Sunday, July 12, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "Write About What You Know" by Victor Schwartzman

Sidney wrote poetry, short stories, novels and screenplays.  He decided to write something original, and started with the basics by writing a list of fundamental plots:

--Man achieves goal

--Woman in danger rescued (old)/Woman in danger rescues herself (new)

--Two people achieve romance despite obstacles

Sidney was surprised the list was so short.

But for the past three thousand years, the stories of all literature, plays and films boiled down to those three plots.  Everything else was a twist.

Sidney realized that if he could create a new plot, his fame and success would be unimaginable.  Two weeks later, the notebook screen remained blank.   He could not come up with a new fourth plot.  Worse, every twist he thought of had already been done.

Then it took an ugly turn when his friends suggested he follow the writer’s Golden Rule:  write about what you know.  To write original, start with what is original about you.

His deliberations eventually grew quite uncomfortable as he tried to think of what was original about his work, his thoughts, himself.  Days flowed by.  Ultimately, Sidney concluded there was nothing original about him.

He was not religious but prayed to God for an answer.  To Sidney’s surprise, God replied.

“I understand your concerns, my child.  Rest assured, it is not you that is not original.  It is your entire world.

“Millennia ago, I created the Earth.  Then, I created a copy.  Your planet is the copy.  I knew copies never turn out as well as the original, but I had hopes.

“The original Earth is fine.  Never been a war and there are colonies on Mars.  Your Earth, I’ve thought more than once of shutting it down.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Still curious, my child.”

“Can you help me?”

“It would ruin the experiment.  Oh, one more thing.  When you die here, there is no Heaven or Hell.  You’re just dead.”

Then God left.

It was very quiet.

Sidney now understood his entire world, his whole life, was God‘s disappointing experiment. 

Sidney looked at the blank monitor.

Write about what you know.

With the knowledge life was meaningless, Sidney wrote a self-help book.

It was quickly published and sold millions.

When he sat down to write the sequel, Sidney wondered:  How can I make this original?

Victor Schwartzman is a Canadian writer with whom I used to be in the Underground Literary Alliance.  I am quite happy that he is still writing and willing to share some of his work on drinkdrankdrunk!

Sunday, July 5, 2020

New Song!: "The Whistleblower Takes Up Harmonica"

Woo-boy!  It's a tough time politically right now.  I may be the only one who feels like this (and maybe not), but it seems like everyone else has gone nuts.  The Left seem to think we can all survive hiding in our houses for months on end from a virus (um, that will just bring even more problems when the economy and other things collapse as a result) while the Right think the Left are all killers because they don't join them in gargling bleach or whatever else Trump goes on about.  What's been so disappointing is to see so many supposed freethinkers fall in line and stop thinking critically and just follow the party line of their tribe.  For example, if you think Andrew Cuomo's declaration that his COVID-19 orders would all be worth it if they saved even one life is inspiring, then you need to think a bit about what he would do if anyone ever approached him about preventing auto accident deaths (the answer is he would shut down the roads--does that make sense to you?  Do you think we could survive very long as a society that way?).  Meanwhile, people like me, seemingly rare, just try to carry on, don't panic, and still have a bit of fun (note:  we're all going to die anyway; have a good time before you go).  At this point, it's gotten so confusing that matters of right and wrong and heroism are all garbled.  Years ago, Michael Jordan was a hero for playing a game while sick.  Now he'd be viewed as a creep endangering others (it apparently was food poisoning so facemaskers can still cheer him).  Good grief!  Well, now he joins Edward Snowden in the grey no person's land.  Snowden and other whistleblowers actually take human rights seriously, yet we live in a country where he's still wanted for treason, so he has to be sheltered in what's basically a dictatorship.  It's so depressing that I can imagine many people just say forget it when it comes to do the right thing and just fall into line with whatever other people are doing, pretending to themselves that it is the right thing (and 9 out of 10 times, it still ain't hard to figure out what the real right thing is).  If you think walking around the supermarket looking like you are about to perform surgery is a-ok, then go on with your bad self, but don't try to convince me that it's doing anything much beyond making you feel better about a situation that you have little control over (and if you don't believe me, then maybe you'll believe the World Health Organization, who wrote, "Many countries have recommended the use of fabric masks/face coverings for the general public. At the present time, the widespread use of masks by healthy people in the community setting is not yet supported by high quality or direct scientific evidence and there are potential benefits and harms to consider (see below).").  This song is for anyone who does the right thing anyway even when everyone else is headed in the wrong direction ("It's totally safe to go back in that burning building.  Get back to work!").  Your anti-social behavior may save yourself or even us all.  Authority figures and the masses are not always wrong, but they are definitely not always right.  Think for yourself.  The lyrics are below.  It's the same deal as always.  If you like a song, then feel free to cover it if you're in a band or whatnot.  I love to hear covers of my songs, so please let me know about your version.  If you start making money, then send me a check/we can work out a deal.  Similarly, if you want to use a song for your Youtube video or whatnot, then just let me know.  It's usually fine by me unless it's a commercial product or whatnot (and then it's likely fine as well--I just want my cut).  Find out first though.  Write me at wredfright ATATAT yahoo DOTT com.

The supermarket is awash in fear
And I'm just trying to buy some groceries
Everybody's wearing a mask
Looks like they're going to be robbing the place
But they're looking at me like I'm the criminal
Because I don't have anything on my face
Joseph Goebbels would be amazed
At how quickly people today fall into line
All an authority figure needs to do is scare them a little
And they never even bother to use their minds

The whistleblower is taking up harmonica
Because there's nobody to blow a whistle to
Still plenty of people to blow a whistle on though
What's a poor whistleblower to do?
Do the right thing, and you're the one they'll send to jail
Say everything you said was just fake news
Meanwhile nobody else really gives a shit
It's enough to give a whistleblower the blues

My Bilderberg invitation must have gotten lost in the mail
That's OK; I never wanted to rule the world
I just wish people would stop taking of pictures of themselves
Long enough to realize that freedom is more than just a flag unfurled
Underneath all the corporate and government propaganda
It's hard to know what's true
But my bullshit detector is still working
And I got it pointed at you 

Written June 2020
Recorded June 2020

Want more Wred Fright music?  Order the Yeast? 7" here!

Tuesday, June 30, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "Excerpt From American MaleWhore In Tokyo" by Rowen Boozewell

"Cool.  Fill this out and we'll see what we can do."  Gutter placed a sheet of paper on the table.  It was a short but relatively standard work application. 

Box entered some personal information then came to a box asking what seemed to him to be his requirements to the club.  Not having seen a question like this in his job interview experience, he wondered what would make sense in this case.

A tolerance of foreigners?  STD tests for all customers?  A steady supply of rufees?

Not knowing how to say "rufees" in Japanese, he opted for a chance.  Lame, yes, but the type of BS he believes potential employers generally want to hear.

The next box was, 'Your Message to the Manager.'

As heavy drinking is part of the job, I'm assuming there is a lenient attitude towards urine-related incidents but nevertheless I would like to graciously thank you in advance for your tolerance and understanding should I stand at the top of the entrance stairs and rain yellow on folks gathered below.  And the like.

But again taking the ingratiating route (known commonly as the pussy route), Box went with, I would just be so thrilled to work at a club as classy and fun as Cirrus--which I'm certain makes dreams come true on a nightly basis--that I would without a doubt be the hardest working host Shinjuku has ever seen.

The final box was, 'Host Name Candidates,' and the following instructions were printed to the side.

Please write down potential host names that you would like to be called.  The more you can think of the better.  If nothing comes to mind, just enter things you like.

Not feeling any need to hold back in this category, Box scribbled down the following names:

Vivian Ward;
Ziggy the Dryhumper; and
Jesus Jr., Little Jesus

Rowen Boozewell is the author of American MaleWhore In Tokyo:  The Great White Host, a memoir/novel about John Box's experiences being a host in a Tokyo nightclub.  Or maybe John Box wrote it using the nom de plume of Rowen Boozewell.  Beats me.  Anyway, I like it, and I am happy to feature this excerpt from the book on drinkdrankdrunk!  You can find more John Box, Rowen Boozewell, or whomever the hell he is at

Sunday, June 21, 2020

Afterword for The Slush Pile Strikes Back! by Frank Walsh

The recently released Underground Literary Alliance anthology received a nice review from one of the contributors, Tom Hendricks.  Also, Frank Walsh kindly wrote an afterword for it.  It is below:

"Its not a coincidence that once was that, neither a serial in a one of a kind series that, trending accidents, matters, nor likewise the former ULA lteraryrevolution dot com crash side swiping CBGBs or Columbia University on Harlem’s broken back post-Miller Theater public free-the- beats event horizon, for even the NYPD officers summoned for against us by the U guffawed and gainsaid with our literate guerilla theater demonstration outside the academic wrought black iron main gates, right up against the hoods, where still probably unreal estate big bank vultures satanic Mills Theaters broadside north Broadway (and really, the very same entities were found to be bulldozing for redevelopment Israeli and Palestinian working class hoods coincidentally),post- perhaps post-post Modern dried out literal neoliberal arts PHDs and snarky a-creative writing workshop MFA money mill hacks, bury the last cool pop remains of Ginsberg and our beaten up, now privatized, “HOWL”; but a synchronicity, presently that’s It.
Is meant to have said, that of gutter presses way back in the French Revolutionary underground linotypes, Payne, say, the old printer’s devil, in deep, along with unborn Buchner awaiting his part swathed in a miasma of neo-Kantian star dust, seeding. from apposite times, the far off red glare of the yet to arrive crude Akirema the Fewed, uncannily so, unless believed in by both sides that swallow from the purple goblet Kool-Aid TV commercials burst through a Wall Street even if unconscious. As if forty years could actually feel like one Summer day long or else, its meant to say that at least a week and a half before us, this past Memorial Day hollow day, when and where a Minneapolis—of all place mats-- police-state Thugee thug with little help from friend goons, committed to a publically recorded assassination, successfully of resident citizen GF, an authentic, already hard way seasoned advanced guard front had begun to push up—societally, mass culturally --- from the Aut, raving punk poet, and personal Zeen small-press movements--out of a seemingly current fallow sub-underground into a lightning lit revolutionary Open Field, synchronicity or not.
“’De Sade liberated from the Bastille in 1789, Baudelaire on the barricades in 1848, Courbet tearing down the Vendôme Column in 1870—French political history is distinguished by a series of glorious and legendary moments which serve to celebrate the convergence of popular revolution with art in revolt.’” And recently at most two late daguerreotype or early photographs recently dug up show Arthur Rimbaud in a Paris irregular uniform toting a long rifle La Commune, 1871 at attention upon the dais of the broke up Vendome Column. In the Imperialist, neo-colonialist, World Wars/Revolutions, industrial workers of the world union 20th century, “’… avant-garde artistic movements took up the banner of revolution consciously and enduringly. The political career of André Breton and the surrealists began with their manifestoes against the Moroccan war (the ‘Riff’ war) in 1925 and persisted through to the Manifesto of the 121, which Breton signed in 1960, shortly before his death, denouncing the Algerian war and justifying resistance. May 1968, when student/youth and the French workers nearly pulled off a popular Revolution: “’… the same emblematic role was enacted once again by the militants of the Situationist International. … ancestry of both Cobra and Lettrism can be traced back to the international Surrealist movement {or in our AFTERWORD bastardized basket case in point, the break down of the mamby pamby, post and post post Mod, academic deconstructualist, bourgeois snarky vapid populist mainstream literature and art hooked to a corrupt capitalist cronyismatic MIC publishing, distribution, and promotion corporate monopolized gangstar racket right here and now }, whose break-up after the war {or prey tell 911 in the same year the ULA was begot } led to a proliferation of new splinter groups and an accompanying surge of new experimentation and position-taking. The si { which was just what the ULA and its shifting meta-cooperative qualities was able to keep in motion for 8 or 9 years }”’…it brought together again many of the dispersed threads which signaled the decay and eventual decomposition of surrealism. In many ways, its project was that of re-launching surrealism on a new foundation {but again in this slice of this era, beginning social cultural “permanent revolutionary” resurgence in practicum, is just that…}… stripped of some of its elements (emphasis on the unconscious, quasi-mystical and occultist thinking, cult of irrationalism) and enhanced by others,{…likewise…} within the framework { for example: this THE SLUSH PILE STRIKES BACK! dedicated to Steve Kostecke, the NEW POP LIT project/hep hyperzeens, the one and only MUSEUMOF POETRY, the POETSUNIONUS so called, are up and running on the barricades }”’… of cultural revolution.’”
[take NOTE]: the reconditioned quotes in this Afterwords segment are by Peter Wollen, @Peter Wollen
One’s as well as that of the Afterwords prioritized intention is to point out that each and every writer, poet, essayist is a person and not yr usual individualist as the readers will discover in the act, for themselves. Besides that, though the readers should in fact infer as much, every part and parcel of this Afterwords is infused with the contention that Contemporary Modernism, but in a mondo gonzo kind of manner that is best represented by the late great Hunter Thompson, is alive and still going on in a contemporaneous way so that way is the quality world wide permanent social cultural revolution as Trotsky and Breton in 1938 manifests it in the quote below:
"True art, which is not content to play variations on ready-made models but rather insists on expressing the inner needs of man and of mankind in its time—true art is unable not to be revolutionary, not to aspire to a complete and radical reconstruction of society."

Check out the anthology here!

Tuesday, June 16, 2020

The Underground Literary Alliance Anthology!

After 15 years, it's finally out!  Hooray!  Appropriately enough, it is released on a literary holiday:  Bloomsday (the day Ulysses by James Joyce is set on)!  It is The Underground Literary Anthology anthology!  Work started on it in 2005 by Steve Kostecke, and I finished it this year.  It is a good read, and you can download the epub version here, and the pdf version here.  You can also see a preview (actually, it's the whole dang thing!) at the bottom of this post.  It is free to download and share.  Please post/send it wherever you want.

Sunday, June 14, 2020

drinkdrankdrunk: "Late Fees" by Mark Justice

It’s not even ten o’clock yet, and they’re out there already, faces pressed against the front window, eyes staring dumbly inside.  Hell no, I’m not going to open yet, fuckers!  It’s not ten o’clock!

Look at them, hands running up and down the glass, groaning.  I can hear them groaning, for God’s sake, groaning, and for what?  It’s Tuesday, fucking New Release day.  No matter what the hell it’s like outside, they’re out there.  Every Tuesday, it’s the same thing.  They shamble up to the door, pull on the handle a few times, then fumble back.  Honest to God, they look bewildered, all bouncing off one another, like dumbass drunken bastards.

What?  Showing me your watch and pointing to it isn’t going to make me open the door one minute before I have to.  I don’t care if you freeze your assess off.  Can’t you see?  Four minutes until ten?  Hello, you dumb sons of bitches, get a fucking clue here.  Groan all you want.  Stand still or rock back and forth.  I don’t give a shit because we’re not open.

You mean you’re telling me that you have to be here the minute we open to get your copy of Titanic II: Jack’s Still Dead or Cookie Monster Eats Fuckin’ Big Bird?  You think some other bastard’s going to get it before you do, dumbass? Just look at ‘em.  Yeah, I see you brought your tape back.  Thanks.  Do you see the fucking return slot in the fucking window?  Yeah, just put it in there, retard.

God damn these dead fuckers already because it’s almost ten, and I’m going to fucking let them have it when I open the fucking door.  Oh yeah, they’re getting all excited when I come to the front door and jingle the keys.  They all look at them with their glassy eyes and gaping maws.  Dead already, and they don’t even know it, dumbasses.

I fumble the keys a little before I put the master key in the lock.  The look of anticipation on their faces is priceless.  There’s a fucker born every minute, and I’m going to rent some dumbass movie to all of them.  Oh, the key’s in the sweet spot.  I turn it, unlock the front door, slip back inside quickly and stand behind the counter.  They struggle to get the door open all the way then spill in like entrails from a gutted deer.

There they go, wandering around, looking stupidly at the monitors.  Hey, dipshits, the movies are on the shelves.  Over here, they’re arranged alphabetically, not that any of you dumbfucks would care.  Yeah, that’s right. Just take a movie off the shelf and put it anywhere you damn well feel like it.  Nice.  Thanks, tard, but how about putting it back where you fucking found it?  Is that too fucking much to ask?

What the hell are you doing standing under the monitors?  Reaching up isn’t going make the movie come to life or VHS tapes or DVDs to pour out.  What, think this is Vegas or something, pull the handle, hit three cherries, and a tape or two will pop out at you?  Or maybe you’re just mesmerized by all the bright lights and movement.  Ooh, that’s right, dumbfucks.  Worship at the video altar.  At least it keeps them occupied for a while so that I can get some work done.

I see them wander between the rows of movies, jerking their heads up and down, trying to find something that interests them in their own stupid way, I guess.  Hey, hey, fuckass!  See that?  What does it say?  It says “Western,” ‘cause that’s where the John Fucking Wayne movies are.  What the hell are you doing trying to drop off your copy of Thelma and Louise II: Tagged and Bagged there?  If you don’t want the fucking tape, put it where you got it.  Is that some kind of muscle twitch, or did you really give me the finger?  Are you giving me shit today, on New Release day?  I can fix that, you know.  See this?  This is your hand.  See this?  This is your finger.  See this?  This is my mouth.  See this?  This is me putting your fucking finger in my fucking mouth and biting it the fuck off.  Oh, don’t cry now, dumbshit.  That’s what you get.

If you’re going to be this way, then fine.  I’m tired of your blubbering.  How’s this?  How about I just rip your wrist open?  You like that, fucker?  Stop making a scene.  Okay, you’re asking for it.  Your jugular’s a little tough and rubbery, but I just bite right through all of that.  Ahh, there it comes.  See, stupid fuck?  This is your blood.  You’re a fucking geyser, all over my clean floor.  Look at what you’re doing to my shelves!  You’re going to have to pay for that.  Now you’re a mess, and I’m chewing on your trachea, tough like beef jerky.  What do you have to say to that one, eh?  Don’t mess with the fucking Duke.  Just a few more mouthfuls of your gurgling throat then I really have to get back to work.

Cleanup on aisle five.  Yeah, like that’s going to happen here.  It’s murder getting good help.  It’s a fucking video store, for Christ’s sake, and you just can’t get anyone decent to work any more.  I’m here all the time.  Who else is going to put up with all of this shit?

Aw, Jesus.  Yeah, yeah, I see that it’s a fucking mess, so stay the fuck away from Westerns until it’s cleaned.  Are you seriously such a fucking retard, or is today just your lucky day?  Want to go lick one of the windows, or maybe you’d just like to lick the floor.  I didn’t think so.  Yeah, go ahead, stumble back, wide-eyed, all grimacing.  Yeah, you’re really scary.  Ooh, you make me want to piss myself. Yeah, get the fuck away, numbnuts.

Holy fuck.  That smell.  God, the same time every Tuesday.  There’s only one guy who smells like he’s been vomiting up someone else’s shit.  It’s got to be some kind of rancid cologne or something like rotting anal seepage.  No one alive would wear that shit if he really knew what it smelled like.  What the fuck is your problem with the smell?  You’re a bloated bag of pus, and you’re leaking all over my cunting store.

Here he comes, wobbling up to the counter, greasy black hair falling around his head in loose and dirty ringlets.  Nice suit, dickwad.  Going to get buried in that?  Let me guess.  You want to know if we have any Indian porn.  You ask the same fucking question every week.  What is it with you and fucking Indian porn?  Is it the dot?  You want to fuck that dot or something?  Yeah, you know, we do have something today.  Come with me and bring your greasy vomit-shit smell with you.  Let’s go to the Tank.

Ahh, the Spank Tank, the Sticky Room, the Eww Room.  Here you go, you sick fuck.  How about New Delhi First-Time DPs?  Yeah, you like that?  Like that fucking dot, don’t you?  How do you like this, then?  How about if I just grab your head like a melon and drive my thumbs into your fucking forehead and make a dot for you?  Like that?  You screaming because you like it?  I’m tired of playing with you, so one final squeeze.  Love that crunch.  Look at your face. You’re nothing but a smelly pile of gooey brain and broken bone, nice big bloody dot in the middle of your forehead.  Maybe some sick fuck will want to fuck you now, huh, you scat-smelling piece of shit?  It’s not enough that I’ve got you sick fucks jizzin’ all over the cover boxes back here.  Now, I’ve got to clean your shitty mess up, too.

I lick my thumbs.  Fuck!  Your rancid cologne’s stinking up my fucking hands! Goddamn it all to hell.  I can’t bring my fingers to my mouth to lick them clean without tasting your shit-vomit smell.  You fucking better not ruin my lunch, you worthless bastard.

Back to the counter.  What the fuck are you bitching about?  You’ve been waiting for thirty seconds without anyone to help you?  Sorry for your fucking inconvenience, but do you see anyone else working here?  Well do you, honey? Tell you what.  You want that fucking movie?  Fine.  No charge for this one, okay, since you had to wait half a goddamn minute.  Let me just slide it through and demagnetize it for you.  Come on around to the side of the counter.  Here, take the movie.  Right in your gut.  Let me just punch your free movie right into your fucking guts, honey, right up to my elbow.  Hey, can you feel my hand sticking out of your back?  Go ahead, gasp.  Cough and choke that warm blood right into my mouth.  Gurgle yourself into me.  Nothing like a little bloody snowballin’, eh, honey?

Aw, shit.  The tape case is too damn slippery because of all of your blood.  You made me drop it, you clumsy whore.  Well, pick it up.  If you’re going to twitch like that, you’re not going to able to hold onto it, you know.  Fine, fucking fine. Let me help you.  How about if I grab onto your spine and just yank it out for you, right out your fucking stomach.  Yeah, that’s it.  See?  This is your spine in my hand, honey.  Is this the nerve that makes you twitch?  Is this it?  What?  You don’t you want your movie?  Doesn’t matter.  You’re just a messy meat locker on my freshly mopped floor.  Thanks for fucking nothing.

I’ll just suck on your spine for a little treat.  Goddamn, it’s just like sucking a little Bayou crawdad head, the warm juices like a burst boil, right into my mouth.  Hey, I can floss, too, with your severed nerves.  Nice little snack.

Now look at this.  Some dumbass little kid running around my goddamn store all by herself.  Where’s your fucking mom, shit-for-brains?  Oh, I see her, over in the corner wall, looking at new releases, not knowing where the fuck her little shit kid is.  Nice parenting.  You think she’s safe, your little girl, with all of these Tuesday morning freaks in here?  Hey, you want to actually keep track of your child, you fucking twat?  She’s running around, little Suzy Pigtails, running into my fucking displays and knocking my fucking movies off the shelves.  Who’s going to put them back into order again, you, you fucking retard?

Little Suzy Pigtails, I see you.  You smell like bile and cotton candy.  You’re skipping through my store, arms out and flailing, screaming.  Is this your fucking house?  You think you can just run around my store and do whatever you fucking want?  Here’s to good parenting.  Are you watching what happens now, Mommy Pigtails?

Come on, Suzy.  Let me show you all of the fun movies we have in our kiddie kartoon section.  Yeah, you like that?  You like fucking Barney Shoots Smack? Turn your fucking head around, bitch, and look at the mess you made?  I’ll twist your fucking head around.  See the fucking mess?  Who’s going to have to pick that up?  You?  Hell no, not you.  It’s me.  I get the goddamn shit job of cleaning up your goddamn shit mess!  What, my hands grabbing your pigtails too tightly? Screaming for Mommy?  Fine.  This’ll shut you up, you cunting bitch.  Just using your pigtails to hold your head still, my dear.

You like history?  Let’s pretend you’re JFK, and my cock is Oswald’s Magic Bullet.  Right here in your mouth.  Take it.  All of it.  Fucking JFK, shot in the fucking head.  Ramming your little mouth with my magic bullet.  Back and to the left.  Back and to the left.  Gagging and crying for Mommy only makes it sweeter in the end, and here it is, the head shot.  Pow.  The back of your head explodes with my bloody magic cock bullet pushing out your bloody, splintered skull and ruined brain with that sucking sound that gets me every time.  Back and to the left.  Back and to the left.  Now look at that shelf.  You fucking suck.

Hope you don’t mind my tearing out some of that silk hair of yours as I pull myself out and twist your fucking head off.  Just like a frightened little jackrabbit, there, your heart beating so quickly.  First the twist, then a few popping spurts, then up from your neck comes the red gush, the fucking money shot.  Look what you did to my display!  You fucking ruined my display!  Do you see this?  Do you?  How about this, then?  How about I hold your head up, eyes wide, mouth spasming, and I’ll just carry your head around like a lantern and show you your mess.  See the fucking mess you made?  Can you see with your dead eyes wide open where the fucking movies belong on the shelves, you little head, or do I need to put a candle in you and let the love of Jesus shine through your eyes?  Here’s where Fred Fuckstone: Slaterock Bitch goes, and put Babe 3: BLT right there.  Do you get it now, you fucking pigtail lantern?  I think I’ll save you for dessert.  Who doesn’t like cotton candy?

Oh, I can hear Mommy now.  Oh, Suzy Pigtails, where are you?  Here she is.  Just follow the waving lantern.  Look familiar?  Oh, the screams.  God, you’re so annoying with that high pitch screaming.  Whose fault is this?  Is this good parenting?  See?  This is why shouldn’t leave your children unattended.  This is why you should make fucking sure they’re by your side every fucking minute. Next time, get a Goddamn leash on the little fuckers!  You take the stump, but I’m keeping my lantern.  No trade-backs!

What, don’t you want the stump?  Fine.  How about this, then?  I’m tired of you screaming shit at me.  If you’re not going to be an adult and assume some of the responsibility for letting your daughter ruin my fucking store, then how about this?  How about I just dive headlong into your stomach and tear into it?  Nice abs.  You work out?  Shut the fuck up and stop screaming!  Ahh, okay, the sweetbreads.  You could make a mean batch of haggis with what’s in here.  You taste like undercooked pork.  Sheesh.  What did you have for breakfast?  Coffee and toast?  Is that all?  That’s not an ample breakfast, you know.  Where’s the fucking protein?  What?  Nothing to say?  Cat got your tongue?  At least you’ve shut the fuck up.

Jesus Christ.  Look at this Goddamn place!  You dumbasses have fucked up my whole store!  I hate New Release Tuesday.  It’s not even lunchtime yet, and the whole store looks like a fucking slaughterhouse.  I get so sick of the same shit every fucking Tuesday.  I’m just beat.  Tired.  Dead.

Mark Justice is the author of Gauge Black:  Hell's Revenge.  Check it out for more pulpy goodness!  That one's a Western.  Obviously, this Website does not recommend going into zombie video rental stores or clerks being this disgruntled, but it does recommend reading more Mark Justice.  I am pleased to run on his work on drinkdrankdrunk!

Sunday, June 7, 2020

Last Call For The Underground Literary Alliance Anthology!

The Underground Literary Alliance anthology that I am finishing up for Steve Kostecke is done.  30 ULAers are in it, so it will feature the writing of a nice chunk of the group.  It's scheduled to be released on Bloomsday, fitting for a literary anthology.  The delay is to allow a straggler or two to still stumble in and be included.  It will first be distributed to the contributors and those who helped with the project.  Since the pdf and epub anthology is free, they can send/post it anywhere they want.  After that, I will announce it on my email list.  It will be announced on this here blog probably on the next post I do after the release.  In the meantime, it is last call for anyone who wants in the anthology.  I can probably squeeze someone in up to the last minute, earlier in the day on Bloomsday.  After that, since the free time I had which enabled me to do the project is now gone, I am pulling the trigger on the book release that evening, barring any unforeseen catastrophe that is, and moving on to other projects.

So, if you are Doug Bassett, Eric "Jelly Boy The Clown" Broomfield, Matthew Broomfield, Tim Hall, Cynthia Ruth Lewis, Marissa Ranello, Christopher Robin, Phillip Routh, Pat Simonelli, The Urban Hermitt, or Ranger Rita Webb, then please get in touch, as I would like to include a selection by you in the anthology, but I have either been unsuccessful in reaching you or you have not responded yet to my messages (yes, everyone has been contacted or at least attempted to be contacted through multiple avenues at this point).

If you are Yul Tolbert, please approve your proof--I really like your piece but need the final signoff from you to include it.

If you are Leah Smith and Frank Walsh, please get me the pieces which you are writing especially for the anthology.  I appreciate the extra effort.

If you are J.D. Finch, Michael Jackman, or Chris (Zee) Zappone, then please reconsider and agree to be in the anthology.

If you are the next of kin or estate executor for George Balgobin, Joe Pachinko, and Joseph Verrilli, please give permission to include their work.

It is last call.  This ship is sailing.  Anything else is icing on the cake for the book, as it is pretty solid as is, but I would ideally like to include everyone who was involved in the group.  If I forgot anyone, then please get in touch, but I believe everyone else is already in (even Frank Walsh has a poem in already--he's just writing a special bonus as well).

I hope a couple of more writers squeak in before the door closes . . .

As for readers, it is almost here, after 15 years, but if you need something to read in the meantime, then my latest novel is available here.