GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #750: WESTERN THEMES

 You all know I love westerns. Many of you know I also like punk music. It should surprise none of you that the Dead Kennedys version of "Rawhide" is in regular rotation in my life. I was listening to it the other day in my car when I thought, why don't we have more awesome covers of western TV theme songs?

Gunsmoke can't be done. There aren't any words to the theme. But I think a prime candidate would be Have Gun, Will Travel. I feel like there should be a metal version of this one. Maybe Megadeth could do it? I know Mustaine is a fan. They already a song called "Have Cool, Will Travel." I could see them doing a version of that song.

Maverick would be a lot trickier. Punk and metal wouldn't be able to do it justice. It's a bit more lighthearted than the others, so maybe hard rock? Here's an unconventional idea for this one. I think Sammy Hagar could do it. It's got to be someone who likes to party but doesn't like to get dark. Something a bit laid back. He fits the bill, I think.

Anyway, your thoughts? (And before you start thinking about classic SF shows from that time period, look no further than Monster Magnet. They get to do all of them.)

PS: If you're interested in the Dead Kennedys version of "Rawhide," here's a nice behind the scenes look at recording it.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 14

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“What about Bueno Excellente?” Nightbeat asked.

Cat laughed long and hard. “You really don’t remember what happened to him, do you?”

Nightbeat thought back. Bueno had been with them for several years, but he couldn’t quite remember what happened to him. One day he was there, the next day he was gone.

“Joey happened to him,” Cat said. “He was angry with his mother, something about not letting him watch TV past his bedtime, so he took it out on Bueno. Unstuffed the poor bastard. There wasn’t a shred of him left that was recognizable.”

“What does that have to do with my investigation? You’re not making sense.”

“You’re so dense for a detective. Joey was killed out of revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.”

Nightbeat tried to put the pieces together, but they just wouldn’t stick. “How so?”

“Who was best friends with Bueno? Who did he hang out with the most? Who would want to kill Joey for unstuffing Bueno?”

Goddammit. Cat really did know who killed Joey. He knew all this time, and he didn’t do anything about it. Nightbeat wondered if he could get Cat unstuffed as an accomplice or for withholding evidence or something.

“Don Snowy,” Cat said. “They were best friends. They worked together sometimes. But Don Snowy only ordered the hit. Someone else followed through.”

Something flashed in Nightbeat’s mind, and he felt sickened by his lack of intuition. “The goombas.”

“Finally! It thinks! How does it feel to have solved the mystery?”

Nightbeat’s stomach turned. How could he have been so blind? He didn’t get anywhere with the interviews because the goombas were the guilty ones, and all they could say was “yo.” But Don Snowy? Sure, he did some shady things, but murder? And now that he knew, what could he do about it? The only one bigger than Don Snowy was Bunny, and he wouldn’t be able to hold Don Snowy down for his unstuffing, not even if he was in Jack Bunnyson mode. Angel and Spike might be able to together, but would they? Angel distinctly didn’t want to get involved, and Spike was a bit too whimsical.

Another thought occurred to him: he would have a huge fight on his hands. The goombas wouldn’t idly sit by while they tried to unstuff their master. The situation seemed more impossible than ever.

“Have you figured out why the goombas tried to kill you?” Cat asked.

Nightbeat hadn’t thought about it, but now that Cat mentioned it, he had an idea. “Because I refused to let my investigation die.”

“Very good, boy. And now you realize the fight you’re in for?”

Nightbeat nodded.

“Ooh, this is so exciting!” Cat shivered with delight.

It made Nightbeat feel even more nauseous. “How do I get the hell out of here?”

“Follow me,” Cat said.

Nightbeat followed Cat back up the stairs. He glanced down to see Man-E-Faces standing sentinel over the dead toys. His faces spun at a much slower pace, like he was maybe powering down. He stared at Nightbeat the whole time.

At the top of the stairs, they approached where they had both entered the Catacombs. The air burned for a moment, and the path back to Joey’s room opened up. “After you,” Cat said. He gestured with his mittened hand.

Nightbeat jumped through the portal and found himself back under Joey’s bed. Cat joined him after a moment, now looking like the stuffed animal he was in this world, and they both moved out into the rest of the room.

Directly into the midst of the goombas.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #749: STITCHLESS TMI

 

I got my stitches out today. It still hurts like hell, but it's not so bad anymore. There's a tiny slit that's still kind of open, but I have stuff to keep it clean. I don't even need a bandage anymore. But I still need to do my hand exercises. The trigger finger doesn't lock up anymore, but it feels weird, and I'd like it to stop doing that.

It shouldn't surprise you to know that when I learned the date my hand surgery would take place, I spanked my monkey soooooooo fucking much. Had to get it all in before the surgery because I knew I wouldn't be able to do anything after for a while. I'm a 45 year old diabetic, so getting that much masturbation in was kind of difficult. And yes, I know I've said here many times that I jerk off left handed, and that's my right hand up there. But who uses just one hand? Doing that is kind of lackluster. I certainly lead with the left, yet my right hand gets a lot done, too. But yeah, I hit middle age, and my sex drive plummeted. I think the 'Beetus is having an effect, too. And I know this is going to sound crazy to you, all things considered, but my sex drive wasn't that high to begin with.

So getting my time's worth was a little more difficult than usual. I was hoping to resume the Palm Olympics today, but I'm just going to have to take it easy for a while.

And yes, I have jerked off since my surgery, but like I said above, it was lackluster. I didn't feel a thrill. It felt like a task instead. And I didn't shoot out like usual. I used to be a distance man, but that was maybe 20 years ago. When I petted the one eyed wonder weasel after the surgery? It was more of a dribble.

Just think: I have to do the hand surgery all over again after the new year because I have trigger finger in the index finger of my left hand. So I guess I'll have to go to town again before that happens.

This fucking blows. To be continued, I guess . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #748: PANGEA ULTIMA

 

250 million years. It sounds like a long time, but big picture? It's not necessarily a breeze, but it's still not as much time as a human being would think. A story broke in Nature about a group of scientists who used a super computer to extrapolate what the planet would look like in the future, and it's the picture you see above. Some of it is recognizable but not much.

People don't tend to think about continental drift, but if they do, they think about it in terms of past tense. The continents are still drifting, though. So slowly you can't notice it. Kind of like how we don't notice the earth rotating, but it does.

How accurate is something like this? Hard to say. Who can truly predict the future? We do, however, have evidence of what has happened so far. Barring any surprises, this is how the world will change over the next 250 million years. By then the world will be unlivable for human beings and nearly all life that exists here now. Volcanic activity increases. Carbon dioxide is ubiquitous. The heat will be so unbearable that we wouldn't be able to sweat it out of us. It will be, quite literally, hell on earth.

And there's nothing you can do to stop it.

So that's it. In 250 million years humanity will be no more. Unless we get a surprise--and when it comes to surprises for us, how many are all that good?--then we're fucked. Well, we were fucked one way or the other. Eventually the sun will expand and consume the solar system past where the earth is now, but that wasn't really expected to happen for 7.5 billion years. We had considerably more time for that one.

Well. About that. No more humanity in 250 million years? That's the BEST CASE SCENARIO. The kicker is, the computer simulation assumed that we would stop burning so much goddam carbon the very minute it started its calculations. What's the likelihood of that happening? Despite the steady increase in natural disasters, everyone is mumbling under their breaths, "How did that happen?" This couldn't be the whirlwind James Hansen warned us about reaping in 1988 when he testified before Congress about global warming. No way. That's commie talk.

Hansen warned us. And the very thing he warned us about is happening before our very eyes. We should be screaming like Chicken Little, but we'd rather be ostriches and stick our heads in the sand.

I get it. I really do. This isn't a today problem, not really. We've weathered some bad, uh, weather before, and we'll continue to do it. Our kids will probably be fine. Probably our grandkids, too.

But their kids? Ah, fuck 'em, right? You will never know them. They're practically strangers to you even though they have a good percentage of your DNA. But you got yours. As a US president once said, "Fuck the doomed."

It's all well and good for me. I won't have descendants to worry about. I should double, maybe even triple, down on destroying the planet. Get what's mine and let your descendants suffer. But I *do* care.

The nihilists among you are probably shrugging your shoulders. It's going to happen anyway, right? Why fight it? By that reasoning, you should kill yourself. I'm not suggesting you do that. In fact, I'm telling you *not* to do that. But if you're going to die someday, why fight it, right?

What's the most valuable thing you have? Something that no amount of riches will ever buy you? Time. For something that may or may not exist, it's pretty fucking valuable. What you do with your time is of the utmost importance. Why would you fast track the end? The only thing you should be doing with your life, paramount above all else, is seeking ways to ensure you have more time here.

So yeah, we should probably do more to stop the human race from ending. Too many people view it as a whiny save-the-planet kind of thing and not an imperative save-us kind of thing. As George Carlin once said, "The planet isn't going anywhere. We are!" And yes, I recognize that the bit I took that from is about how we shouldn't give a shit because our end is inevitable, but I'm going to cherry pick it for two reasons. One, it's pithy. And two, he's right, it's people who are fucked, not the earth (not yet), and if we look at it from that perspective, maybe we'd be motivated to do something about it.

So let's buy some time. In all actuality, if this computer simulation comes to pass, we'll probably be dead long before the 250M mark, but let's try to squeeze as much time out of this place as we can.

Or, as Monty Python once told us, you can look on the bright side of life, and Ian Malcolm is right. Life, uh, finds a way. It's just not going to be *our* life.

You're still here? OK, there's some good news. Human beings have something that not many other creatures on this planet have: adaptable survival skills. It's possible that humanity will find a way to survive on earth even if this extrapolated future comes to pass. We would have to be very clever, and I imagine we'd have to live at the edges of Pangea Ultima or in caves or some such. Perhaps Dune by Frank Herbert will be a survival guide in the future.

Or! We have another option. 250M years is a long time from our point of view. Perhaps by then we'll have figured out how to survive off-planet. Probably not within our solar system, so we'll have to figure out interstellar travel by then. Hopefully we'll figure it out, because if we're relying on Elon Musk, we're all going to get a big surprise when he gets in his space shuttle and locks us all out and lives on some inhabitable planet lightyears away from earth. He claims SpaceX is to pave the way for humanity to live among the stars, but I have a sneaking suspicion he's just like the rest of his rich white boy ilk. He's in it for himself.

Unless he selects you as one of his slaves. Because you know that if we infect the rest of the universe, we're bringing slavery back. But that's a story for another day.

OK, one more thing. Ostriches actually *don't* bury their heads in the sand. I just needed a silly metaphor to match Chicken Little. I apologize to ostriches everywhere.

"Fuck the doomed."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #747: OPPOSITE DAY?

 Something unusual happened today. I'm not sure what it was, but somehow my day got better when I arrived at work. Usually it's the other way around. Once I punch in, my day is ruined. Is it opposite day?

I was miserable from the moment I got up because between my first alarm and my second, I'd actually fallen back asleep and was dreaming again. If I'd had the ability to talk at that moment, I would have cursed a blue streak. Instead I muttered my threats against God and the universe in my own head as I staggered from bed to bathroom. I was so tired one of my eyes refused to open on its own. I thought I might have to tape it open or prop up the lid with a toothpick like I was a goddam cartoon character.

The last of the painkillers is still leaving me, so I couldn't shit with a damn this morning. I felt bloated, so I skipped breakfast. My blood sugar was insanely high. I fucking tripped over a garbage can and landed on my stitched up hand. And then there was traffic, which was worse than usual, and I hadn't even hit any main roads. These were the fucking back streets!

But I got to work and punched in, and the world suddenly changed. Everything went according to plan. Ain't that fuckin' weird? How does something like this happen? It was so jarring that I started worrying about punching out. I kept thinking my day would revert to shit once I left the office.

But it's been pretty decent today. I got some good reading in. All in all, it turned out to be pretty good. It's just that fucking morning. Everything that happened between six and eight totally blew. Maybe it's just better to get the worst shit out of the way first thing. It essentially guaranteed that my day couldn't get any worse, and it didn't. Unless the International Space Station loses a toilet seat and it crashes through my ceiling and onto my head after I post this, that is.

Wish me luck.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #746: WARM UP

 OK, I'm back! Let's start with an easy one so I don't wear myself out too much. It doesn't hurt to type, but it's cumbersome, and I'm prone to typos, so a warm up GF should be good. It still hurts like hell to hold a pen, so it's better than nothing.

Let's see. The stitches in my right palm feel kind of like how I imagined the hair Jeff Goldblum grew in The Fly would feel. Kinda weird but cool.

Hey, the WGA strike is over! Sorta. They're waiting to go back to work, probably to make sure the actors get their win, too. It would be nice. Thursday mornings are usually reserved for Last Week Tonight, and it would be nice to get back to that. A Closer Look would also be nice.

Elon Musk is still Elon Musk, sadly. So is Dion and the rest of the usual gang of idiots. Let's see if the box of rocks that calls itself the House of Representatives will shut down the government. Again. I'm sure they will because those dummies don't know how to play well with others. Hey, the State of CA gave a significant raise to its fast food workers at great cost to the corporations, so that's pretty cool. More of that, please and thank you.

I've been watching a lot of Boston Legal. I've got about a season and a half to go, and it's fucking batshit crazy. If I'd known how off the rails it was, I'd have watched it when it was live on TV. After that, I'm sure I will get AMC+ back for Negan's Friend, Daryl Dixon. I want to make sure it's over first before I commit. It would also be nice to see season two of Dark Winds.

Also, I'm high. Always a good thing, especially since it's so goddam hot in this house even though it shouldn't be. Getting high helps me sleep when it's like this. It also helps me ignore the horrid fucking rash on my wrist. I wonder if I'm maybe allergic to the wrapping on my hand. I doubt it. I've never been allergic to anything before EXCEPT for something in Old Spice soap. I'm certain I've gone over that before.

I wasn't always allergic to it, but they must have changed the ingredients. Or maybe my body changed. After soaping up my crotch it felt like my dick was on fire. It wound up raising blisters on my shaft that popped and ran. It looked like my tackle was falling off, it was that bad. The only comfort I found was at night when I was in bed with my legs spread wide and no boxers. I was in agony for the rest of the day.

Good luck scrubbing that image out of your head.

OK, that should do it. The juices are flowing again. Maybe tomorrow we'll do something more entertaining. Or thought-provoking. Or balls-out funny. We'll figure it out. Together.

Goodnight, fuckers.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 13

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nightbeat sat for a while, thinking. Cat had mentioned that he knew who had tried to kill him by pushing him down the very stairs Joey had died on. He knew that this person had to be the same one who killed Joey. How the hell did Cat know what Nightbeat didn’t?  Cat had to have seen it.

And done nothing to prevent it, of course. Nightbeat would have to put that idea on hold.

He needed to know what Cat knew, but he couldn’t just outright ask him. If Cat felt whimsical, he might actually tell him the truth, but that was a big if. He couldn’t trust a word out of Cat’s mouth. He would have to do his own investigating.

And that meant the Catacombs.

The Catacombs were under Joey’s bed, but they were only accessible by Cat. No one else had ever been down there, but whenever Cat went, they could usually catch a glimpse of that world. Nightbeat wondered if he could sneak in when Cat was either coming or going. He thought it was worth a try.

After a cursory search, Nightbeat saw that Cat wasn’t around, which highly suggested that he was in the Catacombs. All he had to do was wait until the beast came back. He went under the bed and sat propped up against one of the legs—so it looked like he blended in instead of sticking out—and he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, it happened. A dot of light appeared and then expanded into a line. Cat leaped out and walked away, and the glowing line remained. Nightbeat hurled himself at it and slipped through just before it winked out of existence. He stumbled and rolled until he came to a stop.

He looked around and saw that he was in a dingy, poorly-lit dungeon. Torches flickered at solid concrete walls. He could see no one else around. Only then did he wonder how the hell he was going to get back to Joey’s bedroom. He cursed, realizing that he would need Cat’s help with that.

First things first: he stepped forward, hoping he was headed in the right direction. He saw there were prison cells down here, and he thought about the dream he’d had when he was dead. No one was in them, though. No one was in the torture devices, either. Was this the kind of place Cat liked to hang out? Nightbeat shuddered.

He heard something. The noise was too distant, so he couldn’t tell what it was, but there was someone deeper in the dungeon. He wandered further and found stairs that led down. The sound became louder, and he realized that it was a cacophony of tortured souls screaming.

Nightbeat seriously considered unstuffing Cat on principle.

He continued on to the lowest level, and here he couldn’t help but gasp. The entire corridor was filled with dead toys. Maybe they were Wally’s, or maybe they were everyone’s. He saw fellow Transformers down here, all lifeless. Bumblebee was missing his head. Trailblazer was cracked in half. There were other toys down here, too. The Real Ghostbusters, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, GI Joes, Sectaurs, Centurions, COPS, He-Man. You name the ‘Eighties toy, and it was here, dead.

“Don’t mind them,” a voice next to him said. “I don’t.”

Nightbeat jumped, whirling on whoever had just talked to him. It was a He-Man character by the name of Man-E-Faces. He was muscle-bound and had a container over his head, where he had three faces you could change by moving a knob at the top. The faces constantly spun around, and Nightbeat knew right away that something was not right with this guy.

“What is this place?” Nightbeat asked.

“Welcome to Kathmandu,” Man-E-Faces said. “This is the place where toys come to die. When they are broken beyond repair, they find their way here. Still alive, mind you. It’s the lunacy of this place that creates a will to stop existing.” Faces still spinning out of control.

“What about you?” Nightbeat asked. “Are you broken?”

“Yes. But I can’t stop living, no matter how hard I try. Cat keeps me alive.”

“For what purpose?”

The faces stopped spinning. Man-E-Faces grinned. “I’m the grim reaper, friend. Welcome to Hell.” He reached out to grab Nightbeat, who flipped and transformed in one fluid motion. There wasn’t a lot of space to move around, but he launched himself into the gathering of dead toys.

“You think you can hide from me?” Man-E-Faces asked. “This is my home. I know it backwards and sideways. I can sense your lifeforce like it was heat in infrared. There is no escape.”

Nightbeat glanced up, and sure enough, Man-E-Faces was looking directly at him. There really was no hiding. There were a couple of doors at the end of the hallway. If he could only get there . . .

He tripped and fell on Optimus Prime’s corpse. Aghast, he tried to prioritize. Thinking about his dead friend would do no good now. He had to get to those doors. Pushing grief away, he stumbled through the toy graveyard, hearing Man-E-Faces get closer. Closer.

“I wouldn’t go through that door, if I were you.”

Fuck you, Nightbeat thought. He transformed and reached for the doorknob and flung the door wide open. He paused, looking down into the abyss beyond. The screams were coming from here, and all he could see was fire for miles and miles. He closed the door and hoped the other would be better.

Man-E-Faces clamped his hand down on Nightbeat’s shoulder, twisting him around. “Don’t even think it, friend. Just let me kill you. It’ll be for the best. You don’t want to linger in this place. I can make it quick, if you want.”

Nightbeat tried to wrench himself out of Man-E-Faces’s grip, but the He-Man figure was too strong. He tried to transform again, but Man-E-Faces grabbed him around the waist, making it impossible.

“Calm down,” Man-E-Faces said. “You’re only making it worse.”

Nightbeat forced himself to relax, hoping that his dead weight would fall through Man-E-Faces’s arms, thus freeing him. It didn’t work. Man-E-Faces only held him harder. His faces whirled faster than ever, and Nightbeat felt his spark dimming. His resistance weakened. He had a sinking sensation like when you’re running in place in a dream. He tried to beg Man-E-Faces to stop, but he couldn’t make a sound.

“Oh hello!” a cheerful voice called from up the stairs. Nightbeat’s vision was graying, and he couldn’t see who it was, but whoever it was bounded down to them in record time. “You can let him go, Man-E-Faces. He’s not supposed to be here.”

“But he’s almost dead,” Man-E-Faces said.

“No, he needs to live. Release him at once.”

Man-E-Faces’s faces slowed their whirl, but they didn’t fully stop. He let Nightbeat go. He collapsed into the pile of dead toys, gasping. It took him a moment to recuperate, but when he finally felt like himself again, he stood, surprised to see Cat standing before him. Except it wasn’t Cat. This was a black feline, flesh and fur, with devil’s horns instead of ears. A ridiculously giant red-and-white hat perched on his head. His eyes glowed yellow.

“Cat?” Nightbeat asked.

“In the flesh,” Cat said. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, what the devil are you doing down here? And how did you get here?”

“I thought you were the know-it-all,” Nightbeat said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I suppose you got in when last I left. I suspect you’re investigating me in regards to our dearly departed boy.”

“Right on both counts. Now it’s time for my questions. What the fuck is this place?”

“This is my home,” Cat said. “My real home. But to tell you any more would be too much for you to know. I’m sure Man-E-Faces said enough.”

Man-E-Faces kept whirling, except now he turned his body to catch up to his faces.

“Who tried to kill me?” Nightbeat asked.

“The same person who killed Joey,” Cat said.

“If you knew who killed Joey, why didn’t you do anything about it?”

“Not my job. Besides, I understand why the killer did it. You would, too, if you weren’t so blind and your memory so short.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the last time one of us died?” Cat asked.

Nightbeat blinked. “What? No, enough games. Tell me.”

“Have you forgotten about Bueno Excellente?”

STOP!

Addendum to the CAST OF CHARACTERS:

Bueno Excellente: a giant stuffed Mr. Potatohead who thinks he is Bueno Excellente from the DC comic book, HITMAN, fights crime with the power of perversion.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 12

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nightbeat opened his eyes. He was in the closet with Felix, who stank of gin. He looked a bit unbalanced even though he was sitting down. “Look who came back to life. Need a drunk . . . a drink?”

Nightbeat sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What happened to me?”

“Cat shotgunned you,” Felix said. “You’ve been dead for maybe three hours.”

“Feels like a lot longer. And yes, I’d love a drink.”

Felix handed the bottle of gin over, and Nightbeat drank deeply before handing it back. He gagged on the taste. Gin never suited him. He was more of a scotch kind of guy. Gin tasted like poison.

Worse—he still felt the echoes of Joey’s death and accusations. He didn’t trust himself enough to stand. “It’s my first time being dead,” he said. “What’s it like for you?”

“I don’t know,” Felix said. “Usually I’m drunk and don’t remember anything.”

“I felt like I went through hell.” He paused. “I saw Joey.”

“I see him, too. Sometimes.”

“No, I meant Joey. For real. He said that I might as well have killed him myself.” Nightbeat cricked his neck and grimaced.

“Nightbeat,” Felix said, “I’m hammered out of my goddam mind, and even I know that’s not true. I know you seem pretty adamant on it being murder, but maybe you’re wrong. You ever think about that?”

“I’m not wrong,” Nightbeat said. “This was murder. One hundred-percent.”

Felix sighed. “Have it your way. Just leave me out of it. I’m drinking to fucking forget about the whole thing.”

Nightbeat staggered to his feet and shuffled away from Felix and into the bedroom proper. It was dark, and even though he’d been dead for a few hours, he somehow still felt tired. He wanted to rest. The thought of kicking the shit out of Cat occurred to him, but he knew it would be futile. Instead he found a dark corner to lay in and fell asleep.

He didn’t sleep for long. The door to Joey’s room creaked open, and Wally stepped in with a box. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and his breath smelled of bourbon. He set the box down on the bed and sat next to it. He picked Bunny off the floor and closely looked at him.

“Mimi doesn’t want me to get rid of you,” Wally said. “She wants to keep everything the way it was when Joey was still with us. I remember when I was a kid, and I used to sleep with you. We were like best buds before I started getting real friends.”

Nightbeat’s guts clenched a little at that. He liked to think they were Joey’s friends, but deep down he knew that toys couldn’t sit in for real companionship. For that, you needed fellow humans.

“All I see when I look at you is Joey,” Wally said. Tears overflowed from his eyes, but he didn’t sob. He hugged Bunny to his chest for a moment.

Oh fuck, Nightbeat thought.

Wally looked at Bunny one more time before placing him in the box. He tried to close it up, but he just couldn’t. Finally, he broke down and wept, pulling Bunny out of the box and setting him back on the floor. He left without taking the box with him.

Bunny sprang to life. “I don’t want to be boxed up! I want to be left alone!”

“Hey,” Don Draper said. “We all get boxed up eventually. It’s part of the deal. You live, you get boxed up, you die.” He sipped from his scotch. “No different from anyone else.” He finished off the scotch and wandered away to find more.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nightbeat said. “We can’t be boxed yet.”

“Why’s that?” Bunny asked.

“I haven’t solved Joey’s murder.”

POST-PRINTERS ROW SALE 2023

 OK, things went really well at Printers Row, as usual, but I do have a few books left over, so it's time for my annual post-Printers Row sale! Here is what I have available and what I'm charging for each (shipping prices included, US only, sorry everyone else):

BLOOD (2 copies): $13

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF HIERONYMUS ALOYSIS ZIEGE (14 copies): $10

TRAIL OF BLOOD (6 copies): $14

If you want to order all three, I'll give you a deal. $30 for the whole package, shipping and all. Here's an additional deal: If you order from me today, September 13, 2023, by midnight, each book is $8 (shipping included). You can let me know in the comments or on whichever social media you follow me on. Or, if you prefer, you can send me a message at tabardinnedgewoodent@yahoo.com. Thank you!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #745: A VISIT TO THE EYE DOCTOR

 When you have the 'Beetus you've got to keep an eye on your, uh, eyes. For most of my adult life I've gone to my optometrist once a year for regular checkups, but once I learned of the 'Beetus, those visits got a little more involved.

I think it would be worse to go blind than to loose my feet, so I make sure to get the whole nine yards looked at. And I've been going here since I was a kid (I think because that's where Harry Caray got his glasses). When I was in third grade I got my first pair of glasses there. The ones with the Smurfs on the arms.

Yet when I went yesterday it was like I was a new patient because they had a brand new system, and guess who their first patient was. Oh yeah.

I hate filling out forms. I hate filling out forms online. Worst of all, I hate filling out forms on my phone, which is what I had to do. My aversion to this is because I'm terrible at remembering medical details, and I rely on the fact that I'm already in their system so I don't have to remember them. So guess who fumbled through all these questions I was unprepared for.

The first part of the exam was business as usual. I hate it when they numb your eyes and then tap on them to test pressure. At least it's better than the spray of air, though. And I can't stand eye drops in my eyes, so it was the usual struggle to get them in there, although this guy was gentler than most. Then I was sent out for more paperwork while I waited for my eyes to dilate.

Usually when this happens I take care of other stuff that doesn't involve reading, so I had a few tasks lined up specifically for this time. But did I mention there was a new system? And no one was really quite familiar with it yet? They weren't even done puzzling through this paperwork before the doc wanted to look at the insides of my eyes.

Congrats to me, nothing foul is afoot. My eyes are getting worse merely because I'm getting older. No 'Beetus interference on that score. I was able to successfully put off the bifocal conversation another year.

So I had to finish the paperwork, and holy shit, I was there so long that my eyes were almost back to normal by the time I left. I had a bunch of non-reading and -writing stuff lined up to do during this time, but since I was OK I just did some reading and writing. All's well that ends well, I suppose, but getting there was a hell of a hassle. At least I didn't have to get new glasses. That's always a pain in the ass.

On that note I'm taking another hiatus from Goodnight, Fuckers. From all writing, in fact. I go in for my hand surgery next Friday, and I've been instructed to not use that hand at all. For anything. Including typing. It's also the hand I write with, so nothing longhand, either. I've gotten it to where I post these GFs in five intervals, perfectly matching weekdays, and I'd like to keep it that way.

I'll still be writing until Friday, and then I shall stop until I'm healed enough to resume. This is assuming, of course, that everything goes well. With my luck they'll discover something that necessitates the amputation of my right hand. If *that* fucking happens, I'm going to start drinking again. I take solace in the fact that the guy cutting on me is one of Chicago's best surgeons, so he's not likely to sneeze at an inopportune moment.

Oh! Printers Row starts tomorrow. I'll be doing a live reading at the S&M Salon of a story that will be published soon. This all means that Sunday's newsletter will be a short one because I have to get back to the city by nine or ten, I forget which. This, along with the surgery, also means that the following newsletter will not happen at all. Just to give you all a heads up.

OK, try to behave yourselves while I'm gone. I'm especially looking at you . . . (casts my gaze around at you fuckers) . . . ALL OF YOU.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 11

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The investigation cooled off after that. The toys went back to the way they usually did things. Wally and Mimi would occasionally visit Joey’s room, but they didn’t do anything suspicious. Mostly, they cried. They hated themselves. They never came here together.

Nightbeat tried to keep a full head of steam, but it all leaked out of him. He spent some of his time with Felix getting drunk. Sometimes with Angel, and even—every once in a while—with Spike. Cat taunted Nightbeat a great deal, and he tried to let it roll off his back, but it really hurt him. Joey had been a great kid, and now Nightbeat had failed him. More than once he found himself passed out in the closet from the previous night’s drinking.

One night, sick of the whole thing, Nightbeat drunkenly approached Cat, who sat on Joey’s bed with the brim of his hat perked up, making him look kind of dopey.

“I know you did it, you bastard,” Nightbeat said. He could barely stand by this point.

“Did what, now?” Cat asked. He smiled so far his head could have been split in two.

“You killed Joey. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why. I can’t prove jack shit. But you did it.”

“Oh, poor Nightbeat!” Cat said. His voice now took on the feel of a croon. “I didn’t do anything. But I expect nothing less from someone who couldn’t even figure out who tried to kill you.”

“You did that, too,” Nightbeat mumbled.

“Not I. But I know who did.”

Nightbeat was too drunk to figure out what Cat had just told him. He pointed a finger at the beast. “An’ ‘nuther t’ing. You’re a piece’a shit. I’ll see you unstuffed ‘fore the end’a my yerz.”

“I think not,” Cat said. He cocked his hat, and the shotgun inside blew Nightbeat off the bed and into oblivion.

The world around him ran red and flicked like flames. He saw through molded plastic Wally’s young face as he opened Nightbeat’s package. He’d been a Christmas present from Wally’s mom. Wally loved Transformers, and Nightbeat was his favorite. There were others back then, too. Cowardly Starscream. Heroic Bumblebee. Cosmic Cosmos. There was Galvatron, but Wally’s parents never got him Megatron, who looked too much like a real gun. Oh, the adventures they shared! Nightbeat solving crimes and fighting Decepticons. Wally had a good feel for storytelling through playtime, and Nightbeat got to enjoy a lot of stories.

But Wally grew up. He got into girls and rock and roll. Not so much sports, but plenty of weed. Nightbeat disapproved. He remembered being handled by one of Wally’s weed-smoking friends. It seemed like a harmless enough drug, but it made the room smell bad. Wally’s parents knew all about it, of course, but they kept a tolerant view of their boy. At least he wasn’t getting into any trouble.

Nightbeat screamed through the adolescent years until he was boxed away for what he felt would be forever. In that time, all he had was his mind and nothing else. He wasn’t even with the other toys. He was wedged between cardboard and a stack of papers. He spent a lot of time thinking about what would eventually become of him, if anything.

Nightbeat shoved through the light and into the hands of baby Joey. Never unsupervised, of course, but Wally wanted his son to enjoy the same things he’d liked as a kid. As Joey grew older, he got to play with more toys, but not very many Transformers. He overheard Wally telling Mimi once that they’d been thrown out by his mom when he left home. He pondered how much they would have been worth. Nightbeat thought it was an odd way to think about toys. They were worth more than money, right? They had to be. Memory was a lot more important.

Joey grew older until he couldn’t anymore. Nightbeat raged against the visions of Joey being pushed down the stairs by an unseen assailant. Thumping down near the end. Breaking bones. Breaking his neck. Dying at the bottom of the steps before his mother could help him.

That unseen being turned to face Nightbeat, and its face was a swirling miasma of faces, all familiar, all with their individual voices.

“Show me!” he screamed. “Show me your face!”

“No,” it growled. Teeth buzz-sawed out of the glop of ever-changing features, reaching out to take Nightbeat to pieces. “You know me.”

“I know! I’m going to rip the stuffing out of you until you’re nothing but a fucking rag!”

It laughed and swallowed him whole. Nightbeat rushed through a pink tunnel, and images of Joey’s death played on the walls around him. Joey screaming. Crying. The dry snap of his neck breaking. The anguish of his parents. The horror Nightbeat felt when he realized that this was a murder.

Joey screamed into infinity, and Nightbeat followed down with him. The railings at each side turned into sharp fangs, and the stairs warped into a long tongue. It took Nightbeat a moment to realize they were both falling down Cat’s mouth. The roar of genteel laughter boomed around them, filling Nightbeat’s chest.

Once past the teeth, Joey faded from existence. Nightbeat fell alone down a tunnel made of white and red stripes, just like Cat’s hat. “Poor stupid Nightbeat,” Cat whispered. “You can’t even solve your own attempted murder.”

Nightbeat crashed down on a flat floor, his gears rattled. Disoriented, he stayed down until he could get his bearings. The red and white checkered tiles beneath him didn’t help much. It had a hypnotizing effect that took more than a moment to shake off.

Around him were prison cells. All of them contained the rotting remains of a dead child, but they all still lived on, singing and talking and reading to while their time away. The cells rotated until Joey’s came into view. He stood in the center, his head dangling loosely from his neck like fruit from a tree. Rotten fruit. His skin was ragged and sloughing off in places. One of his eye sockets was empty. It stared at Nightbeat.

“Joey. I’m sorry. I—”

“You might as well have killed me,” Joey said. There was no passion to his voice, no anger or sadness. Just . . . nothing.

“That’s not true,” Nightbeat said. “I just haven’t found the killer yet! I’m still working on it! Give me time!”

“NO!” Joey roared. Still no passion. He opened his mouth wide, and the word boomed out, kind of like a speaker connected to a radio. “You failed me. I’m dead and in hell and you failed me.”

“I can fix this,” Nightbeat said. “Give me a chance.”

Joey slowly sank into the floor. “It’s too late.” Melting like a candle, leaving no puddle. His remaining eye filmed over with white before he disappeared. The bars slipped away, and Nightbeat fell to where Joey had been standing. A single drop of blood remained. He touched it, but it was dry. It still wouldn’t flake away.

The rest of the world shrank, and Nightbeat noticed that all of existence was a tiny disk of white and red that he knelt on. Blackness surrounded him. Then, a faint glow of red from below. He had a feeling in his guts like he was being lowered, though he couldn’t tell just from looking around. The red grew brighter until he saw it came from miles of flames just below him. Flames made from unstuffed toys. The stink overwhelmed him, and if he hadn’t already been on his knees, he would have been driven to them by it.

The fire came closer, and the disk showed no intention of stopping. Nightbeat found that he didn’t care if he burned or not. He’d failed Joey. He deserved to burn. He had no stuffing to remove, but fire would destroy him until he was nothing but a twisted metal carcass.

He felt warmer and warmer and hotter and hotter, and he screamed as it became unbearable and—

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #744: THE HORRORS OF HOLLYWOOD

 Maybe about twenty-five years ago I decided that I was going to give Hollywood a try. Oh no, don't worry. I have no acting ambitions. I like to help out my filmmaking friends by being in their movies or helping behind the scenes occasionally, but I have no serious desire to be an actor. No, I decided I was going to be a screenwriter.

My first lesson was that this is even harder to do than getting a book published by one of the Big Five. Since I already had experience getting rejected by the Big Five, I figured I'd give it a shot anyway.

So I started reading screenplays of movies that I thoroughly enjoyed. Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs comes to mind. So do the Coen Brothers' The Big Lebowski and Barton Fink. Mario Puzo's adaptation of his own book, The Godfather. And one of my favorites, Unforgiven by David Webb Peoples.

This, by the way, was before the internet was so ubiquitous, so I found them the old fashioned way. Some of them I bought from Borders in book form. Some of them I was able to hunt down at the Elmhurst Public Library in the 800's section, which was the section I worked in as a page. I know it will not come as much of a surprise to you, but I sat on the floor reading these things when I should have been working. The problem with actually doing my job was, I was good at it, and I was fast at it. So they would give me other people's work to do. I'm opposed to that sort of thing, so I started hiding out in the stacks when I was done with my own work, pretending to make sure the books were in order.

So I started writing screenplays using their example as opposed to how-to books, which is essentially how I taught myself to write prose. I thought I was decent at it, but I'll bet if I looked up one of my screenplays now, I would be horrified by how bad it is. Perhaps, as an object lesson, I should post one of them for your perusal. It would make a lovely entry into the John Bruni Museum of Mediocre (At Best) Shit, which I've not added to in many years.

The key to writing for Hollywood, though, is you kinda have to move there, and I didn't want to do that. Also, the more I learned about the preproduction process, the more I realized that kind of thing just wasn't for me. I deal with enough narcissists at my various jobs. I would not want to work with any for the writing part of my life.

It's been a while since I thought about these things, but then I read the horrifying account that I'm about to share with you. And shockingly this is only part 1. Part 2 has yet to be posted. Ultimately I think what I'm trying to say with this GF column is to be open to constructive criticism, but you should have confidence in the writing you believe in. Don't let anyone tell you that you're unprofessional, especially not a fucking producer.

This is long. You might want to save it for tomorrow, but if you're a writer thinking about a Hollywood move (after the WGA hands the studios their ass, of course), you should really give this a read.

(Hey, if you work a desk job with no internet monitoring, save this for when you're at work looking to kill some time. I know that's what I would do.)

Without further ado, brace yourself for the horror.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #743: THE POWER OF NO

 

There's this odd feeling in the world. Or maybe it's just the US. I can only speak for my own country, but the more I think about it, the more I think it is an American feeling. When you're looking to do business with a company, you expect them to bend over backwards for your money. So even if that company does not do the work you want them to do, you expect them to do it anyway.

This feeling is, of course, dead wrong. But that doesn't stop that feeling, does it?

Here, I'll give you an example. Say you went to McDonald's for dinner, but you have a taste for steak. When you get up to the counter (or, God forbid, the fucking drive through), you decide to order steak even though it is not now, nor has ever been, on the menu. And then you get angry when they say they don't do that. You insist that they make you a steak despite the gathering line behind you.

You are dead wrong.

One of the good things about my current job is, if we don't do a service, we don't do it. Period. End of sentence. This sentence you are reading right now of further denial is redundant.

And it never ceases to amaze me how angry it makes people. They'll call in and tell us the service they want. We tell them no. They now demand it instead. We tell them no again. They double down. They'll say such-and-such competitor does it. We tell them no again. How can that be, they ask, that you don't do this thing I need? We just don't do it. FINE! I'LL TAKE MY BUSINESS ELSEWHERE! Ah yes, the business that we would have never taken in the first place. Yes, take wing, my padawan, and go to that competitor you're gushing about.

It turns out that I love telling people no. Telling people no is so satisfying it's almost sexual in nature.

I'm not needlessly cruel. If they accept my first no, then good. We're on the same page. We need torment each other no further. However, if they don't accept that no, and they double down, triple down, quadruple down, then my pleasure begins. Take a look at that picture of Bugs Bunny up there. That is exactly how I feel when I'm talking to such a person. It's a shitty job, so I have to take joy wherever I can get it, however I can get it.

No is a great word. No is a gratifying word. No is a magical word.

People should say it more often.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #742: EMOTIONAL SCENES IN MOVIES AND TV

 I'm a little short on time tonight. Today was a busy day at work, which means I talked to more people than usual. The more people I talk to, the higher my odds are of talking to difficult people. And I talked to a lot of difficult people today. I'd rather not think about it all that much.

Instead, I have a question. Why are actors in intense emotional scenes always out of breath? I've thought back over all the intense emotional moments in my life, and I was rarely, if ever, out of breath, even if I was in a shouting match with someone. Why do movies and TV shows do this? Are the words not enough? Or is it some kind of a Nic Cage-ish mega-acting thing?

I'll bet you've never noticed this before. No one seems to know what I'm talking about, and when I tried Googling such scenes, the internet was not very cooperative, so I don't have examples. It's probably too late tonight, but the next time you watch something, keep an eye out for these kinds of scenes. And check if the actors are out of breath. I'll bet they are.

This is just something I've been thinking about for a few months, and I can't think why people would do this. Have you ever been panting, out of breath, during such a moment in your life? When you're arguing with someone, do you need to catch your breath like you just ran a mile in five minutes? But you need to keep talking or you'll lose the argument or maybe not prove your point?

Just think about it. Take two morphine pills and call me in the morning.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #741: MORE IS NOT THE ANSWER

 I realize that I'm going to come off as an asshole for this one, but I'm OK with that. I don't know what it is about fast food places, but when they fuck up something, they just give you more stuff. I don't need more stuff. 9 out of 10 times you'll give me something I don't even eat. Like Taco Bell with the cinnamon twists.

"Sorry for the wait. I gave you some fries for the inconvenience."

I don't want the fries. I can't eat fries all that often because they get stuck going down my esophagus, and once they're down they make me feel like I ate a hot air balloon. I only eat fries when I'm at the Country House or I've gotten some from Portillos because of the survey coupon. At no other time do I eat them.

"Sorry about that. I upgraded you to a large drink."

This always happens on lunch break at work because I never order a small at any other time. I'm ordering a small because I have to get back to work and brush my teeth before I punch in. I don't want the large. The large is going to get poured down a fucking sewer. Thanks for your concern.

Instead of giving me additional or bigger things, just comp me the meal. It's not taking a big chunk from your bottom line. I never order more than fifteen bucks anyway, and it's more likely that I spent eight bucks. And it will never be more than twenty. I don't go in places anymore, and I believe it is a crime against humanity to order anything more than $19.99's worth of food when you're at the drive through.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #740: NOTES FROM THE PAST

 I feel certain that I've mentioned here before that I'm somewhat of a used book detective. I like to find out about the previous owner of a book through the notes they leave or what they highlight or even the condition of the book. I'm 95% positive I've written about it before, but 740 GF columns are a lot to go through, and I'm not going to do that now. (Or ever, probably.)

I was going through my things, packing my books away, when I found this book. I don't recall how it came into my possession. It's not something I would have picked up at a used bookstore. I have a suspicion I inherited it from somewhere, which happens sometimes.

It's almost a hundred years old, so I'm thinking it might be something Mom had, possibly from her grandparents or great aunt or uncle. But the note left inside is pretty cool:

At first I thought it might have been my stepfather's parents, but the date is wrong. They would have been in Germany still. And I doubt they would have inscribed it in English. It's not from Dad's side of the family. There's no way it would have come to me through him. I doubt it's from Gramps's side of the family. They would not have written in English, either, back then. It would have been Greek. That leaves Grandma's side. Most of them were in America long before that written date, and none of them would have written in another language.

But who are Georgia and Frank? More importantly, who is Bada, aka the Old Puzzle Maker? All I know is that Bada would have been born in 1866, a mere few years after the Civil War.

I haven't said it in a while, so perhaps it bears repeating. History is never far behind us.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 10

 CHAPTER TEN

Nightbeat turned his mind downstairs for further investigation, but it led to nothing. Wally and Mimi came home shortly after with a bunch of visitors. Some were children, and they were ushered into Joey’s room.

“Are you sure?” a young woman asked. “I know how it must feel—”

“It’s fine,” Mimi said. “It would actually feel good to hear someone having fun in that room again. It would be nice to give the toys some company.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Forget it. I mean, do you ever think about a child’s toys when they are no longer needed? In particular in . . . in Joey’s case?”

Nightbeat regretted hearing it. He hoped none of the others had, too, especially Bunny and Fox. He glanced over to them, but neither gave any indication.

The children entered the room one by one, looking like they were cows being led to slaughter. None of them expressed anything at all, not even camaraderie. There were four of them, and they sat on the floor, barely acknowledging each other. One of them picked up Cat and flicked his tail around. Nightbeat saw Cat perk up, and the asshole made like he was going to bite the kid’s neck.

Then one of them picked up Nightbeat. “What’s this supposed to be? A Transformer?”

“I guess,” another said. “It looks like the old kind. Not the cool kind like we got.”

The kid tried to transform Nightbeat, but after twisting and turning him in all directions, he gave up, tossing Nightbeat to the floor. “Doesn’t this Joey kid have anything cool?”

Another picked up Don Snowy. “Nope. Just this baby stuff.”

“Hey, I like Felix the Cat,” said another. “Look. There’s a bunch of him.”

The only kid who hadn’t said anything so far cleared his throat. “Don’t you guys feel kind of weird?”

“What do you mean?”

“Us. In this dead kid’s room. We didn’t even know him, and now we’re playing with his stuff. It’s weird, right?”

The others shrugged. One said, “I don’t know. These are stupid toys, though.”

Spike winked at Angel. No one but Nightbeat and Angel noticed.

“What do you think’s gonna happen to ‘em?” the loner asked.

“Prolly sell ‘em at a garbage sale.”

“You mean a garage sale.”

“I thought it was garbage sale.”

“Me, too.”

“Prolly just throw them out,” another kid said. “Who wants to play with stupid toys?” He kicked Bunny, and Nightbeat winced.

“It’s kind of sad,” the loner said. “I’d hate to die and have my toys get thrown out.”

Another kid picked up a couple of the goombas. “Ever notice how these things look like peepees?”

“Ew! You’re gross!”

“Shut up! You thought so, too!” He demonstrated by putting one of the goombas by his crotch.

One of the other kids went to slap it out of his hand, but the kid double-downed. “Trynna grab my peepee? Go on! Grab it!” Thrusting it out with a stupid grin on his face.

The kid who tried to slap the goomba picked up Don Snowy and hurled him into the goomba-peepee kid’s face. He fell backwards. “Ow! I’m telling!”

“You tell, and I’ll tell about you doing the peepee thing!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would!”

“Guys!” a voice from downstairs called out. “What’s going on up there?”

A chorus: “Nothing!”

The toys were very happy when the kids left after about an hour. Don Snowy picked himself up, muttering to himself. “Stupid toy? We’re stupid toys? Yo! I’m no stupid fuckin’ toy! I oughtta beat that kid within an inch of his life!”

“Oh?” Nightbeat asked. “Interesting choice of words.”

“Yo, fuck you, pig!”

“Yo!” the goombas shouted. “Yo! Yo! Yo!”

Don Draper staggered to his webbed feet, looking for his scotch. The sound of the goombas attacked through his hangover haze. “Shut the fuck up!” he shouted. “Shut up, or I’ll . . .” He trailed off for a moment, then lurched toward the closet. He barely made it before they heard the sounds of his hurling.

    Nightbeat sighed. It would be a long night.