POST PRINTERS ROW SALE

 It's that time of year. I didn't get to bring many copies of my books for two reasons: we had limited space as we were down to one table, and I was still in the cast on a crutch, so carrying a lot of books was out of the question. I did pretty well. Sold out of the HST anthologies I'm in as well as And Jesus Came Back and Strip, and I almost sold all the copies of Eye Cutter I brought with me. Same for Tales of Unspeakable Taste. My new one, Mail Order Bride, didn't do so well, but I've talked to a few people who have read it, and they really, really love it. My comics guy's brother read it, so he's putting it on sale at his shop.

With two exceptions, I'm going to offer the same Printers Row deal we had last weekend. One for $15 or 3 for $40. If I can physically put these books in your hand, there's no shipping. Otherwise, I'll have to add $8 to the order. This is what I have available, and I'll get to those two exceptions last. (And Ben, if you're reading this, I'm holding on to my last copy of Strip for you. DM me, and I'll waive the shipping cost.)

For fans of the bizarre, the weird, the strange, StrangeHouse Books brings you a whirlwind of eighteen tales sure to amuse, confuse, horrify and leave you questioning your lack of taste. From the warped synapses of John Bruni come stories of the destruction of earth, via a humongous totally nude man in space, a portal to another dimension inside of an office worker's desk, a sordid love affair between two nefarious euthanasia enthusiasts, and many other yarns that span from psychological terror, to comedy, to downright disgusting!

John Bruni is a unique visionary, granting us entrance into a world that could exist just as easily decades from now as it could a week from tomorrow. The future he crafts for us in POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS is both surreal and surreptitiously familiar. His is a world where, regardless of how society advances, the human condition renders characters placated by apathy and disillusionment or excess and hedonism. POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS is your life, tangentially explored to ease your unease . . . but only a little. After all, it wouldn't be fun if you didn't squirm a little, would it? Kirk Jones, author of JOURNEY TO ABORTOSPHERE & UNCLE SAM'S CARNIVAL OF COPULATING INANIMALS It is the year 2200. Richard Coppergate and the wealthiest citizens of the city, have gathered for their annual game: kidnap seven people the world wouldn't miss--bums, prostitutes and the mentally ill--and turn them loose in the city with a mission to hunt and kill each other. The prize? One billion dollars. This year the stakes are personal. Two of the contestants are sons of the rich fucks. One of the contestants is a ringer. And one of the rich fucks likes hunting the contestants. Coppergate and his game have come to the attention of a revolutionary who lives off the grid and an outlaw journalist intent on bringing the whole thing crashing down. John Bruni, the author of TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, brings you POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS, the ultimate tale of the class struggle. Who will win? Who will die? Who are YOU going to place your bets on?

Only 3 left.

Jesus Christ has returned. He sets to work right away healing the sick and infirm, but also returning youth to the aged. There are doubters, but one by one Jesus proves them wrong with the aid of his friend, farmer Joe MacDonald. There’s just one problem: Jesus isn’t who he says he is. He is actually an alien from a planet of ruthless killers, and he’s there to get everyone on earth to be in shape for slavery. John Bruni, the author of Dong of Frankenstein, Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks, and Tales of Questionable Taste returns to tell a tale of love, redemption, madness, loss, fear, faith and above all else, survival. Brian Keene, author of The Rising and The Complex, says, “John Bruni is a nice kid. He’s one of the next generation that I like. He’s actually one of the people I like in this genre, and I don’t like anybody.”

Mickey Scarlet is a man who, as a child, had a beast beaten into him by his father. As an adult he uses this beast to help him survive as a cop and later as an ex-convict, but that’s not easy when Lucifer Robinson offers to keep him on retainer for any number of illegal acts he needs performed. Mickey has no idea who is really in charge of this enterprise, but he finds himself lost in a phantasmagorical world filled with monsters and lowlifes while all he wants to do is find his estranged wife so he can finally meet his child.
John Bruni, author of POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS and DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN, brings us a horrifying tale about cycles of abuse and the horrors it creates.
Brian Keene, author of PRESSURE and THE RISING, says about John Bruni, “Stylistically, he’s a blend of Edward Lee and Jeremy Robert Johnson.”

Only 2 left.

For fans of the deranged, the utterly weird, and most certainly the unspeakable... Bizarro Pulp Press brings you a buffet of curdled imagination and warped creativity of John Bruni. 21 stories ranging from monstrous genitalia and violent retirees, GG Allin, and Jesus Christ.

Brian Keene, author of The Rising, says, "Stylistically, he's a blend of Edward Lee and Jeremy Robert Johnson."

You've been warned.

You think you know the Lewis and Clark expedition, but you don't. Hi Ziege is a man who thought he was wasting his life until he discovered that he could do so much more by joining the Discovery Corps from such a nameless place as La Charrette. Everything that Lewis and Clark and all the others left out of their journals is recorded here, including their experiences with aliens and bigfoot (bigfeet?). "Stylistically, he's a blend of Edward Lee and Jeremy Robert Johnson." -Brian Keene, author of The Rising and The Seven "John Bruni has combined historical and hysterical into a bizarro-themed redneck autobiography for the age of the absurd. A gory, nasty, wild bout of fun we didn't know we needed, until the blood and moonshine spilled from the pages in front of us and congealed into one hell of a cocktail." -Michael Allen Rose, author of Boiled Americans

William King is a Missouri guerilla turned bank robber trying to find a peaceful life on a Texas ranch. Eagle Talon is a Comanche warrior swearing vengeance on those who killed his sons. Juan Moreno is a bandit headed home to Mexico with visions of a hero's welcome. Corbin Mathers is a former slave and a walking dead man searching for the outlaw who killed him and his son. These four men will collide in an orgy of blood and gore and violence, and none of them will escape unscathed.

John Bruni, author of The Life and Times of Hieronymus Aloysis Ziege and Tales of Unspeakable Taste, brings you a cross between The Outlaw Josey Wales and The Searchers by way of Steinbeck and Fulci. This is no mere splatter western. This is Trail of Blood.

Layne Gates has done it all. Murder, cannibalism, sadism, you name it. His most recent racket: kidnap or purchase young women known as oracles so he can cut their eyes out, thus intensifying their gifts. He then uses them to extort money out of people who will suffer some misfortune by offering a way to avoid it. The only problem is, one of his oracles has discorporated and is now a part of his ship, the Mammon.

Meet Corbin Marsters, a former slave and gladiator who now buys slaves to set them free. He offers them a job hunting the scum of the universe on his ship, the Aurelius. Ketchum is his new shipmate, and their target: Layne Gates.

Tessa Reeves is sent west by her pimp as a mail order bride to a goofy loser of a farmer. He sells her to a Comanche flesh merchant named Iron Trail, who teaches her how to survive in the wilderness. It's only the beginning of the horrors she faces as she tries to stay alive long enough to wreak vengeance on her tormentors.

John Bruni, author of Eye Cutter returns to the world of Trail of Blood to tell a tale of horror and woe, gore and depravity, devastation and revenge.

OK, now for the two exceptions:

Having twice dealt with fear and loathing on the Hunter S. Thompson highway into the savage heart of gonzo dreams, John Bruni, Kevin Candela & Kent Hill (together this time with Neil Sanzari) head down to the old haunts and watering holes of the dirty old man, the drinker, the writer, the fighter, the lover . . . the one and only Charles Bukowski. In a quartet of tribute tales from these authors that both idolize, and have recently encountered Hank's works, the voice of the poet laureate of the gutter is restored, so that once more the good duker . . . can take a swing.

I'm willing to let this go for $7, no shipping. I've carted this book around for the last two years, and no one wants to buy it. I don't get it. I personally love this book, and it was a great deal of fun introducing Buk to Rod Serling, not from The Twilight Zone, but from Night Gallery. But I'm starting to think that people either don't know who Bukowski was, or they just don't care about him. I'll sweeten the deal: I'll throw in a signed manuscript of an unpublished story if you'll take it off my hands.

Tom Miller is a man unsatisfied with his marriage. He fantasizes about his secretary, wishing for there to be something more between them. Becky Rashida is a woman who has just been dumped by her boyfriend before a very important moment in her life. Reggie Bastion is an angry incel who wants sex slaves and in particular wants to fuck his HR rep. Col. David Morgan is a closeted gay man who yearns for his assistant, Corp. Thomas Pedersen. These people are all going to get their wishes, but they are not going to like it. For today is September 11, 2001, and they all work either at the Twin Towers or the Pentagon. And the planes are on their way . . .

I'm friends with Rosemynd Kant. She's pretty ballsy, especially considering the title of her next work, which I am absolutely not going to sell if she actually goes through with it. Long story short, this is 9/11 porn. She sent me a bunch of copies to sell at the shows I go to, and I'm down to the final copy. It's signed. But I've been down to this last copy for about three or four years. No one wants it. It's a pretty funny book, and it's not making fun of the victims of the terrorist attack. But understandably, not many people are willing to go that far with her thought process on this. If you want it, you can have it for $5, no shipping. Or hell, if you want the Bukowski anthology, I'll throw this in for free, but you don't have to take it, as it's a touchy subject. Rosie knows she's insane, and she leans into it pretty intensely.

OK, that's the spiel. If you want something, let me know. The prices will be good for the rest of the month. Contact me however you know me, or if you're new to my work, please leave a note in the comments.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS BREAK

 It just occurred to me that not everyone who reads my GF columns also reads my newsletter. In case you missed it yesterday, I'm taking a break from writing this week, and that includes GF. Sorry for the inconvenience. In the meantime I'm preparing for Printers Row this upcoming weekend. If you're in Chicago, come say hi.

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.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #596: THE PLAN

At the beginning of every year I come up with a plan for my career as an author. What I want to do. What I want to work on. Etc. I thought I'd tanked 2022 in that regard, but over the weekend I took a look at that plan and saw I didn't do half bad.

There were two anthologies I knew I'd be in, so I didn't worry too much about those. There were two other anthologies that were in the works at the time, but I had high faith in them, and sure enough all four came to pass with very little effort from me outside of writing the stories.

I got IT CHANGES A MAN out there, which I'm very glad for. I also got DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN AND OTHER PORNOS YOU CAN'T JERK IT TO published, too. It was originally supposed to be something silly like BRUNI'S BIG BOOK OF SEX, but I'm glad a better title occurred to me.

Also, THE LIFE AND TIMES OF HIERONYMUS ALOYSIS ZIEGE came out just in time for Printers Row, which I was a little worried about. I'd written it specifically for Printers Row, and I had a lot of copies of that one. Too bad we got rained out the second day. I still have copies of that and Shit Poems Number Two, if anyone is interested.

But here's where my plan fucked up. I wanted to get my splatter western, TRAIL OF BLOOD, out there. I even had a cover by Luke Spooner for it, but I ran into a lot of problems and had to delay it.  I have almost everything worked out, and I hope to have it out by February. I also wanted my splatter SF book, EYE CUTTER, out at the end of last year. TRAIL OF BLOOD was supposed to be spring, EYE CUTTER winter. Whoops! Now I expect to have EYE CUTTER out no later than Halloween. If you enjoyed IT CHANGES A MAN, then you'll be glad to see Stork is still around.

But that was my big fuck up of 2022. I missed a few other things on my list. There were stories and other things I wanted to work on but never got around to it. I don't consider that too much of a loss. These were mere suggestions to myself if I somehow found myself with a surplus of time on my hands, which did not happen, by the way.

And then I came up with a list of things I'd like to think about for 2023. One of those things I actually got to before the end of 2022. I don't know how that happened, but there you go.

So I came up with my plan for this year. It's not nearly as ambitious as the one for 2022, but here's what it looks like so far, aside from TRAIL OF BLOOD and EYE CUTTER. I want to write another sex book for Kindle only. I have it narrowed down to two ideas. I also want to write another Kindle only splatter SF novella following the adventures of someone we'll meet in EYE CUTTER. I also have an idea for putting together the collection of my Slate stories with a brand new story as an incentive to buy. And then I'm thinking about maybe a chapbook of true life stories of getting drunk and doing crazy shit. It would be a bit more professionally put together than the two volumes of Shit Poems. Those were meant to look more like 'zines than chapbooks. This one would be more along the lines of what that term entails.

I'd originally planned for two other novels, but those will have to be delayed until 2024 for now. So yeah, hopefully this plan works out better than last year's. Also, since 2020 I noticed a horrible trend. With each new year, I should be making more money writing books, yes? That was the case until the Year of the Plague. Understandable, especially since the Plague meant no Printers Row, which is where I make most of my money in one go. Since 2020, though, I've been making less and less each year. This is a horrible situation that absolutely cannot be allowed to continue. So I'll be brainstorming a few things.

Like Patreon, for example. If I did one of those, what kinds of things would you want from me each month? Just putting some feelers out there. Let me know in the comments or on social media or email, etc.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #523: NEEDLE DISPOSAL

Yeah, it's worse than that. Not even Renton would reach into the Printers Row port-o-potties.

 Whenever I'm not at home I get concerned about getting rid of needles. I'm a diabetic, so I need to test my blood sugar at least three times a day. Then I have two insulin pens. I use one to inject myself three times a day and the other to shoot up once. The lancets for blood sugar testing are small and could get anywhere and come with no guards, so I only use those at home. But the insulin pens? Those needles do come with guards, so if I were to throw them in the garbage, chances are good that if someone reached into that garbage, they wouldn't stick themselves. Unless they're a child with tiny fingers.

I'm very careful about this kind of thing. I won't toss a needle unless I'm certain no one will go rooting around in that garbage. And I will also ask if there are any children likely to reach in there. Life as a diabetic can be pretty weird, I guess.

One of the things I liked about Printers Row was my ability to throw needles away without thought. The reason being, I had to use port-o-potties when injecting myself. Yeah, it's gross, but I had sterile pads to make sure I didn't get any infections. After shooting up, I'd toss the used needles into the toilet. I did this because I felt, to a moral certainty, that there isn't a single human being in the world who would reach into that toilet. I'm pretty sure if someone dropped their wallet down there, for example, they wouldn't go after it. If I did that, I'd think to myself, "Well, it was nice having those things in my wallet. Oh well. I guess I have to get a new driver's license."

Even if someone, through some form of lunacy or another, actually did reach down there, my bloody needle would be the least of their concerns. I can understand if someone wore a biohazard suit, they might reach down there. But the needles have those guards around them, so it's impossible that they would tear the suit even if it was flimsy as shit.

No, there's no way anyone is going to pull a Renton on these things.

Don't be Renton.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #521: 60 DAYS AND COUNTING

 Today is my 60th day without alcohol. That's two months, more or less. Also, that's crazy. I'm kind of surprised I've lasted that long, and I'm even more surprised that this has been super easy. I rarely think about drinking, and on the occasions that I do, it's easy to just stop thinking about it.

I kind of marveled at the idea of getting through Printers Row without having a single drink. Every year I show up hungover, and every year I drink at least a six pack of Alpha King each day while selling books. More often than not I'm also nipping away at a flask of cheap whiskey. By the time we get to the usual live reading (which we didn't do this year, sadly) I'm pretty drunk. This year the only time I thought about drinking was discussing detox with my friends. The only urge I had to drink was very brief. I went into 7-Eleven to get something to eat. I'd forgotten that in the city it is common for them to sell whiskey behind the counter. I saw Jim Beam and Jameson, and I thought for a second that buying some booze would be a good idea, but the urge died pretty quickly.

The only time I truly felt like I might give up and drink came the weekend before last. I'd gotten dinner with a friend, and we were going to see a movie, but we were in the dead zone where all the movies had just started, and the next round would start in a couple of hours. Usually we stop at a bar to drink that time away, and I very seriously thought about doing just that. I think my friend might have seen those gears turning in my head and said that we could call it a night instead, which is what we did. But that was the closest I've come so far to drinking again.

It's weird because I had every intention of drinking on my 44th birthday. That would have been a few days out of detox. Even when I was still at RCA I knew to a moral certainty that I would get a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and drink my birthday away. I also told myself that I wouldn't drink again after that for a long time. Which I meant, but who knows how that would have worked out?

But I didn't drink on my birthday. Earlier that day I'd reminded myself to stop off at the liquor store for that bottle, but it just slipped my mind. When I realized I'd forgotten, it didn't bother me all that much.

Living without booze is pretty crazy for me. Then again, I've made friend with lunacy many, many times, so . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #520: FLOODING ELMHURST AND GETTING RAINED OUT AT PRINTERS ROW

 The way it works in Elmhurst, where I live, is that if there is a torrential rainfall, all the sewer drains lead to the massive quarry in town. It's to prevent flooding, but there is a catch. If memory serves correctly there is a switch that has to be flipped to make sure this happens.

If that is, indeed, the case someone forgot to flip it yesterday. I knew the rain would be bad for Printers Row, but I didn't know quite how bad it would be. I got soaked to the skin just going from my house to the car. And then I started driving. I saw a puddle that looked fine, but about midway through I discovered that I was up to the halfway mark on my car door in the middle of this puddle. The only way I got through it was because I had momentum.

Along the way I saw other extraordinarily deep puddles. Even by the 7-Eleven I usually go to, a giant pond had formed on York making it damn near impossible to get through.

What I should have done was say fuck it and stay home. That's not what I did, though. Instead I found a way to the Eisenhower that didn't involve getting stuck in a flood. I still nearly hydroplaned at the bottom of the onramp. Getting through the horrible rains was not fun at all. It stopped raining long enough for me to pay for my parking and get to our table, but then it rained so hard that I saw the street in front of me fill up with a small creek of running water.

I knew there was no way we were going to sell anything. But I was there, so I figured I'd stick it out. Besides, getting home would probably be a complete and utter bitch. I felt certain that my one way out of town would have flooded after I'd gotten through.

We called it quits, and I managed to get home just fine. However, on the way back I saw the inbound side of the Eisenhower had been blocked off, and there was a detour. Cars were backed up for miles. This was around the Des Plaines River, so I figured the water must have overflowed onto the expressway. I'm just glad it didn't spill over to the outbound side.

Still, yesterday was not much fun at all. I remember a time when both days of Printers Row were *not* rainy. Now it looks like we're going to have to suffer through rain at least one day of the weekend. That's been the case for the last few years. It sucks because that's my favorite show of the year.

The rain also killed my wining streak. I haven't gone home with any of my own books in years. Ah well. To quote a great man, "So it goes."

NOW ANNOUCING SHIT POEMS NUMBER TWO!

 SHIT POEMS 

NUMBER 2 

 

 

BY JOHN BRUNI 

 

YES! It is finally upon us! I have just completed SHIT POEMS NUMBER TWO! And if you buy my new book, THE LIFE AND TIMES OF HIERONYMUS ALOYSIS ZIEGE, you will get a copy of this for free! If you've already bought the book, you can send me a copy of the receipt and your mailing address, and I'll send you a copy of this for free. Limited to 30 copies, so first come, first serve. All of these will be signed.

If you haven't bought the book yet, you can do so here. I expect to have a bunch of copies of it myself soon, so you can buy directly from me, and I'll sign them. And if you're in Chicago for Printers Row on Sept. 10-11, I'll have copies of ZIEGE and SHIT POEMS NUMBER TWO.

And yes, there is a bunch more Nic Cage poems in this one, including one for THE UNBEARABLE WEIGHT OF MASSIVE TALENT, which I think you'll like.

You can contact me in the comments below, or if you're on my Twitter or Facebook, you can get me there. Or, if all else fails, you can send an email to tabardinnedgewoodent@yahoo.com.