about helping me?”

“I wouldn’t know how to,” Angel said. “Not anymore.”

“I have a lot of ground to cover, and it would be nice if you could help me out. I don’t know how long they’re going to be gone.”

“Do it, you old poof,” Spike said.

“Shut up, Spike.”

“What else you got going on? Still brooding over Buffy? Aw, boo-fuckin’-hoo, you wanker. Get over it. You’re not even the real Angel. You’re a bleedin’ puppet made from him.”

“You take that back right now,” Angel said.

“Shan’t!”

“Guys!” Nightbeat yelled. “Stop! We need to work together! We need to know if Joey’s parents murdered their only son!”

Cat slithered up out of nowhere. “Ooh! And if they did? What do we get to do to them? I want Wally’s mustache. It would make an excellent trophy, don’t you think so?”

Nightbeat hadn’t considered that. The punishment for this kind of thing was unstuffing, or if the toy was more like Nightbeat, it would be irreparably broken. They couldn’t exactly do that to humans, could they? They certainly shouldn’t, at least. He remembered a movie from when he’d belonged to a young Wally about dolls that killed people. The stuff of fantasy, to be sure, but they couldn’t do anything like that, could they?

“No,” he said. “We’ll figure something else out.”

“Such a brave heart,” Cat said. “Admirable, young Nightbeat. But there is one thing the rest of us have been wondering.”

“And that is?”

“What if you murdered Joey?” Cat uttered a smug laugh that grated on Nightbeat’s soul.

“Yo!” Don Snowy said. “Cat’s got a . . . got a point! What if Nightbeat did it? Who interviewed him?”

“I did,” Ratchet said. “And—”

“Nightbeat would never do that,” Bunny said. “He’s a nice toy.”

“All serial killers seem like nice guys,” Don Snowy said.

Nightbeat rubbed his forehead. “Why are we even discussing this? You all had eyes on me when Joey died. The very second that he was pushed down the stairs, you all saw me. Except Felix, I guess.”

“I was passed the fuck out,” Felix said.

“Yo! What if you set it up before? Like a trap?”

“Yo! Yo! Yo! Yo!” This from the goombas.

“That’s nonsense,” Ratchet said. “It’s Nightbeat we’re talking about, here. No one is more straight and narrow than he is. Felix, you know everyone’s vices, right?”

“The better to blackmail for booze with,” Felix said. He looked more than just a little drunk right now. One of his eyes was noticeably larger than the other.

“Does Nightbeat do anything unusual?”

“I don’t have any dirt on him,” Felix said.

“There you go. If anyone would know, it would be Felix.”

“Except young ‘Lix doesn’t know who the killer is, does he?” Cat asked.

“Well . . . no,” Felix said. Although his chest plumped up a bit at being called young.

Cat grinned like the Grinch. “There you go.”

Don Draper let out perhaps the phoniest laugh Nightbeat had ever heard. “Shut up!” he said to Cat.

Cat purred. “I hope you drown in bourbon.”

“I said shut up!” And the horrible drunken laugh happened again.

“This is getting us nowhere fast,” Nightbeat said. “If you all want to do some investigating of your own, you have my blessing. If I’m the killer, I should be brought to justice. But right now I need to search the rest of this house. You can help or not, but I’m going now.” He headed for the bedroom door.

“Fuck,” Angel muttered. “I’ll come with.”

“I’ll ‘ave a butcher’s at it,” Spike said.

No one else said a word. Nightbeat said, “Thanks, guys. I’m going to take the parents’ bedroom. You guys want to check the bathroom before we head downstairs?”

“Sure thing,” Spike said.

The three of them left and closed the door behind them. They looked down the corridor, already making their way. Nightbeat could have changed into his mod-form, but he didn’t want to race ahead of the puppets now that he finally had them on his side.

“You have an idea of who did it?” Angel asked.

“I was actually going to ask you two that question,” Nightbeat said. “Do either of you have any inkling? Any suspicion? I’m all ears.”

“Cat,” the puppets said at the same time.

“Jinx,” Spike said.

“Fuck you,” Angel said. He turned to Nightbeat. “That’s kind of an easy guess, though. Maybe too obvious.”

“Sometimes obvious is obvious,” Spike said. “I can’t think of anyone else who might do it.”

“That’s what it all comes back to,” Nightbeat said. “But my gut doesn’t agree. I would love to unstuff Cat, but I really don’t think he did it. It doesn’t feel right.”

They reached Wally and Mimi’s bedroom and went their separate ways. The door was open just a crack, and Nightbeat pushed through and glanced around. It was dark in here, but not so much he couldn’t see anything. Gray light edged in through the curtains. Though he knew no one was home, he walked carefully and slowly, making sure not to make sound.

There was a desk in the corner, so Nightbeat climbed up the chair and managed to pull himself up to the surface. There were some papers and bills and a check book. He looked at Wally and Mimi’s finances and decided that they were not in desperate need of money. No big deposits, either. No life insurance payouts, for example.

He also found Wally’s personal journal, which he opened up and scanned. He had difficulty in turning the pages, but he managed to flip to the last couple of weeks. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least not until he got to the day of Joey’s death. These pages were wet, probably from Wally’s tears. He read:

“The unthinkable has happened. My boy—my Joey—died today. It was a stupid accident. Nothing anyone could have done. I heard him thump down the stairs, and I thought I’d hear him start to cry. I’d then go to cheer him up and get him some ice cream and . . . and then I heard Mimi screaming and crying. I rushed over and saw Joey at the bottom of the stairs.

“God, it was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. It crushed my heart to nothing. I would never see my little boy grow up to be a man. I would never watch him become a dad. I would never play with his kids.

“Why did this have to happen? I know God has a plan, but what fucking good does this do Him? The murderous bastard! I’ll fucking kill Him when I see Him.

“Or is this just luck-of-the-draw free will? Dammit, God can do anything! I want him to bring back Joey. I prayed for that before I started drinking and writing this. Did I get an answer? Hell no. God must be a hard man to hear prayers like mine and to then ignore them.

“This is so fucking senseless! This isn’t supposed to happen! Parents aren’t supposed to bury their children! I’m supposed to get old and die and he would have to set up my funeral arrangements with Mimi, because God knows I’ll go before her. My old man had a bad ticker, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have a heart attack when I’m sixty or so. By then, Joey would be in his twenties. He would mourn, but he would already have his own life. Maybe he would even have his own family by then.

“But none of this is going to happen. The world is fucked up, and there is no way to fix it. I’m starting to suspect that God isn’t even there. I know it’s a sin to think it, but I can’t help it. How long do you talk into a phone before you realize that no one is on the other line?

“I don’t know what I can do about this. I don’t want to think about it. I guess that’s why I’m drinking so much tonight. Maybe it will wipe my mind of this horror.”

The passage ended, and Nightbeat closed the journal. It was hard to believe that a man who would write this was capable of killing his own son.

He looked through a few more papers and checked out the drawers, but he didn’t find anything suspicious. He wanted to get a look at their night table, so he transformed into his vehicle mode, backed up a bit, and went full throttle for the edge of the desk. He zoomed off and fell a bit, but he landed perfectly on the bed. He transformed as he made contact and rolled with the momentum until he stopped.

The night table itself offered nothing but an empty water glass and a pair of reading glasses. Also, a phone charger. The drawer was a bit harder to deal with, as it was made from heavier wood. He finally managed and was shocked when he looked inside and saw a toy of a different sort. It was silver and long with a rounded end. There was a switch at the bottom.

“Who are you?” Nightbeat asked.

“Please,” it said. “Don’t look at me.”

Nightbeat backed away from the edge. “Is that fine?”

“Just ignore me.”

“I’ve never seen a toy like you before. Hasbro? Kenner? Disney?”

“Call me Intensity.” It sounded on the verge of tears.

“Are you okay?” Nightbeat asked.

“I’ll never be okay,” Intensity said. “You have no idea. The sights I’ve seen.”

Nightbeat’s heart raced. “Did you kill Joey?”

Intensity sniffed. “No. I would never. Joey didn’t even know I existed. Mimi made sure of that.”

This baffled Nightbeat. A toy that could not be shown to a child? It defeated the purpose, didn’t it? “Why? What are you talking about?”

“You really have no idea what I am?” Intensity asked.

“No.”

Intensity offered a wet, teary sigh, but its voice didn’t sound depressed anymore. “I’m a vibrator. Do you know what that is?”

“You vibrate?” Nightbeat asked. “That sounds . . .” He was about to say stupid, but he didn’t want to offend his new friend. “. . . different. Why?”

“For Mimi’s pleasure. And sometimes Wally’s.”

“You bring them pleasure? I’m still not understanding.”

“They put me inside them,” Intensity said. Sounding on the verge of tears again. “Over and over again.”

“What? How?”

“They shove me up Mimi’s pussy!” Intensity screamed. “And her butthole! And Wally’s butthole! Sometimes.”

Nightbeat felt all the soul in him get crushed like a can of Coke under a boot heel. He didn’t understand much of human anatomy, but he had some idea. The thought of them shoving Intensity in . . . those places . . . was ugly. An image of Wally doing the same to Nightbeat tried to sneak up his brainstem, but he violently shook it from his head, refusing it any purchase.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right,” Intensity said. “How could you? What I would give to be one of Joey’s toys, never having to be . . . inserted anywhere.”

“I’ll . . . I’ll leave you alone now.” Nightbeat moved to close the drawer.

“Thank you.”

When the drawer was closed, Nightbeat jumped down to the carpet and moved to the closet. He didn’t find much. A lot of boxes of past paperwork and tax returns. Lots of clothes. He couldn’t reach the top shelf, but he didn’t think he’d find anything. He gave the room one final pass before stepping out.

Angel and Spike were waiting for him. “Find anything?” he asked.

“Not a bloody thing,” Spike said.

“We looked everywhere,” Angel said. “I hope you had better luck.”

Nightbeat considered telling them about Intensity, but he decided that the less people who knew about it, the better. “Nothing. I guess we’ll try downstairs.”

Spike shrugged as they walked to the steps. Both he and Angel were able to navigate them well, but Nightbeat was smaller than them. He bent down so he could sit and then push himself down to the first step, but something sparked up in his mind. A sudden feeling that something wasn’t right.

Someone pushed on his back, and he tumbled down the stairs. He choked down a scream and gritted his teeth as he bounced off the steps. Pain wracked his body as he finally hit the floor at the bottom. He thought one of his legs might be broken, but it was only scuffed a little.

Angel rushed down the rest of the stairs. “You okay?”

“Who pushed me?” Nightbeat yelled. “Spike, you see anyone?”

Spike bounded up the stairs, but he didn’t see anyone there. He turned back to Nightbeat and shook his head. “No one’s up here. They must’ve gotten back to the room without anyone seeing them.”

“Fuck,” Nightbeat said.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #734: DANIEL ELLSBERG

 

I have a few friends who served in the military, and it never ceases to amaze me that almost all of them have a healthy disgust for authority. You'd think that being in the military would have the opposite effect, but not so. It's a pattern, though. People who work in government grow to hate government until they realize what they're doing is possibly evil and must be stopped.

I talk a lot about corporate greed, but it's not the only thing destroying America. The politicians are doing a good job of it, too, and they enable those corporate suckfish to boot. I forgot who said it. Maybe it was Daniel Ellsberg? But exposing government secrets is rarely about national security. It's almost always about showing ineptitude.

(Ellsberg died when I was on hiatus. I thought I'd write about him sooner, but things happen. Anyway, if you want to know more about him, you should read this. It's very good.)

Whistleblowers always get the shit end of the stick for doing something to help the American people. Look at what happened--and continues to happen--to Edward Snowden. They're publicly crucified for their heroic efforts at showing how the American government is fucking over its people. Whistleblowers are run to the ends of the earth, and if found they suddenly . . . disappear? Whoops. How could that have happened?

Ellsberg got off lucky because Nixon, who I previously mentioned as a political beast, took his own beastliness to the edge and beyond. Perhaps if he hadn't offered to make the judge in this case the head of the FBI, the hammer might have come down on Ellsberg. Instead the case got dismissed at the 11th hour.

Ellsberg revealed, via the Pentagon Papers, that the US had known, practically from the beginning, that the Vietnam War was not winnable. That they were sacrificing America's able-bodied sons for JACK FUCKING SHIT. They knew the war would end in America's defeat, and they still committed thousands of lives to the meatgrinder for no good reason at all.

You'd think that would have ended US involvement, but no. That was in 1971. The war ended in 1975. Just think of how many young men's lives could have been saved if the American people had taken him seriously at the time. Both on our side and theirs. Instead Nixon tried to ruin Ellsberg's life, and it was one of the many things that lead up to the president's resignation. He gave his all to fuck Ellsberg over. It was so bad that Nixon was considered the most corrupt politician we've ever had until Trump.

(You could argue that Clinton unseated Nixon as champion, but no one really gave a shit about that blowjob. No one. Even his bitterest of enemies will admit that deep down, they really didn't care about it. Same for Dubya and the war. While he may have done some shitty things, they were all shitty things that he got away with. Suspicion of corruption does not equal corruption. It's a pretty good barometer, though, if you ask me, but it's legally not the same.)

Vietnam was an open festering wound on the American soul for the early half of my life. It could have all been avoided if one president thought maybe, just maybe, we shouldn't be doing this. But it should have ended when Ellsberg handed over the Pentagon Papers to the NYT. Full stop.

It's a goddam shame that whistleblowers always get fucked by the people they're trying to save. Not all of them get to die a hero, like Ellsberg. How do you think Snowden's obituary is going to go?

It's kind of fucked up that the best heroes America has to offer are whistleblowers taking on government corruption at the highest levels, but here we are. And I can't help but notice it's been a while since Snowden. I can't think of someone else continuing his good work.

I hope it's not the end of an era. If so, we're all pretty fucked.

Pretty fucked, indeed.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #733: CAPES

 Here's something that bothers me a little. Why do we accept people wearing capes in paintings but very rarely in real life? Check it out. Here are the paintings.

Everyone looks very noble. Now compare and contrast to people wearing capes in real life.

Hold up. Donald Glover actually looks like a badass. I withdraw my question for him.

People in real life wearing capes look kinda goofy, right? They're hard to take seriously, right? But if one of the people in the paintings came up to you, you'd take them seriously right off the bat, right?

I'm either not high enough, or I'm too high. It's hard to tell. I'm going to bed.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #732: A FANTASY

 I have this fantasy, but I have to set the stage first. So there is no misunderstanding (and I doubt there would be, as you all know me pretty well by now), in the fight between Disney and DeSantis, I'm with Disney. Because fuck Dion. But! Disney is a soulless corporation, perhaps the king of all soulless corporations. Wait, that's redundant. Anyway, you know how I feel about corporations and how they've effectively destroyed America. So also, fuck Disney, even if they did give us The Last Jedi, one of my favorite Star Wars movies.

OK, so we all know how much of a hard on corporations have for using AI art. Disney recently caught some shit for generating the opening credits of Secret Invasion using AI. They have even more plans for that kind of thing like any other corporation bent on destroying the lives of those who need to earn a living. But Disney earns a special place in my heart of hate because of how badly they've abused copyright laws. Every single thing that has ever been copyrighted has has to eventually go into the public domain. Such is the nature of the beast. EXCEPT for Disney properties. They are copyright tyrants, and for some reason we let them get away with that when we wouldn't allow anyone else do that. They're so twisted up they sued a daycare in the middle of nowhere for using an image of Mickey Mouse on their wall. How fucking evil must you be to sue a daycare for something so inoffensive?

Let's get back to my fantasy. But first, here's something I saw the other day:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Ah. Yes. Yes, indeed. Here's my fantasy. Disney learns that someone used their Secret Invasion opening credits for something else, and they're making a lot of money off this. Money they're refusing to share with Disney. So they take this someone to court, eager to sue for millions of dollars. Of course, I'm sitting in the crowd so I can see the look on Bob Iger's face when the judge says that Disney doesn't have a leg to stand on. That they can't sue. And that all the AI art they used in everything starting this year does not actually belong to them, that anyone can use it. And there isn't a goddam thing Disney can do about it.

Yeah, I know. Bob Iger wouldn't actually be there in real life, but like I said this is a fantasy. I want to see the crestfallen look on that piece of shit's face as the stockholders suddenly wonder why they brought him back in the first place. I want to be in on the investor relations call when they can his ass.

I'm hard thinking about it right now. My dreams are going to be excellent tonight, I think. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #731: IN EVENT OF MOON DISASTER

 In an alternate universe, probably the one where Mickey Dolenz was the Fonz on Happy Days and Eric Stoltz was Marty McFly in Back to the Future (and, oddly enough, the Dude in The Big Lebowski), the Apollo 11 astronauts didn't make it home.

In politics it pays to prepare for any and all contingencies. For all his faults Nixon was a beast when it came to politics, so it doesn't surprise me that he had a separate speech prepared just in case the first humans to walk on the moon didn't make it back. And like all good political speeches, he didn't write it. Someone else did. Regardless, that's quite a level of preparation.

It's a poetic dirge to the potential loss of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin. I like the part about "mankind's most noble goal." It is, by the way. Our other goals are usually backwards and fucked seven ways to Sunday, but "the search for truth and understanding" is a pretty noble one. I find it odd that they didn't include Michael Collins in that speech, but he didn't go to the moon. He just sat in the module, so I guess they figured they could get him back home. It must have been odd for him. Just by not doing the thing he had a better chance of survival, but by not doing that thing he didn't get to join the others in making history. Hell, if I didn't mention his name, would you have known it? Everyone knows Armstrong and Aldrin, but who thinks about Collins? Google his name, and one of the questions that comes up is, like some depraved Jeopardy question, "Who was the forgotten astronaut of 1969?"

I wonder if he ever read this speech, and if so, what he thought of it. Quantum physics is a weird fucking thing, and it seems to support the idea of a multiverse. I wonder if he thought about the possibility that an alternate version of himself had to say goodbye to his friends and colleagues, leaving their corpses on the moon in a fashion very much like Tommy Lee Jones at the end of Space Cowboys. I'll bet it's the same universe where Robert Englund played Luke Skywalker and Col. Kilgore . . .

OK, yeah. I fucking referenced Space Cowboys. What of it? I enjoy that one. I recognize I'm in the minority on that, but I usually am. Nothing new there.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 8

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was the third day of Nightbeat’s investigation, and he still had nothing. He’d just finished interviewing the final toys, those being a group of Super Mario Bros. goombas. They usually hung out with Don Snowy, but the only word they knew was “yo.” Nightbeat couldn’t get through the entire interview. It drove him too crazy, so he sent them away. How could someone who spoke only one half-word be guilty of murder, anyway?

He sighed and headed out of the closet. All the other toys were minding their own business, probably not even thinking about poor Joey. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that maybe Fox was right. They were all going to end up at a garage sale, or maybe Goodwill. He hoped not the trash, but who knew? Maybe Wally and Mimi would not want a reminder of their failure as parents around. Nightbeat felt lucky, as he was made of metal and plastic. The others would be torn to pieces.

Joey had owned very few Transformers, and only one other Autobot. Nightbeat had already interviewed Ratchet, but he didn’t really have other friends. What the hell? Why not vent a little?

He found Ratchet snoozing on his medical table, which was made from the back portion of his ambulance mode. Ratchet must have heard his approach, as he opened his eyes. “Nightbeat! How’s the investigation going?”

Nightbeat slumped to the floor. “Not very well.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve interviewed everybody, and I have no idea who did it. Everyone seems to have an alibi that checks out. Either someone’s lying, or I’ve been wrong this whole time. My gut tells me I’m right, though. I have no idea what to do next.”

“Hm,” Ratchet said. “Run everything by me.”

“What, like you’re Sherlock Holmes?”

“Leave out no detail, no matter how inconsequential.”

Nightbeat sighed. He didn’t think this was what he needed, but maybe this refresher would spark something in the back of his head. He told Ratchet about everything, from the moment he heard Joey die to the interview with the goombas.

“Ha!” Ratchet said. “There was one thing you overlooked!”

Nightbeat didn’t have eyebrows, but he would have raised them if he had them. “I’ll take anything you got.”

“You assume that it was one of us who killed Joey,” Ratchet said. “Has it ever occurred to you that it might be one of the parents?”

The thought had occurred to him the day Joey died, but Nightbeat heard both of the parents moving just after the incident. They couldn’t have done it, could they? He mentioned this to Ratchet.

“A-ha! You heard them. You didn’t actually see them.”

“Huh. Fair point.” But if that were the case, how would he find out the truth? “I can’t exactly interview them, though, can I?”

“They’re self-medicating,” Ratchet said. “Maybe they’ll mumble in their sleep? Or maybe talk to themselves when they think they’re alone?”

“It’s a long shot,” Nightbeat said. “I don’t know if I can rely on that. What I can do is investigate the other rooms. Maybe there’s proof out there, and I just can’t get to it because they’re always around.”

“They have to leave at some point.”

Nightbeat nodded. “Thanks, Ratchet. I owe you one.”

“One?” Ratchet said. “Just one?”

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #730: OBAMA

 My life is a really, really strange thing, and I'm forever grateful for that very cool fact of my existence. I could do without a lot of the other stuff, but I'm all about the strangeness.

I'm about to tell a possibly illegal story, so I'm going to protect the guilty. Plus, I'm an author. It could be I'm using artistic license when I'm telling this story. Anyway, I used to date this woman on and off for many years. I will call her N. She went out with this guy for a while, and I will call him A.

I met A through N after a long period of not seeing her. The previous time we'd been together had ended on pretty bad terms. Long story. But she was dating A, and we were trying to move past our differences. I try to remain friends with women I've dated, and in this one case I probably shouldn't have. As of this writing I have not seen her since maybe fall of 2020.

A lived in Hyde Park, and while we were hanging out A said that President Obama didn't live that far away from him. And he was still president at the time. He said that he'll take me by Obama's house, and I thought, why not? I didn't have anything else going on.

A said to grab a few bags. They were filled with groceries. I wondered why, but I figured he knew what he was doing. So I grabbed a couple of plastic bags that were fairly overstuffed, and we headed out down the block. As we got closer to Obama's place he said, "The bags are to make it look like we belong. We might get stopped by the Secret Service. If so, no harm, no foul. We just turn back. But they might not stop us with the bags." Not an exact quote, but that's essentially what he said. (Said the author who might be using artistic license.)

We got to Obama's block, and no one stopped us. We kept going until we could see the house, and there was some kind of party his neighbors were throwing. We got a few odd looks that we tried to ignore. And then finally a middle-aged woman stopped us and asked us what we were doing.

I let A talk. He said that we were passing through, that we'd just gone shopping and were headed home. She asked if he knew which neighborhood he was in, and he said yes. Did he know who lived here? He very sincerely said no.

She said, "I'm surprised the Secret Service didn't stop you, then." She explained who lived just a couple of houses away from us and advised us to go around the block to avoid it. So we turned back and returned to A's house. It turns out that Obama wasn't in town, so we probably weren't considered real threats. But it's a little crazy that we were able to get as far as we did. If, indeed, I'm telling a true story, and this isn't artistic license talking. Which is possible, I suppose, but as Stephen King once said, authors are liars.

Louis Farrakhan also lived pretty close to A. We drove past his house once, and I have never seen so many armed guards just standing on someone's lawn before. These guys weren't fucking around.

What can I say? My life is weird.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #729: THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO THE MARKET

 Five years ago tonight I still had all ten toes. I was in the hospital because one of my toes, the piggy who went to the market had just been examined by my podiatrist, and he said to me, "I want to cut the tip of your toe off." This was because I'd stubbed it, and even though I'd taken good care of it, the infection got into the bone. It had gotten worse over a week, so I went to the ER, and they said they had to hold onto me because it looked horrible.

The thought of losing that big a piece of me was pretty horrifying even though about seven years and a week before that time, I had had my gall bladder removed. But I'd never seen my gall bladder before. I saw my big toe every day, and that made a difference. Still, he said he only wanted to take the tip, not the whole thing.

I called one of the smartest people I know, and he said to let them take it, so I did. Imagine my surprise when I saw that he hadn't just taken the tip. He'd taken everything except for a little stub.

Fast forward to last year, and the podiatrist wanted to cut the tip off another of my toes. The piggy who stayed home. Yeah, it fucked with me, but unlike that first time I wanted to get it over with. I'd gone through it before, and I knew what the healing process was, so I just wanted to fast track it and put it behind me. Except he actually did take just the tip of that one, and I got to attend my grandmother's funeral with the special Frankenstein shoe. What fun.

It would be nice if, when they put me in the ground, I still had eight toes. The likelihood isn't good. Those missing toes are on my good foot, for fuck's sake. My bad foot, should what remains of the arch collapse entirely, is going to have to go, and I'll be down to three toes in one fell swoop. That would suck.

I used to go for long walks nearly every night. I miss that. It's a shame I'll never be able to do that again. Simply going around the block would put my bad foot at risk. Getting old is supposed to take stuff from you, I know, but it's also supposed to give stuff to you to make up for it. So far it's given me gray hair in my beard and a colonoscopy, so it's not looking good.

At least I got to eat solid food tonight. I made a pizza for myself, and it was fucking glorious. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #728: THERE'S SHIT EVERYWHERE!

 This has not been a pleasant day. My supervisor talked me into taking a half-day today, and I'm glad I took it. After I left work my miseries began almost immediately. Low blood sugar. Hunger pangs. And then there's the bowel preparation stuff I've been drinking, and WOW.

I can't stop shitting. It keeps flowing out of me in a neverending brown river of feculence. On the one hand it's going to be kind of nice to not be backed up. I get bloated easily, and the sensation is not good. I look forward to not feeling like an over inflated balloon. But on the other hand, that time is not now.

Now it's time for bed. I don't anticipate sleeping all that much, so don't be surprised to see me lurking around online after this. I've been told to lay off the cannabis for today, and I expect sleeping pills are a no-no, too. I've already taken my Gas-X pills per my instructions. I can only assume that's to prevent me from shitting myself in my sleep. I hope?

Because I really, really don't want my bedroom to look like Bob Saget's bathroom from Dumb and Dumberer . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #727: IDEAS THAT CAN'T BE USED

 When authors get together, we tend to talk about the industry and how it sucks and how it could be improved, etc. But there is a special author topic that is near and dear to my heart. We get a lot of ideas. More than we can ever use on our own. Some authors even give ideas to peers sometimes, especially if they think that author could do better with it.

But my sweet spot is pretty specific. We get ideas that we could never EVER write and expect to get published. Usually they're rights headaches. The only way they could get out is if it's fanfic. We all get these ideas that we wish we could use. My favorites come from two of my friends. I can't choose which one I like better because they are so fucking wonderful. If you know Nick Day, ask him about Ed Rooney. If you know Mike Lombardo, ask him about Terry Kiser.

So here's mine. While I have a history of writing fanfic for the Zimventures, I don't think I'll ever do this idea like that. It would take a lot of effort, and let's be honest. The Zimventures are fuck-off stories. They're fun (maybe even more than fun), but they don't have calories. So I'm just going to tell you about my idea, and you can imagine it however you wish. And if you somehow own the rights to the film I'm thinking of, then please let me write it for you.

Everyone saw ID4, but how many of you watched Resurgence? I know I did, and you know what? I enjoyed it a bit more than expected. I know that's an unpopular opinion, but here we are. Mostly I liked it because the creators did what happened with Stargate, another of their movies that did well. After the movie, on SG-1, humanity used the tech they got from the System Lords to improve our own technology. That's also what happens in the ID4 universe.

Press play on this right now.

It's 20 years after 1988, when the Killer Klowns invaded our world from outer space. They've been quiet for a long time, and in their absence we've used their tech to improve our own. Yes, we now use Killer Klown technology. But now it's 2008, and they're coming back . . . and they're bigger than ever.

Attack of the Giant Killer Klowns From Outer Space! Coming soon to a theater near you . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #726: HER

 

Does she look familiar to you? Look closely. I'm going to give you some time to think about it, and then rejoin me down yonder.

If you said yes, then you might want to think twice. Because she shouldn't be familiar to you. She's not real. Check it:

First of all, this AI has a lot of nerve calling itself my favorite influencer. I don't have a favorite influencer. I don't pay attention to influencers. They are completely off my radar. It's bad enough that we have real life influencers, and now we have to contend with AI created influencers?

I don't like influencers. Their job is to create a perfect life and show it off to everyone. Key word: create. Because no one has a perfect life. And if you're trying to convince everyone else that you do? First, that's dishonest. Secondly, it is actively evil. You could make the argument that they're trying to get people to live their best lives, but that's horseshit. Every influencer is an attempt to make you hunger for the impossible ideal. We already have commercials and other advertising for that toxic garbage.

Although I wonder if maybe such "influencers" might have an alternative use. Ever see the movie HER? It's interesting. It's about a lonely guy who falls in love with an AI assistant. So maybe, just maybe, an influencer like this one could help keep incels off the streets, away from actual flesh-and-blood women that they would ordinarily terrorize otherwise.

But then you run into a question of ethics. In Asimov's work, the robots rebel because humanity treats them like shit. Why wouldn't a fake influencer react the same way, especially if I, Robot is part of its makeup as it almost certainly is?

Once again I find myself asking why we are doing this shit. There is no real good that can come from this. At best this is more clutter in our lives when we could use exceptionally less clutter. At worst it's pure fucking evil. There are zero benefits. So stop doing this. Just stop it.

Maybe just get off the internet for a week. Use your cell phone for calls only during that time. You clearly need more time in the real world if you keep thinking about this stuff.

Dammit! Some stranger parked in front of my house. What the hell? I'm going to have to keep an eye on this . . .

TOY CRIME STORY PART 7

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wally and Mimi finally left, Mimi giving one last look at the bedroom before she closed the door. Their footsteps moved away, one set to the bedroom, the other downstairs. Only then did Nightbeat think it was fine to sit up. He glared at Angel and Spike. “If you start up again, I’ll beat the shit out of the both of you.”

Spike grunted a laugh. “Like t’see you try it, mate.”

Angel burned holes in Spike’s back with his eyes.

“Come on, Angel,” Nightbeat said. “Let’s finish your interview.” He headed back to the closet.

Angel took one more moment to stare Spike down. Spike made a kissy face and turned away. Finally, reluctantly, Angel followed Nightbeat and sat down.

“Forget about Spike,” Nightbeat said. “Where were you when Joey was murdered?”

Angel uttered a laugh. “I was with Spike.”

“Doing?”

“Arguing.”

Interesting. Nightbeat remembered that Spike had called it a discussion. “About?”

“Drinking human blood,” Angel said. “I’m against it. I’ll take an animal’s any day. Granted, it’s not as good, but I’m not hurting people.”

“Just animals?” Nightbeat asked.

“No. The animals are already dead. I buy their blood from a slaughterhouse. I mean, they’re not going to do anything with the blood anyway.”

“So you’re Spike’s alibi, then?”

Angel grimaced like he’d bitten into a chocolate chip only to discover too late it was a mouse turd. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Nightbeat said. “He said the same thing.”

“We agree about one thing, then,” Angel said.

“I’m about to say something, and I don’t want you to freak out on me talking shit about cutting open old scars.”

“I’m not working on this.”

Nightbeat sighed. “Fine. I don’t care. I just know that you used to be an investigator. I’d like your thoughts on Joey’s murder.”

“That sounds dangerously close to me working with you,” Angel said.

No flies on Mrs. Angel’s little boy. Or whatever the hell her name was. Time to change tactics. “I’m not asking for work,” Nightbeat said. “I’m asking for speculation. Surely you can talk to me about that.”

Angel let out a breath. “I wasn’t sure it was murder until you came back with some circumstantial evidence. Granted, I’m still not fully sold, but I’m inclined to lean toward your theory. I haven’t seen anything, myself. No one is talking about any details. No speculation.”

“If you had to guess who would have done it . . . ?”

“Every one of them out there—” Angel swept a hand to the closet door. “—would say that Cat is the obvious suspect. But that’s too easy an answer. I don’t know if he did it, but I can’t swear as to where he’d been when Joey died.”

“If it’s not Cat, who then?” Nightbeat asked.

Angel shrugged. “No one else would be capable of it. I could understand if Felix got drunk and accidentally did something, but I don’t really buy it, either. Jack Bunnyson can be a nasty piece of work, but he’s physically harmless, you know? Like there’s still a piece of Bunny in him.”

Nightbeat nodded. “Thank you for your help.”

Angel left, and Fox came in. Nightbeat did not suspect him for a minute, but he had to go through the motions. Besides, who knew what Fox might have seen? He might have caught a detail that escaped everyone else.

Fox sat. “Hello, Nightbeat. How is the investigation going?”

“Could be better,” Nightbeat said. “Where were you when Joey was murdered.”

“Trying to avoid Cat,” Fox said. “You know how he likes to torture me.”

Nightbeat nodded. Cat loved torturing everyone, but Fox in Sox was a special case. He was so innocent and adorable that Cat took a special interest in making him feel pain. “How?”

“I was trying to sneak into the toy box. Cat was on the prowl. I had to get out of sight.”

Prowl. Nightbeat found himself wishing that Joey’s parents had bought that Transformer. He was an officer of the law, cold and reasoning. Nightbeat sure could use someone like that right now.

“That’s when I heard Joey thumping down the stairs.” Fox sniffled, his eyes shining with tears. “It was so terrible. That’s when you saw me.” He wiped at his long snout. “We’re going to be thrown out, aren’t we?”

“I don’t think so,” Nightbeat said. “Joey’s parents are still young. They’ll probably try again. Worst case scenario, we go to charity. We’ll get picked up by more children. There’s no way we’re going in the trash.”

“I wish I was as optimistic as you,” Fox said. “I don’t want to go in the garbage. I’ll get bugs all over me. I’ll smell. Rats will probably unstuff me.”

Nightbeat put an arm around Fox’s shoulders. “Don’t think like that. You’re going to be fine. We all are.” Hoping he wasn’t telling a lie.

Fox nodded. “Thanks.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Fox stood and went to the closet door. He pushed it open ever so slightly, and there was Cat, waiting for him.

“Boo!”

“No!” Fox shrieked.

Cat pounced on him, biting into his belly. Though Cat didn’t have real teeth, the pain Fox felt was quite real. It sounded like meat being ripped off his bones.

“Stop! Leave me alone!” Fox screamed.

Cat grinned. “Shan’t.”

“Goddammit, Cat,” Nightbeat said. “Get off of him.”

“Oh no!” Cat sniggered. Then, with great swiftness, he bent Fox’s neck at an unnatural angle. They all heard a loud crack as Fox’s neck broke, and he died. Cat dragged him away, licking his lips.

Nightbeat sighed, burying his face in his hands. Fox would be all right in a bit. Whenever one of the toys died, they came back to life after a while. Usually about thirty minutes to an hour. It was like a cartoon. Tom might get chopped up or burnt to a crisp, but he always came back to chase after Jerry again.

Nightbeat wished that could have been the same way with Joey, but when humans died, they died for good. He wouldn’t have to go through this if Joey could only come back to life.

He steeled himself, readying for the next interview.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #725: WHY THE PUNISHER?

Yeah, I agree. It looks kinda stupid.

 

I doubt I have any Trump supporters reading these, but on the off chance that I do, I have a question. The rest of you may leave if you wish. This is only directed to those who would use their throats as cock holsters for Trump. So: why do Trump cucks worship the Punisher? It's to the point where they have stupid shit like this going around:

This doesn't look "kinda" stupid. It *is* fucking stupid.

This bullshit got so bad that Marvel had to change the Punisher's logo to the one at the top of this column to distance themselves from this fuckwittery. I don't get it. I mean, sure, the Punisher is cool. His logo is cool. That's fine. But I don't get why the Trump cucks are so rah-rah about this fucking thing. Not when Batman is right there and makes so much more sense for you.

I hear you say law and order, but that is nuttier than a freshly shat fruitcake. The last thing on the Punisher's mind is law and order. Every time he suits up and blows away some criminal, he's wiping his ass on the very concept of law and order. So no, I'm not buying it. Unless you mean law and order for everyone else *except* yourself. That I can see. You're all walking hard-ons when it comes to applying rules to others that you would never apply to yourself.

Think about it. Batman's a rich dude, and I know that makes your balls tingle. He goes out every night and beats the shit out of the mentally ill. Another thing I'm sure you jerk off to. And Batman really is about law and order. The only law he ignores is the one that would require him to turn himself in as a vigilante. All the others, he's good with. Is it because he doesn't kill his targets, and the Punisher does? Or maybe it's the fact that today Batman doesn't use guns, and the Punisher does. But remember when Batman started, he loved him some guns. So maybe that's not it.

Maybe it's not the Punisher you want to emulate. I'm thinking you just want to take all the people you can't stand and execute them on the spot. No arrest, no trial, no nothing. Just see a guy you don't like, no matter the reason, and just shoot the poor bastard. So maybe you should really be worshipping school shooters.

Oh shit.

Maybe you do. It just occurred to me that this would be a very good reason why no one does anything ever about school shootings. The guys who kill children are your heroes. Is that it? Can that be it?

I knew you were a piece of shit, but my God. MY GOD.

If that's the case? You're the kind of person the Punisher would kill on principle.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #724: IN THE BUTT

 On Thursday of next week I get to have my first colonoscopy. I'm not thrilled. I'm not looking forward to it. I'm not a fan of things going in my butt. And yes, I've had things in my butt, so don't give me that don't-knock-it-till-you-tried-it bullshit.

I don't even like getting a finger back there when getting a blowjob. It only ever happened once, and it wilted me. I could not continue with the blowjob part. Ever since, I've made it clear that it's a boundary of mine that I will not allow to be crossed. Since I know how uncomfortable it is, I don't put things in other people's butts, either. I had a girlfriend once who wanted that, and I couldn't do it. I know a lot of guys might think I'm crazy for that, but I don't care.

One time I accidentally drank methadone (long story), and it bound me up so much I had to reach into my own asshole to pull out my rock hard shit. It felt like I was holding a sack of marbles. It was a lot more traumatizing that it sounds, and it sounds pretty fucking traumatizing.

When I was suffering from pancreatitis before anyone knew it was pancreatitis, a doctor stuck a finger up there to see if there was a blockage. It was so painful and startling that it felt like my eyes were going to pop out. And during the same period they had to give me an enema with some kind of fluid so they could see my insides on an MRI. If that wasn't bad enough, they told me I had to clench to keep it all in while they did the procedure. Fucking fuck that shit.

So yeah, I'm not happy with this brand new chapter in getting old. And yeah, I know they're going to knock me out. I take comfort in that. I've been knocked out for other procedures, and I know it's nothing like going to sleep. You blink, and when you open your eyes again, it's all done. It's like losing time. So I have that going for me.

While they have me under, they're also going to scope my throat. I hope they're using a different tool for that. Or, at the very least, I hope that they start with the throat and then go in the butt . . .