Lacking

Mr. Dawes had just died and I still needed to get Mrs. Singh her water when Owen presented me with the lollipop. 

“I hear somebody missed out on trick-or-treating,” said Owen’s punchable face. He held out a shitty little kids’ lollipop. “Just our way of saying thanks, Kelly. To you and all the other nurses.” 

“Yeah, I’m not really in the mood for a goddamned lollipop, Owen. We’ve been surrounded by nonstop death for over a year, no time off, no pay increase, understaffed, and anytime we complain, nothing gets done. And you’re offering us lollipops? Rethink that. Also: I suspect you wouldn’t have said that shit about trick-or-treating if I were a man.” 

I turned away before Owen could respond. Owen’s admin, so there shouldn’t be too much fallout. 

As I pulled into my driveway that night, I realized I never got Mrs. Singh her water.

***

I can only watch horror movies these days. I find them soothing. Movies meant to cheer people up make me feel stabbier.

I get home before Tom and turn on Murder Moose:

The cyclists awake to find their bicycles gone. Lindsay screams and points upwards: their bicycles are twisted around the highest branches of the pines. 

“Can a moose even do that?” Lindsay cries. “Are we sure it’s not a human–” 

Brandon rolls his eyes. “Of course it’s the moose! Who else would target cyclists, Lindsay? Everyone loves us. We’re not cars.” 

“We’re gonna die out here,” Trevor whispers.

Todd slaps Trevor. “Don’t say that.” 

“Oh yeah? How the fuck do we escape without our bicycles, Todd?” snarls Brandon.

“I’m nothing without my bicycle. Nothing,” whimpers Lindsay. 

“We’ll hike out.” Todd tries to sound confident.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” screams Lindsay.

“It’s not so different,” Todd protests. “We’ll still be using our feet, just for walking instead of pedaling–” 

They attack Todd all at once:

“That’s not the same!” 

“You’re talking crazy!” 

“I’d rather fucking die!” 

I got reamed out by my supervisor today. 

“That isn’t the way to raise safety concerns, Kelly. The hospital has protocols in place for this.”

“I tried raising my concerns through the protocols. It didn’t do shit.” 

“I understand you’re upset. But social media is never the answer.” 

Last week, they announced we’d be re-using our PPE by flipping it to the opposite side, like in the early days. Two years ago. 

So I posted about it, along with the chronic understaffing-slash-overworking. I was careful to make it about patient welfare. People don’t give a shit about us, not really. All we get are claps and lollipops. 

“Am I fired, then?” I rose from my chair. “No. Because there’s nowhere near enough staff as it is. You’re not going to suspend me, and you’re not going to change anything around here. So let me get back to my work.” I turned and left, not at all sure I wouldn’t be fired.

The cyclists are trying to hike. They’re still wearing their bicycle helmets, for some reason. 

Lindsay takes a few wobbly steps and falls to her knees with an anguished cry. 

“This will never work,” she moans. 

“You just need to get your stepping legs back,” coaxes Todd. 

Tom walks in and watches me watching TV. 

“Murder Moose again?” 

“Mmm.” I don’t look up at him. It hurts my neck to look all the way up at him. Tom is 6’2”; 6’3” when drunk. 

“Can we pick up the pace, Trevor? I can still see the spot where we slept last night–” 

“No shit I’m going slow, Todd! ALL walking is maddeningly slow, once you’ve had a taste of the bike life!” 

“C’mon you guys, we should just give up,” Lindsay says. 

“I’d be in Mexico by now, if I had my bicycle,” growls Brandon. “I fucking love using a bicycle as my primary means of transportation. It’s so fast and efficient, yet environmentally friendly—” 

“Honestly Brandon, how is this helping?” asks Todd.

All this is from the moose’s POV beneath the lake’s surface. The cyclists being wholly ignorant of moose biology, they are unaware that a moose can stay submerged underwater for minutes at a time.

The cyclists are turning on each other:

“No, I didn’t bring a compass, Todd! I also didn’t pack an abacus or a water-divining stick!” 

“Compasses remain useful and relevant in the present day, Brandon!” 

Brandon rolls his eyes.

“Fuck walking. I’m gonna swim across this massive lake,” says Trevor. “I was MVP of the water polo team four years running. I’ll be outta here in no time!” 

Tom sits beside me on the couch. “I told my family we’re coming for Thanksgiving.”

“Cool.”

“You sure about this? There will be kids there. Mostly teens, but Jack’s kids are still small–”

“It’s fine.”

“We don’t have to, you know. I’m ok with that. But, it’s a four hour drive. If you decide you don’t want to be there, I’m not jumping up to drive you home–”

“FINE. Can we not talk about this during my movie?”

Silence, then a disgusted sigh. “Sorry I interrupted your movie, that you’ve seen a hundred fucking times.” 

I hear him lumber off to the liquor cabinet. Tom’s 6’3” most nights now. I don’t say anything.

“Aw what the fuck, these things can swim?!” screams Trevor, glimpsing the antlers cutting through the water. 

“You got this, man!” Brandon shouts from the shore. 

“Glurrrgh–” Trevor splutters as the moose pulls him under. Within seconds, the clear blue waters are turning red. 

“Trevor! Trevor!” Lindsay shrieks. 

Trevor’s empty helmet bobs to the surface. 

“We’re fucked,” wails Brandon. “If Trevor couldn’t outswim the moose, no one can!” 

I should feel bad for Tom but I don’t. I only feel the lack now. That, I feel all the time. I’m endless exposed nerve, set screaming by every little thing. Everything is a reminder; everything is personal.

Todd, the last survivor, hears the ding of a bicycle bell up ahead:

Ding! Ding! 

“Fellow cyclists!” Todd cries. He runs towards the dinging. 

Ding-ding! Ding-ding!

The moose steps out from behind a tree, smiling: it is he who is dinging the bicycle bell. 

Ding-ding, rings the bell as the moose’s smile widens. 

Dingdingdingding–

The screen cuts to black. The film’s instantly-iconic score of EDM tracks layered with moose sounds swells up as the credits roll.

I also feel anger. I have an ever-growing list of enemies. 

Moms are my enemies. Pregnant women bitching about pregnancy are my enemies. Doctors are my enemies. Hospital admins are my enemies. Contract nurses who make shit-tons more than me, yet are too good to deal with bed pans are my enemies. Happy people are my enemies, and women who get knocked up no problem then don’t even want it are my enemies, and people who go ‘have you considered adoption?’ like it’s soooo fucking easy and there are free orphaned babies lying around everywhere are my enemies, and women who’ve been through this but have made peace with their lacking are my enemies … 

***

The living room was a sea of uncles. 

“Why are all these billionaires going to space?” asked Uncle #1. “If Ihad Bond villain money, I’d go to one of those private islands where you get to hunt people–” 

“That isn’t a real thing!” Uncle #2 screamed. 

“Oh, and the ‘moon’ is?” sneered Uncle #3. 

“The moon is absolutely real!” shouted Uncle #2. 

“Why is a priest here?” Kelly hissed in Tom’s ear, her eyes on the quiet man lurking by the curtains. 

“That’s my Uncle Peter.” 

“You have a priest-uncle?” 

“Yeah. So?” 

“Nothing. They’re only the two creepiest categories of adult male, is all.” Kelly continued to eye him warily. This was the closest she’d ever been to a priest. 

Uncle #3’s wife rushed to her husband’s defense: “Stop twisting his words! I know we’re all idiots to you, but we do believe in the ‘moon.’ It’s the landing on the ‘moon’ that–” 

“Why are you using air quotes around moon?!” shrieked Uncle #2.

Uncle #2’s adult daughter wandered in, waving burnt sage. “Ooh, are we talking about the Taupe Mega-Moon? If anyone’s experiencing technological difficulties, you know what’s up! But it’s also the most auspicious Mega-Moon, according to the indigineous–” 

“THIS is your science-fearing progeny?” Uncle #1 roared at Uncle #2. 

“YOU’RE the ones afraid of science!”  

“Why?” demanded Wife of Uncle #3. “Because we dare to question it, because we refuse to be its bitches–” 

“The moment you stop believing in something, it ceases to hold power over you,” intoned Yogic Cousin. 

“That nonsensical yoga-babble isn’t true of science, you insufferable twat,” groaned her father. 

His daughter waved the sage more vigorously in his direction. 

Kelly left the room. Tom watched her go.

***

“Yuh-huh?” Kelly popped her head into the kitchen after hearing her name.

“Oh. Not you, Aunt Kelly,” said a collegiate niece. “I was talking about the latest Kelly O’Kelly film, The Maple Game. I’ve got tickets to an advance screening tomorrow night, WITH O’Kelly herself doing Q&A after.” 

“Wait–Murder Moose Kelly O’Kelly?”

“Are you a fan?” asked Collegiate Niece. “I’m a huge fan. Which is crazy, because I’m not a maplegore type–Canadian sausagefest much?–but O’Kelly’s movies actually say something. You know?” 

She seemed to expect her Aunt Kelly to say something. Kelly rummaged through her brain.

“Oh?” 

“Like Murder Moose. It’s not about a literal moose; it’s a metaphor to examine Canada’s treatment of its indigineous peoples. Like, expropriation of their lands.” 

“Ah. Wow. I … never thought of it that way.”

“The cyclists represent everything terrible about white people.”

“Well, yeah. That I got.”

“What do you like about it?”

“I like how it’s funny and they all die.”

Tom staggered into the kitchen. “Hel-lo,” he sang. 

He went to lean against the garbage can and nearly fell over. “This garbage can is unreliable,” he muttered.

“What’s up?” Kelly snapped.

“Me and my cousin Jack are gonna go to a strip club,” Tom slurred. No need to lie. Kelly was fine with strip clubs, and judged wives who weren’t.

“Fine. Wait–who’s driving?” Jack’s license was suspended more often than not.

“S’me. I am.”

“The hell you are. How tall are you?” 

Tom’s eyes blazed. “Six-three.” 

“Nope. Get an Uber to drive your drunk 6’2” ass.” 

***

“It’s fucked up, right? I want kids too. But it’s not the end of the world if it doesn’t happen. Kelly would be enough for me. But she won’t be happy with just me. I’m allowed to be hurt, right? When she’s basically saying every day, you are not enough?”

“I get it, man. Dina’s the same, always on my case about something. Nothing I do’s ever good enough. Fuck ‘em, right?” Jack laughed.

Tom frowned. He was pretty sure Jack didn’t get it. He tried again:

“And it’s never her fault, when she treats me like shit. It’s the hormone injections. Then she’s mad at me about that. How unfair it is, that she’s the only one sticking herself with needles, wrecking her body … but she’s the one who wanted the treatments! I said years ago, once we couldn’t do it the normal way, that we should focus on adopting. She said she’d be fine with that. But there’s always some reason why she wants to give whatever doctor or procedure another try. And now we’ve sunk tens of thousands into this with nothing to show for it, and guess what, we don’t have the money for an adoption! And that too, is my fault–”

“Don’t think about that shit now, man. You’ve got the night off! You’re gonna love this place. It’s not like a regular strip club. It’s in the den of this house out in the suburbs. There’s a bunch of sofas, and TV trays with bowls of chicken wings, any hour day or night–”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Trust me, you’re gonna love it.”

Tom went. He did not love it. He sat by himself on a ratty sofa, painfully sober and worried about Kelly. Jack had disappeared with one of the strippers almost immediately; Tom looked around for him, in vain. It occurred to Tom that Jack may have brought him to a brothel.

“Another one?” asked the buck naked waitress-stripper, gesturing to the dregs of Tom’s shitty well drink.

“Uh, yeah. But could I get it with Smirnoff–”

“Nuh-uh. We don’t do anything like that.”

“You got any beer–”

“Nope.”

“Another vodka-soda, then. Thanks.”

“That’s it?” She cocked her head. “You don’t want anything else?”

“Uhhh … could you take the wings away? They were here when I sat down.” Tom handed her the sticky bowl of congealed wings. “Thanks.”

Kelly seemed to be doing ok this trip, so far. But she was like that sometimes. She’d seem to be having a good time, like the old Kelly. Then something would set her off. She’d drag him aside, begging to go. Tom almost preferred the last couple years, with Kelly refusing to go anywhere there might be children. Or parents, or pregnant women. Even if it meant not seeing anyone at all. No friends, no family. But now Kelly wanted to try reconnecting–

Tom got up to leave. He didn’t want to be here, whatever this was. He went searching for Jack. 

Tom found him down another subterranean level, on his knees, eating out a stripper’s ass. Jack’s back was to him, but he had both arms extended out to his sides, hands in a thumbs-up gesture. 

Tom left.

***

Tom woke up Thanksgiving morning to a new text from Jack: 

Hey man. Me and a couple of the strippers are headed up to Philly for the weekend. Cover for me. 

Tom stared at the message. “What the fuck?!” 

“Wuzzit,” mumbled Kelly.

“My idiot cousin. He took me to some weird suburban bordello last night, and apparently he never came home–”

“Mmmphf crazy,” Kelly muttered as she rolled over. Tom wished she’d been more alarmed by the bordello bit.

“How was your night?”

“Fine. I’m going to the movies with your niece tonight. Advance screening of The Maple Game. She invited me.”

“Oh?” Tom tried not to worry. “You’re sure you want to go?”

“It’s a movie, for fuck’s sake. How broken do you think I am?”

***

Looking around the dinner table, Tom wondered why more people didn’t choose adoption. Everyone has seen their gene pool in action at some holiday gathering. It’s not an inspiring sight.

“No phones on the table!” someone commanded sundry nieces and nephews. 

Looking around the dinner table, Kelly wondered which uncle was the priest-uncle. He wasn’t wearing his collar today. It could be any of them, she thought to herself. 

“Where’s daddy?” asked Jack’s four-year-old, barely visible beneath her homemade pilgrim hat. 

“Daddy’d rather be out gorging himself on treifpussy, than sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with his kin,” slurred Jack’s wife Dina. “I’m sorry sweetie, but it’s time you knew.” 

“I’m secretly 6’3”,” Tom confided.

Dina knocked over a bottle of Chardonnay. 

“My phone!” screamed a nephew.

“This is classic Taupe Mega-Moon,” observed Yogic Cousin. “We can expect lots of tech mishaps over the next 72 hours, along with enhanced fertility. Ancient Aztecs recorded the phenomenon–” 

“The Aztecs had a word for taupe?” barked an uncle. 

“Excuse me,” murmured Kelly. Tom watched her go.

***

I settle into my seat beside Tom’s niece as The Maple Game begins:

An old grizzled detective surveys the crime scene with his new partner, a rookie who arrived straight from Mountie Academy moments earlier. 

“There’s blood everywhere. It’s still sticky,” observes Rookie Mountie, looking at the floor with distaste. 

“Non. C’est ne pas blood,” says Old Grizzled Detective. “C’est syrup.” 

He kneels down, touches the floor, and brings a finger to his lips. “Grade B,” he whispers. 

It’s hard to focus on the movie. All the usual thoughts are racing around my head. 

The detectives review the kills to date: “We found the first three bodies seated in a row,” Old Grizzled Detective says as he slaps photos down on the table. “The first with a tap in the carotid artery, the second with a tap in the femoral artery, and the third with a tap in the aorta. Maple buckets placed beneath all three taps.” 

Rookie Mountie pales. 

“I knew you weren’t ready,” snarls OGD. “You think THAT’s bad?” 

He thrusts more photos before RM. “He exsanguinated his next victim, then replaced the blood with syrup.”

I can’t fully focus on anything anymore, outside of work. I’m always at a distance. 

The detectives go to Quebec’s maximum security prison to interrogate Jacques Bonaparte, the notorious syrup smuggler. Bonaparte is serving 30 years to life for crimes against FPAQ.

“Well, well. It’s been une minute,” Jacques Bonaparte says to Old Grizzled Detective. 

Rookie Mountie turns to his partner: “You know this fils du chien-féminin?” 

“I’m the one who locked him away.” OGD leers at Bonaparte. “You were good, for a while. The best. What was it–300 successful border runs? But in the end you got sloppy-cocky, like the rest.” 

OGD turns to RM. “These sugarbush farmers can sell their product in America for ten times what they’d get here. Makes a man reckless. We caught this assclown when he tried passing off his Canadian swill as Vermont product. You thought the Vermont palate wouldn’t notice the difference, merde-for-brains?”

The detectives shove a picture before Bonaparte. He whistles and looks away. 

“You know him?” 

“Bien sûr. But it would be better for you, if you did not. He is the most dangerous man in all of French-speaking Canada.” Bonaparte leans across the table: “This man runs the beaver trade for the entire province.” 

RM frowns. “I thought the beaver trade dried up in the 19th century?” 

Bonaparte snorts and spits on the ground. “Where’d you find the Rook?”  

OGD squeezes his eyes shut as though in pain. “‘Beaver trade’ is Québécois slang for sex trafficking, imbécile,” he hisses. “What the merde did they teach you at Mountie Academy?” 

I’m exhausted all the time. By the loop of thoughts I can’t stop. By scary waves of hate and anger. And obviously, by work itself, which has been beyond anything these last two years. Sometimes I worry I’m going to collapse right there in the hospital corridors; I don’t know how I can do it another day. But when I get home and lie down I’m overwhelmed by all the thoughts I can’t be alone with. It’s no good until I’m back on my feet again, flinging myself into work. 

There’s a long flashback to the joint American-Canadian sting operation that brought Jacques Bonaparte down. OGD’s American counterpart was some Vermont lady-babe. They kept it professional, despite their obvious mutual attraction, until they had Bonaparte in handcuffs. But then: 

Young-OGD takes her in his arms. “Now THIS is what I call a sappy romance!” She groans, but fucks him anyway. 

A series of moments between the lovers ensues. In one, she shows young-OGD the Vermont sugaring way: 

“That’s more than enough for today’s breakfast. Take too much sap, and you sap the tree’s strength.” 

OGD’s younger self looks around. “Where is your sugar shack with the industrial-size vats?” 

She laughs. “We don’t need vats for this non-commercial amount! We’ll boil it right on the hearth.” 

They set it on the hearth and by the time they’ve finished making love on the bearskin rug, the sap has boiled down to precisely the right amount of syrup for their oatmeal. It is the most delicious oatmeal he’s ever tasted. 

Young-OGD shakes his head. “Throughout my Canadian boyhood, I was told that American maple farmers were capitalist pigs, who only cared about extracting maximum individualized profits. We were raised to believe that our collectivized way of working the sugarbushes was more humane … I’ve been a fool.” 

Time passes. The lovers are quarreling: 

“Please do not return to your ancestral sugarbush,” she sobs. 

“Barb. These weeks with you have been the most joyeux of my life. If this was about turning in my badge, there would be no question. But c’est ne pas that simple. I’m also a 13th-generation Québécois maple farmer. And my people have a saying: blood is thicker than syrup.” 

“What the shit are you talking about, that’s not even true,” Barb wails. 

I find the flashback interlude boring. It’s an excuse for gratuitous nudity. Barb’s got a bangin’ bod.

The present-day detectives rush to the latest scene: the vic’s been boiled alive in a syrup vat. 

“Mon dieu. What a terrible way to go,” gasps Rookie Mountie. 

The coroner shares her observations: “Your perp’s an insider. Someone familiar with the highs and lows of the sugaring season. Who’s experienced firsthand the olfactory overwhelm of a sugar shack in springtime, when the vats are boiling 24/7. Who KNEW that the heady perfume of 5000 metric litres of boiling sap will mask any smell–even the stench of human decomposition.”

Old Grizzled Detective storms out of the sugar shack, visibly shaken. “This country’s nothing but snow and lies,” he roars. “We all pretend that Canada’s this polite and boring paradise. But there’s another side, the one we don’t talk about. The Canada we never let the world see.”

It’s funny, my head is swimming but when I’m 1:1 with a patient, it all goes away and I’m just there with that patient. Work is my only rest, actually. This is not sustainable.

A flash of false hope: a victim is found alive. The detectives rush to the scene. The officer laughs in their faces: “Oh sure. You’s can talk to him all ya want, for all the good it’ll do ya.” 

He leads them to the vic, restrained beneath the tap of a maple tree, babbling idiotically. 

“They gave him the ‘ole, ahhh, whatever’s the non-offensive word for Chinese Water Torture. ‘Cept with maple sap instead of water. Yup. He’s insane.”

More bad news: their sole informant goes missing. He’s later found dead, subjected to the foie gras-making method of gavage with maple syrup. ‘He got a taste of his own médecine,’ reads the note attached to his corpse.

The detectives return to the station. A mob of protestors awaits. “Why haven’t you found the killers?” shouts a woman bearing a PAS DE SANG POUR SIROP sign.

There is no way to be in this world and avoid reminders of children. From friends. Family. Strangers with kids. Strangers asking if I have kids. Commercials, movies, books. Words like “family” and “school” sting. Nowhere is safe. Not out of the house, not in it. I don’t know what to do.

Old Grizzled Detective confronts Jacques Bonaparte: “You sent us on that wild beaver chase to throw us off! You’re the one running things, even now!” 

Bonaparte sneers. “You think a drop of sap flows in this merde-y province without a oui from me?! Maintenant who is the merde-for-brains, eh?” 

As guards drag him back to his cell Bonaparte shouts, “You believe this will stay within the semi-autonomous borders of Francophone Quebec?! The streets of Ontario will run reddish-brown with blood and syrup before I’m through! Global markets will crash!”

OGD is running and shouting into his phone: “We need every Mountie hauling cul to Laurierville NOW. Special protocols governing Mountie powers within Quebec be damned! The Reserve is under attack! I repeat: The Reserve is under attack! C’est ne pas une simulation!”

***

“Here she is, The Maple Game’s writer, director, AND producer, maplegore’s reigning queen, Kelly O’Kelly!” 

The audience is on its feet, clapping, stamping, cheering, and whistling. O’Kelly, seated onstage opposite the interviewer, doesn’t look up from the flask she is struggling to unscrew. 

The interview is awkward from the get-go. 

“If I’d known how attractive you are, I wouldn’t have agreed to appear onstage with you!” The lady-interviewer fixes O’Kelly with a passive-aggressive smile. 

“Right? It should be illegal for me to wear clothes,” O’Kelly replies. “You should see my snatch. Guys seeing it for the first time, they’re like, ‘Whoa! Have I discovered a heretofore unknown Georgia O’Keefe masterpiece?’ And I’m like, ‘surprise, it’s my pussy!’” 

Appalling silence. 

O’Kelly clears her throat. “Please! I’d kill for your boobs.”

The interviewer fake-laughs. “I have to ask: is Kelly O’Kelly your real name, or–”

“Why the actual fuck would I give myself such a stupid fucking name? Obviously it was my cunt mom; so happy she’s dead.” O’Kelly succeeds at last in unscrewing her flask. “Next question.” 

The interviewer’s done with the fake-laughing. “We have a surprise for you tonight: I’ve received an advance copy of your Times profile out this Sunday–”

O’Kelly looks up. “I haven’t seen–”

“–and I’m going to read some excerpts, and get your thoughts, mmmkay?” The interviewer dons reading glasses and proceeds before O’Kelly can respond: 

“‘She’s a fucking bitch,’ said a former member of O’Kelly’s all-female MGMT cover band, Vulvacular Spectacular. ‘Don’t believe the feminist hype. She hates women. She blew my boyfriend. Right in front of me.’” 

The interviewer continues: 

“‘O’Kelly is, without a doubt, the worst human being I’ve ever encountered,’ confirmed Rita Brooks, her onetime roommate and current Chief Justice of the ICC. ‘She fucked my husband. On Christmas.’” 

“First off, Rita’s Jewish, so I don’t see what Christmas has got to do with anything–”

“But do you deny the substance of what these women are saying?” 

O’Kelly shrugs. “Do I personally remember sucking and fucking these dudes? No. But I might have done. Sounds like me. And I believe in believing women.” 

“You believe in believing women,” repeats the interviewer. “That’s your take on these allegations?” 

“Uhh, what now?” 

The interviewer reads on:

“‘She’s truly sick. She slept with my ex-husband. Who also happens to be her brother.’” 

Gasps from the audience. 

The interviewer removes her reading glasses. “That’s from your former sister-in-law. Would you like to respond?” 

Even from my seat, I can see O’Kelly’s gripping her flask so hard her knuckles are white. “I won’t dignify that with a response. Beyond mentioning, my former sister-in-law is in a vicious custody dispute with my brother, and will stoop to any low to hurt him. Next question.”

The interviewer opens her mouth, but O’Kelly resumes talking:

“You know what? Yeah, I’ve fucked a lot of women’s husbands and boyfriends. And I’m gonna keep on fucking other women’s husbands and boyfriends. Why? Cuz I like it. Sex is dope. I’m glad this is happening now, actually. It’s been exhausting, pretending to be a nice human. Not to mention boring A.F.” 

O’Kelly takes a swig from her flask. 

“Seriously: I’m the one to blame in these situations? I’m not the one cheating and lying; I’m not the one shitting all over promises and vows I’ve made! Women supporting women, my flawless ass.” 

She goes for another swig, but the flask is empty. O’Kelly tosses it over her shoulder. 

“Most of the time, with these men, I can’t stand their bitch wives. That’s not ever my main motivation for fucking a dude, but it is an added bonus. They’re usually spoiled princess types who expect perfect marriages, perfect lives. If I get to chip away at that happiness, good.” 

The audience rumblings are growing.

“I like fucking hot dudes. I don’t care if they’re single or not. But, honestly? It adds a little something, when he’s in a committed relationship. I must be damn hot, if I can turn him. And before you think to yourselves, ‘what a sad, sad woman with low self-esteem!’ lemme just say, soooooo many dudes do the same thing, for the same reasons, with other men’s wives and girlfriends, and no one pathologizes the shit out of them.”

O’Kelly is addressing the audience directly now.

“I don’t care if you watch my movies or not. I don’t care if you hate me. I love my ugly thoughts. I know there are people out there who get this. The ones who get it, I hope what I’m saying makes you feel less alone. The rest of you can fuck off into the night.”

O’Kelly rises and exits the stage.

***

Collegiate Niece is apologizing.

“I had no idea the kind of person … she must be going through a mental health crisis, or … I’m so sorry–”

“Don’t be,” Kelly cuts in. “I loved it. This is the best time I’ve had in ages. She’s awesome. Consider me an even bigger fan.”

Tom can see them through the glass as he waits outside in the cold. He’s annoyed until he sees Kelly’s face. She’s smiling and laughing, really laughing.

 What Is Happening To Me

Can I call you back up in a few minutes, Margie? Someone is knocking at the front door.

I hung up the phone with my wife, and I opened up the front door. 

Standing outside was this beautiful looking woman who had tears in her eyes.

What’s the matter, I asked?

Why are you crying?

Please come in and take a seat in the living room with me. 

We sat down on the couch and she thanked me for being such a nice man.

So, why are you crying?

Please do not think that I am losing my mind for what I am about to tell you. If I do not have an orgasm within the next few minutes, I am going to turn into a giant poisonous snake.

Oh my goodness, are you feeling alright?

You see, I knew that was going to be your reaction, sir.

Why can’t you just have an orgasm by yourself?

Those were the rules that were given to me. My orgasm has to be given to me by another person. It is a long and complicated story, sir.

You have got to believe me.

After I have my orgasm, I will tell you all about my current predicament and where I came from.

Is this some sort of practical joke that my wife set up for you to do to me?

Of course not, the lady replied to me.

By now, she was crying out of control.

Please, I beg of you, please help me.

That’s it, I cannot waste any more time. It’s only a matter of moments before I turn into a snake.

Suddenly, she began taking off all of her clothes and then started to take off my clothes as well.

What are you doing? I am married!

Please, I beg of you, your wife will understand if she knew what was in store for me.

Then, she stuck her naked rear end in my face and told me to put my fingers in her vagina and in her asshole.

That’s it, do it just like that, but with more passion. Oh my god, that feels so incredibly good. I feel like I am within seconds of having my orgasm. I feel it coming any second now.

Suddenly she vanished and I just stood there in total disbelief. In her place was this gigantic snake staring straight into my eyes, its tongue was darting in and out of its mouth.

Oh my goodness, she was telling me the truth.

The snake was inching closer and closer to me.

Help, somebody help me!

It was then that I heard a loud, blaring noise.

Just as the snake was just about to strike, I realized where the sound was coming from. I reached over in my bed to turn off my alarm clock.

Honey, are you alright, my wife asked.

Yes, I just had a very strange and terrifying dream, my love. I’m better now, though.

Thank goodness that it was just a bad dream.

Come closer and give me a kiss, Margie.

As my wife opened up her mouth to kiss me, I began screaming, as I noticed her tongue had transformed into that of a snake. It darted in and out of her mouth as she asked me what was wrong.

I thought that you wanted a kiss from me?

How come you are not kissing me back?

Is my morning breath that repulsive?

Everybody Needs A Daddy 

Daddy holds your ID in his pocket because you don’t have those — clothes at all.  College girl, southern drawl, bites the Big Apple, 23, where everybody doubts you are old enough to be at this sex party, stripped, spanked and whipped.  Small town Southern breeding exacerbates a physicality of young-eyed innocence which disturbs the local swingers enough.  A “little girl” who likes it rough, doesn’t want to cum from pain is the kind of girl rich sadists put on planes.   

Need to cry, scream, suffocate, sometimes bleed  — at movie theaters, you’re still IDed.  This new daddy likes the side-eyes he scores holding hands with you in candy stores, your hair in braids, his pinstripes Michael Kors with a houndstooth seven-fold tie, the vanilla disapproving scoffs that make you shy.  He could take out your ID any moment — always keeps it close by.

But he saves that for parties.  Takes it out of his pants for both the concerned and his dom sycophants curious about this new womanchildish addition to his ddlg retinue.  If he pulled out his own, they would know he was only 32, just nine years your senior though his hair’s going prematurely gray.  It adds to the gravitas of his character in this polyamorous age play roleplay.  

You learn this lawyer was once a stage actor when he takes you to Broadway, a play about people putting on a play with Robin Rees, Frances Conroy.  Detail of a life amidst interrogations, you discern, is less about care than decoy.  The more you learn the less mysterious he is to his most impressionable toy.  

But it’s acknowledgement, at last, he wears a mask — not just in sadomasochistic displays at naked parties where you are always cast, one of his favorite props.  He wears three piece suits, this persona in ice cream shops.  Drops more interesting facts over pink peppermint about his former affluent wife who outgrew their kinky experiment. You know real love will require he drop this false face.  Each peek behind it he gives you teases a taste of trust you must earn one detail at a time.  His parents are missionaries, you learn after anal sex at bedtime.

But it’s after a sushi dinner your whole worldview is changed.  You are the only female amidst a table of aged male doms where sordid stories are exchanged about power and control and acquisitions like you.  You blush frequently, answer only when spoken to — until the waiter, refreshing your water, questions is that cute skirt a Burberry plaid?  Not even really a flirt, but you giggle until you see the glowering expression of the hirsute man, mad, on your right, ruddy brute in gray suit, you have only just met tonight.

“Mind your collar, child.”  He speaks while dark irises spark.  No one hears the correction but you in the diaphanous dark only punctuated with tapered light.  You look to Daddy at your left, afraid he might have, but he’s recounting a tale of a torture by toad to the others there.  You stare at your plate, fiddle with hair. 

When dinner is over, before you go home, you spy the two of them speaking alone.  The elder’s hand on Daddy’s back, both looking toward you.  His has the coldest of stares, the iciest blue.  You ponder your decorum in silence all the way the home.  The man who dined on your right has powers unknown.  

Alone in the guest bedroom (Daddy doesn’t visit tonight), you cry for your sins, however slight, until you hear feet by your bed.  Raise your head.  Hope it is him, but it is his primary, the lover, live-in.  She has a sophisticated power, submits only to him.  Hasn’t been nice to you unless he’s around.  She is not a fan, it is clear, of little girls from small towns. 

Helpless to disguise this pain before one who’s happily restrained you for varieties of hurt, you listen to her explain the master’s mind as she toys with your skirt.

“Mark was his dominant for some time.  He is still very much — a mentor, a daddy to him.”

She wipes away tears as you quietly process the biggest revelation to date.

It’s not this new information that Daddy isn’t straight.  You’re bisexual yourself;  he’d not be the first bi guy you’d date.  It’s the submissive part that is hard to process. You’ve never met a man who could finesse such a tearful plea, dominate without a modicum of indignity.  In negotiated public scenes at times as brutal fights, he always found his way to what he likes.  Safewords in place are rarely used.  You’ve kissed, time and again, his whipping hand, self-abused, from overuse on needy skin, a plethora of curious women because everybody needs a daddy to hurt them right — even yours, you learn, in New York City tonight. 

Pink Flamingo & Silver Tinsel

Note to self, literally.

I can’t write “Dear Claudia,” because I don’t know if I’ll have earned my own affection by the time I reread this. I’m giving myself three years to decode my own love language, starting with this letter. Three years to assess and essentially rewrite my life seems to be the sweet spot for this self-esteem experiment. One year would make me too time-pressed to meet my goals and two would be too soon to forget where I came from.

Turning a potential suicide note into a spark of motivation, a pinprick of promise, will be the best Christmas present anyone could give this Cigar City stripper.

I’m told, by self-help books and balding TV personalities, that tough love is the first step towards transition.

So listen up, you stupid hoe. There are going to be some changes.

Instead of getting the cops called on you for blasting Mariah Carey’s Christmas album at ungodly hours, you’re going to lay low. Stick your goddamn nose in a book, why don’t you? Let the septum piercing anchor you in.

No, scrolling through Wattpad erotica your friend Bambi writes from her iPhone doesn’t count. We both know that bitch can’t spell, let alone produce thought-provoking material. (Secret Santa-style gangbangs, no thank you.)

How about reading some Nietzsche or Terence McKenna? At the least, clients will buy into your cliché college fund excuse for stripping. Babbling about psychedelic mushrooms in Kris Kringle lore as men throw dollars at your elf heels—now that’s festive.

But if studying philosophy proves to be as boring as perusing dimly lit comic shops late at night, check real estate listings. Girl, we are not letting the Capital of Crazies consume us until we’re putting around Bealls Outlet, complaining our senior discount only works on Fridays. A diet of chew tobacco and Publix subs is not doing you any favors, you hear me?

You are not the Florida trash you’ve befriended, fucked, loved, then begrudged. 

Scraping glitter out of your ass-crack is only glamorous if you’ve accepted that you’re never leaving the trailer park. 

It may take a cranberry red eviction notice, but you’re destined for things brighter than a tin roof strung with shoddy Christmas lights.

Savor your surroundings now because you won’t want more than a memory three years down the line. Next time you trudge home from a night of awkward lap dances and eggnog shots, trace the porch’s rotting rings. Remember the musk of torn window screens and piling fly corpses. Sit on that muddied lounger and relish the tinkle of homemade wind chimes, the sizzle of the electric bug zapper.

One day—instead of cowering behind the blinds—you’re gonna smirk when you look back on your crackhead neighbors scouring the dirt for dropped pills. You’re gonna forget the ball of brawling stray cats you watched for entertainment when you were too high to remember your Netflix password. 

Speaking of getting high, that’s one thing we need to stop if we’re ever going to move on from this sagging mobile. Swimming on molly until you have to call out from a Saturday night shift is worse than treading water.

Remember that night we spent sweating out a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon, worried our face was permanently frozen in a creepy Casey Anthony leer? What about the time we tried to pass off to our friends that puking on the pristine grasses of a golf course was a woke political statement?

Yeah, fuck that. The only white powder we need is what awaits us up north. Even if we don’t ever get to take a bite out of the Big Apple, we’ll see snow. (I’m sick of thinking trading in a tank top for a Tapout T signifies cold weather.) Hell, we’ll eat snow on sticks with syrup like the Canadians do. 

Keep stuffing your stockings with dollar bills and this hoe will laugh all the way into the next three New Years. 

Okay, so now that I’ve titillated you with dreams of life beyond chicken wire and powdered party favors, I know you’ll heed what’s written.

This is called the miracle season for a reason. 

So, twenty-three-year-old me, what’s life like away from America’s balmy taint: Tampa, Florida? 

Are your nights still riddled with cute clothes and unappealing faces? Are you still working the stage as a bruised minx named Midnight, the Edgar Allen Hoe of strip clubs? Still playing Pokémon Go between half-hearted hand jobs?

Tell me, did you truly escape the skeeviness of living inside a Fiona Apple music video? Or have you moved onto more traditional hustles? Being a hair salon receptionist or small-town real estate agent might suit you. During high school you loved overhearing gossip and snooping around. Hey, maybe you’re something in-between but cooler, like a bartender or news reporter.

Now that you’ve surely stopped dyeing your hair a Grinch green, have you cuffed anything better for yourself lover-wise? (I’m not talking about bedroom cuffs, missy.) 

You learned the hard way that only Gulf Coast swaggots meet for coffee at 4 AM. Yet don’t feel bad if the best you’ve brought home is a stray cat to sleep under your martini-pink Christmas tree. The gift of self-love comes in parts—not parcels. 

Speaking of loved ones, are you answering invitations to festive family gatherings again? Or do you feel too guilty knowing “performance” once meant singing “Hallelujah” in front of steeples and stained glass, instead of gyrating between a wreathed pole and drunken deadbeats? Do you still have nightmares about Mom and Brad finding out you suckle from candy canes while posing in scarlet fishnets for a living?

As I’m sure you’ve learned by now, a profession can’t define you. Can the same be said about an address though? Even if your night-terrors have ceased, I bet there are whispers during the day: “You can take the trash out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the trash.”

Does driving by an untouched tire swing or an empty dog house trigger your nostalgia? Remember how you cried when your artificial tree crashed to the ground, all its little bombs exploding into neon shrapnel? You swore to do better every year, acquire more comfort than garland and glass keepsakes from childhood to remind you of the good times.

Well, the good times—or marginally better—times are here. At any rate, I bet you don’t miss scrounging up the courage to smash cockroaches into smears on the bathroom wall. What about binge eating under piss-yellow lighting or rolling on sob-inducing substances that make you question if you actually ran over a baby alligator that one time?

Clean. Legitimately employed. Properly housed. Did you listen to me? Did this shitty snapshot in time (capsule) work? Were the resolutions worth waiting three years?

As long as a cord of Christmas lights isn’t twinkling around your neck like a noose, I suppose I’ve done my job.

The bitch who knows you best,

-XO, Claudia

The Director

Quiet On The Set 
Roll Sound 
Camera Ready 
Action

We’d just scored eighty bucks in  crack from the black dudes in the Sugar Hill neighborhood. The car I’m driving burns oil and produces a trail of gray smoke still visible at night. Adding to the car’s unique characteristics is that the license plates were stolen from an abandoned car in South Tucson and on top of it, they’re expired.

Also there’s no registration for the car and I’m driving without proof of insurance. That’s not even the Bingo, my driver’s license has been suspended for over two years with outstanding warrants for my sorry ass. I don’t have any type of identification whatsoever. Yet, here I am at 1:00 in the morning scoring drugs with a prostitute and an ex-convict still on parole as my passengers. I’ve failed to mention one detail, the brake lights don’t work. Every day I say I’ll fix them, but somehow it just never gets done.

It’s only a couple miles of Tucson neighborhood back streets to navigate until we reach our room at the Paradise Motel on South Sixth Avenue.

“Hey Messiah, get me a beer will ya? Do you want one Santi?” Selma asks. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t want to get stopped for open alcohol in the car! Damn, you’re just inviting the cops to bust our asses.”

“Sorry, I figured it would calm you down some. You look all uptight.”

“And drinking a beer in the car would just add to my stress level.”

“Is it okay if I do a hit real quick like? I’ll hold it down out of sight. I promise.” 

“Then Messiah will want a hit. Five minutes later you’ll want another, flicking the god damn lighter off and on. Even a rookie cop knows what that signifies.”

“You know what you are?” she asks. “Do you know? Huh?”

“This ought to be good. No, tell me. Better pick your words wisely, it’s a long walk back to the motel.”

“You ain’t scaring me. You’re not the director of this movie, ass clown!”

“That’s a good street name for Santi, Director,” Messiah chimes in from the back seat. “Selma, it’s perfect! Director, it fits your personality.”

“Just fine, I can live with that name. Now I’m about to direct your ass to get the fuck out of the car and walk. You’re really pissing me off, Selma.”

“What’s wrong with you, Director?” Messiah asks. “Why can’t you lighten up, relax and have some fun?”

“Why? Did you just ask me why I can’t lighten up? I’ll tell you why! Because I have to babysit you two all the fucking time. Both of you don’t have any type of safety filter. You just go about your lives doing what you want to do, without any concern for the consequences of your actions. Just think about it for a few minutes. How many times have I saved both of your lame asses in the past two weeks? I can think of seven, maybe eight times. Do either of you try to change your inane witless actions? Hell no! You both act with a blatant disregard for simple social standards of conduct. What’s even more incredibly amazing is you’re clueless, you have no idea of the level of stupidity you demonstrate.”

“Are you done putting us down? You’re treating us like some kind of lowlife street trash.”

“Sorry you see it that way Messiah. This reckoning is long overdue. I’ve tried to make you aware of this personality defect for a while now. Neither of you would pay any attention to my pleas. You went on ignoring my advice. Maybe this is the only way to get through to you guys. And I apologize if your feelings were hurt. I’m not purposely being disrespectful, if I didn’t love the both of you I wouldn’t take the time to even mention this shit.”

“So what’s this then, your idea of tough love?” Selma asks. “Are you practicing some radical new kind of therapy you read about in one of those books you’re always reading? Let me tell you this, Director, you can’t control what everyone in the whole world does. Life isn’t a movie, so you can shove your bullshit advice up your ass. Stop the car, I wanna get out now!” she screams. “Don’t want you to have to be responsible for me no more. I’m taking two rocks with me, I put in twenty bucks.”

“Ya me too Director,” Messiah demands, “hand over two rocks.”

I stop, give them the crack and put the car in gear.

“Ain’t ya gonna try stopping us, tell us to get back in the car?” Selma asks.

“Hey Messiah, don’t forget your beer in back. Selma, I didn’t tell you to get out. You both said you wanted out. I’m just doing what you requested.”

“You’re a limp-dick son of a bitch!” Selma screams as I drive away.

“My mother was a very nice lady, I’ll have you know!” I holler back at her.

Forty-five minutes later, there’s a knock on the motel door.

Wonder who that could be?

Goregasm

“Don’t you dare stop now, motherfucker!” Jade gasped, gritting her teeth and peeling her lips back, exposing her gums. A giggle escaped her, her eyes glassing over. “You’re right on the mon— Oooh! keep going!” she continued, grabbing a fistful of his slick hair and twisting it, keeping his face pressed against her soddening pussy. 

Jade arched her back, thrusting her hips, driving his lapping, twisting tongue deeper. “Fuck!” her voice quivered.  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, you mucky bastard!” she managed, panting and wriggling, her jeans and panties down ‘round her ankles.  

“Uch-urggh…” he groaned, his wet, soggy noshing sounds bringing a smile to her face.

“Such a good boy, aren’t you? Mummy’s trained you well.” 

A fresh jolt of ecstasy pulsated through her dripping snatch, punching her in the guts, her g-spot numbing. “Just one more orgasm, and I’ll be satisfied. It’s been so— Oh, God,” she said, throwing her head back, her eyes rolling in their sockets. 

And why shouldn’t I enjoy? It’s taken him long enough to figure out what the fuck he’s doing down there! Men, she thought, her hand patting the ground, searching for his arm. My tits aren’t going to play with themselves, are they, dickhead? Guess I’ll have to show this slow fuck everything! she continued to muse, discovering the cuff to his jumper, pulling, the stump where his hand use to be landing on her pert breast, covering it in gore. 

“That’s it, rub the nipple,” she said, manoeuvring his limb, manipulating the stump that had soggy, pus-dripping veins hanging out of its glistening end. “Where’s your other— Shit, never mind! Don’t. Stop!” 

Jade’s fingers dug into the ground, her body quivered, a third orgasm washed over her.

“Yes!” she declared. “Yes, yes, yeees!”

Spent, she opened her thighs and pushed his head away, getting to her feet and pulling her knickers and jeans up. “That’s more like it,” she said, fastening her belt, eyeing the zombie before her. “That’s the first decent bit of coming I’ve done since this whole shitshow of an apocalypse kicked off, pal. Still want to eat blood, guts and brains, now you’ve had a taste of the good life?” Jade laughed. 

The zombie groaned, staggered to its feet and shuffled towards her. 

“You want cuddles now, eh? Well, I suppose you’ve earned them this time,” she said, accepting him, placing his head against her chest, his sunken cheek pressing against her. “It was worth keeping you alive, painstakingly training you, as I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Ugh,” he gargled.

“The struggle I had in yanking your teeth out with those rusty pliers and sawing your hands off was worth it.” Jade grabbed him by a tuft of hair and pulled his head back, looking him in his white, sunken eye, the other one missing. “I love you—in a platonic way—even though you stink worse than an arsehole filled with diarrhea,” she said, swatting flies away from around his head, brushing her fingers through his blood-gelled hair, scalp dropping away. 

Jade smiled, grabbed her top from off the floor, and pulled it on. “Phew, I’m all hot and bothered,” she said, fluffing her tee, wiping sweat from her brow. “Right, where did I put your collar?”

When she turned, she spotted his metal neck cuff—a six-meter chain acting as a lead hung from it—lying next to a tree. “Brilliant,” she said, retrieving it, placing it around his throat. “We better get going, find shelter before sundown, Paul. Once we do, you can show me more tricks you’ve learned with that tongue of yours,” she said, leading him off into the woods.   

Dear S.

It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas at Pitts Creek trailer park. In a mobile home further down the weed-ridden fence of the park, an assorted arrangement of grime-covered decorations hung lazily around on the oval frame of Trailer 37E. They had been there there since the previous Christmas. The wreath on the trailer door was an ugly decaying brown and the plastic snowmen and Santa Claus, were filthy from a year’s worth of rain damage.

Inside 37E, in front of a three-foot Christmas tree of fading health, Dylan, a nine-year-old chubby boy with curly red hair held a sheet of loose-leaf paper with a bright smile on his face.

“I finished my letter to Santa!” the boy said happily.

“Shut the fuck up.” The crushed empty beer can narrowly missed the boy’s head, crashing into the wall with a metal clang.  

Travis, a thirty-five-year-old gas station attendant, was the latest in a long line of suitors for Dylan’s mother Sabrina. Balding with long hair on the sides with a beard and potbelly, he sat in the stained EZ-Boy chair in the center of the trailer. A half spent cigarette sat smoking in one hand while another hand rested on his growing paunch. 

“What’d you say, Dylan?” his mother, Sabrina asked groggily as she emerged from the bathroom. 

Her eyes were dazed. She was a small, curvy woman with disheveled auburn colored hair. A blue sweatshirt with WEST VIRGINIA UNIVERSITY printed on the front hugged her torso tightly. 

“I wrote a letter to Santa. Now he’ll know what I want for Christmas.”

“Oh, um, that’s nice I guess?” 

“How the hell did you write something? You can’t read for shit,” Travis growled.

Sabrina sighed. She learned a while ago that it was pointless to ask any of her boyfriends to be nice to Dylan. Whether it was the ginger hair, the baby fat, or maybe they all just hated being around their girlfriend’s kid, none of them ever cottoned to her kid. 

Still, Travis had a point: her awkward lump of a son wasn’t doing well at school at all. His teachers at the public elementary school told her whenever she answered their calls that Dylan was in danger of repeating the third grade. The teachers kept repeating this word “dyslexia”, or something like that, Sabrina hadn’t been paying much attention. It meant that her son saw letters upside down or in the wrong order or something.

Just what the hell was she supposed to do, anyway? Weren’t there pills for this kind of thing? Shit, she knew how to get pills. Anything to get this kid past the fourth grade. 

It wasn’t hard for her to see why her boyfriends or other kids at school disliked her son. A smelly, husky ginger kid who still believed in Santa made him the perfect bullying target for all the kids his age at school who outgrew Santa years ago. 

She knew damn well that her son was a weirdo who slept with at least five stuffed animals in his bed. Even she was slowly beginning to resent him for being boyfriend repellent. More and more as the days went on, she swore to herself that she’d dump him on his father…as soon as she could figure out who he was. 

“What’s it say?” Travis asked with an evil smirk. 

Happy to read his letter, Dylan’s pudgy hands lifted the sheet to his face.

“Dear Santa, how are you? I am fine, school is still hard but I’ve been extra good with chores, being nice and everything else this year! If it’s not too much trouble could you please bring me a puppy for Christmas? I’d give anything for one. Merry Christmas! Love, Dylan Farina. The End!”

Travis farted loudly. Even groggy, Sabrina couldn’t keep from laughing. 

Dylan frowned, his head sank.

“Sorry honey, but you know we can’t afford to keep a dog.”

“Christ, what a dumb ass,” Travis snickered, cracking open another brew. 

An hour later, Sabrina had taken her son with her to the local Community Center to get her Unemployment Benefits. She usually managed to get a slight raise in her unemployment check whenever she brought her son around to the Center. Who wouldn’t feel bad about the strung-out looking woman dragging along her clueless-looking fat kid with her?

Alone in the trailer, Travis sat reclined in the EZ-Boy watching Family Feud. He went up to go take a piss and had made it halfway to the can before he spotted that little asshole’s letter on the floor. Curious, he bent down and picked it up. It was obvious the tubby birth-defect had a serious reading and writing problem, always writing out letters backwards. Simple words like “CAT” come out looking like Chinese. 

This time, however, from the jumbled up letters on the dumb kid’s letter to Santa came a bizarre surprise. 

“Holy shit! Well God damn me how do you like that?” Travis laughed as he read the letter. 

Well at least the brat had managed to spell the word “PUPPY” right but for fuck’s sake, that stupid shit had spelled “dear” like “dera”. Still, that’s not what made Travis laugh the hardest. Let’s just say the little water-head didn’t spell Santa as “S-A-N-T-A.” Oh no. From an outsider’s perspective, it looked like a creepy crudely-written child’s letter invoking the powers of another man in red. 

Travis could dig it. In his younger days, when he had more hair and less gut, he had gone through his own death metal/underworld phase to the eternal shame of his parents. The tattoo of the Avenged Sevenfold skull with bat-wings logo on his arm could attest to that. 

“This is way too perfect not to share.” He took out his smartphone and snapped a picture of the letter.

  An even better idea occurred to him. He pulled out and flicked open his Zippo. A lick of fire caught the corner of the letter as orange flames slowly crept up the paper. Travis laughed, dropping the paper to the floor. He  took a few more photos as the corners of the sheet curled up in flames. Even amongst the blackening, charring paper, he could still make out the gist of the letter and the amusing misspelling. 

“Now that is metal.” Travis stepped on the smoldering ashes, mushing it into the carpet. 

Maybe he’d post it on Reddit or show it to his buddies at the Hess Station. At least something finally cool came out of having a girlfriend with a kid, even if it was a freak accident. He was still chucking over the kid’s learning disability when he finally made it to the bathroom and unzipped his pants.

A week later, it was Christmas morning. This year it was a white Christmas as over a foot of fresh snow stacked up outside in the trailer park. The merry sounds of holiday songs and Christmas movies drifted from the various mobile homes throughout the park. Inside Dylan’s trailer, his mother and her boyfriend were three sheets to the wind, laughing and snorting lines of Xanax on the surface of their phones. Their depravity was drowned out by Alvin and the Chipmunks’ “Christmas Don’t Be Late” chirping from the small television. 

Even with glowing rainbow lights, the sullen Christmas tree in the corner of the trailer had no luck in raising the holly jolly spirit in this sinkhole of a home.  

In the center of it all, on the dirty, ashen floor sat Dylan. Plopped there in his red pajamas with white snowflakes and reindeer, made the the boy resemble a sad Christmas stocking full of meatloaf. It was hard to believe that he had been so excited to wake up that morning. This wasn’t the Christmas he had been expecting. All night he had dreamt of the moment he would see the yipping, happy puppy that Santa had left him. 

To his heart-shattering disappointment, all he found that morning was an empty plate and glass where he had left extra milk and cookies for Santa. He looked down sadly at the only presents he had received: a couple of Hershey bars and three pairs of socks with Star Wars characters on them. Dylan had never seen any of those movies, but at least the socks were comfy. 

The boy was confused, even more so than usual. This didn’t make any sense. Wasn’t Santa Claus supposed to bring you presents if you were nice? Didn’t he get his letter? Travis said he dropped it off. Dylan wasn’t mean and for the past year he made sure to help out with extra chores for his neighbors around the trailer park. Shouldn’t that have made him worthy of being on the Nice List? How could this be? Unless…

“Sorry honey, but you know we can’t afford to keep a dog.”

No. He wouldn’t even consider it. The problem must have been him. He had failed to prove his worthiness to Santa, so now he didn’t get the puppy, that’s all there was to it. All he could do now was spend the next year being extra, super-duper nice. Then, maybe next Christmas he would finally get the puppy he wanted and he would finally have a his best friend. Trying to find comfort in the presents he had received, the boy began peeling away the wrapper to one of the candy bars, pulling the chocolate to his pudgy freckled face. 

“Merry Christmas babe, Merry fucking Christmas,” Travis sniffed, rubbing his nose.

He unwrapped one of the candy bars by Dylan and took a big bite.

“Hey, that’s mine!” the boy whined.

“What’s the matter, Scrooge McDuck? Haven’t you ever heard that it’s better to give than to receive? Plus it ain’t like you’re starving over there, fat boy,” he smiled with chocolate smudged on his teeth. 

“Mom!” Dylan turned a pleading look towards his Mother.

Her head was in her arms which rested on top of a stack of magazines and broken candy canes piled on the small kitchen counter. Raising her head groggily, she looked at Dylan, then Travis and just shrugged.

“Dylan, honey, why don’t you fix Travis and me another drink?”

Resigned to a disappointing Christmas, the boy wobbled over to the liquor cabinet. He couldn’t read the labels on the colorful amber and green bottles so he just started mixing whatever he could find. Neither adults noticed the tears rolling down his chubby red cheeks as he did this. 

“Jesus wept, will you turn the heat down, Sabrina? I know it’s snowing outside but it’s starting to feel like a god damn furnace in here.” The gas station attendant held a cold beer to his head. 

“I know but I already turned off the heater,” Sabrina said anxiously as sweat began to form on her pale brow. 

Indeed, the temperature inside the trailer was beginning to rise. Dylan wobbled over to the trailer’s window and couldn’t believe his eyes. Only moments ago, there had been at least a foot of snow blanketing the trailer park. Now, that was all gone. While it was still snowing, the mounds of snow were rapidly melting revealing the damp grass underneath. The sun wasn’t anywhere to be found in the white blizzard sky.

“What the hell?” Travis stared dumbfounded, fanning himself with his hand.

“Y-you see that too, right?” Sabrina grasped on to him, her pupils dilated. 

“How is this possible? Even if someone’s having a huge bonfire, it shouldn’t cause this.”

“Look!” Sabrina pointed out towards the window. 

Outside in the melting snow, it looked like at least half a dozen of their neighbors were running away, fleeing from the park, hollering incoherently. Dylan turned his view towards the center of the park towards what everyone was running from and saw what looked like…was that a crater? While they had been “celebrating” Christmas, some kind of large crater had erupted in the center of the trailer park as though something had dug out from it. Now ungodly ripples of heat coming from it were overpowering the blizzard. 

“What’s happening? What are they running from?” Sabrina was growing increasingly hysterical; the pills hadn’t been helping. 

“Shut up. Just shut up for a second. I think a gas pipe must have burst or something, that’s gotta be it.” 

Just then, there came a loud, insistent scratching sound at the door. 

“Aw fuck me, what now?” Travis groaned.

“It’s Santa! He came back because he forgot my puppy!” Dylan perked up immediately.

“Oh for the love of, Santa Claus isn’t real you clod. It’s obviously the Park Supervisor telling us to evacuate. Cheap bastard ruining our Christmas. Well, I’m going to rip him a new asshole. Ho Ho Ho.” He turned towards the trailer door. 

He had only taken a few steps towards the trailer’s door when a vicious force blasted the door off its hinges. The flying  claw-marked door narrowly missed the bearded pot-bellied man as everyone screamed and ducked for cover. The heat that had steadily been rising shot up to sweltering, furnace-like degrees while the rotten smell of brimstone filled the trailer. When Travis uncovered his eyes he saw what had been scratching on the door. 

It was the last thing he would ever see. 

“Holy-“ but Travis couldn’t even finish.

There was nothing holy here. 

It wasn’t a dog, not exactly. To human comprehension, it certainly resembled a dog, the way a wolf might. The visitor was the size of a car; a black snarling beast-shaped cloud. What passed for its lips shriveled back in the front revealing a row of sharp white fangs. It was a dark phantasm that stood on four legs but didn’t touch the ground. Instead of paws, the legs of the creature seemed to fade away when they reached the ground, instead fluttering as wisps of some kind of horrifying charcoal mist. 

Two glowing red eyes on the nightmare’s face made eye contact with Travis. All he could do was listen helplessly as a haunting, ungodly howl filled his mind. In the span of a few seconds, Travis experienced every last drop of pain he had inflicted on others in the thirty-five years he had lived. He felt the pain and misery of every beating he gave his siblings growing up, every woman he had slapped and the torment he gave to others just because he could. So much cruelty and pain, Travis never would have cared but unfortunately for him, his heart grew three sizes that day. 

“No,” he begged.

Then his eyes burst into flame.

Travis started screaming. He turned to face Sabrina and Dylan as twin rockets of fire ignited from his eye sockets. Melted jelly of what used to be his eyes dribbled down his bearded face. It wasn’t long before the screams stopped sounding human anymore and turned into a high pitched wail. 

As he fell to the floor convulsing, the four-legged terror lunged at him. It made an awful roaring sound as it barked, like a thousand agitated pit-bulls eyeing a juicy steak.

In a ferocious chomping motion, razor-sharp teeth sank into Travis’ jugular. The hound’s snout pulled back and tore ribbons of gore from the blinded man. Travis’ limbs flailed about as his screams turned into watery gurgles. A geyser of crimson blood splattered the wall of the trailer, some drops even getting on the small Christmas tree. The wolfish shadow tore and bit while Sabrina screamed, covering her eyes while her son jumped and cheered.

“Awesome!” Dylan pumped his fist. 

By now Travis was long dead, having been reduced to a vaguely human-shaped pile of carnage on the carpet. The hound pulled its snout from the pile of intestines and howled. It was an incomprehensible sound normally found in hurricanes and moments of uncompromising forces of nature. This was the sound you heard as you were being dragged screaming off into hell. 

Mad with terror, Dylan’s mother got up and ran screaming from the trailer, almost tripping over Travis’ entrails as she did so. She flew past the carnivorous shadow dog, out through the hole it had created in her trailer. The beast’s silver eyes darted in the fleeing woman’s direction briefly before turning away as if due to lack of interest. 

In a blind and drug-addled panic, Sabrina ran in a beeline straight through the warm grass. Her downfall came when she craned her inebriated head around to see if the monster was chasing after her. It wasn’t, but she had been so concerned with getting as far away from the monster as possible that she didn’t realize she was heading directly towards the crater. That brief moment of distraction was all it took for her to step over the edge of the dark pit and fall screaming all the way down. 

Only after she had fallen several stories into the scorching abyss did she remember that she had a son. 

Trying to ignore the fading echo of his mother’s screams, Dylan walked over and turned up the volume on the blood sprayed television. Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” filled the slaughterhouse known as Trailer 37E. He stared in fascinated awe as the hound fed amongst the cheap Christmas decorations. Without realizing it, he gulped anxiously.

The hound raised its intangible head and turned its gaze to Dylan. This time the red eyes weren’t threatening, instead, they made the boy think of everything red that came with Christmas: candy canes, stockings and most of all, Santa’s big red suit. It craned its head to one side then the other before it started making what sounded like a curious whining noise. Dylan’s jaw dropped open as he saw what looked like a short tail wagging at the back of the wolf shaped shadow. 

“It’s okay I won’t hurt you. C’mere boy or… girl?” The chubby kid smiled patting his large thighs.

The large, four-legged shadow slowly crept forward, appearing to sniff cautiously at the boy with what could have been a cold wet nose until it stood in front of him. Its tail continued wagged as Dylan began petting the waves of flowing black shadows along its side. He knew he was petting shadow but to the boy, it felt like he was touching warm black fur.  The hound’s jaw extended as a large pink forked tongue lolled out and began licking his face. 

Dylan laughed happily as the dog licked him. He didn’t even notice when he wiped bits of slobber away from his face that they burned and sizzled like hydrochloric acid once they hit the ground. 

“I knew it! I knew Santa got my letter!”

Tail wagging, the hound phantasm barked as if it agreed.

“I never had a dog before, what should we do?” the boy pondered.

The hound made another whining sound as it pointed its snout towards the pile of gore in the corner.

“What’s the matter, girl? Ohhh, I know!”

The ecstatic boy trotted over in his red pajamas and picked up a bloody severed forearm on the floor. The limb was hairy and had a faded tattoo of a large black skull with bat wings sticking out on the sides. Smiling, the young boy waved the arm in the air.

“You wanna fetch? Huh, do you?”

Another deep, bellowing yip came from the hound as ear-shaped points on the shadow’s head perked up and it crept back to the boy. The hound’s fangs carefully pulled Dylan up from the back of his pajama shirt and placed him on its back. Despite its wriggling, mist-like appearance, the boy had no problem sitting on what felt like a solid, furry back. Heavy snowflakes fell around them as the boy and his dog-headed outside into the melted, trashed wonderland of the trailer park. 

Out past the park’s fence, where the snow hadn’t quite melted yet, there came the faint but growing sound of police sirens. 

“This is the best Christmas ever!” Dylan patted the hound as the long viper tail wagged back and forth behind him like hell’s metronome.

A dozen flashing police cruisers and a large black S.W.A.T. van were parked haphazardly on the street. Officers ran towards the trailer with their weapons drawn but froze when they saw what they were up against. It was already bad enough that they had been dragged away from their families on Christmas, now the unrelenting force of hell itself stood before them, and it looked hungry.

Dylan heard them yell something at him but he was too excited about his new puppy to notice. Turning in the direction of the officers and their lights, the hound growled. It sounding like a motorcycle revving its engine as its back arched and prepared to lunge, fangs bared in anticipation. 

There’s nothing quite as pure as the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. In that very moment, with his family dead and his home in ruins, Dylan couldn’t have been happier. He had gotten what he wanted for Christmas and it was even better than he could have hoped. Now it was time to have some fun. With all his strength, the boy threw the bloody arm as far as he could, straight into the air towards the red and blue lights. 

“Go, long girl, fetch! Fetch!”

***

Previously published by Dark Fire Fiction

Downhearted

“The coroner game’s a sausagefest. We all know it. Which I do not get AT. ALL. The work-life balance is fantastic! I leave at 5 p.m. every day. They’re dead, you know? As long as you remember to pop them in the fridge before you go, there’s nothing that can’t wait until the morning–can you hand me that scalpel?” 

“This one?” Kelly O’Kelly asks.

“Yup. Thanks.” 

I’ve got horror auteur Kelly O’Kelly shadowing me at work all week. You cannot imagine how exciting this is for a friendless neurodivergent like me.

“Is there anything particular you’re looking to see, or learn about–”

“Bicycle accidents,” O’Kelly says as she watches me make the Y-incision. “I completed my latest film, which I regard as my opus, months ago. But it’s languishing in Censor Purgatory–”

“I know,” I blurt out. I read all the news I could find on O’Kelly, so I’m aware of the controversy surrounding I Squirt On Your Corpse: Day Of The Bitches.

She grimaces. “Anyways. While I’m dealing with that bullshit, I’m moving ahead with my next project. It’s a remake of Cronenberg père’s adaptation of J.G. Ballard’s Crash. But with bicycles, instead of cars.”

“I’m not sure you’ll be seeing many bicycle accidents here,” I confess. “This is the America where ‘my bike’ still means ‘my motorcycle.’”

“Thank Christ!” O’Kelly says. “It’s fine. Just point out any gnarly shit that could result from horrific-yet-erotically-charged bicycle accidents.”

“Will do. Hand me the pruner shears, will you? Thanks.” I set to work on a rib. “You know, the cyclist scene in Faces of Death was always my favorite as a kid–”

“Same, bitch, same!”

“I think watching Faces of Death, and the cyclist scene in particular, made me realize I’ve got what it takes to be a coroner. The whole time they’re scraping clumps of hair and blood clots off the highway, my friends were all whimpering and looking away. But not me. I was like, ‘I feel nothing.’” 

“Same, bitch. Same! God, I loved Faces of Death growing up. I loved going to those independent video stores as a kid, heading back to the horror section, and reading all the fucked-up plot summaries and content warnings on the boxes. I could do that for hours. Those are some of my happiest memories.” O’Kelly frowns. “I just heard that out loud, and realized how sad that is.” 

“No! It’s the same for me, honestly.” I mean it.

***

“You can be honest,” I say. “You think this town’s a shithole, don’t you?” 

“Honestly? I was expecting an even bigger shithole,” O’Kelly says whilst declining my proffered Bloomin’ Onion. “Thanks, but I don’t like eating in front of people.”

“Jeez. No wonder you look the way you do.” I look down at my own perma-paunch. “And I look the way I do.”

“Please! I’d kill for your boobs.” O’Kelly smiles at me. “I’ll have another drink though.” 

“Things have improved since the Outback opened,” I tell her after we order more drinks. “Between this place and the new State Pen, unemployment’s finally headed in the right direction.” 

“The cabbie at the airport said there’s talk of a Cheesecake Factory–” 

I laugh in her face. “They’ve been singing that song for years. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

I work up my courage as she finishes her drink: “I’ve actually been a huge fan of yours for ages. Since the earliest stuff. I watch Death, Actually every December. And I love the movie where the woman’s chasing the guy down the hallway, screaming and holding an open bear trap in front of her crotch—”

“Egg Donor From Hell?” 

“Yup. That’s the one.”

***

On the drive home I see that most of my campaign signs have been defaced with “KUNT Kelly for Koroner.” 

The coroner’s race is getting real ugly this year. I’m facing down the Italians. They’ll stop at nothing to reclaim the post. Four years ago, I unseated their guy for the first time in over a century. Now they’re out for blood. 

I’m too worked up when I get home to fall asleep. I flick on the TV instead.

You know your mental health’s in the shitter when you’re watching a Jeffrey Dahmer documentary and the dude’s mostly making sense. 

Dahmer soon grew frustrated with the Milwaukee gay scene: ‘All the guys I met were just looking for a few minutes of penetrative sex,’ explained Dahmer after his arrest. ‘And I wasn’t interested in that. I wanted someone to stay with me through the night, to cuddle with me. I wanted to feel close to someone.’  

“Samesies, Jeffrey,” I murmur sleepily. “Samesies.”

***

Excerpt from the Guardian’s recent piece on Kelly O’Kelly: 

The Maple Game was O’Kelly’s greatest success to date, yet it also precipitated her fall from grace. Not so much the film itself, as O’Kelly’s subsequent licensing of SugarBushes™, the enormously popular stripper-restaurant chain with locations throughout Canada. SugarBushes™ is rumored to have made O’Kelly a multimillionaire overnight. 

(For those who haven’t seen The Maple Game, the chain’s name and tagline–SugarBushes™: You’ll Wanna Tap Everything In Here!–come from a line uttered by fan favorite character Mordecai Eldritch, the harrowing film’s sole comic relief: “Am I in a sugarbush? Cuz I wanna tap everything in here!”)

Art-house types accused O’Kelly of selling out. Female fans felt betrayed after footage leaked of Toronto fatcats eating poutine off naked strippers, a popular off-menu item across all SugarBushes™ locations. The hashtag #notmyfeminist blew up on Twitter … 

***

Tuesday

First thing I see when I open my eyes this morning is the goddamn horse’s head. 

“Not this shit again,” I groan. We’re still two months out from the election. Guess we’re not pacing ourselves this year.

“You really think THIS is going to rattle me, you fucking garlic eaters?!” I roar. “I’m a CORONER, for fuck’s sake! I run bowels for a living! I use skull saws on the daily! Way to reference a fifty-year-old movie, you basic stronze.” 

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” whimpers Cheetara from the doorway, rubbing her eyes. 

“Nothing baby, it’s alright.” I steer her out of the room towards the kitchen. “Let’s hurry up and get ready for Take Your Daughter To Work Day. You excited to come see mommy’s job?” 

***

“I’ve got an Esperanto ass. Unites all creeds, races, orientations. Started when I was 15 and hasn’t let up. For 25 years, it’s been receiving universal, highly vocal acclaim. It’s humanity’s last best hope, my ass–”

“Um, is it ok if we avoid swearing today?” I ask as I glance over at Cheetara. She’s too preoccupied with the liver on the scales to notice.

“Sure.” O’Kelly follows my gaze. “Are anagrams ok?”

“Yeah, anagrams are fine.”

“Cool.”

I close the fridge door and make sure it’s running. “Right. I think we can call it a day and make it over to the Outback in time for happy hour! But first, let’s swing past the operating theater and moon the surgeons.”

***

“Three autoerotic asphyxiations in one day is super unusual, just so you know,” I tell O’Kelly over espresso martinis and coconut shrimp. 

“Yeah, I thought that was weird!”

“Typically that’s a whole week’s worth.” 

“Oh.” She frowns. “That still seems high.” 

“Yeah. There’s really a dearth of things to do in this town. Supposed to be a Dave & Busters opening a couple towns over next month; maybe that’ll help—”

“Oooh!” O’Kelly cuts in, all excited. “Is it maybe a serial killer, making it look like autoerotic asphyxiations?” 

“I wish. That would be dope—” 

I halt as I spot Chad arguing with the Outback hostess and pointing our way. “Uh-oh,” I mutter.

“Kelly!” Chad calls out as he approaches our booth. “I knew I’d find you here. How many times have I got to tell you: don’t moon me when I’m in the middle—” 

“Oh yeah, mustn’t disturb The Genius at his work—” 

“You shouldn’t be mooning your colleagues at all! It’s deeply unprofessional–” 

“Maaaaaaansplainer,” I sing to the tune of “Goldfinger”: 

He’s the man, the man who explaaaaaiiins the stuff 

Yes all the stuff 

Such a huuge dickwad–

Chad stomps off. I shout after him: 

“You think you’re the only one whose work is important? My work has meaning too, Chad!” I start singing the Coroner’s Song from The Wizard of Oz. 

“Who was that self-important cuffcake?” O’Kelly asks when I’ve finished. I glance over at Cheetara, who’s busy coloring on her placemat. 

“Just another pompous nowclass named Chad.” I sigh. “He’d be the first one to admit after a few drinks, that we don’t know bupkis about the brain. Or he would have done, back when he was a resident and cool. ‘We’ve got some neat ideas, but that’s it really,’ Chad would always say. Back when he was Resident Chad and not Chad, God of Neurosurgery.”

“Wait–is Chad her …” O’Kelly nods her head in Cheetara’s direction a couple times.

“Heck no!”

***

It’s only later when I pull into the driveway that I realize I forgot to buy new bedding. “Oh shit,” I groan. 

I’m too tired to care. I push the horse head off to the side to make some room, and fall asleep.

***

Wednesday

“Tell me more about your opus,” I say as I begin my external examination.

O’Kelly slumps against the slab and groans. “I can’t, it’s too depressing. My opus will never see the light of day. It’s already been banned in 70 countries.” 

“Yeah, but what about the other 130-odd countries?” 

“They haven’t seen it yet.” O’Kelly sighs. “So I guess there’s still hope.” She takes out her flask. “Alright if I drink in here?” 

“For sure. What the hell are they gonna say about it?” I gesture around at all the corpses.

O’Kelly takes a swig. “It’s the menstrual bukkake scene that’s causing all the problems, I know. Don’t let anyone fool you; nothing’s changed. Everyone claims to be a feminist, but you try depicting some real female empowerment …” She shakes her head. “And it’s a great scene! No way am I removing it. Once the Bitches have immobilized the rapists by six-packing them–you know, shooting them in the knees, elbows and ankles–the Main Bitch joins hands with her Sister-Bitches, and they menstrual bukkake all over the rapists’ faces—”

“Hold on a minute. Where’s all this blood coming from?” I step back and frown. “This is a straightforward autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong, there shouldn’t be any blood—” 

 “Oh shit. You know what?” O’Kelly scoots her bum off the slab. “I’ve been perioding all over your stiff this whole time. Fuck, I bet it’s got my DNA and everything. Am I gonna be in trouble?”

I force a smile. “Nah. Lucky for you, you know the coroner. Literally the last word on cause of death.”

“God, that’s so cool. The bribe money with this gig must be insane.”

“I mean, not that I ever accept it–”

“No, of course not.” O’Kelly gives me a grotesque wink, which I ignore.

“–but yeah, I’ve gotten some sick offers.” I lower my voice. “Honestly? The highest ones aren’t from people looking to amend the cause of death. They’re from the corpsebuggers.”

“Seriously?!”

“You would be … disturbed. Corpsebuggery’s nowhere near as uncommon as you’d like to think. Plus there’s a serious dearth of things to do in this town.”

***

“Is it ok if we make a couple stops en route to the Outback?” I ask. “We’re looking for my opponent’s campaign signs. Name’s Wes Pisa.”

“No problem, SoKel. I’ve decided I’m gonna call you SoKel, is that ok? To make it less confusing, the whole Kelly-Kelly thing. And you’re Southern, so, you know: SoKel.”

“I mean, I’m not from here originally. And this isn’t really the South–” 

She laughs. “Sure. Sure it isn’t, SoKel.”

We spot one of Wes’s signs after a couple blocks. I pull over and get out of the car, O’Kelly at my side. 

“Wes Pisa: Someone With The Balls For The Job,” it reads. The text is accompanied by a picture of the Coliseum. 

O’Kelly stares. “Why doesn’t he use the Leaning Tower–”

“Right? That would be the obvious choice.” I give my paint can a good shake and alter the wording to “Wes Pisa-SHIT.”

***

“Wait–the other candidate for coroner has got zero medical schooling?” O’Kelly looks dumbfounded.

“Wes has got zero schooling of any kind, at all!” I explain. “Most parts of the country don’t impose educational requirements on becoming coroner. Even in places that use a Medical Examiner, that title doesn’t necessarily mean they have a medical background *cough* West Virginia *cough*.” 

“I’m so confused. Why is it even an elected position, that’s so weird–”

“It isn’t always an elected position. It varies state by state, town by town. Some states, it’s an appointment. Other places, whoever’s the town sheriff is automatically the coroner. Or the D.A., or the mayor … there’s at least a couple counties in Kansas where it’s the head of the post office. And in certain parts of Alaska, it’s the highest ranking sommelier.”

“I’m forever in awe of this great and fascinating country,” says O’Kelly, before hiccupping and falling off her bar stool.

***

O’Kelly and I relocate to a booth, once I’ve gotten her up off the floor. 

“Say SoKel, you think tomorrow night we could try someplace besides the Outback? The Outback’s great and all, but–”

“That’ll be tough.” I look down at my drink. “I can’t go to any of the Italian spots in town. No one will seat me, on account of the bad blood between me and the Italian community over the Coroner’s Office.”

“You’re kidding. Not even the Olive Garden?!” 

I shake my head and blink back tears. 

“But I thought their whole shtick was, When You’re Here, You’re Family?” 

“Yeah, well. Don’t believe the hype,” I say. “Honestly, the Outback’s been more of a family to me than the Olive Garden ever was. I think I would have lost my mind, if they hadn’t opened up last year.” 

“This world is garbage,” O’Kelly mutters. She reaches across the table for my hand and squeezes it, without looking at me, without saying anything. 

She clears her throat. “I’ll see what I can do about opening the first Stateside SugarBushes™ here, okay?”

“Aw, thanks.” I hesitate. “Are there other menu options besides the poutine served on a stripper–” 

“How should I know? You think I go to these places?” 

“Don’t you?” 

“Fuck no. I’ve never even been to Canada. Why would I? It’s cold and boring.”

***

I’m driving us both to my place so O’Kelly can show me her opus when I see Wes Pisa by the side of the road. The sonofabitch is actually removing my campaign signs and stuffing them into the trunk of his car, as opposed to just defacing them. 

The tires screech as I pull onto the embankment and leap out.

“Oi! Wes, you Pisa-shit! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Wes flashes a shit-eating grin. “Oh hey, Kelly. I’m looking for my horse. Have you seen him?” 

“Have you tried looking up your ass? Cuz that’s where that head’s gonna be, before this campaign is through.” 

Wes’s smile fades. His lips draw back in a snarl. 

I wrench a sign out of the ground and flip it stake-side out at Wes. “Let’s dance.” 

Wes hoists another sign up and does the same. “Bring it.”

We commence sparring. 

Minutes later, we’re at a dead heat when O’Kelly comes charging at Wes with a sign, screaming “FEMINISMMMMMMM!!!!” 

She deals Wes a body blow that sends him staggering. Wes rights himself just as she drives the sign’s stake through his left foot and into the earth. 

“Aaaaaaaargh!” Wes screams. And screams and screams.

“Please tell me,” O’Kelly pants, “that this is not Cheetara’s dad.”

“Heck no!”

***

We settle into my den to watch I Squirt On Your Corpse: Day of the Bitches.

There’s a shit-ton of warnings before the film even begins.

**WARNING**: The following film has not been rated, but is intended for mature and resilient audiences only. It contains the following:

• Severe Sexuality
• Frontal Nudity 
• Dorsal Nudity 
• Gratuitous, Gruesome and Depraved Violence
• The F Word
• Unsimulated War Crimes
• Cultural Appropriation
• Depictions of Drug Use
• Extreme Cockfighting
• Depictions of Cigarette Use
• Nonconsensual Fire-Topping
• Rampant Promotion of Conspiracy Theories
• Depictions of Tampon Use
• Suicide
• Prolonged and Repeated Scenes of Male Full Frontal Nudity Which in No Way Advance, or Even Relate To, The Plot
• Gratuitous Abortion

and

• Menstrual Bukkake

Viewer discretion is strenuously advised.

Two hours later:

“I get it,” I sob as I writhe on the ground uncontrollably. “My god, I get it! It’s brilliant–”

“Right?” O’Kelly squats down beside me. “Finally! You don’t know how much this means to me. I was beginning to doubt myself–”

“NO!” I sit up. “Kelly, you can’t do that!”

“I was worried you were going to hate it. Especially when you blacked out for a few minutes–”

“Please, I’m so embarrassed about that–”

“No need to apologize. If it makes you feel any better, Eli Roth blacked out during a screening too. Plus he lost the power of speech for a whole two weeks after, the fucking pussy.” O’Kelly rises to her feet. “It’s official. I’m wasted enough to consume food before a fellow human. Let’s order up whatever passes for pizza in these parts.”

“Can’t. Italian joints won’t serve me, remember?” 

“Even the pizza establishments?” 

“Especially the pizza establishments!” 

“C’mon. Domino’s? You’re telling me if we call Domino’s they won’t help us out—” 

“They OWN the Dominos! They own it all!” I wail. “But I do have frozen pizza bagels. We can heat those up, if you like.”

“Fuck yeah.”

***

Excerpt from the new Slate exposé on Kelly O’Kelly’s first film:

Although the straight-to-streaming Remind Me Again What You Did That Summer was little seen upon release, it did succeed in drawing the ire of the Alzheimer’s Foundation. According to a spokeswoman, “the film’s 110-minute runtime is devoted to alternately mocking those afflicted with dementia, and slaughtering those afflicted with dementia in unspeakable ways.”  

***

Thursday

“Please. I’m not worried about the friggin’ Alzheimer’s Foundation. They’ll probably forget all about it by tomorrow. Right?” O’Kelly snort-laughs. 

She seems chill about it; I guess she’s telling the truth. I’m relieved. 

“Alright. Time to remove the pancreas.” I hold the toothed forceps out to her with a smile. “You wanna have a go at it?” 

O’Kelly’s jaw drops. “Really?” 

“There’s nothing to it,” I assure her. “You ever play Operation when you were little, with the teeny tiny tweezers and the buzzer? It’s like that, but for grown-ups.” 

She’s gotten the pancreas out of the cavity and is transferring it over to the scales when I do it:

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE–”

O’Kelly drops the pancreas on the floor with a splat. 

“Shit SoKel, I’m sorry–” 

“It’s my fault,” I say. “I was making the buzzer sound from Operation–” 

“Yeah, I know! It was funny!” She looks back down at the exploded pancreas. 

“Seriously, don’t worry about it. The pancreas is super unimportant.” I reach for the dustpan. “Lemme just tidy up, pop everything back in the fridge, and we’ll head out. K? We can check out that roadside dive if you like.”

“Fuck yeah.”

***

“Often what the cannibal really seeks is a feeling of closeness, of connection to his fellow–”

“WHAT?” O’Kelly shouts. “I can’t hear you over this shitty fucking music! Jesus. What is this garbage, and why have they got it cranked so loud?!” 

“It’s live music. The band is right behind you.” I point behind her. 

O’Kelly looks over her shoulder and sees them, crowded onto the tiny stage a couple feet from where she’s standing. “Oops. Sorry!” she calls out. 

They smile at her with their mouths but not their eyes, which convey abject sadness. 

She turns back to me. “Do you think they heard us?” 

“Why don’t we go to the Outback,” I suggest. “They always let me stick around the bar after closing.”

***

“I don’t do this for the money. My SugarBushes™ bring in 10 times what I’ve made from all my films combined, in a single week!” O’Kelly slams her empty glass down onto the Outback bar. “I do it because I love it, and I’m fucking good at it, and nobody else is.” 

Uh-oh. She’s getting sad-drunk. 

We both are. I can’t believe tomorrow’s Friday already.

“I can’t believe tomorrow is your last day!” I tell her. “I’m gonna miss you. It’s been great having someone around–”

“Yeah, it’s been really interesting for me as well. You’ve been super helpful, I can’t thank you enough.” Her eyes are on the bartender the whole time she’s talking. “Could you give him a wave, when he turns around?”

“Sure.” Once I’m done I turn back to O’Kelly. “It’s been pretty lonely for me in this town. Yeah I’ve got Cheetara, and I love her and everything, but it’s not like having an adult–”

“Same SoKel; same. I’m shit at making friends, always have been.”

“Well. You can always text me, if you ever need anything. Or maybe–”

She smirks. “You don’t want to be text-buddies with me, SoKel. Trust me on this. Imagine receiving texts from Henry Darger. Except longer, and more fucked up.”

“Informer” starts playing. O’Kelly laughs. 

“My brother loved this song when it came out. He bought the entire CD, not just the single! Then I overheard him at school telling people, ‘I’m really into Snow at the moment, his music’s not in English …’ Fucking idiot! I’ve never let him forget it.”

A whole mess of 90s tunes ensues, and we’re back to being happy-drunk.

Ace of Base comes on. No, not that song. The other one.

“I think it was this song, that made me want to move to Sweden,” I say. “Because I realized, the Swedes must have zero actual problems. Seriously, what is this song about? ‘Oooh men beware, cuz there’s this hot Swedish babe who wants to take you home and fuck your brains out, but she’ll be gone long before morning and even if she goes on to bear your child, she’ll never trouble you for financial assistance?’ Is that a thing in Sweden?!”

Soon we’re comparing our 2 Legit hand moves:

“I can’t believe I still remember how to do this!”

“I mean, that’s debatable–”

“Yeah right! I’m kicking your ass, SoKel!”

We take a break to order another round. O’Kelly swivels on her stool to face me.

“I realized today, I’ve been to this place before. Not this town specifically, but close. There’s a military base near here, right?”

I definitely wasn’t expecting that. “Uh, yeah. Yes there is, about 10 minutes down the highway. Do you have family–”

“God, no! Back in college, my brother and I were on a road trip down to Florida, and we stopped there for a night. I fucked a dude from the base. This was during Iraq and all that, so I wanted to do my part for the troops. Obviously I didn’t support the war, but … you know. I was working on opening my mind and legs to different perspectives.” O’Kelly grins. “Plus it was my first time banging a dude with a six-pack.”

“Nice!” I say. “Not gonna lie, I’ve sampled the base’s wares, and they do not all come equipped with six-packs–”

“Right? Actually the sex was garbage. Dude lost his boner after a couple minutes–”

“Ugh, I hate that! I take it as a personal insult–”

“Same, bitch. Same! But it gets worse. Dude is laying there, all sad and flaccid, and he starts telling me about his mom’s early-onset Alzheimer’s, and how the last time he went home on break, she didn’t even recognize him anymore, and he didn’t care if he got sent off to Iraq and died–”

“Fuuuuuuck. That’s really sad! What the hell did you say to him?”

“Shit, I just pretended to be asleep! I mean, that’s some heavy shit he’s laying on me; I didn’t sign up for that! I just wanted a fun one-night stand, you know? I just wanted to grind away on this nice body. Is that such a huge ask? There I am, trying to do this patriotic thing, send a young man off to a senseless death with some kick-ass memories–”

“What was his name?” I blurt out.

“I don’t fucking remember!” O’Kelly snickers. “Much like all the other women in his life.” 

She sees the look on my face. “Is Cheetara’s dad … from the base?”

“Yeah. No one with a six-pack, though,” I add. “And not in the picture. Never was. I don’t even know if he’s still stationed there. We weren’t in a relationship, or anything.”

That Primitive Radio Gods song comes on. I whisper along to the words. 

“I always liked this song. ‘Downhearted’ is a strange word. But a good one, I think. It’s bigger than a feeling, more permanent. It’s a state. I know it well.” I look down at my hands. “Been downhearted going on five years now. Way too long, I know. I can’t seem to help it. I’m tired all the time, but I can’t turn it into sleep. I’m embarrassed to be this way. I know how it sounds.” 

O’Kelly chuckles without looking at me. “My god, you and I are so much alike. Same, bitch. Same.” 

I reach for her hand but she doesn’t reach for mine. Instead she gets up to use the bathroom. 

When she returns, she says she’s beat and is going to turn in for the night.

When I wake up the next morning, O’Kelly’s sent me a text thanking me for my time, but saying she’s got to head back north ASAP. Something about her brother needing her. Some fresh development in the neverending custody battle with his ex.

Then O’Kelly blocked me. I found out when I tried messaging her a couple days later. She must have thought I was a creepy loser the whole time. 

Which sucks, because I can’t enjoy watching Kelly O’Kelly flicks anymore. I’ve got even less now.

Lobotomy Lullaby

Socks everywhere inside out, jockstraps cockeyed on lampshades. Cockroaches investigating dead soldiers. Magazines facedown on the throwrug, half-done cigarettes extinct behind skeletal ash, senile eggshells, geriatric coffee cups. Grease stuck the air. The cheap tv scratching, spitting, rolling, barking. 

“This place is a fucking garbage dump!” the landlady yelled that one time she looked in. 

I didn’t care. SSI paid the rent. I was crazy. I could do anything in there – just so it didn’t take money and I wasn’t too obvious about having a good time.

So I jacked off and spent a lot of time on the crapper turning the sports page, lighting cigarettes one off the other, wallowing in tobacco-shit vapors. One morning, though, I got so bored I jumped off the can. Headed for the door. Snatched on the way a jockstrap off a lamp. Sauntered out into the hall, to be greeted by my landlady, who shrieked, why were my pants off!

I screamed she was lucky not-seeing what she was, killed her with a steak knife; bounded down the hall squealing hogcalls, feeling the air feeling my balls.

So now I am bored in a new room with beds on the ceiling and the walls and the floor. They fill me full of pills that make everything peaceful. Tomorrow they remove my head. They tell me I won’t care, although helpless bowels might occur, and smoking won’t anymore seem.

Kill “Sean”

There were too many Seans. Searching the name on Google loaded 870,000,000 results. Page one celebrities included Big Sean, Sean Watkins, and Sean Connery—who, to add to the overpopulated insult, owned a memorial at the top of the page in the form of a featured snippet. On Wikipedia, there were 87 entries for “Sean,” each of which disambiguated into additional 87-stacked entries—none of which was himself.

His name was reduced to a membership of actors, writers, race car drivers, politicians, serial killers, and bakers. “Sean” was such a popular name he was basically anonymous. Was he supposed to resign himself like the Michaels of the world? No! But how was he ever going to take the name back for himself?

His goldfish leaned a fin on the rim of its bowl and said, Why not use your middle initial, pal?

He snapped, “Why doesn’t everyone else use their middle initial then?Why should I change my name, when it’s my name?” He picked up the can leaning against the stack of broken keyboards and swigged. His name.

At Bottle King, where the chubby cashier never remembered his name, the register monitor loaded an excel sheet of every membershipped Sean within a fourmile radius of the store. At least one hundred Seans—no, one thousand, he thought—filling out the alphabet fromA until his long awaited assonanced S. The cashier pressed enter. He leaned over the conveyor belt and studied the name above his own: “Sean Reicher, 987 Willow Place.” Then he paid $2.00 and brown bagged the tallboy.

The name’s origins were biblical: Iōánnēs in the Greek, Yohanan in the Hebrew, the mad seer John in the KJV, which all translated gaelically into “Sean” and was supposed to mean, “god is gracious.” A bit too gracious of God: Sean was the 336th most popular boys name (10,979th for girls), so that one out of every 1,916 baby boys in a nursery had a crib stapled “Sean”. Fingering an abacus he calculated that there were up to 182,000 Seans in the United States alone. Tucked under his blankie he traced the water stains above his bed and imagined a world in which he owned sean.com by birth right. A paradise on earth.

To be fair, he had never actually, physically, in person, met another Sean. He knew of their existence only at a distance like the moon, so he was quite nervous as he donned the ski mask and black turtleneck and lifted the rickety wooden frame and snuck into Sean Reicher’s living room at half past 11, and then stood above his doppleganger snoring loudly in the rocking chair. His goldfish had told him he wasn’t ready, and now that he was here, face-to-face with the possibility of vengeance, he hesitated between the scissors in his left hand and the butterknife in his right. But before making a decision, Sean Reicher awoke from his nightmare and yelled, “It’s you!” Then the imposter clutched his chest, and the name was no longer his own.

He nudged the husk with his flip flop. Then he kicked. He stole a bill for a Penthouse subscription bearing the fake’s name, and fled into the afternoon feeling giddy that God was on his side.

He thought his heroism would kick off the anti-Sean riots, Franz Ferdinand style. He watched and waited. But the newspaper was still headlining the missing white girl, and the anchors on Eyewitness News laughed at the sunshine—didn’t UPS deliver his manifesto? One murder wasn’t enough, friend, his goldfish said.

More effective methods were needed. From the Swords of the East™ website he purchased a bushido certified katana, Nippon steel folded one thousand times or your money back. The blade was dull. Naked in front of the TV he tried sharpening the edge with sandpaper and nicked his thumb, and became nauseous at the sight of blood. He threw up. Wiping his face with an oily cloth he held the blade and vowed to try again. Just like Henry Morgan had said, “If at first you don’t succeed…” Or was it W. C. Fields?

So he purchased another tallboy, and had another peak at the liquor store listicle. The cashier, this time a pregnant woman who had definitely rung him up in the past, said, “Your name is Sean? I love that name!” He grimaced and leaned. Just beneath his name was a Sean Tulathulumie who was, unfortunately, not in hospice care and an avid gun collector. And so, that afternoon, he was off running away from Sean Tulathulumie’s mansion at the first buckshot even with the katana knotted across his back.

Maybe murder wasn’t the solution.

To solve his problems he bought two more tallboys and stared at the gluesticked “Sean” obituaries on the walls of his apartment. Even if he eliminated one Sean every day for the next year that was only 365 Seans. Even at two Seans which was impossible—since his driver’s license had been lost (meaning there was some undergraduate out there masquerading as a Sean which was somehow more aggravating than being named “Sean”) that was only 730 Seans, and there were thousands, tens of thousands, in his state alone. They multiplied like flatworms: cut off the head of one Sean, and you got five more Seans, and the name’s popularity was ticking up on Google Trends. He was losing before he started and all he had done was remove one Sean whose name didn’t even make the obituary section of the Record.

There was no third attempt. He bought three tallboys, squeezing his eyes as he handed over the crinkled bills.

What he needed was a final Sean solution. A way to stop the parents of would be Seans before they got their dark idea. A tool powerful enough to be heard around the world, like a Tunguskan bomb that targeted all the fake Seans. His goldfish suggested a blog.

The blog posts were vicious, visceral, violent, and unread. He had told himself a little white lie: that the name “Sean” wasn’t gracious at all but a terrible, evil name that evoked only the worst monsters of the 20th century. “Nobody shuld name there kid ‘Sean,'” he wrote. It was a name for sneaks, thieves, cannibals, and fiends who borrow your copy of Link to the Past and don’t return it. Seans weren’t people, more like husks for the Sean-DNA wormed inside.

Like the Buddha, if you met a Sean on the road, kill him.

His nom de plume was “John.”

What he learned putting his hate online was that there were other Sean haters, not in the general way he hated, but in particular-Sean hate ways: hate for Sean O’Malley, hate for Sean Combs, hate for Sean Thor Conroe, hate for particular Seans and their particular Seany b.s. He tapped their community kegs and filled his own cup and then brought more boozy hate to their hateful group parties. He learned he could kill Seans with rumor, stipulation, speculation.

“Did you know Sean emits eight tons of carbon—every week?”

“I heard that Sean worked as a caterer on Jeffery Epstein’s island.”

“Sean shares a name with serial killer Sean Vincent Gillis. What a jerk!”

“Yes, Sean is definitely a pedophile—just like Hitler.” The sooner he invoked Godwin’s law, the better.

He cultivated a voice—sonorous and prophetic—and a following, kept blogging all day every day thanks to his imagination and disability checks from Social Security, uniting all of the internet’s Sean-hate behind his Wile E. Coyote avatar. He had real power for the first time in his life to accumulate WordPress likes, but with all of that gathering potential energy, how was he to spark the bomb that would topple the Seans, send them in droves to the county courthouse to file for a change of name?

It was his goldfish once more who made the ingenious suggestion.

A conference was in order, and held at the Jacob Javits Center. An entire weekend of anti-Sean festivities and organizing, a chance for disparate Sean-haters to unite their common cause under one banner, a very large one draped over the glass entrance that read, “Stop Hate. Stop Sean.”

He was to deliver the inaugural address as president and CEO and dictator of the revolution. In attendance were reporters from the New York Times, the Post, Highlights, and a Stanford fellow desperate to build herself into an influencer. All names were double-checked at the door.

“Comrades,” he adjusted the mic down to his bow tie, “we’re gathered here today to stop the most pressing matter our civilization has ever faced, the never ending horde of Seans.” A few cheers. “The only way we can ever ensure the end of the Sean is by uniting ourselves. Together we can wipe the Seans from history.” A red ribbon hung taut across the stage with “Sean” tessellated across its cheapness. He raised his katana, “And with the cutting of this ribbon, we usher in a new era.” He swung the blade, severing the “Se” from the “an.” Applause, cheers, hand flute whistles, fireworks.

A Q&A followed.

A reporter fired her hand towards the balloons in the rafters and shouted her question. “I don’t know what to make of all this anti-Sean hate, but isn’t it true, sir, that your name is Sean?”

He fumbled at the mic. “Absolutely not. That’s slander. How dare you!” He tapped his name tag three times. “It says ‘John’ right here, doesn’t it? What’s your name? How did you get in here? Security!”

“And isn’t it true,” she ignored his question, “that the name John, is the english translation of the name Sean?”

“No, of course not. Lies!”

“I have the evidence right here.” She held up a color printout of the Wikipedia entry for “Sean.” “All of your anti-Sean hate is a scheme. You’re a big phoney,” she shouted.

Gasps. Whispers. Someone shrieked. Another screamed, “My life is a lie!” In their anger and confusion, the various anti-Sean groups began in-fighting. A chair was thrown. A pop-up table flipped. The bouncy castle was stabbed 87 times. Riot police marched in single file and tear-gassed the crowd.

He hastily retreated through the rear exit, setting off the fire alarms as he booked down the street and leaped into the Hudson with the katana gripped between his teeth, and climbed onto a passing barge hauling empty tallboys out to sea. The captain’s name was Sean Rodgers.

He was defeated, dejected, constipated, sitting squat on the single folding chair in his apartment, the news flipped to another missing white girl—the anti-Sean movement yesterday’s yesterday story.

The revolution—his revolution—had fallen apart. For weeks after the convention marauders of particular-rival-ganged-Sean haters roamed downtown Manhattan and clashed in modern dance numbers, with knives, until enough twisted ankles forced them to disband. And then there were the new anti-anti-Sean hater groups who were hunting him. The rest returned to their digital enclaves and he was back to the liquor store, looking for solutions in the dregs of a tallboy. What he found was that too many Seans wasn’t news. It just was.

The katana was on his lap and he polished the blade with a Lysol wipe, wondering where it all went so wrong. New neighbors hauled a mattress up the concrete stairs, rocking the TV on its milk crate.

His goldfish asked, Now, that you’ve learned your lesson, buddy, how about that middle initial?

He was about to concede when through the stucco he heard, “Where do you want this, Sean?” He skipped to the door and jammed his eye in the peephole. What he saw was a Sean wearing octagonal glasses and opportunity. He finished wiping off the blade, and picked at an olive rind between his teeth. It was already late afternoon. By nightfall there would be only 869,999,998 results for “Sean.” He finished his tallboy, winked at his goldfish, raised the katana, and charged towards his name.

On that month’s rent check the new neighbor’s signature was spelled, “S-H-A-U-N.”