Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Entering and Breaking

To hell with the lot of you. You can’t rush art.
Arali: And your excuse is…?
Pipe the fuck down.
Donut: PtFD
Wait, you’re agreeing with me?

Donut: Hell no, I just like saying PtFD, so PtFD and write.
I will kill you.
Donut: Shutting up now.
Shemo: Is this going to happen before Christmas?
Aethon: That’s what he said?
You know these ‘That’s what’ jokes are getting old quick.
Sky: So stop writing them.
Malina: Yeah, what kind of writer lets his characters abuse him?
Well only one of them is technically mine, so –
Arali: Excuses; bored now.
Salem:  I demand satisfaction. And by satisfaction I mean booze.
Arali: Ahem, and wenches.
Salem: Those I can provide on my own, bloody ragtop.
Ugh, all of you are my enemies for life until I forget. Just shut up and read the frickin’ bi-annual update already.
Malina: What crawled up his ass? So touchy.
Aethon: Who knows, I’ll just get this going while he adjusts the stick.
            The silence was a gift.

            It wasn’t that Aethon didn’t enjoy the company of his fellow geeks, except for Arali – it definitely was that he didn’t enjoy her company, but being around them demanded more headspace than he was willing to sacrifice for the cause. He thrived on the introspective, the comforting lull of the eternal whirling of his gears. It gave him time to rewind, to recharge his batteries and replenish his energy reserves. The social program required constant output, and it was taxing to operate continuously. It was bad enough before the world lost its magic, but the isolation was essential for his continued functioning in this cold coded world.

            Of course, Rani hadn’t exactly given the gift of silence in its entirety when he sent Aethon on the information gathering mission. Rani may have set the scene, but it was Aethon who tweaked the software to tune out the mental transmissions. E.T could phone home all he wanted; no one was going to answer. It was just Aethon and his revolver, a six-shooter he chose for the reassurance of its hefty weight and simple function. It was loud and efficient; Aethon had no need for the increased margin of error that came with the additional moving parts of more modern weaponry. He didn’t need sliding clips or laser sight; all he needed was a basic point and shoot execution to extract the required files. Six shots were a half-dozen too many if the plan compiled correctly. If not, then it was six chances to debug or escape before total system shut down.

            “If I were Rani: I would leap in through the window in a manner as loud and conspicuous as I can manage. I would then draw more attention to myself with dramatic dialogue and waste ammunition and energy in exchanging taunts and fire with security. This would ultimately result in a climatic death match for the information that would see me victorious despite a grievous yet non-crippling injury . At some point Arali and/or Malina would be require me to save them and fall in love with me in the process. Then any logical fallacies with the aforementioned scenario would remain unaddressed as we transitioned into the implied sex scene and my injury would never again be referenced. We’ll call that approach ‘Deus Ex Rania’. We’ll call my approach ‘Superior’.”

            Aethon’s gloved fingers moved deftly across the tablet on his palm as he entertained the motions of the prerequisite soliloquy required for the Rani-bashing element of his eccentric devices.  The sequence activated in tandem with his conclusion to the pseudo narration, granting him entry in the compound’s security system. From there it was a simple manipulation of the remote access to unlock the entrance closest to where he knew the object resided. Just like that, he was in.
            “And that, kids, is how we turn a mountain into a mole hill.” Muttered the agent as he cockily strode the corridors of the facility with what can only be described as an arrogant swagger. A swagger that was clumsily converted into a stumble with the tell-tale whirring that offered a warning lasting less than nano-seconds before the steel portals slammed shut around him and began to glow red hot.

            The firewall had been activated, he was locked in.


Arali: Another cliff-hanger, what a shock.

Aethon: I see what you did there.

Arali: Huh?

I don't think she sees what she did there. 

Aethon: Apparently not. Still, I just want to point out that I see what he did there with the computer/machine references. I like where I think this is going.

Ara: Oh, that. Yeah, I totally knew he was doing that. Computers and stuff.

Donut: Someone said something about a sex scene?

Suffering and torment: that's what you all have in store.

Malina: You mean worse than reading this?

You wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?

Malina: Which one of us is that insulting, really?

Screw you guys, I'm going to bed.

Monday, November 4, 2013

Short and Bitter

I know, I know, this is insanely overdue. I make no excuses; to say I’ve been busy with life is like saying the citrus grove is busy with fruit.
            Shemo: Less talky, more story.
            Malina: Someone wake me up when something interesting happens.
            Donut: I’m here, wake her up.
            That’s what he said?
            Donut: Aren’t you supposed to writing, sir?
            Shemo: I’m pretty sure he is.
            Aethon: Counting you two…only two people care.
            Ara: That’s mean. I’m sure Ray cares.
            Salem: So two and a half?
            Ara: Silly Sally, being rude to the awesome author is never wise.
            Aethon: Suck up. It must be her turn.
            Donut: Bowchick…eh, I got nothing.
            I’m killing someone this post; just thought I’d share that with the class.
            Cricket: Chirp.

            “What the- ugh?” Ara’s pale features pinched in disgust at the sight of the cricket corpse stuck to the bottom of her recently immaculate boot. The carapace oozed a thick colorless liquid as she kicked the gravel path in vain hopes of removing the story’s first casualty.

            Save some for your kindred, killer.

            The short soul spun on a stained hell, eyes darting for the source of the strange voice that seemed to radiate from everywhere. All around her soulless abominations continued to gather, oblivious to Rani’s voiceover antics.

            “How the hell are you doing that?” The whisper came out harsh and loud to her ears, but she didn’t know which direction to speak in to be heard by Rani without freckled ears eavesdropping.

            Thought-speak is a narrator perk of this saga. I can hear anything said or thought as long as it’s directed to me.

            “Well that’s a fun plot device.” Mouthed Ara, glancing around and feeling only slightly less foolish than having actually spoken out loud. “Does it come with some magical easy button that stops the crimson carpet brigade from thinking I’m a crazy person?”

            Did you really just use the terms ‘easy button’ and ‘crimson carpet’ in the same sentence? If you’re trying to taunt Salem; the others can’t hear us. He’s busy trying to provoke me anyway.

            “Oh ha, the easy button is underneath the crimson carpet, that’s so funny and mature. If you dare come back with a tiled remark, I will go Liam Nelson on your ass.” She was officially getting weird looks from the amassing redheads. This was so a fucking bad idea. Redhead Day, she immensely regretted bringing the event to Rani’s attention. “Why did I have to come and not you?”

            You’d be surprised how often women ask-

            “Rai! Focus, you’re the one bogging us down now. It’s not funny when I’m in the mild of a picnic that serves only carrot tops.”

            Fine. It’s because it’s Redhead Day, not Redbeard day.

            “Bastard. We need to sit down and have a long talk when this is over. I –“

            Don’t say it.

            “I miss you, dammit.”

            No you don’t. You’ve been too busy to even think about me.

            “Well I would miss you if I had time to. And I do think about you, every time I think about Ninja Turtles.”

            OH SHIT! Get - Something was wrong, it sounded like Churs had been caught by surprise.

            “Rani?! What’s going on? Rani?” Ara didn’t care that she was practically yelling and gaining the soul starved stares of the mob of rangas. Her distress for Rani was deterred when she noticed a disturbing fact. There was no shortage of cutlery, but no sign of food.

            We’re fine, had a close call but we’re fine. I lost contact with Salem, check it out when you’re through there.
            “Uhm, Rai, we have a problem. It’s a fucking trap.” Fight or flight, there was only one smart option. With so many gathered against her, all visibly armed and closing in rapidly, her only chance was to get the hell out of there. If she had her powers she could’ve made short work of them, but she wasn’t going to play Irish roulette while swimming in a sea of red.

            Bail. We’ll meet you at Sal’s place.

            Aerie didn’t even waste the breath to dignify that with a response, she was already putting boots to ground. She was no stranger to running and quickly put distance between herself and the ginger horde, so she thought.

            “Oh shit.” Echoed the woman, unconcerned about the scuff damage to her boots as she skidded to a halt. There was nowhere further to run, the ground before ended in a suddenly cliff. If the fall wasn’t enough to kill her, which it definitely was, the visible shoals jutting from the frothing ocean would be enough to do the trick ten times over.

            She was trapped.

            "Well this just can't any worse." Resigning to her fate to completely destroy the boots and outfit, which was very stylish despite the narrator's lazy refusal to describe it, Ara flourished a knife from her thigh sheath and sent the blade sinking deep into the eye socket of the scarlet fever victim leading the crimson charge.

           "You have got to be kidding me." Moaned the now very distressed damsel as the struck foe continued looming closer, squirming maggots dripping from the wound and a foul smell of putrid flesh and rotting organs assaulting her senses as the glamour disguising the lumbering legion vanished. The event was not Redhead Day, as she thought she was investigating, but Reddead Day.


Monday, September 9, 2013

Power Struggle

More language,(this should go without saying, given that this has Sal in it) and length – 
            Donut: That’s the way she likes it.
            Shut up. This’ll be longer than the previous ones by request(so maybe I do negotiate with terrorists). Quiturbitchin’.
            Shemo: I resent that.
            To ‘ell with both of you; let’s get this show on the road.
            Sabine: Touchy touchy.
            Oh sure, your characters want to talk to me now that I’m writing about the other three.
            Sky: Well now we have a reason to read this since you weren’t going to include us otherwise.
             I’m just going to ignore the implications of that, fix the fourth wall firmly back in place and write. You’re not getting the last word.
            Sabine: Sure we’re not.


            “Ahem, you bloody git.” The Scot stated loudly to his apparent favorite person, himself. “That’s Mr. Salem Norongachi to you. I’ll have none of this familiar shit from you. You never call, you never write. Don’t go all ‘Sal’ on me; bollocks to that.”

            At this point in his soliloquy to the sky, for he was alone on a hilltop overlooking little more than pastures and farmland, Mr. Salem Norongachi suddenly found himself doubting the security of his armor. He examined the display built into the wrist of his suit, checking for any readings that would signal the swift and harsh retribution of a scorned narrator. He wasn’t entirely certain the bounty hunter armor would protect him from the twisted imagining of a certain eccentric writer. There were few things he feared, but he could think of a couple things that did the trick – running out of alcohol or being the victim of a rough ranga rape comparable only to the conception of Ronald McDonald.

            “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be here going about my role in the story and respecting that feckin’ fourth wall like a good Sal.” Fortune smiled upon the man in that moment, for the randy grizzly bear prowling nearby narrowly missed catching his scent due to the freakish shift in the direction of the wind. Whether by divine intervention or mercy of an unseen omnipresent force, the drunkard extraordinaire was spared one hell of an overly familiar encounter.

            “I’ll have any readers know that tales of my drunkenness are greatly exaggerated. Contrary to dicktactular belief, I can function just fine without alcohol. Also, if you be female, I’ll be more than happy to check your functions. Call me, just don’t tell the missus.”

            A more novice storyteller might take the breathy mutterings as a challenge to his authority and retaliate in the form of sweet electric vengeance plummeting from the newly formed storm clouds. Or he might even sink so low as to trade insults with the man who could’ve passed as a one-eyed scruffy nerf herder in a galaxy far far away. Not our narrator, however, he’s a professional. Also, he’s humble. And single, ladies.

            “If you’re going to kill me, just do it already. I’d rather be locked in a room with Gingerclap than suffer through this abomination of a story. Am I going to stand on this hill all damn day looking at turkeys or is this trainwreck going somewhere other than down the shitter?” Sal spoke with the utmost love and affection, even if he didn’t know it. The respect and kinship was just hiding under the veil of agitation and boredom. Hiding very well, but hiding nonetheless.

            “As much as I’m enjoying the attention, dear sir, are you by any chance aware that you’ve already given me more screen time at this point than the combined entire cast of the last post. Clearly the spotlight follows greatness.” Sal knew he was bluffing, as did the narrator from behind the shattered remnants of his precious fourth wall, but they each also knew that no one cared enough to run a word count to dispute the claim.

            One of them had more pressing matters to attend to, like the pressure of a booted foot colliding with their back.

            Sal had been so distracted by his taunting that he had failed to notice the security team creeping up the hill behind him. The impact of the brutal kick sent him reeling off the overlook and crashing painfully into the electric fence below. Every fiber of  his being thrashed and convulsed as the current wound through him and the suit, shorting out various components and wrecking havoc on man and machine. His last thought before consciousness was ripped from him was one born of seething anger and extreme pain.

            ‘Fucking arsehole, that was a bloody cheap shot.’

           Okay, so I lied about this one being longer and about it incorporating Ara and Aethon. Blame Sal for being difficult and my other obligations.

Ara: Dude, this story needs more Ara.
Aethon: I think she means this fence needs more Ara.
Ara: Point taken. Carry on not abusing the Aerie.
Shemo: Still not long enough.
Donut: Aww, bow chicka.

 I hate you all.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

The Calm

Rani, Sabine, Sky and Shemo

            “Wally World clones. Gingerator. Gingervitius. Redhead Day. This is nucking futs.” Sabine continued muttering dark nothings under her breath, perfectly at ease conversing with herself as she again fiddled with the neckline of her shirt from the comfort of the passenger seat.

            “It’s out there, even for Rani.” Sky agreed.

            Rani diverted his gaze from the road to treat the rearview to a murderous glare, but Sky was too occupied staring out the window to notice his feinted anger. Or so she seemed to want him to believe, but the smirk struggling to surface betrayed her amusement.

            “Wally World is the ginger of the corporate world; it makes sense that they’d be making clones to power the ginger army.” Shemo observed, likewise watching the blurred scenery when Rani glanced at her reflection.

            “I don’t know if Wally World is behind it, but most of the clone sightings seem to happen there. That’s what we’re going to find out. Aethon, Arali and the drunk are scouting the other leads, so we’re going to need to get in and out as fast as possible in case any of them need back up.” Rani grimaced as spoke, waiting for the inevitable tasteless innuendo. When awkward seconds passed and none came –

            “Okay, now that’s just baiting us. ‘When awkward seconds passed and none came’; are you narrating this story or describing your sex life?” Sabine smiled innocently, and Rani felt her hand on his leg as he made it a point to keep his eyes on the road. The effort of biting back a response was clearly visible to the women, if their soft laughter was any indication.

            “Good boy.” Sabine purred, removing her hand and shifting her seat. Risking a quick glance confirmed Rani’s suspicions; she held a knife. His willpower had paid off in spades, and other things, as it usually did when dealing with the blond bane of his existence.

            It was bullshit. Not only was Rani enjoying the luxury of having a roof to ward against what was looking to be a masterpiece of a shitstorm about to drop on him from the gray heavens, but he was also hogging all the strange. Donut would have been more than happy to give one of them a ride, except for the off-limits Sabine, and he would have even let them be bitch on his bike afterward. But no, the only person getting wet was going to be him if they didn’t win the race against the pissed off sky. If the growling and rumbling was any hint, he was FUBAR with a capital F and a rusty storm colored dildo. God, he hated being in the rain on his bike.

            “Die slow, bastard,” The Spartan muttered to himself as he trailed the car, watching the girls laugh at what was probably one of Rani’s jokes. Any other time Rani would play the wingman, but apparently he was keeping all the super-powered play for himself. Knowing the jackass as he did, Rani probably stuck him with a bunch of ironic and utterly useless powers.

“MILF powers, activate.”  Actually, that one wouldn’t be so bad. He would have to mention the idea to Rani when he had a – “About damn time.”

            Rani was turning into the Wally World parking lot; they were there.

            “Alright ladies and Sab, let’s get this party started.”

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Tentative Team

“The. Ginger. Apocalypse.” Ara repeated slowly, one hand raising absently to brush her own scarlet locks behind a dainty ear, and exhaled the anger she had been holding on to. “You would. You fucking would.”

            “Dibs on offing Ginger-head. Someone give me a battleaxe and clear the way for a running start.” Sal backed up as he spoke, squaring his shoulders and readying himself to charge. Widening his stance, he sank low into a runner’s crouch before halting in place. “What are you gits staring at? Can’t you take a bloody joke?”

            Shemo looked up from her dark broodings long enough to tilt her head toward the fireplace, above which two axes were crossed on a plaque. Ara caught the motion and replied with a scowl sharp enough to slice through steel. Shemo answered only in silence, though the creature in her lap paused in its purring long enough to contribute a hiss to the exchange.

            “Have synchronized cycles, do we?” Sal stated blithely, abandoning his preparations for the charge. Clearly uninterested in whatever retort Ara offered, the Scot busied himself taking a long draught from his ever-present flask. The man only slowed his consumption long enough to mutter ‘snide bitch’ before resuming his pursuit of inebriation.

            “It’s not being snide, it’s being snarky.” Aerie shot back defensively.

            “Snark is the idiot’s version of wit.” Quoted Aethon without looking up from the fire as he prodded the logs listlessly.

            “Har har. Are we through ganging up on me?” Ara took a deep breath and shot Rani a withering glare that made Shemo’s early stare seem like a clay spoon in comparison. “If you dare try to slide in a ‘that’s what she said’, your nonexistent descendents will be plagued by nightmares of the damage I would inflict to you.”

            The silence that followed was pregnant enough to spawn octuplets and tangible enough to club a troll. The tension may have boiled over until the proverbial steam stripped flesh from bones were if not for Donut’s characteristic immunity to the warning signs of the provoked female. The narcissist raced to snatch an axe from above the mantle and toss it urgently to a Sal that almost missed the catch in his shock.

            “Quick! Cut off its head and kill it with fire.”

            Rani stepped forward with a calming hand raised, exhaling a sigh that would inspire the envy of the combined cast of Twilight. Closing his eyes and taking in a slow breath, the sporadic writer took a moment to quell the urge to savagely butcher his friends and partners in crime. When the blood lust no longer tinted his vision red and his pulse slowed to a mere ninety miles per hour, he cleared his throat as loudly as he could without damaging his throat.

            “We can bicker and banter after we get this show on the road. This is a serious mission and the stakes are high.” Donut’s comment on vampires died a painful and premature death due to the scorching gaze Rani fixed upon him as a preventive measure. “The situation is more complex then we all thought. Not every redhead is the enemy, surprisingly enough, nor do all our enemies have red hair. The redheads that have forsaken their soulless ways and joined our side are called ‘Short Souls’. Ara is a Short Soul. Treacherous non carrot-tops that have joined the ranga agenda are known as spirit gingers. Make no mistake; while they may not resemble Pippi Longstocking, they have no souls. Most of this I can fill you in on a need to know basis, but that is something you need to know going in. Now let’s get this scene wrapped up and I’ll fill each of you in on your role in the off-screen transition.”

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Reluctant Reunion

            Warning: Language.

            The room was desolate with disuse, dust and cobwebs creeping across the darkness to claim the once lively lounge. Only months ago the room had served as the meeting place for a motley group of dysfunctional characters. That storyline had been cut tragically short by the brutal demise of the host and the others had faded back into their own stories without the unifying figure.

            Until now.

            The sounds of footfalls began as the phantom of an echo, and slowly built to a steady cadence. Raymond entered the room without fanfare, dressed plainly in a simple blue shirt and dark jeans. The man let his gaze slowly take in the room, soaking in the flood of memories washing over him. After several long moments, he nodded to himself and with deliberation moved to the fireplace. With the aid of a minute’s effort and his trusty gray Zippo, the embers growled soothingly amongst the kindling until the logs caught and a small but healthy fire blossomed.

            Where the light of the flame reached, transformation took place. Darkness bled into Raymond’s outfit until he was outfitted in midnight, and his features softened and shifted until the smirking figure was no longer the man who had entered the room to return life and light to it. Rani was back from the dead, and it was time for another story.

            “Geek Squad assemble.” With those three words, seven forms appeared to join the first, few of which looked pleased to have been summoned. Shock and anger filled the room, with annoyance and agitation bristling to fill any void. Rani’s timing for his return had not been ideal, it seemed.

            Arali was the first to react, rushing to Rani. The impact of her palm against his face was lost in the communal wince of the others present, but the sound reverberated loudly within Rani’s skull. She reached back to deal him another blow when Sal caught her wrist in his grip.

            “You cannae do that, Twixie Taint. I can’t be arsed to be mad at him if you’re mad at him and I have seniority.” A strange logic perhaps, but it was perfectly normal for Salem.

            “He wrote himself out and left us. You can shove your seniority where the booze don’t flow. And now he wants to drag us back into his little fantasy world when I have enough real problems to deal with. I don’t have time to play the snarky bitch in this little story that probably won’t ever see an ending.” Ara stared down Sal with a heated fury, then her expression melted into one of confusion and finally exasperation. “ My pyro powers aren’t working.”

            “Aye, I’ve been trying to cut your fucking fiery head open with my mind since we showed up in this shit hole.” If Sal was bluffing, the man had one hell of a poker face.

            “This is a revamp of sorts; your powers aren’t the same as before. You’ll have to figure out the staple as we go along, I don’t have enough time in this chapter to explain it.” Rani stated quickly, clearly eager to keep the topic on the story in progress.

            “Uh, Rani,” Sabine spoke up, the only one of the eight who had not been in the last story, her brow furrowed slightly underneath silver tresses as she stared down her shirt. “Was it necessary to give me bigger boobs?”

            “You said you wanted bigger. . .Daenerys has. . .that’s not the point. We have more important things to worry about, like saving the world.”

            “Fuck the world; count me out if you think these people are worth saving.” Shemo didn’t look up as she spoke, nor did she shift from the depths of the recliner she had sank into. In her lap a fanged minion cooed as she stroked the monstrosity absently.

            “You guys act like you have a choice; I’m writing this story. Anyone else want to bitch about their role? Sky? Aethon? Donut?”

            “I’m downzies, let’s do this.” Donut answered without hesitation, practically vibrating with anticipation. “I better get a demon possessed sword this time.”

            “Oh I’m Sky this time? That’s better than Blue. You know I’ll help in any way I can, but I really don’t have time for this. I have my own stories to write, and my own story to live.”

            “Like Sky said, you know I want to help but I have a lot going on right now. I don’t really have the time or sanity for this project. I haven’t been getting enough sleep as is.”

            “You’ll get your damned sword, and objections overruled. All you guys have to do is show up, and I’ll take care of the rest. This is our reunion story, and we’re going to save the world dammit. We’re all drifting apart, or have drifted apart, but this is something we can do together.”

            “So long as I can be pissed and get shagged, I’ll grudgingly tag along.” Sal conceded.

            “Fine, but only because it’s you.” Ara agreed, leaving Sky and Aethon with little choice but to nod along.

            “Oh you knew I was in. So what are we saving the world from?” With Sabine’s agreement and perfect segue, it was time to get down to business.

            “We are going to prevent the Ginger Apocalypse.”

Tuesday, March 26, 2013


The accumulation of empty bottles in my recycling bin leads to me believe that I may be getting a bit heavy handed with the alcohol of late. The fact that I'm on a first name basis with the bartenders at several establishments and haven't even been in the state a month yet doesn't help my case. Sure, I'm originally a native, but only one of these bars existed when I lived here.

I know what I'm doing is avoidance, and using alcohol to help keep my thoughts from turning to the big C-word that's always lurking in the back of my mind. Avoiding it isn't the best way to deal with it, but I don't have the luxury of having a breakdown at the moment. So I keep busy, and avoid thinking about the elephant in the room - y'know, if elephants fucking caused the suffering and death of loved ones to be reduced to a bullshit statistic. Pardon the French, cancer pisses me off to an irrational extent lately.

I know I'm not alone or unique in dealing with this, far from it, but being part of a sad statistic doesn't really make it any easier to watch as loved ones and the loved ones of loved ones painfully waste away.

What I would like to do more than anything else - aside from the impossible feat of finding a way to kick cancer's proverbial ass - is to scream until my voice fails me and my throat is bloody and raw. I want to rage Hulk style until the anger is burned out and I'm too tired to think about the fact that everyday a beloved maternal figure is wasting away to this curse in Ohio and I'm out of state and unable to do anything about it. Or nearby, my best friend's father has been given a prognosis measured in weeks. Freaking weeks, the doctor gave him an expiration date of 6-8 weeks.

I'm not one to throw hatred around casually, but I hate everything about cancer. The helplessness and hopelessness not being the last of the things to hate about the suffering sickness.

Even fixating on Dragon*Con, my distraction of choice, has lost effectiveness. Or maybe I just ran out of videos to watch on the convention. Either way, I'm running out time that I can push off dealing with this. Drinking can only stall it for so long, and that'll just take me down a path I'd rather not tread. I know I have to start facing this. Soon. I wanted to join the cancer support group here to that end, but they specify as being open to only caregivers and survivors and so no room for those who have to watch helplessly and uselessly.

Until then, I'm making the Insanity and P90X workouts my obsession of choice. Whenever I still have to energy to form coherent thought, I don the weighted vest and bands until I'm too exhausted to allow those thoughts to take dark wanderings. Though apparently that idea is better in theory, if I have the energy to type this out.

Enough of this emo crap. I wonder if my tattoo guy is awake, I'm tired of playing phone tag.

Sunday, January 6, 2013


A little over a year ago I shared brief references to a story involving copious amounts of alcohol, property destruction, the local police and even more generous amounts of idiocy. That night we made several videos on our phones, and I edited one such video of a small portion of the tazing going on. This is that video. RIP Floyd beanie, you are missed. And yes, that's all you get. I'm working on other stuff at the moment so I only had time for this lazy throwback. Actual post to come soon-ish.