That thing – over there …

That thing was just sitting over there, on the table …

I had spent hours wondering, “what am I going to do with that thing”? Will I recycle it? Re-gift it? Call the cops or the FED(s) or some other agency that deals with stuff like that thing, over there, just staring at me – on the table? But I just don’t know. For so many years I’ve taken my middle-class, suburban, bubble, Monsanto, fashionable cancer by 60, life for granted. I’d always assumed, “hey, if I get something in the mail, it must be something nice, right?”. But sometimes you get a box in the mail, and it doesn’t contain “something nice”; sometimes boxes contain things greenish-red, slimy, with tendrils and one large glowing eye that follows you around the room.

When I got home from the “corporate retreat” yesterday I was in a great mood – a whole week of corporate speeches, classes, “trust seminars” and other white-collar propaganda was complete. I was looking forward to watching that new episode of “The Strain”, grabbing some fried rice, and nothing could go wrong – cuz nothing ever does in Indianapolis (especially N. Indy, or rather Carmel/Fishers). Up here, we live in the bubble – only the “stray homeless guy” appears, occasionally,  to remind us that the bubble is not impermeable and that a harsher world exists beyond – on 38th Street perhaps.

But, as I arrived at my door, there was that box …

That box that contained no return address …

That box that seemed so roughly “put together” …

That box that smelled, a bit, but not so much that I decided to take it to the dumpster immediately (which is what I should have done for heck sake). Instead, I brought that eldritch little box into my smallish one-bedroom apartment, I placed it on my table and then proceeded to drink, watch TV, and then go to bed.

This morning, only a few hours ago, I woke up to a noise – a “rustling” in my living room.

That box had opened itself.

That box had split wide open and out of it had oozed a monstrosity – an unkempt feature of that other universe most of us ignore.

Now, on my table, was a small lump of oozing flesh, fur, retractable tendrils, and a glowing eye that followed me wherever I went in the apartment. And, because of my own recklessness, my girlfriend lay dead on the floor (I think she’s dead).

I say to myself now, after the event: “I shouldn’t have opened the door”. But I missed Linda and I thought we might have some “late morning coffee-sex” – so I let her in, despite the weird pile of quasi-biologic crap on my table …

“What the hell is that?”, Linda shouted when she entered, and then all she could do is stand there, like Sodom’s wife, a pillar of anxiety. In that next moment, so shockingly fast, a fibrous looking, tentacle like, creepy thing fired out of the mound of “something” on my table and right into Linda’s brain. She fell to the floor, twitching, barely moving, and it seemed she had stopped breathing – maybe …

I froze …

I’m still frozen …

I should call for an ambulance or some shit like that, but my body refuses to obey commands – being stricken with an ancient fear. That fear that cave-people felt when they could sense the presence of a sabre-toothed tiger or some other kind of prehistoric and dangerous shit.

All I can do now is pace slowly about, moving ever so slightly, hoping I make it to the door …

So I can run away and find cops or I dunno …

Maybe that eye will stop looking – everything has to blink, right? No living thing can be that focused, attentive.

Maybe Linda isn’t really dead, perhaps?

She does keep twitching and it’s been a few hours – though the reddish pus coming from her nose doesn’t look good.

I’ll do it …

I have to do it …

We were going to buy a dog together – a lab.



Posted in Very Brief Tales (A.D.D. Fiction) | Leave a comment

Yorbis: On Bitter-Solitude

When Yorbis had reached the age of 40, considered middle-aged among the clownish folk, he had become distant, dejected, and bitter. For so many years others, strangers, friends, folks, would appear and ask poor old Yorbis for guidance. They wanted what so many had and did and continue to want – “easy answers”. But, as Yorbis well understood, there were no “easy questions” and the answers were always twice removed and many times more difficult to acquire.

One day, during one of Yorbis’ “meditative sessions” at a local saloon, a young man – who was very drunk – came up to Yorbis and began to speak. Yorbis, who was drinking his cheap whiskey, merely stared at his glass – but also tried to listen, even if not attentively.

“Great Yorbis … you are known far and wide as the PARAMOUNT source of clownish-thinkery and wisdom and thought and ideas and other stuff that people go to school for many years to understand … but you see … YOU SEE … this is the true temple! This tramp bar! This dimly lit home of forsaken souls! This smelly, moldy, damp, realm is the true ‘temple of knowledge’ … you know man … ya KNOW? You need to tell me man … please …”, the man continued like this, for several minutes – angry, sad, miserable, hopeless, neurotic, drunk and LOUD. At first Yorbis hoped the man would simply walk away and leave him, Yorbis, alone in his own misery, but this was not to be.

Yorbis didn’t come to this bar to “provide advice”, he came to ruminate (in a maudlin fashion) upon his recent divorce, to consider the possibility that he would never find love again, and to accept the notion that he might spend the remainder of his life as a pathetic, friendless, bachelor – or some kind of negative shit like that …

Yorbis interrupted, suddenly, the drunken rant of the crazy, drunken, dude.

“Sir, you don’t know me, you simply have some meager image of me, probably gleaned from others or journals or stories or nonsense that people spread about, thinking they know something about someone else … but you don’t know me … yet you feel comfortable complaining to me – so I suggest you shut up and accept that the world has abandoned you … you are alone … horribly, distinctly, despondently ALONE! No one cares about your drunken speech, least of all me. There are so many drunks in this bar, so many with stories of woe, yours isn’t even the most interesting … you see that woman over there?”, Yorbis motioned towards the corner of the bar where a young woman, of 30, was sitting alone, nearly passed out and buckled over at her table.

“That woman, over there, her child died quite recently and her husband left her after the death for another woman … her story is of deep pain and regret and some day, I hope, she walks out of this hole of inebriated despair – but for now she is content to dull her senses and ponder how truly absurd and painful this life can be.”

“You are simply that irritation that disturbs this silence – you are that parasite that feeds on another’s sadness. But what we want, more than all else, is to be left alone in silence. We will drink our fill, and possibly come back tomorrow and drink more, and when the drinking and the crying and the morbid obsession is complete – some of us will heal and move on, others of us will simply find another level of loneliness and pain, and then hope that healing comes, as it should, when it can.”

“Young lad, I am drunk, and curmudgeonly, and probably belligerent … but I am asking something for myself and for you – sit, be quiet, with your drink. Pretend for a moment that there is a reason people drink at 2:00 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, and that you understand … respect their loneliness and respect your own need for solitude … too often we are told ‘be happy, be joyous’ but that is not all of our nature just a piece … accept that in loneliness, peaceful unity, you can inspect your thoughts and find a way out of whatever personal hell you are trapped in. Meditate on this my man! Embrace that lonely path of nothing and then be hopeful that there is a way out.”

Yorbis finished his whiskey, pulled away from the bar, left the stunned drunk to his self, and walked out into the street. The sun was low in the sky because this was Autumn in northern climes. Yorbis wandered down the road, kicking rocks as he went, pondering his rudeness towards that strange drunk and also accepting that it could not have been different.

Yorbis knew his isolation was unhealthy, he also knew that “health” was complicated and the mind needed the time to heal when some trauma occurs. Sometimes this healing is fast, sometimes slow, and one should do their best not to dwell in self-pity. But to deny the necessity of this loneliness was also to deny our choices and the consequences of these same.

“I am alone, solitary, and free …”

Yorbis would likely drink more tomorrow – or not.

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QUARTRAINIUM 60: NORBIS is in the 7th HOUSE, Lords of Folly Pummel the Eastern Wall!

[These quartrainia were discovered, by a concierge, not too far from Chicago. That fine gentleman knew of Dr. Freckles (Clownadamus) and proclaimed "MONDIS! A TIME OF RE-THINKING ARRIVES!" After several hours of drinking and fist-fights, Dr. Freckles was able to translate the runic symbols into these prophetic statements and uncaring frivolities. Only the naked jelly-fish knows how very, very, discordant his journey has become.]

Nascent and jaundiced, KELMER presents herself to the committee of TERROR – but nothing more terrible than the unregulated furies and nightly reminders from KING TOMB. GERMANIC FLAGS waft as transcendent and ghastly fortunes are lost AT SEA; boats sailing too fast on winds too changing. TURPINIS moves ROOK to QUEEN-34 and TOUCH-DOWN arrives during the 6th Inning.

A WAR OF 10 YEARS times 50 continues. Houses arrayed, all bound by gold, consider their broken agreements and begin the GREAT TAXATION. Jealous werewolves are not redeemed, but RUSSIAN scholars take heed of magic and wizardry – green electric, but too frightening for BISHOP GANT.

MANKRUG is the “be-otch of history”, his continued prognostication concerning ZIPANGU is no more than the wretched echoes of the cold, clammy, stillborn grizzly-bear. Money, moving, stopping – immeasurable speed of nothing and there is no coming DARK-WEEK of SPENDING. Thankful mothers will keep their children at home, making crafts, when “Black Friday” arrives. Rioters, carolers, careening towards oblivion – make merry, do not tarry, while the music plays!

“I shall stand, with chalice in hand, corpulent and complete – the tenants of this dangerous party could no more break, than bow!”, so said MAJOR LUDD. And we still recollect that this eldritch task is for none other than BAAL – don’t be late, when that bell rings, for “the counting” in the great HALL.

Magic Numbers: { 45, 432, 22, 72.3345, 1/3, 44, 27, 30, 37 }

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Not too distant future …

Our republic is dying, it is near dead, and there are only echoes left – faint whispers – of what our nation once was.

We were free once – not war-mongers, not harbingers of pain and destruction, but rather a nation of free men and women who lead by example and inspired through natural prosperity.

I won’t recant the tale, beginning a century ago, of how America began the slow, then fast, but steady decline – that decline would be obvious to even the dumbest “frog” now. No point in the remedial history – no one cares to understand, or to even care.

And now with war-mongers jumping on Obama’s little “war wagon”, it is virtually guaranteed that this nation will fall and our constitution will burn, and tyranny will rule the land.

So no, let’s not lament too much – no fucking point.

Let us just prepare ourselves, mentally, spiritually, for what is coming …

A day is coming, in the “not too distant future”, when the portion of an officer’s oath – “to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States” – will be removed. Who knows what that clause will be replaced with, perhaps an “oath to a divine leader” or an “oath to a corporation” or some other silly fuck.

A day is coming when children will be removed from all parents. There will be no more parents. The STATE will be the sole guardian.

In the not too distant future, there will be no United States, but rather some amalgam of Canada, the USA and Mexico. This new nation, “The Republic of Douche-Bags”, will be ruled over by big-Pharma, Monsanto, Google and Walmart.

Soon, you won’t need a credit card, or cash, you will simply swipe your bar-code tattoo, the one they will provide – or maybe they will use biometrics or some other creepy tech. Who knows – day is coming when you will know that you are cattle to them, ear marked, corralled.

Days ahead will bring more toxic food, and cancer, and disease, and riots, and chaos.

A day is coming when God will look down.

God will recall the paradise of liberty we (Americans) were given, he will see how we squandered this, destroyed our precious liberty, and he will judge us for this. That day, that horrid sunrise, our punishment will be obvious and swift – a new Babylonian Captivity awaits, or something far worse from the last book of John.

A day is coming that is not too far away, when nuclear weapons will be used, by everyone, against everyone, and the rich will hide in caves – but they will simply be trapped in cages of their own making.

These days are ahead – not behind.

Behind us are the days of liberty.

Ahead of us is the prison-hell that most of us asked for — especially on days like today when even “Libertarians” jump on the war-monger train.

A day is coming …

A day in the not too distant future …

When we will get exactly what we deserve.

I won’t say “I told you so”, I will be too busy running for my life – in the not too distant world ahead.

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“Trials of Xtorlinis” : Chapter 8 : “Of Gondo-Lords and Resupplicant Witch-Whores …”

Henlis felt queer, as if something was “just not quite right”.

“Yo, Jorgen, are you sure we should proceed?”, Jorgen, being of a ravaged people who had been thrown into the depths of chaos, knew all too well how difficult the “path” could be. Henlis, Jorgen’s men, Loomis and the bugbears were currently marching by night through the Cortuzal Pass – a narrow gap within the Voornok Mountains. These mountains were the hiding places of various outcast tribes and monstrous, bastard, cabals – like the Council on Foreign Relations, and the Federal Reserve.

The Hopatop peoples had lived in peace, growing fruits and vegetables and raising cattle to be slaughtered and turned into meat pies – Jorgen knew the stories, “they even brewed a decent IPA” from what his great-grand parents said. But his people, the Hopatops, were attacked one day by an army of rabid-orks, drunken-warlocks, miscreant anal-muck-squirrels and worst of all — THE FUCKING GONDO-LORDS AND RESUPPLICANT TROLL HERDERS – ALSO KNOWN AS THE FEDERAL OPEN MARKET COMMITTEE!

Jorgen knew dwelling on the past was stupid. It was dumb to have too many regrets. He did, at times, imagine what it must have been like to sit back, with a cold brew, and make plans for the future and shit. Because he was now a vagabond leader, a nomad prince, he had little time to sit and drink a cold one – well, he had time for grog and mead and whiskey, but usually it was stolen and more oft than not poisoned.

What he romantically imagined was the idea of peace – being at peace with the world and not constantly “chasing” or “being chased”. “That was the life of an animal” is what Jorgen believed, the life of a wolf, not a man.

The worst tribes, even worse than the Council on Foreign Relations, and worse than the Bilderbergers, and even more frightening than the Federal Reserve regional banks – the worst were the GONDO-LORDS, FUCKING TROLL HERDERS and FOMC! They had ravaged his people. They had attacked and made love to their sheep. They had stolen all the the cattle and drank all the beer. There were many barbarians in the world of Onterland, but these were the most barbaric – real ass-holes. And now, as their little army made their way through the Voornok peaks, Jorgen felt that tingle that only true warriors can feel and often do when they are about to get their asses kicked.


A loud scream came from both sides of the pass. It was dark, and only the feint glimmer of a gibbous moon shone through the foggy mountain tops.

“Sir … I see the flames of warrior trolls up ahead”, one of Jorgen’s men whispered to him.

“Disperse, disperse, bring up the archers, prepare for fire arrows”, Jorgen ordered.

Jorgen also sent orders to 5 of his best men to lay the “wall of fire” – this involved pouring vast amounts of flammable liquid, across the road up ahead, so as to create a powerful (if temporary) block. The liquid would burn for 20 minutes, and was viscous and sticky – so any attempt to simply pass through it usually resulted in a horrible death. Trolls were known to be extremely flammable on their own, primarily because of their “meat only” diet and general propensity for alcoholism.

For several minutes, Jorgen’s small army deployed – archers and fire-wall to the front, bugbear cavalry to the rear, and the heart of his men in a elliptical formation surrounding himself and Loomis. This was a standard defensive formation given the technology of the era. Each of his warriors carried shield, battle-axe, and short sword. His cavalry carried war-hammers and other contraptions of various shapes and sizes and pointy’ness. His archers were keen shots, but a night battle, which is what this might become, was not something they bargained on.

“Jorgen, I wish I could provide more help, but the truth is my magic kind of sucks”, Henlis said with a self-deprecating tone. “Young man, cheer up, these douche-bags are no different than the Federal Reserve hordes – and you know how much they suck!”, Henlis and Jorgen both chuckled and hunched down.

After about an hour, shapes began to walk forward, towards them. The archers had strict orders NOT to set the fire-wall alight until they were certain the trolls were near to it.

They couldn’t exactly make out the shapes – but the smell was unmistakable.

It was the smell of faeces and rotten eggs and spoilt milk and dead carcasses of bugbears that had been baking in the sun for 5 days – all of it mixed together and allowed to bake another 2 days in the sun.

The smell was not that of orks, or GONDO-LORDS, or even fucking trolls …

It was the worst smell, the most disgusting, and any man of Onterland knew that smell and knew it signified something really, really, crappy.


These were thieves, and liars, murderers, rapists, butt-monkeys, anal-trapeze artists, and sphincter-ream poo-hounds!

They were known far and wide as “THE 15 BITCHES!” and in their wake was left nothing but flames, broken windows, burnt-out villages, dead babies, wailing widows and other stuff that sucked so much that this kind and decent narrator shan’t not repeat for fear of crap-foolery and bleedage from the buttage.

The “15” were legend – and known to take down entire nations with one meeting, one hearing in front of congress, one rate cut, one POMO pump-and-dump shit-storm of massive, quasi-liquid, junk-bond injections.

Amongst these demons, there was …

Cumming “The Whore-Poo-Piper” …

Williams “The POO-CUM EATER” …

Lockhart “The ANAL-BUTT-REAMER” …

Lacker “THE SLACKER” (yes, he was the laziest of the 15) …

Evans “The Circumspect” …

Tarullo “The Ghoul-O” …

Powell “The Pain-Fart-Maker” …

Plosser “The Jock-Strap-Collector” …

Mester “The Fester” …

Kocherlakota “The UN-spellable” …

Fisher “The Hell-Wisher” …

Fischer “The Other Fisher Who Smells Women’s Bicycle Seats” …

Brainard “The SHIT-RAT” …

Dudley “The Dork-Meister” …

But the worst of the “15” …

The most fugly …

Voted most likely to destroy a civilization by her High School class in 3345 B.C. …

The one that every screaming mother feared!


Janet led her small rabble, through the world of Onterland, often seeking advice from a mad-vomit-ork-demon-wizard named Krugman.

“Janet, you know the ‘broken windows hypothesis’, now go forth and bust some shit up! Onterland needs economic stimulus Ho-bag!”, and with the words of their oracle, the smelly, grimy, greasy, Krugman, these warriors of ill repute and poor butt-hygiene would ride forth – often bleeding from their anuses because “that’s how they rolled”.

Jorgen did not know if they could win. Even though the “15” were basically weak and fat and old and kind of stupid – they were consistent in their witchery and douche-baggery. They were “one trick ponies”, but their tricks happened to be catastrophically damaging – like rolling really high on those really stupid multi-sided dice that geeks used to play with, ya know?


The archers lit the the fire-wall, just as the 15 wandered over it – half of them fell, burning, writhing, in the greasy red-hot flames and were dead almost immediately. This was a stroke of luck! Yeah!

Janet, who road a stout ork-hound, was able to leap over the flames – and as she hissed, she held a butane lighter up to her scraggly mouth and a green flame shot out and incinerated 4 of Jorgen’s men.


Henlis had been watching over Loomis and Loomis was drunk, in a ditch, not too far from the battle. As Henlis turned to see Janet, her grimy, black, greasy hands scratched his face as she road past. Janet pulled back on the reigns of her ork-hound, named Blank-fein (which is Onterlandish for “shit-bird”), and reeled around to charge Henlis once again.

Janet did not know, and Henlis had kept to himself, that Henlis had been training, on this journey, the “ice-wind” spell. And as Janet got near, Henlis attempted a spell that didn’t involve giving someone genital crabs.

“RE-PO, RE-POO, RE-NEW, HAYEK-ZOO – LIMUS TO MYR-MIDON PO-MORDAN JEST!”, as Henlis spoke the last of those words, a rustle in the trees gave way to a massive gale, a wind so strong and so cold and so fast that Janet’s ork-hound froze in mid-stride and Janet was thrown, near frozen herself, 50 feet.

Jorgen’s men had nearly finished the “15”, and were tending to the injured when he saw Janet flying through the air.

“What is that turd with wings?”, he smiled, and walked towards the dirty little snowball.

“What will you do with me?”, queried Janet to Jorgen.

“Witch-whore, you see this hammer?”, and with those words Jorgen smashed Janet’s face in.

It was near dawn, the battle complete, and many of Jorgen’s men wounded or dead. “We must stay here through the day and regroup, perhaps we can continue on tomorrow night”, Jorgen stated to his top lieutenants and Henlis.

Loomis, who had been drinking almost non-stop since his “re-birth”, awoke just long enough to hear about the “staying another day”. He smiled, rolled over, pulled a small scrap of bear-skin over his shivering body and went back to sleep.

Henlis, proud of his first non-STD magic spell, pondered what new tricks he might learn.

Henlis had a secret, he had stolen one of Quartricia’s books of magic – and little did he know how dangerous those magics were and what problems he would soon create.

“Janet just didn’t get it Henlis”, Jorgen remarked, “you can’t get something for nothing.”

“Yeah, that’s funny”, Henlis smiled, knowing all too well his short-cut.

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