Bereavement - Movie Review and Critique

There are stories that are familiar, some that keep you guessing – Bereavement falls into the rare category where the familiarity is used to cushion the chaos. Bereavement is the deranged story of two people: Martin Bristol (Spencer List) and Allison Miller (Alexandra Daddario).

Living in a destitute Pennsylvania town, Martin possesses the rare condition called congenital analgesia – he is insensitive to pain. He can feel a touch, but his pain receptors are completely useless. At the age of six, Martin is kidnapped by a stranger and over the next five years, while living in an abandoned slaughterhouse, Martin is forced to watch this madman torture and butcher women.

One day, Allison moves in to town shortly after the death of her parents to live with her uncle Jonathan (Micahel Biehn) and his wife and daughter. She takes no thrill in living with them and finds solace in training for the track team, running down long lifeless roads day after day. While running, she passes by the slaughterhouse and sees a young boy standing behind a broken window, staring out at the world not knowing that her world is about to take yet another devastating turn.

Bereavement is written, directed, and scored by Stevan Mena, writer and director of Malevolence. He does a good job of depicting the isolation felt by the two main characters with the cinematography capturing the vast emptiness of the small, out of the way town.

The beginning is rough, slow paced as the piece is as psychological as it is bloody. He draws from such films as the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre to emphasize the presence of gore rather than act of it, but for all the gore hounds out there, there is plenty to be witnessed. Bereavement also seems like a love letter to John Carpenter’s Halloween, and after watching this film, personally speaking, I think I would have chosen Mena to direct the remake instead of Rob Zombie. And judging only by the story, it seems Mena likes to study serial killers.

The plot holes are apparent but not damaging, even laughable. At times you start wondering if Uncle Jonathan has a day job since all he seems to do day and night is continue building the new additions to his family’s quaint home. Plus, the shedding of Allison’s remaining innocence is parallel with the shedding of her running gear and the enlarging of her breasts capped off by a short, eye opening stay in a meat locker.

The musical score captures the atmosphere of a lonesome dirt town while the thriller sequences are standard striking melodies. The acting ranges from bad to believable, but sometimes the bad acting is what makes some scenes believable.

Even with its faults, Bereavement is a well made film that makes you squirm and even though you have seen these storytelling techniques in dozens of horror movies, the pacing and execution (heh heh) are well played.  

I wonder if Michael Biehn ever walked up to Edward Furlong and asked "Who's your daddy?"

Destruction Frequencies

Thinking about the power of sound, what first comes to mind is the old trick of the opera singers shattering a crystal glass using their vocal cords. This is possible as long as the glass is crystal. You tap the glass, and the pitch of the sound that is made is the frequency necessary for shattering it. Then, I started thinking about other forms of matter. Do they have their own shattering frequencies? What would they be? It isn’t so easy to find them. You can’t tap a polyester jacket to find its shattering frequency.

It is possible to shatter most forms of matter not through frequency but through sheer force of sound. Unfortunately, the sound needs to be so loud a human being would shatter their own eardrums first before tapping through the density of, say a computer screen or a brick wall, but if there were a way of tapping into the proper frequency necessary in splitting other forms of matter, the world would be so much more fun.

We would seek the frequency of a planet, find it, and the rest destroys itself.

Lazy Journalism - Know the Rules Before You Criticize (MMA vs. Boxing)

I wish sports reporters would do the one aspect of their job which makes them actual reporters - research - which they seem to think is too time consuming and totally beneath them. Why work when they can just record sound bytes and through social networking diarrhea regurgitate someone else’s story. At least the kooky sound byte netted their Youtube and Facebook pages a few thousand more hits despite obliterating their credibility as a journalist.

My main ire with these cud-spewing leeches is the general ignorance and bias towards trying to understand the rules of mixed martial arts and how they are designed to protect the competitors. Unless they are fans of MMA they automatically dismiss the sport as lawless; having no rules while holding boxing’s rules to such a pristine standard.

Bottom line – the rules of mixed martial arts are structured to stop a helpless fighter from taking needless, possibly career-threatening, even life-threatening punishment. It is at the referee’s behest to decide when a fighter is no longer capable of defending themselves and because the punishment they endure is slightly more severe than in boxing, an MMA referee is likely to end the fight quicker. However, in boxing, if a defenseless fighter can stand up and feign functional composure before the count of eight, they are sent back into the fight where they’re brains are allowed to absorb further punishment, usually ending up in long-term brain damage.

The facts do not lie, more boxers suffer much more severe head trauma – life altering head trauma than mixed martial artists.

MMA injuries vs Boxing injuries

Brass Monkey Business

The tuba sounded the note that I wanted but at an uncontrollable octave - far too high. I pulled my head back, noticing I had implanted a baritone’s mouthpiece by mistake. The previous night’s whiskey escapades and pill-popping parade was still in effect.

Regardless, I continued playing, but the octave was far too high. Quite the clueless conundrum, but after I pulled my head back I noticed that there was a baritone’s mouthpiece inserted instead of the regulated tuba kind. Probably because of all the dope and booze I’d downed the night before. 

Was it deja vu or a concussion? Only the voices during my blackouts new for sure.

After settling the tuba inside of its crimson-cushioned case and hurling the baritone’s mouthpiece through the sliding door, consequently shattering the glass and circumstantially splitting the gardeners head open with the mouthpiece, I disrobed. Clad only in my red silk panties and an angry carnivorous hard-on, I descended into my tuba-shaped pool. The fingering keys were diving boards. 

Music had been good to me. As for the unrecognizable trio passed out on the submerged staircase, I'm not sure if they had been good to me, but they were alive. I didn't need another incident like the billiards room and the overdosing Croation princess again.

 All three stragglers were brunettes; two of them were momentary strangers while the one with her chin dipped into her breasts was Aklana – a flutist from the orchestra I was performing with. After my first lap through the pool, I looked at the backs of the other twos heads and recognized them immediately. Joanna – a cellist and Elizebel – a violinist, both from the same orchestra. Or were they hookers I found outside of Miko's tavern?

Whomever and whatever, I hoped they didn’t mind waking up naked, strung out on the homemade cocaine my agent provided. That was how I found them; birthday suits, powdered noses and all. That yayo left quite the impression on one’s senses. I once swore that my heart was beating so fast that I travelled back in time and performed an undiscovered concerto with Antonio Vivaldi entitled Hallowed Dildo in Winter.

Joanna soon awoke while I was dipping my nose into the share of the homemade narcotic I had formed race lines with across her chest. Luckily she was still remarkably thrashed. She smiled and once I crossed the finish line she dipped her head underwater, removed my favorite panties, and performed a tongued rendition of Johannes Brahms Cello Sonata in F along my grumpy cock. Fineldo, the gardener I had accidentally brained and quite possibly lacerated with my incorrect baritone mouthpiece made a gurgling noise which wasn’t a good sign, so I grabbed an empty, over tipped champagne bottle and brained him again. That shut him up.

Unfortunately, it was also time for me to make my way to the stadium to prepare for that night's performance. I hoisted myself onto the pool’s edge with Joanna clinging to my now un-grumpy dick like a catfish to a log of meat hooked to a fishing reel.

My fishing enthusiastic friends were right; you have got to get them early when they’re hungry.

I dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, threw on some sneakers and my favorite black trench coat all the while searching for my favorite tuba mouthpiece, which I could not locate. I kept a spare in one of the stadium’s lockers for such an occasion, so I ceased probing for my favorite one, but the mystery of its location left me uneasy, but a bump of home-cocaine and a mouth-rinsing swig of Gentleman Jack perked me right up. I told the ladies to see themselves out and call an ambulance for Fineldo, saluted my photograph of me and Vivaldi holding a dildo shaped like a Christmas tree, and headed for the bus stop.

The ride was pleasant, mostly because I was numb from the last bump of Snow White. I stood so as not to pass out and miss my stop like I had two days ago after the night the conductor invited me to his home for a dinner party/transvestite modeling show, which was quite impressive, and trannies always seem to have the best drugs.

I was dropped three blocks from the stadium. At the second crosswalk I dug my hands into my coat pockets. In my right one I felt something metallic. It was my favorite tuba mouthpiece. I was elated, then I sniffed it – I always sniff it when I first hold it – don’t know why. It smelled like Joanna’s mouth, which was perplexing but not uncommon. I’m just wondering how the hell it wound up in my coat pocket.

Newsy Stuff

Sign me up!

Our No Merchant Victims campaign is designed to earn your business with a value proposition that is unmatched in our industry today," says Kauzlarich.  "This special program is designed to protect merchants against robberies, employee theft, hackers and credit card processing rate increases,"

It works. Just because politicians can't figure out how to get their cut of the money-pie is no reason to let beneficial human beings suffer.

Peyton Manning actually took a private jet out to Europe to get stem cell therapy," Glazer said on air Sunday.

Don't Act Like You Know Me

People continue to use the word "intimidating" in their description of me. "Nice," "kind," "smart" also pop up, but "intimidating?" I don't see it, I don't understand how they do; yet, I 'm not going to change.

I tend to live a solitary life. It's the only life I have ever really known. The day that I was born, I was the only infant birthed that day in that particular hospital. I had the place to myself. I grew up as an only child, and while I may be spoiled in some mental aspects - I can be stubborn when I want to and my well of sympathy is drizzly at best - my grandparents ensured that I was not going to be the brat throwing a tantrum in the middle of the store because mommy wouldn't get me the candy I wanted. They instilled within me a sense of honor and discipline heavily lacking in these last few generations.

After recently partaking in discussions with my circle of close lady friends, they all agreed that I am an intimidating figure; that I'm too smart for my own good, and although currently I'm not at my physical peak due to circumstances beyond my control (a medical procedure coupled with a sparring injury have kept me out of the gym these last two months), I am able to perform a rigorous cardio workout at the local park which I designed myself, incorporating the local structures and landscape, I'm still in above-standard shape.

The one thing that truly bothered me; no, not bothered me - flat out infuriated me - "You're too smart," she said.

Well fuck you too. If I'm "too smart," feel free to be "too smart" with me. The only one running away is you. I'm an easy person to find, but when I choose to disappear you won't even notice my footsteps when I walk behind you. You won't recognize my profile because you never wanted to see me in the first place.

If I'm going to find a woman that I love and respect, they will feel the same way for me either because of or in spite of my intelligence and the eccentricities included with it.

As far as friends go, I have enough friends. I have the greatest friends in the world. I don't need any more friends.

I refuse to lower the standards that I have set for myself. I am willing to experience this planet alone. I go out to restaurants alone. I attend all varieties of junkets alone - museums, concerts, operas, plays, movies, sporting events; I travel alone. Anything that catches my personal interest I usually experience alone. If you are the type of person that cannot, that's fine, I respect that, but I don't sit around waiting for anyone. When I want to do something I go out and I do it.

I will not sink down to their standards, they need to rise up to mine.

Five Drafts Later and All I Want is One Bullet Chambered

It’s been several years since I’ve ever had a story give me such a hard time. Normally I get the babbling out of the way and the characters lead me on the journey, but Cemetery Ballroom has proven to be a cantankerous, donkey-dick-slapping-whore. What began as a Loose Idea is now a full blown short story, but it has not been without headaches.

Things being what they are, I have a shrivel of hours to spare into a piece of work be it a written piece, a drawing, music – whatever – I can’t put as much effort into it as I would like, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to finish what I start. I read all four Hobbit books by the highly overrated and holier than thou J.R.R. Tolkien, so I’m pretty sure I could follow Dante’s footsteps and map out the entrances and backdoor warehouse of hell.

Cemetery Ballroom has gone through five different drafts; four handwritten one typed, but each time I had to strip it to the bare bones, study it from all angles, and try and try again. I seriously doubt that the finished product will be any good, but at least I will have completed it and have told a story that I wanted to tell. It’s a piece that is character driven except the characters are a high school student and a cemetery. The cemetery has an attitude, it springs to life, but I feel that I’m just not capturing the essence of it all.

I know I won’t be happy with the finished product, and there is no assurance that I won’t return to it later on down the line, but as sure as my heart is jaded and my mind is tainted I will finish this story.

We Can Talk Horror

We can talk about horror movies. We can talk about their effects on audiences and individuals. We can discuss the relationships created with these characters from all sides of their existence; from the creators, to the actors, to the viewers.

There is a primeval wonderment that is associated with fear. Existence is partially based on survival. Alligators and sharks have no natural known predator, only mankind kills those species by the thousands every year. What is mankind’s only known natural predator? It’s the same thing that kills alligators and sharks by the thousands every year. And, occasionally some of our brethren get eaten by a bear, an alligator, or a shark; however, we can experience a tiny fraction of that fear within a controlled environment like the movie theater or the living room.  

Fear causes the human body to instinctively increase the flow of adrenaline throughout the body as the brain shifts its flesh and blood host into the fight-or-flight persona. Knowing that we are secure in our own personal space, we lightly tread into danger because the taste of fear is far too compelling, nearly addictive, but in a real life situation common sense says run, but thanks to movies we have people with a subconscious death wish or a guilty conscience willing to tackle these reprehensible murderers. Their sacrifices are sometimes heroic, comical, or well deserved for just like any other movie that is vastly respected or deemed watchable by consensus, a good horror movie is driven by a basic, plain ideal: likeable characters.  The audience needs a person that is relatable, someone they can connect with on some sort of level; aesthetic or psychological. These character are meant to remind you of someone you know, even remind you of yourself while telling what is hopefully an interesting tale; whatever it takes for you as a viewer to identify with them.

Of course, within every cavalcade of future corpses there needs to be those scoundrels that deserve seeing their intestines tugged through a hole in their throat. They reflect the pieces of society that the masses find unbearable; the snobby rich kid, the loud mouthed thug, in-laws, and the crabby old maid that keeps all of the sports balls that land in her backyard. However, these are the fun kills, we look forward to these. The kills that we still expect but feel sympathy are a horror films true test, and it always doesn’t come down to wanting the character to be a good person, the actor needs to win the audience’s support which is difficult because most horror films are plagued with terrible acting, but it is terrible acting by people who work cheaply which is the main reason most of them are retained.  

In horror films we have seen people devoured by animals of both realistic species and completely imagined species mechanically engineered into existence. We have seen mothers, children, pets, trolls, and demons enact gory fury upon beloveds and complete stranger, but being able to cling to someone in a movie viewing environment excites the mood instead of manipulating it because there will be no axe-wielding maniac coming for us, but we are lucky enough to catch hint of what that might just be like. Embracing fear is an acquired taste, but we all feel it and at some point we all give in to it.

Bilo's Family Tree

Unwrapping the present, hearing the gunshot; at the end of it all Bilo felt that in some superficial way he unleashed hell on his family.

It was the first present his biological dad had ever given him. Bilo dropped the box when the gun sounded, sending a slug through Aunt Iris’ latest husband – fifth times the charm.

Well, maybe not for Aunt Iris – her brains got mixed with the potpourri.  

Bilo’s mom had salvinated for this day for 19 years, the day she never believed could happen was now in full gear, but she waited for Bilo’s dad to off the annoying relatives.  THEN she came out swinging with her daddy’s axe. The axe Bilo’s grandfather had used for 49 years with the fire department.

As a little girl, Bilo’s mom once asked her fireman father if he ever wanted to use the axe on people. He replied, “Sometimes.”

“Me too,” said Bilo’s mom.

Mushroom Clouds Over Haarlem, Holland

On the morning of August 16, this ominous mushroom cloud appeared over the sky of Haarlem, Holland. Most meteorologists suggest that it was caused by a temperature inversion, where there is a derision from normal temperature changes in any atmospheric properties with altitude.

Basic temperatures are warmer the closer they get to the ground, colder the higher up they go; however, the warmer temperatures in this cloud are at the top.

Such a wicked visual. Boise, Idaho had a similar incident earlier this month.

Evolution is a Funny Business

Bad placenta! Shame on you!

"Brave Megan Stewart is also at risk if she wears polyester clothing and can't touch balloons at parties as static electricity could cause her brain to shut down.
The 13-year-old suffers from an extremely rare condition called hair brushing syndrome."

Sometimes, scientists need to just let some things slide.

"Scientists have undone the progress made by evolution by altering chicken DNA to create embryos with alligator-like snouts instead of beaks."

If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

"A new species of eel has been discovered which is so old that it retains its dinosaur-era characteristics and has been branded a 'living fossil'."

Sharks Being Sharks and a True Hero

I think this shark has dealt with humans before.

Ian Redmond, 30, was attacked by a shark in the Seychelles early this week, according to media reports. He was on his honeymoon.

Michel Gardette, a Praslin development official told the news source, "I have been diving for the last 40 years and I have never encountered any problems. Sharks are actually very rare because they are hunted for their meat and fins."

Good people exist.

"The man came running to us and said, `They stole a little girl.'"
Phillip Garcia, 29, had snatched the girl moments earlier on Monday afternoon in Albuquerque, taking her away in a blue van, police said.
Diaz's husband, Antonio Diaz Chacon, jumped in his black pickup and gave chase.

Alone with Essence

Walking nature's lane, which mirrors the night,
Which mirrors my steps;
A long, lonely session defines this insightful trek.

Around tree and stone,
A fragrance curls itself along the color-colliding, dusky horizon's mist.
A harmonious brew
Concocted by nature's own appetite for a sensually scented delight.

An exciting urge untapped by a lady's fingers.
A relaxing sense of a little death that starts with a little kiss.
A feral soul where wild pleasure's linger.

Now, campfire spreads,
The moon bedazzles,
As the essence of night begins to unravel.
This is how I am alone with her along my lonesome travels.

News & Such

Breastfeed them until their fifteen while you're at it. The White House's Office of Management and Budget have been using these laws as gootch warmers for the past nine months because that's how far below the ladder this thing is. Child labor laws need to start being rescinded.

Accidents happen because of personal neglect and completely unforseeable circumstances, such as the tragedy at the Rangers game, but there are signs posted throughout the seating area advising the fans to never lean over the rails. Accidents and farms are synonymous with one another. These are high-industrial pieces of equipment meant to do things only a few of today's animals and more of prehistory's creatures are capable of, but they are under human supervision. Accidents are inevitable.

Dumbest question of the day - "Could U.K.-Style Destruction Happen in America?"

And history repeats itself. We are due for something doomy. Enjoy the ride.

Cemetery Ballroom (polished)

Ethan’s family buried Gran Fern only three weeks ago. He didn’t mind passing through, though. Dorado Middle School was in the same direction down the winding portion of Lionel Lee road as the cemetery. Ethan always bid salutations to the peacefully cryptic residents, and about half after three, the ice cream van passed down winding Lionel Lee to catch customers from Port Fern Elementary getting dropped off by the busses. On Saturdays it wouldn’t cruise by until around five. Ethan would hum that ice cream song until he got home almost daily. It reminded him of the calmness found only in a cemetery.

When Ethan began ninth grade, he began forgetting that song.  High School’s direction was opposite Shady Luxuries Cemetery. There were no tunes to recognize in that direction. There were no winding roads.

Novembers were numbingly cold, a beautiful blister representing the positively frantic local spirit – We’re here; deal with it, man and weather united.  The weather started suiting Ethan’s personal favor near Halloween, representing Stage 1 – Heavier Winds.

A week before Thanksgiving, walking home from a perky evening at some suburban darlings’ parent-less house party  in Thorn corner, known as such because within that neighborhood bore the only homes  where thorns grew naturally in the greenery. If you didn’t know where to turn, it’d be an instant miss, but Ethan stood every elementary school morning at the graveyard’s edge and was dropped of f there accordingly with Thorn Corner only a hidden block away. The road turned only east, a tree’s limb obstructed the sign naming the street, but no one ever complained about it. The people in Thorn Corner were often considered different by the other folks in town. It was an upscale community, but that was never an issue; the fragment of tension between the people went deeper, into the soil and the soul of the town where it seemed like the tension boiled into hatred.

Yet, all of that tension eased once Ethan reached the chain marking the start of cemetery ground. He was able to step over it now since his growth spurt, planting his feet on the docile territory he felt all of that uneasiness shed like a mature snake’s skin replaced by a calmness that he realized he had missed and not even known. It was a good feeling, like being reacquainted with friends long-thought-abandoned. Ethan was jovial about his return. He decided to visit his grandparents ‘plots, feeling succinctly guilty since he had not visited them either since transferring to high school. He still thought about them, he knew they were watching over him at all times which justified his excuses for not visiting them when the opportunities presented themselves.

Cemetery Ballroom (work-in-progress)

Ethan’s family buried Gran Fern only three weeks ago. He didn’t mind passing by, though. School was in the direction, might as well bid a salutation to the cryptic residents. And from 3 in the afternoon ‘til about half after, the ice cream truck passes by to catch the busses coming from Port Fern Elementary.  

The day Ethan progressed to high school he forgot that ice cream tune. High School’s direction was opposite Shady Luxuries Cemetery. There were no tunes to recognize in that direction.

Novembers were cold, a beautiful blister representing the positively frantic local spirit – We’re here; deal with it, man and weather united. The weather started suiting Ethan’s favor near Halloween. Every year there was a shift; there was never a shift all the years in that other place.  Ethan loved being cold.

A week before Thanksgiving, Ethan’s walking home from a perky evening at some suburban darlings’ resident in the Thorn cul-de-sac, known as such because within resides the only home with thorns in their greenery. If you didn’t know where to turn, it’d be an instant miss, but Ethan stood there every elementary school year – at the graveyard’s edge. The road went only left, a graveyard’s tree’s limb obstructed the sign naming the street, but the voted to keep the tree intact out of respect for the lifeless tenants.

It was a good city to test a person’s will. Death was a steady business, Ethan recited. He’d forced himself to create a slogan for an idea. The chain blocking Ethan’s leg-stretching override was lower than he’d recalled, his memory salvaging itself – the mornings at the graveyard’s edge, plucking the chains, waiting for the bus; talking to Shannon Ann; still simultaneously the most beautiful AND strangest name you’d ever heard.

Slangin on the Go

Driving through town today I witnessed a hilarious drug deal. I couldn't tell who was the slanger or who was the buyer but two men were walking on the sidewalk towards one another showing no indication of an association, none of any kind.

Usually, you see a friend or someone familiar you acknowledge them in some obvious manner, but these guys appeared obliviouis to one another. They meet in the middle and in the blink of an eye exchange a handslap, and faster than they converged in the center of the sidewalk the instantaneously turned around, heading in opposite directions. I laughed all the way to my destination.

Picked up a new cell phone today, too. It was an intriguing experience. The young woman that helped me had the most hypnotic, elegant crystal blue eyes. I wondered if they were contacts - they were astoundingly gorgeous, and she had a voice so soothing I felt myself becomiong intoxicated the more she spoke. I started nearly slurring my words. The more she spoke the more I focussed on her eyes, and slowly, like a crescendo in a sonata, our lips began spreading into grins, grins into smiles; smiles into attraction (for me anyways). Her customer service was exceptional to boot.

I walked away without complementing her on anything. I was disappointed in myself. The opportunity has passed and now it's up to bizarre circumstances if we ever meet again.

Those kinds of second chances are the rarest kind.

Pencils for Death

Have been working extensively and vivaciously on the Texas Death project. After half-a-day yesterday of fumbling wtih the foreground to the forefront of frustration (see what I did there), I settled on a nonchalant, imposing fixture. I'm about ready to tackle the atmsohpere. 

Must keep blasting music.

Insufficiently, while taking a snack break, enjoying a ham sandwich, I happened to witness a rogue male hippopotamus get castrated. I chuckled at the situation. Life is just too funny.

Could've gotten further along with Texas Death if I hadn't blundered by losing my last twist-pencil. I absolutely love sketching with those things, their leads are just slightly thicker than a click-pencil, and they're fantastic to scratch your ears with. After today's work I was exhausted, but the caffeine injections of Code Red and Dr. Pepper from earlier were still working their abusive, bowel disrupting magic. I wasn't nearly in any sleeping mood and any trying attempt would have only wasted time. Instead, I went for a walk to get some groceries. This would have been around half-past-midnight; I returned shortly after one. The journey was ghostly and serene, cars in single sets drove past me on their way to where people desired them, and others to places where they desired a certain person; to place where they should have been, and others to a place where they have no business being. Such is the human condition. Either way people were going to awaken with new diseases the next day.

The greatest surprise was that punk-rock-girl was working tonight. I had not seen in her many months, her hair still fashioned in a black-length, white-bangs style tied back in a ponytail that completed the cuteness of her overall appearence while her eyes, as sweet as her look, but they told the truth. She is one tough soul.

Quite the attractive feature.

Unfortunately, I found no more twist-pencils. Luckily, after returning home I discoverd my lost one beneath a clutter of unpacked tools and other household objects that can force someone to scream.

Back to Texas Death, a temporary coma, and then training. Keep blasting music.

Oingo Boingo & Alligators

Wondering what it means to "have a good time," these days. I'm a simple person, gimme four walls and if there has to be company may it be pleasent.

But if I could ruthlessly indulge myself without consequences, on my application for Heaven's entrance, regarding the Hobbies section, there would be: Alcohol, Amphetamines, Weekends, Alligator Pits.

It was during one of my skill-earned trips to Austin when I came across the Escape from L.A. soundtrack.

It was high-school, ’97 – it was at a CD Extra, I was flippin’ through their soundtrack selections (new/used) and came across the Escape from L.A. soundtrack; blazing cover with Kurt Russell in his awesomeness that is Snake Plissken, who was last seen in that shit in Cleveland.

I’d never found this soundtrack back home. I should’ve but I didn’t. The other sad bastards that followed cd releases beat me to it, probably by waking up. I refused to do that for anyone. OR, I just didn’t go to sleep. Either one was fine with me.

Regardless, I love this soundtrack and really like the movie. Can I have my axe back, please?

Fucker.

Escaping Silence

This song inspired this particular piece. I have some plans for dear old Dan.....

Cassy was quickly running out of hallway and light. She slowed herself and the only audible was her winded breathing but inside her mind still echoed the thunderous footsteps of the maniac that had killed everyone, everyone but her. For a few more relaxed breaths she would rest, but was far from safe.

The hunt was becoming tedious. Myles had erased most of the names as he silenced their voices on Earth. The young lady was the last one – Cassy. His blood-caked glove pushed open the kitchen entrance to continue searching for the deviled misfit. Her voice needed to be silenced. Myles needed to sleep.

Cassy kneeled low before dipping her head around the corner, checking for the psycho – nothing to find but more carpet leading down another dimly lit passage, and for being a seaside resort she couldn’t believe the lack of windows in an inn as gigantic as the Haveshum, but she felt a spit-worth of hope when she came across the stairs leading downward. It was familiar to her, and anything familiar felt like a way out.

When there were multiple voices, Myles could function suitably, but when there was a single drone buzzing throughout his consciousness the harsh memories flashed in front of him, the memories of grandmother and grandfather listening to their radio all day long everyday. As a toddler lost in his own mind inside his crib he could hear the talk radio from the living room. Occasionally, one of them would enter his room to feed and change him, but always with them did they bring their radio god until the day Grandma and Grandpa stopped appearing, yet their radio kept talking. They would rather listen to their silly radio god. Then, increasingly more flies began to appear particularly when the putrid stench consumed the household. And then, the men in uniforms appeared and took him away from the voices. But the voices followed him. Whenever he turned on a radio, the voices would regenerate, but now the voices spoke names. They were the names of the wicked and the guilty, the kind of wretched decadents that Grandma and Grandpa said his mother was because she refused to listen to the word of their radio god, and they needed to be punished. Myles would write their names and silence their voices.

The lobby was a sweet sight. Cassy leapt off the third stair step on to the floor and sprinted for the open door leading outside. Once her feet touched the sand she could sense salvation’s nearness. Her voice cried “thank you” aloud to anyone listening, but as she tried to cry out again she couldn’t muster any words, and she slowed to complete halt which was when she felt warmth trickling down her body and as she gazed down she witnessed a crimson flood powering down her shirt. Cassy reached behind her neck and felt the knife handle emanating from the back of her throat. Her body could no longer create tears for Cassy to cry. Her voice had been silenced because Myles had been listening the entire time.

Unclogging

Unsure what the next art piece should be. The samurai is the likliest candidate, but it'll be the most complex piece I've attempted in a lyong time; plus, there's research to be done.

Figured out a new deltoid workout. I tried it, and I'm excited with the results. The rotation works the deltoid in a twisting motion, taking the muscle to it's tightest peak; possibly beneficial to a gymnast. Also gonna try a personally new protein from Nutrex - Muscle Infusion Black (ah yeah), cookies n'cream flavor (Chyeah!), but I selected it because it has all the positives of a Syntha-6: the isolates, egg-whites, whey and such, however, Muscle Infusion Black (M.I.B. Haaa!) contains far less carbs, sugars, sodium, cholesterol; I'm looking forward to that as well.

Work to do, work to do....

More Movies

Before...and deeennnn?...

....

Continued movie viewing with the original Bad News Bears - the authentic nature of the vulgarity couldn't be recaptured in the remake, only simulated.
While cooking breakfast I was trying to figure out the mood, so I settled on Ed Burns' The Groomsmen - excuse me, EdWARD Burns...but a good way to pass the time. It's a movie that questions the definition of being a man.

Legion - Sucked. Big ones.

Devil - A flashy 90-minute movie with a 30-minute plot that actually pulled it off. Fuck you comic books.

Ketchup? Catsup? Catch up?

Tonight's soundtrack was provided by....


....and while they haven't been the same since the first album I've still enjoyed their sound.

Been catching up on movies; recently watching 2001 Maniacs: Field of Screams (yeahyuuuuh), Somewhere in Time (shweeet), Open Road (noyce), The Door in the Floor (overly sentimental but cool), Three Amigos (clllassic), Hot Tub Time Machine (new clllassic), Poolhall Junkies (constant rotation), They (good effort), Batman ’89 (still shweeet), Despicable Me (I liked it better this time around), Evolution (always a pleasure) ….

.....Aaaannnnd……

Shakedown – A new Peter Weller fave, he delivers, and Sam Elliot’s acting yet again makes all functioning alcoholics proud and looking good (acting, teehee).

Sssss – A charming 70’s thriller that stretches into the horror realm, with Strother Martin playing the nicest serial killer ever, Dr. Carl Stoner. Aside from a casual stick-model, all of the snakes were real and used splendidly and still cautiously. Dirk “IAMFACE” Benedict plays a naïve college student assigned to Dr. Stoner’s assistance. Poor bastard.

And finally, Green Lantern; that movie earned itself a Whataburger, I tell yuh. Loved it, and what saved it was the pacing, because there was a lot of shyit goin on – good editing. What was UP with the HAIRSTYLES? Angela Bassett’s overpowering sexiness made hers bearable; Tim Robbins’ made the aliens’ and Hector’s gigantically mutated dome normal looking.

Despite lackluster numbers the sequel is thus far a go, I am glad. They need to tell Sinestro’s story. He’s too important and they have the best actor possible for the role in Mark Strong, good casting all around. This felt like a DC film, a fun atmosphere with insanity all around you.

Been re-editing Sympathy Circus; polishing, editing, adding, consciously averting overkill but not without testing the waters. Completing the sourcebook and first chapter outline for Drunken Monk, got a new idea for another novel, but first things first and that is an endless suck in itself.

Have also been watching and re-watching documentaries on these fellas........UP THE IRONS!!!

Crusher

It was three weeks since our superfluous break up. After five years of greatness I kept expecting to smell her in the morning, taste her in the afternoon, and love her for the rest of our lives.

I lifted Crusher from the fish bowl. The slick turtle crept along my palm, too curious for its own good. Whether it was male or female didn’t matter; I respected its privacy. I stroked the armored back of the pleasantly dull reptile bastard, envying the thickness of the shell. I hoped my skin and soul would grow as malleable, but if I wasn’t feeling pain then what was the point of being human. God would have made me a turtle, and the dismay would have rocked the clouds because I wanted to be a Komodo dragon.

We wanted to still be together. Love wasn’t enough; it was only the beginning. Time, biology, and faith had betrayed us – so I believed at the time – but Crusher, Crusher kept on probing the surroundings, slowly, thoroughly, care freely.  

She had her new life now. I had Crusher.

Our Lady Peace can/could get as heavy as heavy as RageATM and as soft as bunnies skipping on clouds.

Circling Purple

Circling him wound him down.

Typical if you’re fighting a larger opponent; or the closest thing to it.

Wisconsin was a good place to train, but it didn’t provide the sparring partners you were hoping for; and you know you can always rely on country-folk, but for whatever reason(s), that one time was an unfortunate bust; but the Canadian borders are consistently reliable.

The 2 a.m. flight took us back to Houston, and from there things got silly. Houston has always been kind to me. It’s a bit jittery for my taste, but once you grasp the heart inside your hands – I love Houston, particularly during Christmas-time. And the yearly purple.

Smart Zombie Zumba

The zombies had evolved.

Fucking brilliant; they occupied the intelligence of whatever learning tissue existed on them from time of death to last slithery drop or crackling erosion.

We were individually strung with our arms folded across our chests, like straight jackets, hooked to a walking post across our backs. There was a three-piece zombie sentry carrying the bastard leading us to what I could have sworn was a soda machine, but towered with it was a blender quite capable of devouring a fully grown human being, with room for pets.

The fleshy outcomes drizzled, curved downward into the machine where it filled the bowl of the Smart Zombies’ queen. When filled, the bowl is hoisted onto Smart Zombie Drones’ shoulders, and the bowl is handed to Smart Zombie Queen so she might feed as heartily or lightly as she hoped. She still wanted to have a figure….yuh know...Something manageable.

Could always give Smart Zombie Zumba another try.

Whistling Jameson

Whistling Jameson

1935 – 2007

Whistling loved the ice cream truck song. It reminded her of Daddy when he was the ice cream man for the town of Rollick. Whistling’s family lived about seven miles away in the neighboring town - Frisk. Daddy’d have to pass Memory Mounds Cemetery everyday on his way to Rollick and again heading back home.

World War II took Daddy away. Whistling didn’t get to know him well, but he had to go fight them Nazis “…so’s you, and Mom, and everyone we love can keep living our lives,” Mom always told Whistling, but what Whistling’s experiences with her father (that she can recall) were wonderful; even in her adulthood they inspired dreams. And Mother always assured Whistling that Daddy was a wonderful man.

Keepin' it Nappy

The best listening times for this song are the hardest times. I’ve relied on this tune on several occasions, several days, and conscientiously I will get tired of it, but when I need either reassurance or just a plain ole reality check – I will be hearing this song.

Aaannnd we be keepin' it Nappy...

Honest Jealousy

A senseless gesture interpreted

As a heartfelt contribution

 To a conceived hostile unity

By an open-mind travelling for two

Down a one way road.

A flower in the hand,

Once believed to be an omen

Of better things to come,

But it wasn’t the first time,

Being in the wrong place

With the right smile.

---------------------------------

Currently jamming: Namie Amuro - Come

I used to awaken in the middle of the morning to this song - sometime betwixt 2:30 a.m. & 3 a.m. as the end-credits of Inuyasha rolled.

It still sounds lovely. .

The Magical Hooker of Swishpit

Walking out of Lindsey’s was never an easy endeavor. If you made it past Whalin’ Jack and his pool-stick-leg of a thousand-and-one origin stories you had to deal with Big Hurt’s grabby hands, and she didn’t earn the name Big Hurt for her gentleness; she was Swishpit’s tri-county, bare-knuckle, walnut smashing champion.

Tonight, however, I was prepared. I had Leslie poor Whalin’ Jack a shot of his favorite rum and serve it to him just as we were about to cross paths, and I distracted Big Hurt by pointing to the television and yelling LUMBERJACK TOURNAMENT. I felt slightly disingenuous for about three seconds but rejoiced when I opened the bar door and walked out with pain-free-soon-to-be-numb testicles.

With a sigh of relief and a cheerful buzz I travelled homeward down the pavement. Shortly thereafter I stumbled past a prostitute. Typically, I offer no interest in these women. While holding no qualms against their profession, being the mayor’s speech writer I didn’t care to be incidentally caught on a camera phone somewhere and splayed on a social website. I wasn’t one of the people in the spotlight but I was responsible in part for the upkeep of the mayor’s image, and me being caught pain-free-testicles-deep inside a streetwalker wasn’t the best way of honoring my duties. Especially if I wasn’t even shit-pants-hammered or wigging out on a bad batch of LSD; if I were to be caught sober or just slightly buzzed (as I was that evening) – not only was I going to be seen as a deviant, but a sociopathic deviant as well. No thank you.

After a couple of hours of rough sex and good weed behind closed curtains and depowered cell phones, I paid her and sent her away from my apartment, and then showered.

I wasn’t sure what had famished me more, the sex or the weed, but my stomach growled. The weed’s effects reminded me to get a blood test within the next few days. The fridge was nearly barren as I’d been avoiding the market during its pique busy hours. I preferred to shop early in the morning or late after hours to avoid crowds.

My stomach gargled again – blood test – and rejoiced I was to find a batch of apples in the crisper. I grabbed the peanut butter jar and proceeded to spread its contents on to the apple. I took a bight, embracing the crunchy, cold, creamy goodness of it all and as I was about to spread more peanut butter on to the ripe red fruit the ripe red bitten fruit turned to gold.

Timidly curious, but still hungry – blood test - I grabbed another apple from the bag, but after about a minute of passing it from hand to hand there was no transformation. I even spread peanut butter on it, but I wound up with only sticky hands and a stomach demanding more food – blood test. I bit into this latest apple, and that was the key. Instantly the partially consumed apple turned into gold. I bit into another new apple and the same reaction occurred, although momentarily I was disheartened because this most likely meant that I could no longer eat apples, and I enjoyed them quite a bit – sweet ones, sour ones, bitter ones, the ones we made into bongs at office parties, staff meetings, and speech writing sessions.

Sure enough, after a few days of testing out this bizarre gift of turning used apples into gold I discovered I was cut off from consuming a full apple as the gift didn’t apply to any other fruits or foods that I ate, but I was unsure if this gift was a permanent one. At night I walked past the block where I met the Magic Bearing Hooker, but I never saw her again and there were dozens of sleepless nights that were filled with questions, questions about why I was granted this unusual ability: What happened to that hooker? And did all hookers grant magic powers? Should I pick up the next one I happened upon? Although I didn’t want to be barred from eating any other food that I liked, so I decided to allow that last one to play out on its own.

What I did do, I amassed a small fortune quickly and quietly. I began selling these golden specimens as art pieces to the filthiest of the rich; even sold some of the bong-fashioned-apples to several empire established musicians and well known authors.

Despite having all of this money, I continued working for the mayor’s office. Life without purpose was far too boring for someone like me, but I was looking forward to disappearing from society. I never cared for any kind of spotlight, positive or negative, and thanks to a generous, magical hooker, my dream of anonymity was to come true. Thank you, Magical Hooker.  Thank you, hookers everywhere.

Something new I learned this week – New Zealand is void of any reptiles. What I found to be even more than most interesting was the bullheaded fortitude of one of New Zealand’s most aggressive predators – the Longfin Eel, native to New Zealand and most recently introduced to the southern parts of Australia.

The Longfin Eel, I find to be, a remarkable animal. It can live in absolute darkness, bottom feeding in the deepest lake of New Zealand, Lake Hauroko, and still slither-swim its way towards the shallow ends of New Zealand lakes undeterred by the presence of other predators or even humans. These creatures can sense a blood within a 2-mile radius which makes them prospective eaters in concurrence with being omnivorous eaters.

There have been tales & factual accounts of these Longfin Eels feasting upon other eels and even human beings, and it is the way that these creatures feed on larger prey that excites me and forces me to respect them so much.

Longfin eels grow up to an average of five to six feet, there are records of as up to eight feet, which are rarer than most – but if they are to grow to such a size they require the proper nutrition, and that is unachievable by feeding off of bottom dwellers and herbivores. These eels are highly capable of feasting on larger victims, and it is their method that I found most intriguing.

A Longfin Eell has several rows of hundreds of back-curved teeth, which allow not only instant penetration beneath the flesh but also an instant snag – and since these creatures can swim backwards as equally as well as they do forwards, they are more than capable of dragging an unsuspecting meal through the water.

Once they have established their toothy grasp, the excitement begins. While pinching down on their meal’s flesh they violently rotate their bodies, much like a power drill, tearing chunks of meat from their captive, and don’t think that these eels are alone for too long because they travel in packs, and once blood hits anywhere near their dwellings – a swarm of Longfin Eels are soon gorging upon a newly made carcass.

Bloody awesome.

Midnight Nature

It’s funny whom you meet close to midnight. I’m more accustomed to midnight and after, still working out the kinks for this stuff.

Proof that I am a force of nature: I returned from a walk around the trail betwixt eleven and half- past-midnight and lounged my homebound steps right into the company of an unknowing black cat.

I crossed its path.

The eyes widened, eyes as dark as its fur, and it sprinted towards the neighbors yard, leaping the fence right into their backyard where it provided their two Pit Bulls something to claw.   

Following Perfection

There is project I’ve been trying to get off the ground for a few years now, and by a few years I mean the last fifteen. However, work schedules, deadlines, and other more lucrative projects have kept me from delving deeper into this half-planned creation, but behind all of that is a single, nearest-to-perfect entity that has kept me from pulling the trigger.

Being a lifelong horror fan, I have been fascinated with the gothic arts. The finely detailed architecture suitable for death by impalement, the reality bending, orgy flexing mythology, and the depressing, rage inducing music that can make its listener cut themselves dozens of times over before fornicating with a bat in hopes of contracting rabies and herpes so as to leave a lasting message to both animals and people.

Mostly, I’ve been fascinated with gargoyles, which is the basis for this project that has been hibernating in my long list of untouched/unfinished works. I have no qualms with telling a story that’s already been told because honestly, every possible story has been told – murder, love, greed, satire, comedy – they’ve all been done, just with different twists and alternate takes but deep down they’re all the same stories.

The reason, though, that I keep pushing this gargoyle tale to the backburner is because of Greg Weisman. Greg Weisman is the creator and writer of the animated series Gargoyles from Disney. He was also a writer and producer for the short-lived (and equally excellent) Spectacular Spiderman on the WB network.

I was fortunate enough to catch this show on its premiere one weekday afternoon and instantly I was a fan. The story was melodramatic, the characters were layered and complex, the animation was groundbreaking and breathtaking, and most importantly there were damn good stories being told - too damn good. I never attempted a gargoyles tale of my own until about five years after the show was cancelled and yet all I could still do was compare it to the excellence of Greg Weisman’s Gargoyles. Within the stories, which were very human, Weisman wove in all kinds of mythology from across the globe; from Shakespeare’s creations to Native American symbolic rituals to plain old urban legends, and he was able to make it all make sense and serve a purpose to forward the development of the story and its characters and to this day I still return to it for inspiration or to simply be entertained.

Gargoyles even stirred my current love/hate relationship with comic books as the story from the tv series was continued in a series written by Weisman and published by Slave Labor Graphics.

Last night, I began to explore the world in which my own gargoyle tale would be taking place. I know that any gargoyle epic will instantly and forever be compared to Greg Weisman’s Gargoyles. It set a standard for those of us that prefer working in this genre, and if anyone is to comment that my stories are similar to Greg Weisman’s own gargoyles mythology, I must say I am flattered.

Thank you, Greg Weisman. And damn you for being so good at what you do.

Strange Chew

Chewing and chewing, sometimes it’s the next best thing to fornicating – not that the former doesn’t happen during the latter.

The past, I could care less about – I have no qualms, no quarrels, questions, nor quandaries about it. I lived it. I was there. It was boring then, needing to question it is boring now.

Sometimes it's best to not know. Sometimes control means detachment. Always, honor has consequences.

It's a bitch.

SchizOld Lady

I sensed the soul of my brother prior to his conception. At first, I thought it was the toddler version of spit-up, and then it presented itself as bodily gas before revealing itself to be a singular mental ward associated with pure evil.

That was the night I chose to never sleep again.

The crib was never a place for sleeping, the house was never a place for living; the sun was never for seeing. The night is my fully armed hammock, offering endless comfort, neighborhood accessibility, and volatile projectile trajectory.

The old lady talked to herself. Occasionally the three of us shared a conversation, but we each had our own agendas. All of them ended in gunfire.

Hazing a Moth

What the hell were we talking about outside? It was something significant; I think we even fit sports into the picture.

My Nuggets keep rooollin’. Hope the Spurs finally fixed the kinks in their Tejas Voodoo.

I don’t regret my upbringing. Its wickedness accentuates its awesomeness.

The doctor loves my insurance. Yet, it’s the best conversations I’ve had in a multitude of months.

Certain people get worried when they feel the wind between their teeth. Certain people think breathing is easier without teeth blocking all of that potential vacuuming space, could probably discombobulate a moth if you really tried.

An Abundance of Moose

In regards to social commentary and caring my interests are few, but time after time I find it necessary to be informed. Strangers seem to think I’m approachable, acquaintances feel like they know me; I feel the need to be informed, particularly for business situations.

I don’t care for small talk. I know there are decent folks in this world; it doesn’t mean I have to chit chat with them. I’m a conversationalist in an explorer’s sense. I like picking peoples’ brains, exchanging conflicting views while solidifying a guaranteed drunken experience, and whether it ends in bloodshed or not is irrelevant; how much fun we had that night as individuals with similar views, some conflicting opinions, and mouths that never go dry until the hangover kicks in. With small talk, the evening usually ends with the air raid alarm sounding while explosions bombard the city as I’m roaming throughout the catastrophic neighborhood with my hands dutifully throttling someone whom I’ve made my own personal squeaky toy. I still get a kick from watching their eyes bulge from their sockets whenever I forcefully squeeze.

Business is business.

Yet, to progress in this state of humanity one must be prepared for idle chatter. Slightly gone is the appreciation for courtesy silence. It’s the kind one can find now only while traveling on an elevator or perhaps a capacities-full escalator, even in a movie theater. Keep your conversations to yourselves, although being completely alone and still dictating a conversation will throw general onlookers off. The best part of it all though is that they’ll leave you alone, naturally because they think you’re one body away from being considered a mass murderer. In actuality, alienating the general public sometimes becomes an evolving art.

Politics, social media, forms of entertainment; just a few categories that I stay up to date on not because I care about these things but because I know people are going to want to discuss these things before I can seclude in my own private world where none of those things matter because they have no bearing on my survival or my loved ones’ survival, and rarely do socially conscientious subjects enlighten me in the ways of eliminating negativity because most of the societal seeds that have been planted were spawned from negativity, particularly on the internet – so much downtrodden personal aspects and wasted negativity located all over that technological whirlwind.

If only assisted suicide by Skype would begin trending; that’s when I’d be tempted to begin acquiring computer hacking skills. There’s an ornery moose in Wyoming that is well aware of my other hacking skills.

Shit On Your Windshield

Currently jamming...

Lines get thinner, thicker, crooked; each one an intimate, painful crackling scream by the city, but humankind doesn’t feel it and wouldn’t recognize it until it shivered a bird fiercely enough causing it to shit on humankind’s car’s hood; and in better cases the windshield.

Those lines define relationships between us. It defines what is a friend, an associate, a confidante, the endlessly endearing acquaintance; a stranger, and a stalker.

Television is usually the last media on my mind, mind you I rarely watch it but the noise is priceless. I need noise, that’s why I keep a television. I have music, music instruments, headphones, things that are more dangerous when shattered, and things that purely go BOOM.

The neighbor-baby shrieked. It bellowed a handful’s more. One of the cars left the house, Neighbor Baby occasionally screeching now, but occasionally, harmoniously grunting. Silence settled for an impressive amount of time, even long enough for the missionary car to return home just in time for them to continue being a family – if they choose.

Potential Dismemberments

I never craved the taste of raw flesh until that Soilwork concert in Croatia. That entire summer I drowned my urges beneath my subconscious, but when she and I were out in that gigantic crowd; embracing the pulverizing energy on display I couldn’t help myself.

We danced, we grinded body-on-body, but when she turned to kiss me on the cheek goodnight I lunged for the back part of her neck, bit oh so delectably in and tore out her life. I gnawed on her beefy torso chunk, sucking down the bitter-tasting life-force while she slumped downward through my arms.

She stopped clawing at me once her head met my chest and her arms spiraled down my own like raindrops downside a windshield. For several minutes I stared at her lifeless body, and it no longer interested me. My attention could focus only on the jumping, breathing, heart-beating bodies that remained, which made my stomach churn; not because it hungered but rather because it was full, it was pleased.

I never looked into anyone else’s eyes in the crowd afterwards because I didn’t want to remember any potential dismemberments; I only wanted to taste them.

Accepting Success

Success is earned. Quite true, success is indeed earned; yet, strangely enough, success must also be accepted – accepted by the individual, by society; by anyone capable of thinking.

I could plant a Cerebral Palsy patient to witness air hockey, and even that twisted cat would find one reason or another to say about a contestant, “This dude sucks.”

Millions of novels have been written, and there are more unread novels in the world than there are price-tagged ones. And while they may follow the path of a dying breed, they also follow a survivor’s path.

There are people in the real world that love to turn a page; written word will never die, it’ll just get digitized while continuing homogenization, paving the way for continued newness; but we'll still be bored, mainly because Destiny hasn't presented itself and Fate hasn't killed us. But we still choose to walk that numbered middle trail; the one that stretches from six o' clock to twelve-thirty, nine-fifteen to three-fortyfive, and two names for every six. Some people are addicted to it.

Success has more than two names. Success always beats the clock.

Abused Industries

The coffee was bland enough for me to believe that no one has pissed in the pot yet; didn’t mean I was still disease-free. Keechy’s is a unique diner, but it’s centrally located in a city where progress had long since passed, and it has a bathroom where the sink is an extra urinal.

I popped a synaptic enhancer so I could make a call. It was cherry flavored this month. The appointment to see my bio-enhancement therapist was still on. I really didn’t need it but it’s required after every individual procedure. Even though the capabilities for engaging in bio-enhancement have been widely available for over a decade, people are still people and every one of them reacts differently.

Although, mostly everyone forgets that bio-enhancement began as an underground fetish movement in dank garages and rickety tool sheds all across the Northeast. But once Hollywood accepted it – yet another revolution was abused and sold for spare parts.