hello here is a video I made two years ago that I never released because I didn’t think it was very good but now I am less worried about what people think of me so here it is: http://vimeo.com/31623741 and if you don’t like it you can suck an egg right out of your grandmothers eye socket and choke on it and as you fade from this mortal coil you can remember what i said which was “you know what they say look before you leap!”
November 7, 2011
October 15, 2011
There will never be a Dodge chapter two, because Dodge chapter one was ass-lousy. But you can always check out the “art” page for some new pictures I gone and done, and the “films” page for some new films I gone and done.
September 7, 2011
Chapter One: Earth
Edward felt around in his pocket for cigarettes and watched the Seattle Ark lift off, a thick tail of fire from the solid state rocket engines destroying the launchpad, leaving him and six billion other human beings stranded on a doomed Earth. He was out of cigarettes, too.
The sky was already dark with smoke and ash. Edward thought he saw a cigarette butt on the ground, but it turned out just to be a tattered receipt for a sweater. He shrugged and pocketed it anyway, then turned to go find his friends. Shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, he regarded the situation bitterly. He steered himself around a woman, wailing and inexplicably scraping her teeth against the pavement, prostrate with grief- then hopped over another, prostrate with death- before reconsidering and turning back. He crouched down and felt up the dead woman for cigarettes (fruitlessly), then sauntered to the live one.
“Excuse me, miss,” he attempted. “Do you have a cigarette I might be able to borrow?” The woman wailed something unintelligible about her daughter, and continued weeping, bashing her bloodied fists against the ground, tiny black bits of asphalt embedded in the red, raw flesh. This is when Edward saw the small body underneath hers, its limbs bent unnaturally, tiny blue dress torn and spattered with blood and tar. He doubted it had any cigarettes, so he left.
Edward figured his best bet to find his friends was the Boot, or Sel’s Boot Bar and Grill, as it was less colloquially known. Sel was a genial man of 55 who had traveled the world while in the Marines, then later traveled the world to escape his joyless marriage, then later founded a bar to celebrate his wife’s untimely death and large life insurance policy. He had many stories to tell, but didn’t tell any of them unless one got him sufficiently drunk; which was relatively easy to do, as he tended bar and was also a dyed in the cirrhosis alcoholic. Sometimes, you could catch him holding a picture of a beautiful Oriental girl and crying softly.
Most people, normal people did not like the Boot. Edward and friends loved the Boot. The Boot was a place where one went to forget their troubles, by accidentally creating new ones (by this of course, I am referring to accidental friendship destroying casual sex, race-fueled punchups, vomiting into ones’ purse, etc.) . Its atmosphere was difficult to describe to the uninitiated, but could be best described as “unfortunate”. Edward blamed the geometry of the place- it was set on a hill, and was slightly uneven, so there were about 7 or 8 single step stairs scattered throughout the building’s beer-stained pine floor, just to keep it all even- giving the impression of a sawtooth wave set to architecture. It also made drunk people fall down a lot, which provided great entertainment to Edward and his friends.
Edward walked through a group of protesters, who, having just watched their very last chance to leave the Earth blast off into the atmosphere, had stopped protesting and were now unsure of what to do with themselves. They started to drift apart, and some bright souls started making vague references to the health benefits of orgies.
The Boot was a good 26, 27 blocks away. Edward hoped he wasn’t hit by something heavy or on fire on his way there. If one has to die, he thought to himself, one should die with friends. Or with alcohol, which, thankfully, The Boot also had. He hoped to God that he found some cigarettes on his walk. No man should have to walk 27 blocks without a smoke break.
Edward steeled himself, took a deep breath of stinking charred flesh, concrete dust, the harsh tang of carcinogenic smoke, the bouquet of a dying world (still not as good as a cigarette, he lamented), and started up the insurmountable hill of E. Denny Way.
November 6, 2010
November 1, 2010
I tear at my skin with cracked fingernails. It begins to come off in red and white sheets, especially in the areas I have prepared with liquid nitrogen. I can still feel the teeth burrowing deeper but I can’t seem to catch up. A fair haired man in a lab coat, whose name I believe is “Stefan”, approaches me, making loud noises and clapping. Annoying fellow. I spray his eyes with the canister of nitrogen and he goes away.
I peel off the skin covering my kneecap and inspect the chalkwhite bone for bite marks. I clamp my nails through my chin flesh thoughtfully and postulate a hypothesis regarding the endoskeletal organ regenerative properties the gnawing little things’ secretions may contain. I turn to an eviscerated Macaque and discuss my inferences. My own voice sounds wetly harsh and glottal, which I fear may make it difficult to understand, but the monkey carcass appears to comprehend.
“Look, Patricia,” it begins. “I understand where you’re coming from with your hypothesis, but I really don’t think that this is most objective experiment. Where’s your control group? And considering that this is an isolated incident to the best of your knowledge, you’ve really gone and made a mess of the only evidence you’re aware of. And, you still have one of your eyes, so this is hardly a double-blind.”
We share a chuckle over that, and then I ask the Macaque, whose name is Charlotte, what it would have me do. It doesn’t respond, which at first frightens me most severely, but then I see that she has reached out her hand, warm and small in my palm as I take it and caress the flayed folds gently with my thumb.
She’s so warm against me.
It’s time to leave! I shout against the sounds of venting fans and rupturing equipment. I hold Charlotte to my breast and stand, immediately toppling to the ground as my rightmost leg portion splits in two. I wish I could say that this caused me no pain, but there was a quantifiable sense of unpleasant stimuli resulting from significant nerve damage, and a temporary loss of sight.
Charlotte and I press each other close during these hard times. I feel her tiny penis begin to grow and harden against my stomach, and I begin to feel slick and warm in my Aristotle’s repeatability dictum, glowing through my gut and out of my mouth onto a scattering of papers torn from a box entitled “NCP-01″. But there’s no time for hanky panky when I’m pulling ourselves up into a recently vacated and slightly blood-damp wheelchair, which I do with what can only be described as “gusto”.
My legs may be stripped to the bones but my arms work like gangbusters on the wheels, vaulting me over toppled equipment and body parts, steam stinging my cheeks and hands.
I remember my seventh birthday, my sister holding me down and burning me with her cigarettes every time I screamed into her hand as her boyfriend raped me. Later, we would all go get pie from a shop that had its pies under glass domes. I chose key lime, and ate it all.
Security guards swarm, blinded by the gas spraying from the ruptured container, eating through my safety glasses but not to my eye yet. Charlotte’s skin boils and pops in the lazily drifting swatches of atmosphere, and so does mine. My nose starts to leak and I begin to lose memories to the spattering bloody rain.
And then, they are all gone. I feed Charlotte my slice of key lime and go to sleep.
July 3, 2010
May 5, 2010
Bill and Sarah were walking side by side down the riverwalk, holding hands, but not each others. The real owners of the hands sat grumpily 800 yards away in a science fiction themed pub called “The Geronimo”, frowning listlessly at the twisted stubs and wondering just how they were going to buy lemon twists now. Sarah leaned over to Bill and planted a kiss on his cheek. Frightened, he waved at her with the hands and fell backwards into the river, where he promptly sank to the bottom, because his pockets were filled with stones and lead sculptures of Marie Antoinette. Sarah quickly cut all of her clothes into ribbons and tied them into a lasso to lower down to him, but the hands tied to the end for buoyancy simply floated on the top like a splatted spider.
Bubbles rose to the surface of the oily water. Sarah gasped and dove hipfirst to rescue her Billybill. She immediately dropped to the bottom of the riverbed, where Bill was getting sucked down through the silt and covering his mouth with his exposed soles. Sarah grabbed him by the eyesockets and dragged him up, but he was stuck. Thinking fast, she twisted her body upside down and ate all the silt out around from him, freeing him, whereupon he floated to the surface.
Four weeks later, they were both rescued from a sea trolley by a man with a parasol decorated with glow in the dark Inspector Closeau decals.
April 14, 2010
This is an old story, but my e-friend Matthew Doyle convinced me to bring it out of retirement. And by retirement I mean the “maybe throw away at some point in the future” folder on my hard drive.
I am a mighty dinosaur, and I am sinking into a tar pit. I don’t have to tell you that I regret several of my actions which led me to this point.
And still, my neck is very long, and the tar feels quite warm and comforting; which is in stark contrast to all of the suffocating it will be doing in a minute. But I have time to think
(Please stop complaining about my usage of “and”s and “but”s at the beginnings of sentences, and my misuse of the semicolon. I am a dinosaur, not a grammarian)
before I sink into the inky, crusty goo. I don’t have much time to think, just sit and think, these days. And I certainly won’t in a few minutes, ha ha.
Times be hard for a dinosaur. The leaves all seem to have gone, and as delicious ferns and trees provide my only source of sustinence, I have had to walk long distances to simply fill my children’s bellies, much less my own. I hope it doesn’t get any colder, for their sake.
I bray a bit, but of course nobody can hear me.
If it does get much colder, most of my friends and family will die from starvation or the cold. I know Pops isn’t doing too well as it is; he certainly won’t be able to last another freeze like the one we had last week. If it gets any colder… could I be the last dinosaur to die warm?
Ha ha. Tarpit humor.
The main problem with it getting so cold is that it interrupts the carefully compiled instincts our tribe has slowly, slowly established over the many many years we’ve trodded around on this earth. Then it gets cold, and all the carefully constructed info about child rearing, food sources, and so on… it all just sinks into a tarpit.
Nice to have the company.
The problem with overriding a single instinct, such as where to find food, is that the whole groupthink tribal instinctive patterns just go at once, and every dinosaur has to think for themselves for every facet of their slow plodding existance, which often leads to disaster, misery, and some fool getting his fat ass stuck and dead in a tarpit.
Normally, if one of those sharp faced, whip tailed bastards had killed one of my children and dragged her steaming corpse into the woods, I would have cowered with the rest of the tribe.
But I was mad.
I wanted to stomp on their babies
I wanted to break them into red mud
I wanted them to feel pain
So I followed them
And now I’m up to my neck in tar. I struggle, I yell, and soon, very soon now, I’m going to die. I guess instincts are there for a reason, huh.
So as I begin to suffocate, I think- what’s the point of being big and strong if I can’t even protect my babies? What’s the point of anything if I just die breathing in tar, all alone? Has my entire life been as worthless as it seems now?
Hell, I haven’t even had a single worthwhile thought while sinking.
February 8, 2010
I roll my eyes lazily around the speckled ceiling tiles, replaying the incident in the Mexican Grocers and Eateria earlier that day in my mind. A tie wrapped around a detective’s neck opens the door and walks in. The detective smiles genially.
“Mr. Cole?” I perk up to inform him that he has, in fact, wandered into the correct room. He motions for me to sit, but I am already sitting, and am slightly confused. He takes a chair himself and drops onto it.
“Thanks for coming in, we just need to quick get your official statement on what happened at the Eateria, and then you can head on out.” He takes out a tape recorder and ons it. “Oh, sure,” I respond, phlegmily, then clear my throat. “So I was buying a twenty pack of tortillas at the-”
He waves me down. “Sorry, can we get your full name and address for the…” he motions towards the recorder. I lean forward and nod.
“Howard Baxter Cole, uh, 3515 West Taft Rd.”
“Good, okay, please continue, Mr. Cole.”
“Okay. I was at the Mexican Grocers and Eateria on 5th street at around 11 this morning, and I was grabbing a twenty pack of tortilla shells to make some wraps, and then this dude with a ski mask came in with a shotgun and was like “ahhhh, give me your” my voice hushes, “fucking”, then back to normal “money” and stuff… and I was hiding underneath a shelf full of limes at that point, so I didn’t see him leave or anything. Apparently he got the money.”
The detective nods and scratches his elbow. “Can you describe the assailant, in as much detail as possible?”
I shrug. “I didn’t really see much of him. He was wearing a ski mask. I hit the floor pretty quick.”
The detective cocks an eyebrow and squints. “Would you mind going into greater detail?”
“I dunno, he was wearing a green jacket. Or gray. Green or gray.”
“Was it green or gray?”
“I dunno, green, I think.”
He purses his lips. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I assure you it is in your best interest to assist us fully, Mr. Cole.”
I am not entirely sure what is going on.
“What color was his hair?”
“I… I don’t know, he was wearing a ski mask.”
“I will ask you one more time, what color was his hair?”
“What? How am I supposed to know? He was wearing a ski-”
“I know what he was wearing, Mr. Cole. Is he someone you know? Is that why you’re protecting him?”
“I- I’m not protecting him, I-”
“Either you’re protecting him or I don’t know what the hell you are doing. Is this a joke to you? What the hell are you doing, Cole?”
“What? What? I don’t…”
The detective jumps up, rage pouring out of his eyeballs into my face.
“GODDAMN it, Cole, do you know how long an obstruction of justice can land you in a prison? And not a fag-boy wipe your ass on paper and sniff lollipops in jail cell, a real goddamn fucking exponentially doubling your bleeding anus’s circumference, for-life prison!”
I stand up suddenly at this unexpectedly explicit threat. “He… he had brown eyes, I think,” I stammer at the glistening detective’s beet red face.
“From this point ONWARD,” he hisses at my head. “We are TREATING you as a SUSPECT in this case as an ACCOMPLICE of the ASSAILANT.”
I continue to stammer, hoping that it will help. The detective reaches for me, and I leap backwards, toppling a stack of folders. I just need a second to formulate a response to stop whatever it is that is happening. The detective lunges for me and I smack his arm away. We both realize at the same time that this was a bad decision on my part. I frown as his fist swings towards my cheek, and am knocked into something hard. I blink rapidly and decide I have to get out of this situation, quickly, and do something rather silly.
However, the gun doesn’t come out of its holster as smoothly as I had been expecting. Instead it holds firm, and the detective and I look at each other for a moment that lasts far too long. My brain decides that panic is probably the best course of action, and I decide that it is probably correct. My legs run out the door, but my hands have already committed themselves to stealing a cop’s gun, so the detective hops/runs alongside me, attempting to wrestle away my grip and raining down blows on my crouched back and head.
I consider my present situation, and decide that I have, at some indeterminite point in the past, made a very poor decision.
We round a corner and four police officers turn to identify the source of the whimpering noises coming from my mouth. Luckily, the awkward silence resulting from the situation is halted when I receive a rather severe right hook to my jaw and am suddenly on the floor. Also on the floor, the detective’s gun in my hand.
“Hm,” I mumble, and maneuver myself onto my feet, pointing the gun at the fivesome of blue suits and 9mm Berettas aimed at my chest. They are shouting something, but I can’t really be sure of what it is other than there is a lot of the words “DOWN” and “SHOOT YOU”. I smile apologetically and run away.
There is a pop from behind me and something on a nearby wall explodes into plaster dust. I make a noise that sounds like “eep”. There are some more pops and I dive sideways into another hallway. I seem to be bleeding rather a lot from my upper right arm oh god right anyway onwards and upwards there is a staircase here and I scamper up it.
I am clasping the gun very tightly as blood trickles between my palm and the grip, and am in quite a lot of pain. However, I am on the roof, which is nice. A contrail slowly fades away in the distance. Cars pass on a road several floors below. I stumble over to the edge and peek down, leaving a trail of red spots.
My improvised doorjam of a paintbucket laid on its side does very little to impede the pursuing officers. They leap up the final set of stairs and I direct the nozzle of the gun towards them, attempting to make clear that I am not afraid to use it to barter passage to not-getting-shot-any-more. They do not seem to understand, so I fire off a single round. I am not sure where it hits, but it is certainly nowhere near any of the police. However, they take it as an invitation to shoot at me, and in a very short order I feel a very unpleasant thud in my chest and I fall backwards, off the top of the building.
I am not dead, but I am having a lot of trouble breathing and the flagpole I am hanging from doesn’t really seem to be able to support my weight. The police are peeking their heads over the edge. I fire at them, and they fire at me. I don’t think either of us hit each other with bullets. This is a bad place to be. I see a window several feet to my left, and begin swinging my legs to reach it. I can’t quite make it. I attempt to cross the last few inches by letting go of the flagpole and wallrunning to it. It works about as well as you’d expect.
I wake up several flows below on the sidewalk. Much to my surprise, nothing hurts at all. I stand up, feeling kind of numb and euphoric. I blink a lot of red stuff out of my eyes and hail down a cab, and get inside. I ask the driver to please take me to the hospital, but she just turns around and screams at me. I turn and see her two toddlers sitting in the back seat of the minivan I am bleeding into. She grabs them and I am left alone in the minivan. I look and see police milling out of the building. I cough up blood and drag myself to the drivers seat.
I pull away from the curb into a parked car.
January 11, 2010
I was cutting a rug in the basement of the Misplaced Genital Fuzz Rash to forget my troubles when a girl of appropriate height and requisite weight did some unknowable type of boogaloo over to me. We exchanged nods. The music was a blaring death-moan of a beluga whale being clubbed to death with mixtables as the two of us bobbed together in a sea of glaring neon. Her face was pockmarked with the black death and slathered with makeup. We began to laugh as the moans increased to an undulating, drumbeat-interrupted scream of pain.
The girl was wearing a striped t-shirt over a tight body, and before I realized what was happening we were back at her apartment, tongues punching at the back of each others throats. It was a grisly scene for her roommates, two straight laced ponytails with worry smudged glasses sticking out the front. I beckoned to them with a curled finger, but they had already left out the front door, unoccupied chairs mocking my seductive gaze. My hand danced around the back of the girl’s shirt only to find it not there, a bizarre and horrible plastic contraption replacing it, connecting a padded fabric covering her chest to itself.
The girl giggled as I tried to make sense of the complicated latching mechanism, and spilled several pills onto the table. I would later learn these were methylenedioxymethamphetamine, but at the time I was on a bit too much E to care.
My breath caught in my throat and I began to cry. The entwined padlock of plastic and fabric twisted and stretched under my clumsy fingers, my face contorted, my vision blurry and distorted. The girl’s laughs became louder and louder.
I stopped myself, breath loud in my ears. Plastic and fabric, these should not pose a significant obstacle in a man’s pursuit of that thing she’s been doing oh god fabric is easily cut and the plastic is soft a knife a knife can get through that so easily like butter she’s like butter the knife cuts through like butter
My hands fill with red, and I pause. I the brassiere slides off, and I am overjoyed.
Moment of clarity. I just stabbed a much younger girl to death with a kitchen knife to remove her bra. I look around and breathe a sigh of relief, at least her roommates weren’t here to see this. How embarrassing. I am probably not in the greatest state of mind to deal with this, but like my momma said, Ecstacy is the Einstein drug. All it takes is a little concentration and you can something something I down the entire bottle of pills and immediately go blind.
I grope around the dead girl’s apartment and think of a way to get myself out of this sticky situation. I stab the girl a few more times to stop her from making that noise, then drag her to the window. Out of window, out of mind. There is a crash and a scream from below, and I decide to call my mother. I wander around until I find a telephone in the inkiness and dial the number.
“Hi, mom.” I say, hiding my sheer terror at the thought that she might see me naked from the waist down, cool air blowing at my nethers from the loud open window.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Hi, mom, it’s Rube, I was wondering if you could help me out.”
“Who is this! You’re not making any sense!”
“It’s Rube, mom! I’m at this… friend’s apartment and I was wondering if maybe I could get a ride.”
“You’re not making… you’re not speaking… is this Rube?”
“Yes this is Rube. Mom I just need-”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you leave me the… fuck… alone.”
There was a gutteral click and an electronic hum, and I stumbled backwards into a potted plant, or a third roommate. I shrieked with primal fury and clawed at it, then drop kicked in its general direction, missing and landing with a sharp crack on one of my arms. Half of my blindness flared neon, gay nightclub pink.
The top of my vision suddenly came back, the top venetian blind gone, a slit for me to peek through. Men in suits were crowding around me, sunglasses and earpieces and finely combed moustaches. One was shouting into his wrist. I dragged myself across the carpet and they didn’t seem to notice, fibers rubbing across my face. A TV is on, silent and broadcasting my face. I am wearing a suit, and debating an Asian diplomat about tax reform. I am losing.
The men drag me to my private highly modified Boeing 747-200B and we sit in the dining room as we drift away to my home, where I expect to die of natural causes.