Written @ the Barr

This place consists of short stories I have written over the years at a local watering hole. You will encounter overlapping themes, disorganized idiocy, and different levels of inebriation between these lines. Sometimes, characters' names don't mean a thing, yet other times they are based on actual people; some of which are amazing...and some of them real cunts.

[writtenatthebarr]

Chauncey side-eyed his cousin, as one should when a cousin knocks on one’s door asking for “a grand or so to buy four ostriches”. 

“Y’know, I was gonna offer you coffee.” “Coffee sounds great.” “WAS gonna.” “What changed?” “Four ostriches.” “It’s a great investment.” “A steal at twice the price!” “Can I come in?” “Nosir.” “It’s cold out here.” “I know, right? BRRR!” Chauncey rubbed his arms. “HONEEEEY?” A female voice beckoned from upstairs. “YEAH, HON?” Chauncey replied, never looking away from his cousin. “WHO IS IT?” “OH, IT’S MY CHARMING COUSIN REGINALD!” “... YOU’RE NOT GONNA LET HIM IN, ARE YA?”

Chauncey pointed over his shoulder up towards his wife’s voice, and raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, come on,” Reginald said, rolling his eyes. “We’re on the clock now. You have 10 seconds. Go.” “Um okay uh B- Bartles McChoolihannson-” “Of course.” “You know him?” “I’m googling. 5 seconds.” “Well, we’ve kind of, become friends. A- And he’s got a line, IS the line on four young spitfires who are a few months out of becoming champions.” “Ostrich racing.” “Yep.” “Uh huh, and why doesn’t he buy them?” “Oh, because he already owns 20 studs, including the sires of my- OUR four champions.” “Show me a picture of the Adventures of Reggie and McChoolihannson.”

Reggie flipped through his phone, and handed it to Chauncey. The man in the ball gag and wax on his nipples was clearly the same man in Victory Lane at the 2012 Fresno Frenzied Feather Derby and Gun & Knife Jamboree.

“Hmm.” “Studs, Chaunce.”

Chauncey looked over his shoulder, then closed the door behind him, and the two cousins now shared the front stoop.

“I get to name them,” Chauncey shout-whispered. “You can name two.” “Three.” “Deal. But mine’s the leader.” “I’ll get my checkbook.” “SWEET! Wait, just transfer me the money.” “Nope, you want my money, you have to suffer a trip to the bank.” “You dick.”

[writtenatthebarr]

Doug was a croissant. I mean, he had arms and legs like a regular person, but he was still a croissant. Now, as croissants go, he was as abnormal as a Doug could be. As Dougs go, he was just about average.

Doug had been embezzling money from a 3rd party investor in his ex wife’s garbage pickup and sex aid delivery startup. The investor’s name was also Doug, and as Dougs go, he was way ahead of the curve. Doug That Wasn’t A Croissant had been running numbers since he was just a skinny young sprat.

He currently has Doug tied to a chair in a dingy basement.

“I like you, Doug. Can I call you Doug? I like to be called Doug. So. Doug. You’ve stolen a total of seventeen dollars from me since...”

One of his goons whispered into his ear.

“November. Thank you Gino. That’s a lot of money, Doug. Now, normally I would just let my boys blow off some steam, but you made it personal. All you had to do was ask, you know. Gino. Go get me a saw, a gallon of chocolate milk, and a shitload of apple butter.”

[writtenatthebarr]

Buckley stole something every time he was at the supermarket. It was always something very small, as to not raise a huge fuss should he be caught. He never had been. Today though, as he stood frozen in the bulk food section and stared into space, the thought of the culmination of all the shitty things in his life unbelievably weaving together this week convinced him that he was going to walk out of this place with that motherfucking barrel of sour gummy worms. He lifted his head at the thought and looked around with instant guilt, as if he had already put the giant receptacle in his cargo pants. The sharp feeling of guilt was soon overridden by an adrenaline shot of excitement. A grin beat its way through the corners of his mouth, as he found himself the only patron in the bulk foods section of the Baltimore SuperSave on this lonely, overcast Tuesday afternoon.

He strode slowly amongst the giant barrels filled with raw almonds and multiple varieties of trail mix, and whistled softly. A spring in his step that hadn’t been there a moment before evolved into a nonchalant skip as he passed a mound of yogurt-covered peanuts big enough to bury a large dog or prepubescent human, should they run out of yogurt-covered peanuts in the wild, and die of starvation. His target was a few feet in front of him now as he jubilantly bobbed down the aisle. He could see the strips of neon reflecting off of the hinged plastic door atop the barrel that sealed their freshness. The sight of it produced an involuntary chuckle, and a funny sound he couldn’t remember ever making before. That, of course, almost led to an outburst of laughter. He turned around, stifling a display of joy he hadn’t performed in years to a respectable display of quiet snorts and a few tears quickly wiped away. A couple of deep breaths later, he looked up, and surveyed the room. Buckley noticed how many of the barrels had their plastic lids left open, and pictured the fucking savages scavenging their pilfer, then moving on, leaving other victims of life’s unfreshness in the wake of their selfish and careless destinies. The further thought of giant locusts descending upon all of the chocolate-covered mini-pretzels momentarily killed the vibe he had going. He quickly spun around, and the sight of his colorful bounty sparked awake a feeling of terrible excitement.

“This must be what bank robbers feel like right before,” he thought. He approached the barrel right beside the sour gummy worms, and appeared to only have an interest in the unpopped popcorn kernels within, as a criminal mastermind assuredly would so do.  Wait a minute. How was he going to do this? Was he going to just roll the giant cask right out the front door? The back? He’d be caught by someone of some authority before he even reached the sanitary napkin aisle. It was a place he’d experienced embarrassment before in another life. His serious girlfriend of a decade before would conveniently forget to purchase such things, whisking Buckley away during busy public hours to retrieve them for her, only to learn after the relationship had danced its death rattle, that she took regular masochistic pleasure by taking him from his comfort zone, and throwing him into bonfires of embarrassment. Wouldn’t it be such a fitting ending for him to be apprehended for grand theft children’s candy amongst rows and rows of tampons and maxi-pads he no longer had any use for? He pictured the witch reading the headline and throwing back her beautiful curly black hair, cackling wildly with her wicked new family.

No. He needed a plan. He decided to stop being the bulk-food-creeper, and continued with his daily shopping in the guise of a man simply shopping. Simply shopping and not creating numerous devious schemes. But why not devise? It was no crime, just thinking thoughts. No acts yet were committed. He turned into the soda and water aisle, and saw an elderly woman leaned up against a cart with an indifferent look on her face as she stared at the endless varieties of sparkling water. What underhanded thoughts swarmed under that rose colored bandanna and white hair? What crimes was she guilty of in this life? Maybe she was a master thief too. Maybe she’d murdered. Killed multiply maybe, Buckley thought as he put three 2-liters of generic diet cola into his cart. Maybe she’d been one of those insane mothers that rolled her station wagon full of 3 loved, yet unwanted children into the lake. Maybe she’d done such a thing, and spent the bulk of her life in prison, only to be released 40 years later because of overcrowding and good behavior. And now here she was, facing another decision amongst a body of water. Maybe this decision was easier. Maybe not.

She struggled as she attempted to put a case of lemon-flavored sparkling water into her cart, and Buckley rushed over to assist. They managed to seat the water into the cart, when the old woman thanked him quickly and without a smile. She seemed annoyed that she had been assisted by such a petty thief and disgraced tampon buyer of old, and the look she gave him as she moved on as briskly as she could shook Buckley to his core. Those murderous eyes. Was that the look she gave her children as they pounded on the rear window of a sinking car? Oh yes, he thought. It was surely the look she gave other inmates as she shivved them to death in the yard. Buckley tried to shake off the guilt of his act of kindness as he walked back to the comfort of his shopping cart. He closed his eyes and imagined the tart and fruity taste of sour gummy worms as he threw up handfuls of them in his bathtub, and was once again on to the task at hand. His quest was a crime, yes, but an innocent one. He couldn’t allow himself to be caught up with the real villains and cutthroats his criminal actions would assuredly attract. Buckley made a mental note to be wary to avoid such dangerous child killers and shivvers in the future, and made his way to the dairy section.

Oh, cottage cheese. I love you ever so, Buckley thought as he parked his cart in front of the brightly lit white containers. He scorned for a second at the columns of sour cream. How dare they share similar receptacles to wonderful wonderful cottage cheese. IMPOSTERS! BLAND YET TART DECIEVERS! Nasty assed sour cream should be in the nacho aisle. Then, Buckley had a thought of glorious cottage cheese atop a giant mound of cheesy nachos, and made a mental note to try such a thing in the future. A sour gummy worm future, hopefully. Buckley shoved aside a few containers of sour cream as to not sully his cottage cheese shopping experience. He finally decided on a tub of 2% small curd, and one of fat free large curd. Later, he would make two tubs of half and half, and smiled at the prospect of the naked chore. Maybe he’d drop a naughty dollop down below. His giggle continued until he turned into the dreaded soup aisle. It was a place Buckley hated so. How many unfortunate soup instances has he had in his lifetime. Too many to count. There was the Cleveland Bisque Episode. Then there was the Future to Fictional In-Laws Cream of Broccoli Disaster that ultimately was the catalyst of his breakup with Whatshername Succubus Tampon Pressurer.

Buckley had to always buy 3 cans of soup. All he needed during the week was two, but there had to be a safe extra; just in case. The emergency soups had been stored in the only cupboard in his house that required a lock. He’d unlock the door, and carefully place the worry-free can with hundreds of its brothers and sisters. A precious cache of safe, non-disaster soup. Thankfully, he hadn’t needed to dip into his reserves that often, but recently the Great Tomato Boilover was traumatic enough to almost break the lock when he frantically couldn’t find his key. Thankfully he did, yet he had still not cleaned up the mess of that disaster. It looked like a tiny murder had occurred on Buckley’s stovetop. He would one day, but he kept it as penance to himself that he shouldn’t live so recklessly.

At this thought, he thought about his new life as a master thief, and thought twice about a life of crime. He had never been one to life dangerously. Was a barrel of sour gummy worms worth a life of incarceration? He then thought of prison. How would it change him? Would he be what they called, “a bitch”? Perhaps. He had a long documented history of “bitchery” that sullied his past. Then Buckley looked up at the dreaded soup aisle. This sight usually brought forth a most undiluted tincture of fear from his bitchery depths. Dreaded soup, so hateful and deviously delicious. But now, on this red-letter day of masterminding the perfect crime, Buckley felt no fear. No, he would not be “The Bitch”. He would be revered. A kingpin amongst murderers and rapists and child abductors. Buckley then had a vision of himself playing Uno in the common area. Convicted yes-men were bringing him things, such as drinks and chips. Two large henchmen towered behind him, arms akimbo. A rival inmate from another cell block entered the room, and Buckley simply had to motion his head towards the villain, and the yes-men swarmed him, creating a cartoon-like pile of limbs and dust and blood. Buckley smiled in the center of the soup aisle, eyes closed, dreaming of The Kingpin of Crime with a tattoo of sour gummy worms on his neck.

“Pardon me,” a rickety voice interrupted the daydream. It was The Child Killer. She had snuck up behind Buckley. She even was so brazen as to touch his shoulder as she did so. All he could reply with was a tiny gasp, and he dragged himself and his cart flush against a wall of soup. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, as fear began trickling into the cracks of his dam of self-confidence. Buckley quickly grabbed the first three cans of soup he could find, and whipped his cart away from this terrible place. The Witch. The Vile Haggard Woman probably lived in the stupid soup aisle. Of course, he thought. That’s where the child-killers of the world were the strongest, in the goddamned soup aisles of the world. Buckley pushed his cart all of the way to the end of the large room and tried to catch his breath amongst the frozen foods. It was nice and cool here. He looked up at towers boxes with amazing pictures of different varieties of pizza on them, and started to feel normal again. He looked down into his cart, and saw three cans of split pea, the worst, most terrible soup of them all. Buckley dropped to his knees and started to cry.  

“Sir, are you okay?”

Buckley opened his tearful eyes and kept sobbing. His eyes burned and tears fell into the opened hands on his lap.

“Sir?”

Another hand dropped onto his shoulder, and Buckley fell to his backside in fear.

“Oh my goodness! Sir, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have startled you! Are you okay?” The woman wearing a SuperSave apron had kind eyes. Buckley was immediately embarrassed, yet still instinctively cowered against the frozen pizzas like a wounded raccoon.

“Sir, should I call someone?” the concerned employee asked. “What?” Buckley soon realized his current position, and how he must have looked to the SuperSave Angel that held her hand out before him. “Oh, dear me,” he responded. He attempted to rise, but his hand slipped upon the condensation of the freezer door, and fell with a thump once again to his backside. “Oh no! Here, let me help you,” the Angel said. He couldn’t help but notice her touch was kind, yet firm enough to help Buckley get to his feet. He dusted himself off and rubbed the wet from his face. “Here,” she said. She magically produced a tissue from her apron pocket and offered it to him. It may as well had been a slice of bread offered to a starving leper, and Buckley took the offering as such. He cradled it in his hand, and blew his nose into the soft aloe-plied treasure. He attempted to offer it back, and she rightfully shied away. He realized what he had done, and another wave of embarrassment washed over him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. He put the tissue into his pocket and hung his head in shame. “Thank you very much.” “Are you alright?” “Oh, yes. I am now. It’s just been a very…trying time today. Actually more than just today, but it seemed to hit me all at once. That sounds stupid.” “Oh, no no. That doesn’t sound stupid at all. It sounds…” She searched for the right word. A moment of brief silence, and Buckley looked up into hazel eyes that seemed to search for something deep within what was assuredly an extensive lexicon of unsurmountable genius. “…normal.” She finished. She cocked her head to the side, and Buckley sighed relief. “I’ve never been accused of THAT before,” he replied. It seemed the right thing to say, as she responded with a genuine chuckle that made Buckley weak in the knees. His eyes threatened to well up again at the sound of a seraph’s glee, and turned away towards his cart before he became a blubbering mess again.

“Wait,” her voice stopping every bit of him dead. She knew. About everything. About the sour gummy worms. About his past with women’s sanitary applicators. About the security of a closet filled with emergency soup. Oh no! The split pea! She saw the 3 cans of split pea, and knew him for the wretch that he wa-

“Here,” she said. She handed him a small thick book of coupons. “Some of these you can’t use all at once, but it really adds up in the long run, y’know?” Buckley looked at the small flip-book in his hand and managed a small “thank you”. He stared at the heavenly savings too good for him, and she touched the side of his arm. “Well…I’m glad to help. Just let me know I can do anything else to help you with your SuperSave experience.” She started to walk away. Buckley put his hand to the place on his arm where she touched him, and now it was his turn to say-

“Wait.” She stopped and turned towards him with a smile. “Do you-“ he started. He stood for a bit and thought. This is what he needed! An ally! A collaborator in his quest, on the inside! He had to be careful, though. She already assuredly saw him as an emotional maniacal sex-fiend. He would win her confidence-

“Do I what?” she asked hesitantly. “I do apologize,” Buckley started, “My mind seems to wander off sometimes and drags me along.” She chuckled again. It was the best sound Buckley thinks he’d ever heard. He glanced at her nametag. “Amy. It seems to me, at this moment, in your act of kindness, that I should treat myself more kindly that I have been doing so in recent times. I think I deserve a treat. I have a question about an item in this store that you might be able to help me with.” “Shoot!” She replied with genuine glee. “Would you accompany me to the bulk food section?” “Sure!” Glee once again.

“Know where glee leads, yeah?” A whisper within Buckley asked. “Oh, you shut up now,” he responded. “Pardon?”

Buckley quickly dismissed what the girl had overheard, and picked up the pace a step. She seemed to say something, but alas, he did not hear. OH NO! Would such a Venus de Milo grant him a boon of repeating herself to one such as low as he? He must dare. HE MUS-

“I’m sorry, what was that you were saying?” Buckley had done an about-face to give her his full and undivided attention, still keeping up his pace in a backwards jaunt. “ “LOOK OUT!”

OH NO! HE’D ANGERED HER! WHY WAS SHE YELLING? HE WAS SURE SHE WASN’T YELLING JUST A MOMEN-

---

Darkness

It was comfortably brisk on the water that day. There was a slight breeze that nibbled crisply on exposed flesh. Buckley closed his eyes and breathed in the cool fresh air. He opened his eyes and looked at the shoreline. His pace was slow, but steady, as he drifted down river.  He must have dozed for a bit, because now he was facing stern-side. That was good, he thought. He needed to conserve his strength, as it was a long journey to…

to…

Oh, it didn’t matter where. Not right now. Right now the journey was the thing. He looked down to see himself waist deep in sour gummy worms. He grabbed onto the sides of the barrel that floated downstream and could hardly contain his excitement. MY BOOTY! HOW COULD I FORGET IT?! Buckley put his hands into the sweet fluff and brought handfuls up to rub them lovingly on his face. He could practically taste the tart sweetness from the artificial fruity sugar aroma as the worms stuck to his face for a moment before peeling off and dropping back into the barrel. One particularly orange and green one stuck to his forehead, and Buckley wore it proudly.

Okay, back to work. Buckley rocked back and forth and around and managed to get himself facing bow. All he could see ahead of him was more river. Things were good. Clear skies overhead and beyond. His pace was good. “Moving right along,” he said to himself. He looked down at his soft neon treasure and let the excitement take hold of him for a moment. “Moving right the fuck along!” He threw a red and purple worm into the air, and caught the red side in his mouth. He let the rest dangle out as he savored the wonderful strawberry sourness for a moment. Then he slurped in the purple and let the grape sail him all the way to Jubilation.

He slammed his right hand into the worms and rummaged around until he felt something paperish. He got a nice grip onto it, and ripped it from the gummy unknown. His map was an extremely well detailed straight blue line that led to a giant red X. He figured he was about ¾ to the X now. How he figured that, he couldn’t be sure, but for some reason he felt quite sure. He slammed the map back down into the worms, and rummaged even deeper for something else. Buckley instinctually stuck out his tongue as he searched frantically for… for……..THERE! He jerked his hands from the pile with a motion that sent quite a few sour worms overboard. He dusted sugar from his pirate hat and smiled at the skull and crossworms on its front. He dipped the hat into the worms at the front of his waist and slammed it onto his head. The heaviness of the hat was empowering. Sour gummy worms hung from its brim, and Buckley’s line of sight above the horizon was a stringy neon rainbow.

“Yarr!”

Wait. Something was missing. Oh yes! Buckley shoved his hands even deeper into the foam candy deep, and came up with an eye-patch. He filled that as well, and put it on his left eye, worms protruding out from its edges. Now, he was complete. He drifted along, Buckbeard the Worm, in his grand frigate to his ultimate destiny.

“Garrrr!”

After quite a bit of garbled mouthful pirate calls later, something familiar about his surroundings put him on full alert. He quickly chewed on the candy in his mouth, dropping wet pieces back into the barrel. Something there in the distance. Something big, and grey. Buckley rummaged around in the wormily depths once more and came up with a giant telescopic spyglass. He polished the sugar from both ends of it with his sleeve, and extended the spyglass as far as it would go. He leaned his elbows on the rim of the barrel, and took a look.

The grey was concrete. A giant open expanse of concrete, with a railing on its edge. A group of people stood behind the railing and pointed at things.

“An observation deck,” Buckley said without thinking. He lowered the spyglass, and the colors of the people’s clothing made them look like sour gummy worms in the distance. He picked up two worms from his waist, and wiggled them in front of his view, as if they were the people on the giant concrete deck.

“OOH! Looky there!” he mimicked with a pretend people-worm. “Oh yes, I see! That’s a good observation!” the other gummy-person said. “We’re good observers!” “Oh yes, the best! We’re the best observers on the observation deck!” Buckley mushed the two together and made kissy, then fart noises and popped the two good observers into his mouth.

“YUM YUM YUM!” A few moments passed, and Buckley looked again into the viewer. He was closer this time and could make out the deck in more detail. Something super familiar about all of this (and an incredible sugar high) raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A sudden crisp breeze put his gooseflesh on high alert, as a feeling of absolute dread followed.

“Oh no,” he muttered. There was a couple on the deck arguing. He waited a few moments to catch his breath, and to get a better look at the couple, but he knew deep down in his large bucket of foamy candy happiness that there was no treasure to be found at a giant red X scrawled on a crumpled map somewhere near his knees. He looked into the glass again, and found the couple. The woman was attractive, and angry. He always kind of liked when she was angry. She was so sexy when she was angry, and he had come to terms early in their relationship that he would set forth the anger sometimes to please himself, despite the consequences. This time, though, was different. It was the worst argument they ever had. Buckley remembered now.

“Niagra fucking falls,” Buckley said with ire. Now he wished his vessel had a full arsenal of cannons and greek fire to take down the deck and be done with it forever, but all he had was his spyglass, and his worms. He shoved a handful of them into his mouth, and looked again. There she was, emptying both barrels into him, and him standing there with his hands in his pockets, shamed like a beaten dog. Buckley remembered he had simply mentioned his annoyance at her picking the honeymoon capitol of the universe as a vacation destination, after his two already failed attempts at proposal. He saw her mouth “As if I’d marry a piece of shit loser like you,” and heard the voice in his head.

But now, it was different. It wasn’t quite her voice, was it? That distinct shrill Cry of the Succubus that he would remember even after he was waist deep in real worms was not the voice he heard. He squinted into the spyglass as if it would help him focus, and it indeed showed him that the woman he was arguing with in the distance was not the masochistic queen of the forced tampon purchase twice-removed pseudo-fiancée sexy angry b-word that would haunt him for eternity. It was someone else. Someone nice. Someone he hadn’t heard talk to him in a way that would have him contemplate jumping off a bridge as he stood in his pajama pants and trenchcoat at an ungodly hour waiting to pay for tampons and a bag of dill-flavored potato chips. This woman yelling and pointing at him wore a green SuperSave apron. Buckley squinted even harder. The nametag on the apron read “Angel”, quotation marks and all. He lowered the spyglass.

“You’re no angel,” he said, “you’re all the same.” Buckley threw the spyglass with all his might at the observation deck, and it splashed ahead of him, far from the intended target. The sound of rushing water filled his senses now. The falls. Of course. OF COURSE! This was his Giant Red X! This was the treasure that he so desperately sought. It would be different now! The falls would change everything! He gathered speed as he gained closer to the edge, and saw the vast wilderness that sprawled beyond the swirling mist. He grabbed two great handfuls of candy and shoved them into his mouth and yelled “GARRRR!” as the falls took hi-

---

Light

“Garr!” Buckley yelled. His vision slowly refocused as the fluorescent lights poured painfully into the back of his eyes. He was on his back, and a group of people were looking remorsefully down at him, like a thirsty village looking into a dead well. The polite girl that he thought he knew as pure and good knelt by his side, showing what seemed to be genuine concern. Buckley’s vision sharpened a bit more, and saw that her nametag read “BECCA”, and his stomach plummeted down the falls. What an atrocity. He should have known a name as repulsive as “short for Rebecca” would bring forth the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her close friends probably even call her Reba. Gag.

The crowd reeled as Buckley gagged, thinking communally that a geyser of vomit was sure to follow. Reba leaned back as well. Then Buckley sat up. The crowd dispersed a bit, and the few rubberneckers left looked quite bored of the situation. The Devil in Angel’s apron got to her feet, and extended a hand to help Buckley up. He refused this helpful boon, and sprung to his feet with surprising agility.

“Are you alright? That was quite a fall you too-“ “Yes, thank you. I’m just peachy keen fine. Thank you for all of your help.” He started to walk away. “But, wait. Are you sure? Didn’t you need my help with something?” Buckley continued to walk away. “No, thank you, you’ve done quite enough for me already,” his pace gaining like a waterfall’s current. “You’re all the same,” he said defiantly beyond Reba’s earshot, and continued like a man possessed to the bakery.

[writtenatthebarr]

Lonely.

[writtenatthebarr]

Officer James opened the trunk of the black Grand Prix, and aimed is sidearm inside. It was empty. It was thumping violently just a moment ago, like there was someone trapped inside. He looked to the perp he put in his car when the banging began. A routine stop was careening far from the normal. 10 minutes prior, he stared at a Massachusetts Class C license in his hand, flipping it back and forth while he waited for his computer to shine forth with a rap sheet. This man’s legal name was The Descent, first name “The”, last name “Descent”. James couldn’t believe it when his screen confirmed it. Nothing followed, not even a traffic stop. He was clean, as was the muscle car. This was apparently his first stop. The smiling man in sitting behind the wheel of the stopped car was at least 60, if a day. Yes, he was polite, but there was something more. There just had to be more. Officer James started writing out a warning like a man who’d done so a thousand times, and just kept looking up at the midnight black car.

“Thank you, officer,” the grinning man said. I’ll be sure to slow it down in the future. “Sir, is this the first time you’ve ever been pulled over?” The man kept grinning and looked forward as he mulled this over.  “Why, yes, I do believe so. You know, I’ve never thought about it.” The man put his sunglasses and driving gloves back on. “Well, Mr. Descent, I can understand the temptation to rev up the engines on such a fine automobile, but this IS a school zone, despite the late hour.” “Oh, I know a few things about temptations. And I am The Descent.” “Sorry?” “I. Am. The. Descent.”  The man lowered his sunglasses and his voice dropped two octaves. His left eye went from green to yellow and the other winked spastically. “Sir, are you feeling alright?” Officer James asked as his right hand motioned towards his side. The man put his glasses back on and looked forward once more. James could see his eye was still twitching. The man folded up his written warning and placed it in his mouth. “What are you-“ The trunk started rapping its drum solo and the car rocked violently, as if something was clearly trapped inside. Officer James pulled his pistol and pointed it at the driver. The strange man stared at him behind pitch black sunglass lenses and chewed enthusiastically at the paper that filled his grinning maw.

“GET OUT OF THE CAR! WHAT IS IN YOUR TRUNK? WHO IS IN YOUR TRUNK?” Officer James had never been so rattled in his life. “Why Officer, there’s nothing in my trunk,” the man replied as the driver side door seemed to open by itself. Pieces of written warning fell out of the side of his mouth in clumps and sizzled on the ground as he bent to exit the vehicle. “HANDS! HANDS WHERE I CAN FUCKING SEE THEM!” “I have many hands, Officer James, but I know what you mean.” The man raised his arms to the sky, and leaned his head to the left and spit out the giant wad of paper. The thing landed on the asphalt and started to melt into its many layers of pavement, like a meteor landing in the desert. Officer James stared at it, still pointing his Glock at the stranger. A silent moment, save the hissing wad, passed as the thumping from the trunk had stopped. James held the man at gunpoint and his heart was beating out of his chest. The man just kept on grinning, a morsel of paper sliding down his cheek.

“What. What the fuck. What are you GRINNING at?”

The man convulsed and laughed, his mouth frothing and spitting written warning out the sides of his mouth.  His excitement frightened Officer James something fierce, as The Descent’s convulsions vibrated to a pace quite unnatural. Officer James kicked over the man. His convulsions slowed, but the cackling got considerably louder. Officer James leaned down and quickly cuffed the lunatic.  He tried with all his might to lift the tiny man to his feet, but he might as well been a whale.

“You weigh a ton,” he grunted. “With a heavy heart, my fine man,” the Way chortled as he got to his feet. Officer James led him to the back of his squad car, and levered the laughing man into the back seat. He swore that something moved in the man’s hair as he lowered his head to avoid the car’s roof. The officer snatched his hand back as if it had been pinched.

“Motherfucker!” he proclaimed as he kicked the door closed. The man’s wild reptile eyes met his from behind bullet proof glass and a fresh set of muffled cackles made the hairs on the back of Officer James’ neck do backflips. The thing in the trunk had been rapping violently the entire time. Officer James pointed his pistol its way, as the car shook with each loud bang. The banging got progressively more violent as James slowly approached the car. When he got to the trunk, he looked back at his cruiser. The Descent was vibrating unnaturally again and made the officer’s cruiser rock in unison with the other car. Every tilt and creak was identical.

Officer James circled to the driver’s side to retrieve the keys as he spouted a frantic backup request into the radio on his shoulder. Nothing but static and noise replied back. James approached the trunk with the keys as both cars rocked their violent symphony. The rocking slowed to a lull as if the car wanted so badly for the keys to open its trunk. James took one look back at the ecstatic wide mouthed stare of the Descent, and placed the key into the lock.

James turned the key and the rocking stopped as the trunk slowly sprung open. Officer James white-knuckled his sidearm at the car and took a leap backwards. Nothing. The Officer slowly approached the rear of the car, eventually aiming his gun at the floor of an empty trunk. Not only empty, though, brand new. The smell emanating from the trunk was that of a fresh ozone, as if the car had just rolled off the production floor.

“What the fuck?” the officer whispered to himself. “WHAT INDEED!” The Descent screamed from his incarcerated position. The officer looked back at the strange man with ire as he holstered his firearm and made another request to hq, only to be answered again with garbled squawking.

                                            *Knock Knock Knock*

An impossible sound of knuckles on an old wooden door in the middle of nowhere. James whirled around, putting his hand on his Glock, and stood for a good minute staring at the beautiful muscle car with an open empty trunk. The ensuing silence convinced Officer James to relax for a moment and stand up straight. He knew he heard a-

                                           *Knock Knock Knock*

“Motherfucker,” the officer whispered. The sound definitely came from the trunk. He once again approached the car. It didn’t rock at all this time. James didn’t bother to look back at the lunatic’s grin behind him. He simply drew his gun again and poked at the floor of the trunk with its barrel. Nothing. There was a small loop of fabric in the far corner of the floor. James inspected it, and saw that it was attached to the trunk’s carpet. He tightened his grip on his gun, and pulled back the loop in one motion, like a magician revealing the prestige. There, underneath the carpet was an old wooden door. One with thick cords of dark wood, held together with iron rivets. It had no knob, just three ancient latches, one near the driver’s side, one near the passenger side, and one in the middle that aligned with the license plate. Right next to the center latch was an old iron hoop, held by a bracket and rivets. Fleur De Lis hinges on the far side of the door near the back seat implied that the hoop was meant to lift the door just like the opening of the trunk. Officer James was still inspecting the impossible trunk when the door-

                                           *Knock Knock Knock*

“Fuck this.”

Officer James made a beeline to the back of his cruiser and opened the door. The Descent poured halfway out and lay on his back and laughed up at Officer James, his head swaying back and forth as he dangled upside-down at the man’s knees.

“GET UP!”

The dangling laughter whipped up to a seated position, never looking away from the Good Officer.

“WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS GOING ON? WHO ARE YOU REALLY? What? Wh-“ Officer James tailed off, at his wit’s end.

“I am The Descent,” the strange man said. He had stopped cackling, but the grin was rock steady. “THAT- THAT DOESN’T MEAN ANYTHING! What is that door?” Officer James tailed off again as he looked at the car and the open trunk. “Descent into- Into what?” The smile left the man’s face. “My dear sir, I am The Descent. Of All. And Forever. Dig fathoms past The Omega, and I am furthermore there in the abys-“

                                          *Knock Knock Knock*

Officer James stepped away from the man, still staring at the Grand Prix, and not completely listening to the last few words spoken. He looked back at the man, who’s grin returned with enthusiastic fervor.

“Are you gonna get that? I would, you know, but…” The Descent leaned forward and showed Officer James the handcuffs behind his back. James frowned and shut the door in the lunatic’s face. He once again approached the door in the trunk, and set to work at the latches, starting with the passenger side. Each one made a heavy, resounding thwack, and echoed behind the door as if all of emptiness lay beyond it. Officer James pointed his sidearm at the door, and stood silent for a beat, half gearing up to open it, half waiting to awake from a strange dream.

                                          *Knock Knock Knock*

“Sunovabitch,” James expelled as the sudden sound startled him. The knocks lifted the iron hoop each time. He grabbed for it and lifted it open. It was heavy, and made a creaking sound that matched the aesthetic of the door. There, below an ancient door in the trunk of a 1969 Midnight Black Pontiac Grand Prix Officer James had routinely pulled over on a humid July evening, was the man no longer in the back seat of his police cruiser, The Descent. He was holding an old lantern up towards the night. He stood on a stone stairwell that led impossibly downward underneath the passenger side rear wheel, and seemed to have no end into a eerie green glow.

“Well, come on then,” the strange man said, “we’ve a long way to go.” The Descent turned his back to Officer James, and started down the steps. He nonchalantly threw a set of handcuffs over his shoulder and onto the pavement. He then spit out the keys to the cuffs upwards, and they landed inside one of the ringed clasps.

Officer James saw the handcuff keys hiss and burn into the pavement, then lifted his left leg into the doorway, followed carefully by his right. He held himself up by his forearms and looked one last time at his trusty police cruiser, and took a deep breath. He closed the door behind him with a heavy thud, and followed the light of a lantern, already disappearing far ahead into the murky deep.

[writtenatthebarr]

- May, 1800. My Island, West Indies, USS. Pickering Boatswain’s Mate Wesley Therson reporting: Fortune favors me today, as one of Lieutenant MacGruder’s empty journals washed up on the shore as I was fishing the fishless sea this morning. I had thought all hopes of maintaining my sanity were lost to the madness of this desolate place. Although a quill was easy to acquire from the wreckage, the ink has been long swept away. Therefore, I turn to blood, as to which I am in abundance of. A small prick on the finger, and a pool of myself in the bottom of a leaf is a small price to pay for my newfound providence.

- There is no shortage of trees about, and although the coconut has sustained me, there is no other life, save for myself on my island. It has been two months, yet nary a fish swims the shores, nor bird hovers above. No varmints scurry. It is a mystery, to which I have not found a solution, but I am determined to crack it. I have nothing but time.

- Today, I will attempt to traverse the cliff’s side. The cave yawning endlessly in its center will prove my fortune. The “home” I had fashioned a mere month ago was destroyed by a most horrid lightning storm. My dear Pickering blessed me with many a supply, including rope, pulleys, canvas, etc. I washed up on my island amidst her plentiful guts. I have fashioned rope with a hook made from one of the porthole linings. If all goes as planned, a sturdy ladder is in store.

-A spring! My excitement knows no end as my cave has a natural hot spring at its base. More of a well, I suppose, is best to describe it, as there is a natural stone edge separating the water’s level to the cave floor. It also seems very deep, yet the jets bubbling from its warm depths kept my legs afloat as I rested my arms on the stone ledge.

July perhaps: My sweet, sweet well. On the rare windy night, I bask in the natural jets for what seems an unearned eternity. When the season breaks, I might never leave it. It invigorates me so. I sleep so soundly afterwards. In the day, it energizes my entire whole, letting me mercifully forget the pains I constantly lamented over before my discovery.

- If I only had meat.

August: My well is a fountain. It is THE fountain. My hand shakes as I write due to my excited and unbelievable station. I had slipped upon opening a coconut on one of my cave’s rocks, and opened my hand instead. I went to the well to clean the wound, and there is a wound NO MORE! Unbelievable, I repeat, as my waking nightmare these past months has come to be divination. I have discovered Captain de Leon’s fabled fountain on MY ISLAND!

Still Summer: Divination indeed. Am I to live eternally in this lifeless hot place? I find myself once more cursed. So very hungry.

-An idea most gruesome has entered my mind in a dream. Am I mad enough to bring such a fiction to reality? In my dream, I had removed my hand at the wrist. As I bathed in my well, my good hand turned the removed appendage over a spit, as my well healed and REGREW a new hand to my stump of an arm. Then, I fed. Insanity! A horror! So vivid a dream, as the sweet scent of my own meat cooking still burns a cinder in my nose.

-Gruesome, yet delicious! I started with a finger, as I had 9 to spare. I have eaten countless digits over the past few days. It is the sweetest, most tender and naturally delicious delicacy I have ever encountered. The pain of removal is of a threshold I fear I will never grow accustomed, yet the divine flavor overcomes such torture. And there is no pain in my well. My Fountain. In My Fountain I bask and gnaw around my bones as a debutant does afternoon pheasant.

September: A mishap has me shaken. A gust of wind blew in from the great mouth of my cave, and blew my fire spit over. I thought myself merely clumsy, but for one of my big toes that rolled into my fountain. Impossibly, it did not float. The hot jets and buoyancy should have- Maybe in its cooked state, it gained density. I thought not much of the incident, yet a nightmare has awoken me this night. A vision of myself, but not myself, rising from the water. Half cooked, grinning. Drowned, yet not. An evil unheralded, grown around my sunken toe. Mindless, yet cunning. And hungry for meat.

-He calls himself First. I have tried to communicate with him, this impossible doppelganger. He is exactly what my dream foretold. Evil, yet myself. His body is my charred grinning mass. At first he seemed to recognize himself looking back at him, yet he soon attacked. I fended him off, yet lost my knife in the struggle. He grinned at me as he started cutting pieces of himself into my fountain. Flesh, fingers, his penis, like carrots into a stew.

-Slimy green teeth. That nefarious smile only seems to widen with every horrid act he commits. I am an army now. The island is infested with monstrous bastards of myself.  I hide in different places of the island every night, and sleep does not come. I am hunted. First has ordered the forest at the base of the cave cleared. They hold feasts. And orgies. With themselves. Of myself. He watches from the edge of the cave, the smiling king. His followers bring up the broken and fed upon pieces of my clones to be healed and regrown in his fountain.

-They have found me. I will break for the ocean, as drowning is better than

-FIRST REPORTING: FOREVER MEAT.

[writtenatthebarr]

Clem awoke in a strange room. It took his eyes a spell to adjust to the brightness shining through the white curtains swaying in the open window. His body wasn’t accustomed to the comfort of a real bed, and lifting his head to survey the room made it spin. He lay his head back down to stop the throbbing pain. He stared up at a pine ceiling and sighed. Sleep would have him again, but the fear of his mysterious surroundings shoved the temptation aside. This time, he would rise to sit against the headboard. It was a monumental feat. His head throbbed as his injured arms shouted pain to the heavens, and the fire wrenching in his gut mercifully subsided once he was up.

He took inventory of the wrappings on his arms, bleeding freshly through now, and remembered the wolf. The wolf meant danger, and his gun was not on his side. Panic jolted pain back through him, and his head hit the brass headboard behind him. Privacy showed him a mercy from this embarrassing moment, and he sighed once more. His clothes were nowhere to be seen within eyeshot of the clean room, but his belt and pistols slung on the elaborate wooden chair by the writing desk.

The slight breeze flowing into the room from the many windows was another mercy, as it was cool and welcoming on his sweaty brow and shirtless torso. It was midday, by his estimation, and he was on the second floor of a strange building on main street, as the hustle-bustle of people in the midst of their day-to-day could be heard. Boots trodden on wooden walkways, shoed hooves clopped on a patted dirt thoroughfare, and a collective muddling of polite voices glued it all together.

He heard footsteps in the hallway nearing his door, and the panic set in again. He was defenseless, but the moment subsided. Whoever had taken the time to patch him up was assuredly not an assassin, but he kept his cards close, nonetheless. The shoes were at the door, and the knob turned. He thought for a moment of feigning sleep, but the effort and pain it took him to get to his current position shot this thought dead. His ruse would be a poor one, and he decided to face his savior head on.

He expected the Devil himself to walk through the doorway, but he was unprepared for the unparalleled beauty carrying clean linens into the room. She was unprepared for his upright awakened state. They shared an embarrassed moment, him in his half nakedness amongst such prettiness, and her audible shock at a sudden audience. He brought the bed sheet abruptly to his chin, and she dropped its replacement to the floor. Calmness set back into the room, and they shared a laugh. Hers was genuine and infectious. His was nervous and brought the fire back to his gut.

“Aren’t we the pair?” she chuckled. He nervously smiled, unsure as how to react as the mere thought of their association brought blood rushing to his cheeks. Cheeks that were frozen in embarrassment, and he realized he still held a sheet to his chin, as if the boogeyman had entered to eat little boys. This brought another awkward movement on his part, as he brought the sheet down to his chest, like the boy trying to be a man. She noticed, but put him out of his misery.

“It’s alright, sir. You’re safe here. My name’s Josephine.” She picked up the linens, and folded them quickly and expertly and set them on the edge of the bed. She went to the main windows and pulled the shade apart, letting more light into the room. Every movement she made held a natural grace and style to it that made her seem impossibly more beautiful. She looked at Clem, awaiting a response, but he was frozen. His own eyes had never seen such a vision, and it took everything he had to simply hold back tears, much less tell her his name.

“Can you speak, sir? You’ve been severely wounded, so it’s fine. You-“ “C- Clem. My name is Clem, ma’am,” his brain horse-kicked out of him. She smiled genuinely and approached him, holding out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Clem.” He took her outreached fingers and held them as she curtsied. Her hands were both soft and calloused. She worked hard, but couldn’t help but be the fawn in the field. It was a moment he would hold forever deep within. “Likewise, ma’am.” She turned and set to other small workings in the room. “Where am I?” “You’re in Blaine. Some deputies found you some ways from the edge of town on a raiding posse, and hurried you back here. You was bleeding something fierce next to death’s door, and we woke Doc Harper. Me n’ him worked through the night getting you set. He said the fever breakin’ was more important than you bleedin’ out, so most of the work was in God’s hands.” She noticed the blood seeping through his wraps and rushed to his side. “Oh dear, we gotta change these!” She rushed again to the opened door and yelled, “MASIE, GO GET THE DOC!”

Clem looked down at his bloody self and then again at the vision of the angel Josephine, and his head spun. “Oh dear,” he shared in her sentiment, “did you say posse?” Clem’s eyes rolled back in his head, and once again was embraced by the dark.  

[writtenatthebarr]

Clem looked up at the moon, and tried to catch his breath. He dropped his bowie knife and it stuck into the ground. Blood soaked down the blade, pooling around pierced earth. He closed his eyes, feeling the cool night breeze on his face, colder on the spatter and his soaked hands, which made a patting noise on the ground as blood dripped from the ends of his fingers.

A moment passed and he looked down at the moonlit gore at his feet. It was him or the wolf, he knew, but that didn’t stop the tears from grabbing specks of blood on the way down his cheeks. The outline of the corpse brought him back to that day as a child when he accidentally killed his uncle’s favorite dog while varmint hunting. To this day, he felt the whipping he got was far less than he deserved, and it all came flooding back to him now. All the blood in that bright moonlight didn’t shine as black as Clem’s regret.

Clem cursed at the animal for wounding him so, not feeling quite yet the bite marks the beast had provided in the fight for its life. His canteen showed the fresh teeth marks on his forearms, the deepest an inch above his shooting hand. He tried to make a fist, and could only oblige halfway, the fingertips losing feeling. Penance, he thought as he started tearing the bottom of his shirt for makeshift bandages.

It seemed like ages to build a fire, and it stood mercifully defiant as a night breeze became a weak midnight gale. The heat and light were boons as wounds throbbed and rubbed raw in their wrappings as he set to the work of cleaning himself and the animal he was to bury before sunup. Another age later, and a hole dug, he carefully placed the wolf in its grave, and set upon filling it back. He’d not have the bad omen of letting similar beasts or windswept sand to rend it to pieces. This was a creature to be respected, and let the earth itself reclaim its lost son.

By the time Clem finally collapsed by the fire, his body surely his enemy for the coming week, he let himself be calmed by the quiet of night and the throb of his heart. He surely needed a doctor to see to the bites that held the wolf’s madness now within him, but his horse had not returned. It was a glorious animal, the best work horse he ever had, but the creature was easily spooked. He had whistled for it throughout his arduous tasks, and even now as sleep pummeled at his eyes, but the wind outsung him. He’d opened some oats downwind and placed another stick on the fire, and darkness finally claimed him.

He dreamt of a dark rider, both stranger and friend, leading him into town on a white horse, a wolf following just within the horizon.

[writtenatthebarr]

There was a drunken jukebox singalong serving as the soundtrack to the equally sloshed arm-wrestling match at the bar’s bend by the door. Fuckface 1 was refereeing for 2 and 3. A trio of Lou Reeds sang backup. Everyone else stared lifeless at the contest, then fell back into their drinks when Fuckface 2 cheated and won. The referee stared at the bar from another universe, and had to be steadied out the door by the contestants for a cigarette.

The tide went back out as an old-timey harmonica started, and Mick Jagger swept Sweet Virginia off her feet. One of the regular cliques drank shots and devised impromptu revelry elsewhere and picked up coats. Plans crashed into the side of the mountain, and coats met stools again. 

More shots found their way down the bar, and Mike exchanged a plastic card for a six of PBR. He said his goodbyes and shook the hands and hugged genuine hugs, and went out the back.

A nice communal laugh was shared as Phish caused the metalhead in the corner to groan.

So the neon blares endless against a bar older than anyone in the room, and the drinks pour forever on a lonely corner in Baltimore.

[writtenatthebarr]

The three homeless women warmed their hands around the flaming barrel on the edge of the Hudson River, and bickered about their next meal. 

“We could always order a pizza,” Hagred suggested. “Ugh, I don’t have the energy,” Belinda replied, rolling her wide eyes. Tabby smiled as she playfully ran her hands amongst the flickering flames. “I would KILL for a pizza,” she joked, switching her gaze between her sisters. Hagred and Tabby shared a chuckle and infected one out of Belinda, despite a second eye roll.

“Alright, fine,” she sighed. She picked up a broken brick by the barrel and flung it at a rat scurrying to her left. Hagred descended upon the loud screech and brought back a tiny corpse. Belinda smashed a bottle against the barrel and used the broken neck to flay the creature down the middle. She gutted it carefully and turned over the dead thing and the sisters pulled it flat, the innards hanging in a straight line down into the fire. All three held the animal and started chanting something ancient; something older than the land they currently stood on. Their eyes turned white as they lifted their heads to the sky. 

They held the rat and chanted skyward and danced around the barrel. 

Their dance stopped after the rat’s head passed Southward three times. They chanted, not exactly three women now, but one. The fire licked its way up the line of innards and the three as one dropped the flaming rat into the barrel. It impossibly squealed once more. They fell to their knees and their droning tailed off. Irises burned back into six eyes, lifting smoke trails to meet together above the barrel. It took a few moments for the coven to catch its breath and rise to its feet. 

A collective silence was eventually broken when another woman, pushing a stroller, appeared from the darkness in the direction the rat head was facing as it was dropped into fire.

“Thank fucking Christ,” Belinda said, breaking the silence. The other two looked at each other, then back at her. “What,” she asked, “I’m hungrier than ever now.” The mother approached the circle, her young pretty face a stark contrast to the decrepit three surrounding a pyre. The mother lifted her newborn son from the stroller, and he started crying. She handed the baby to Hagred, who thanked her wholeheartedly.

The mother smiled as a helplessly defiant tear broke free from a smokey white eye. Tabby hugged the young mother, and led her towards the bank of the Hudson. The woman walked slowly into the moonlit black water. Her pace never wavered, even as the cold murkiness seeped through the sides of her smile, and her head disappeared below the surface.

Tabby returned to her sisters, and placed a piece of an old metal fence, blackened in the middle, over the fire. Hagred used the bloody bottleneck to run it from the crying baby’s neck to its groin. The Three then grabbed purchase onto newly flayed flesh and pulled. They produced hammers from their belts, and proceeded to tenderize freshly newborn gore into a bloody circle of meat. Hagred flipped the circle onto the fencing, and the Sisters reveled in the delectable sizzling song.

Tabby pulled off a plump, tiny fat arm dangling from the edge of the circle, and ran a stick through the center, between the little middle and ring fingers. Tiny broken bones plopped out the other end, and landed in a pattern that pleased the other two women immensely. Belinda snatched up the bones as Hagred circled and danced. She put a bone in her mouth to suck on, and saved the others for later in her pocket. Tabby held the stick over the edge of the fire, the small fingers blackening a grip around the stick. “What I wouldn’t do for some mustard right about now,” she said. Her sisters rolled their eyes as they licked their lips and laughed in eager, hungry anticipation.

[writtenatthebarr]

Jake looked down at his bloody hands, caking brown now in the thinner spots. He was still sitting on the curb like the responding officer had ordered him to a lifetime ago. The concrete made his bottom fall asleep, and he was just starting to notice when parts started slopping into a bodybag, and the world dropped out beneath him again. He awoke to an EMT treating a fresh skidmark on his forehead, and five police standing behind her. Five shadowed titans, blocking out the receding sun behind them. Four of them had hands on their hips, ready to draw. The fifth, and farthest to the right, held chains and restraints, which made a specific chime in the passing breeze as only shackles could.

Jake looked at the blood in the street and the misshaped bag being carted off to a lightless ambulance, and struggled to remember current events. Something bad had just happened, something to which he was at the epicenter. But for the life of him and his sore rump, head, and blood caked hands, Jake just couldn’t punch through a hole through the thick pink haze of his memory to the details of the gory scene that lay behind it.

The fifth titan knelt down and started the dirty job of handcuffing the bloody man on the curb, as the four others unsheathed their pistols, each stepping to the side in a readying stance. Jake gave no resistance as a sixth titan appeared from the distance and knelt down next to him. “They’re coming to take me away, ha-ha,” Jake said to the EMT who was being shooed away from Titan #6. Jake fixed his gaze on him and his tidy grey suit and the shockingly clashing tie, which flashed small tiled symbols, each one a set of lips and a protruding spiked tongue. Each one professing Titan #6′ die-hard, lifelong attraction to the Rolling Stones. “They’re coming to take me away,” Jake repeated to the suited fellow kneeling before him at eye-level.

“It’s just procedure, Mr. Matz. We’re taking you to the hospital to get you looked at, get you cleaned up. Maybe get some food into you, would you like that?”

“It’s only rock ‘n roll, but I like it,” Jake replied, smiling behind his pink haze. The four titans lowered their weapons, looking at each other. Titan #5 continued to shackle as #6 (now just a well dressed man) smiled and looked to the EMT, who professed the obvious that Jake was suffering from shock. A gurney was wheeled over as the EMT and the detective helped Jake to his feet so the leg restraints could be set before laying him down.

Knowing it’d be a while before any official line of questioning could begin, the detective decided to poke a few inquiries matter-of-factly Jake’s way as he was strapped in, facing upward at a familiar pinkish late afternoon sky.

“All these folks claim you saved them, Mr. Matz,” the detective said as he motioned towards all the onlookers behind the police barricades. Jake stared at the infinite sky, which shared a common hue with the translucent sheet his mind produced to shield him from a resounding echo of violence. Reality harmonized and tears streamed from his eyes.

The tears caused the detective to pause, and before he knew it, he was staring at the lights of an ambulance driving away. All of his clever little questions meant to connect very large dots now lay dead on the street around him, along with streamers of chewed intestines, lower jawbones, and pieces of hands yet to be photographed by a bewildered, overworked forensic team.

[writtenatthebarr]

Terrence the Welcoming Monkey was fed up with things. “I just don’t want to welcome folks anymore.”

The look on Boss’ face would’ve saddened the jolliest of creepy mall Santas. “I… I don’t know what you mean, Terry.”

“I don’t want to welcome anyone anymore,” the Welcoming Monkey sighed, “I just don’t care if they’re welcome anymore.”

“You’re Terrence the Welcoming Monkey. You welcome everyone better than anyone in the welcoming business. By the time folks get to Jeffy the Money Handling Salamander, they’re so welcomed and happy, they just hand the money over.”

“Actually,” Jeffy started. He was in Boss’ other office chair, sitting next to Terrence.

“Oh no,” Boss interrupted, “don’t you start, Jeffy.”

“I just don’t want to handle money anymore.”

“Your actual name is Jeffy the Money Handling Salamander,” Boss shouted.

“No shouty Boss,” Terrence cowered. “You never shouty.” He was tearing up.

“Why?” Boss asked, tearing up himself. Terrence the Welcoming Monkey and Jeffy the Money Handling Salamander looked at each other, and held hands. Terrence had to lean in a bit, as Jeffy was a salamander.

“Oh,” Boss started to realize, “OH!” “You been awful good to us Boss,” Jeffy said. “We’re gonna move to Shinybutt City, make a fresh start…make a family,” Terrence revealed.

Now everybody cry.

Boss opened up the cash box, and plopped a wad into Terrence’s hand. Terrence couldn’t believe Boss’ generosity as Jeffy took the wad and started sorting out the bills.

“You go,” Boss say with a giant lump in his throat, “Go. Be happy, and have the ugliest goddamned kids that ever be.”

[writtenatthebarr]

System of a Down concert at 3:11 in the morning. A random Catonsville living room. Crackheads and nothing neighbor the important borders in front and behind. 3 different conversations compete for loudest and proudest, SOAD rules this morning. I’m on team System of a Down. A line goes ignored. A line. I won’t walk the line. Yet it goes insanely and surreally ignored. What a waste of a line.

[writtenatthebarr]

Satan rolled through the back door of the bar dressed in a stained white suit, like a homeless Mark Twain. His hair was even a sickly unwashed once-whitely nappy mess of an unkempt bush. He smelled of day turnt fish tacos and hour fresh bowel movement.

The handkerchief that poked from his coat pocket looked old and grey, and if you looked close, you’d see that it was actual brimstone smoke that lingered in the shape of a handkerchief. You wouldn’t look close, however. Not a lot of regular folks tend to look closely at smelly bums. Smelly Mark Twain banked on that as the head bartender moved bravely closer and the surrounding patrons provided The Lord of Evil a wide berth.

“Sorry bud, you’re gonna have to move on,” the bartender started. “Pardon, young fella,” Evil Stanked Sam Clemens politely interrupted, “I’m gonna need you to call out sick, all of a sudden like, and drive to this address and slice the throats of the family of six inside.” Satan plucked his pinky into his mouth, then popped it out and twisted it into the bartender’s palm, like he were putting out a cigar. The motion burned an address into the bartender’s flesh.

He backed away from the strange homeless man, and puked on the floor in front of his coworkers. They promptly sent him home, not noticing that their suddenly sick friend palmed all of the paring knives on the way out. The remaining bartenders descended upon the problem of the destitute dust fart still lingering at the end of the bar. Satan snapped his fingers and the puke burst into flame. As all were distracted, Lucifer took the closest to him by the arm and whispered, “Eyeballs have gold in them,” and put a hammer and chisel into her hands.

[writtenatthebarr]

“I don’t know his name. I don’t want to know his fucking name, I just want his fucking head.” “Alright. Calm down.” “Tell THAT motherfucker to calm down. There’s like, twelve people here, and he’s yelling like he’s announcing the arrival of the fucking queen and his microphone has gone dead.  “Yeah, he is a bit loud.” “He’s an annoying cunt, is what he is.” “No denying that. Just try to ignore him.”

“FUCK! GAH! WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!” yelled the annoying cunt across the room. 

Jeffrey froze mid-drink, let his glass down slowly on the bar, and stared wide-eyed at Chuck, his bestie. Chuck had closed his eyes to absorb the decibels into his very soul, then opened them to see his bestie Jeffrey staring at him...wide-eyed. “Jeezus fucking Christ, he IS an annoying cunt, ain’t he?”  Jeffrey kept staring, and made a ‘no shit’ motion.  “Let’s get shots,” Chuck suggested in a last ditch effort to ignore the rabid hyena in the room.  “OI! KEVEY!” Jeffrey flagged down the bartender in desperation, “Two Jamesons!” 

A minute later, they were clinking together shots when The Cunt Across the Room exploded again. Jeffrey screamed and broke the small glass against the side of his own head. The Cunt shared a merciful silence with the rest of the room, and Jeffrey’s head started to bleed.  “OI! FUCKFACE,” Jeffrey pointed at The Cunt, “inside voice.” The Cunt cowered as Chuck started to lick the blood from Jeffrey’s head. Jeffrey just kept staring and pointing. 

[writtenatthebarr]

Ashley was driving everyone batshit. She was one of seven people in the bar, and she acted like she was trying to win the “Loudest Cunt in the County” contest. Four regulars gritted their teeth between drinks and gulped down toleration otherwise. The stranger at the end of the room almost eye-rolled through the wall. 

Ashley’s friend, of course, thought Ashley’s every word was the funniest shit ever spoken. Her incessant shrill guffaws that passed somewhat as laughter put her in Honerable Mention for the LCIC’s. The combination of them both won them the doubles competition. One of the regulars went out back to break bottles in the alley. He smiled at certain shards that looked deadly enough to either dock in Ashley’s jugular, or mercifully open his own veins. 

Ashley shoved her phone in the face of the nearest barfly.  “Ain’t this the best fuckin’ picture of me LIKE EVER?!” “IT REALLY IS!” the lackey agreed, making eye-contact with every person down the bar, ending at the stranger that fed her a defiant sneer back down her throat. She shied away from the sneer, and shifted attention back to her amazing, brilliant, badass bestie. 

The stranger continued to eye-murder the pair as the bartender put another beer in front of him.  “Hey, is that a regular thing?” the stranger asked. “What’s that?” the bartender asked back.  “Them. Those cunts. I like yer bar...but those loud cunts are melting my medulla oblongata.” “Oh, it’s every day with some dickhead around here.”

The stranger closed his eyes, entered the mind of the guy out back, and used him to come inside to find soft and gushy homes for the most beautiful shards of glass. 

[writtenatthebarr]

Grumper the Poo had lived inside of Kieth’s sewage for as long as he could remember. It was an eventful life, as there were many comings and goings. Many passers-by would say their hellos, promptly followed by their goodbyes. This made Grumper a lonely poo, as it was too busy in his little subway system to make any real long-term friends. 

Then, one day, the light from the “OUT” end of the tunnel went out completely. Grumper was horrified, as this had never happened before. The exit was so gaping and wide, that there was always some form of light that peeked in. Now it was gone. The Poo picked up his old methane lantern and held it towards the darkness. There, at the far end, was giant bulking worm.

Its head was all that Grumper could see, and it was so immense that it pushed against the tunnel walls as it approached. It had no eyes, and had a pink fleshy skin which seemed a soft shade of purple the closer it came. The giant worm had a single toothless mouth in the center of its head. The mouth opened as it almost reached the statuesque poo. Grumper flinched for a second, but decided to defy the danger, and extend his hand in friendship as the behemoth came to a complete stop. 

“Hey there, friendo!” the Poo said enthusiastically. Grumper’s smile then receded as the worm started to back up. The Poo stood there, rejected, as the worm went back to the darkness from which it came. A tear ran down Grumper’s mushy face, as he was once again alone. 

YET LO! The Worm returned!

This time, the worm came a little closer, and Grumper high-fived it. A small brown handprint was left next to its mouth as it backed away once more. Grumper saw that the worm was coming back again, and started to dance in jubilation, as his new friend was playing a fun game with the lonely Poo. 

After seven or so round trips, the worm came the furthest it had traveled before, and Grumper decided to hug his new friend. The worm quivered and the Poo smiled. He was so touched that this new acquaintance was caught up in the moment as well. A small rumbling became louder and louder as the worm opened its mouth and cried so hard, its tears shot Grumper the Poo clear across the tunnel. 

A light shone again in the tunnel’s exit. Grumper stood up, drenched in goopy friendship, and waved at the gaping hole. He hoped beyond hope, that one day he would once again embrace his newfound friend.