Hex Monroe: The Case of the Curious Case

Moth Bleedsode sat in the pointedly uncomfortable chair opposite Hex's desk. His perfectly tailored suit, impossibly white shirt and ramrod posture deflated the imposing sense Hex expected the five feet of Torian Bindwood that was his desk to impose. Sitting on his haunches, lazily flicking his tail from left to right was a fat black cat looking intently at at small guilded box emblazoned with a onyx H on its lid.

“Is that a cigarette box?” He asked with a baffling mixture of excited indifference.

“It sure is. Never met a cat who smoked.”

“Fang doesn't smoke.” Moth interjected.

Fang turned his gaze to Hex and said, “Maybe I want to try.”

“Don't be ridiculous, cat's don't have lips.”

“You could turn me into fish. They have lips!”

“You can't smoke underwater you dolt.” Moth said as he closed his eyes and pushed his thumb and index finger under the bridge of his glasses to rub his nose.

Hex smiled and cheerfully offered to enchant the cigarette so Fang could smoke it under water.

“Would the both of you please shut up? I am not a fan of this neighborhood in which you have chosen to set up shop and would prefer to finish our business as quickly as possible.”

Hex leaned back into his overstuffed leather chair. The antithesis of the one which Moth occupied and studied him intently. The founder of one of the largest ad agencies in the country he was, ironically, almost as well known for his reclusive nature. He was rarely seen out and about. He seemed, unlike his comrades in influence who liked to flaunt their status, to find the social scene distasteful. A ridiculous chore best left to those who had nothing better to do than waste their free time jockeying for position to place their fingers in the sweetest parts of the pudding. It was said that he was offered an Attendant role at the Tower of Scales and refused it without some much as a second thought. It was also said that not only did the wildly successful slogan, “The right beer for every occasion, literally.” only hours after his firm received the pitch inquiry from Bloodweiser, he also crafted he “inCANtation” spell which allowed people to choose the style of beer before they opened the can.

Most people though the former was apocryphal, and believed that only crackpots believed the latter. Moth, after all, had never shown any indication of being an Adept. When one of the city's more disreputable papers tried to run an “expose” Moth sued them, forcing them to admit that they had not been able to find any record that he had so much as made a blip when he took the Test. Two weeks after the lawsuit was settled, the offices of the paper burned to the ground while Moth was on a business trip in Illiad. Nobody asked any questions, including what the hell Moth would be doing having ad meetings with those abominations up North. Hex considered himself a “crackpot”, but he kept his mouth shut because he wanted to be the only person who thought that. He also didn't want his office to get burned to the ground.

“I'm on your dime Mr. Bleedsode.” Hex said, spreading his arms and shrugging slightly.

“I assume you called me here because you found the reliquary Aethron?”

“Well. Kind of?”

Moth stood from his chair with the kind of spry energy Hex did not expect.

“Please do not tell me you had me come all the way down to this miserable part of town to sit in the miserable office just to tell me you have nothing. And why the hell is that window open? It's winter for fuck's sake!”

Hex tightened his jacket before responding.

“No, no, no. I'll start at the end and work backwards. The window is open because the heat is broken. Can't turn it off. It's either be a little chilly or sit in virtual inferno. Possibly a literal one. The furnace is absolutely ancient, and the dragon is a little funny upstairs. If you know what I mean. As for the reliquary, I found it, it's just kind of complicated. Like putting together an ad campaign for the tourist board up North.”

Hex noticed a shift behind Moth's eyes. It wasn't enough to tip his hand, but Hex was pleased with himself at having been able to get a jab in. Fang yawned lazily, but Hex swore he caught a hint of the closest a familiar in cat form could come to a smile.

“I didn't want to hire you, you know? You were one of the best private detectives in the business. How many times did your name appear in the trades for your work with the Shoba's alone? Reliable sources told me that Porter Distaff herself offered you a fortune and unfettered access to her vault of forbidden books. Yet you turned her down, disappeared for two years, and returned as a disgraced public detective.”

Now Hex felt a shift behind his eyes.

“Well, you know how it is. Money and access to books that could expand your knowledge in ways you can't comprehend aren't everything. And I didn't disappear, I took a sabbatical. Where I realized my true calling was in serving the greater good of the people, like spouses who are being cheated on or a ghost who lost their assigned haunting victims and need help finding them. Look, what I'm trying to say is...”

Hex's hard work at digging a hole into his hole was thankfully cut short as the broadcasting stone tucked into the far corner of his office burst into life.

“This week, on Detective Bloodclaw! The case of the negligent necromancer!”

Images began to flicker across the front of the smooth rectangular stone. A middle aged man wearing a greatcoat and a hat of ambiguous style standing across from a young woman in a generic lab coat. A steel medical table between them.

“Dead bodies don't just stroll out of here!” She said, her face forming the perfect approximation of outrage.

“Don't they?” The middle aged man oozed the kind of indifference that would put Fang to shame.

“What are you trying to say detective? We haven't a licensed necromancer on staff for almost six months!”

“Who said anything about licensed?”

The stone fell dark and silent, and Moth sighed deeply.

“Why the hell do you have one of those infernal devices if you don't even watch it enough to avoid the compulsory ads?”

“I thought you'd like compulsory ads?'

“Where the hell is my reliquary!”

Hex leaned forward and opened the cigarette box, pulling one out. It lit as soon as he put it to his lips; the first “trick” he learned in high school. His father was far more furious that Hex had learned such a silly parlor trick than that he had started smoking. Hex, of course, was far more pleased that he had learned something that impressed the girls. He took a deep pull and exhaled through his nose, recalling the time he was walking to his office and, passing some children, he had done the same and they went into a frenzy of joy because he looked like he was a dragon. As he remembered their cries to ask him to do it again, he looked at Fang and winked. Fang froze, but, Hex caught a hint of the closest a familiar in cat form could come to a smile.

“Here it is.”, Hex said as he gestured towards Fang.

“What the hell are you talking about you blasted fool? This miserable servant has nothing to do with Aethron!”

“Really? It never occurred to you that you that the same day that your most precious possession vanished without a trace under some of the best security was the same day you summoned your familiar?”

Red flooded into Moth's face as he began to realize how obviously stupid he had been. His hands curled into white, balled fists and Hex became keenly aware of a shift in energy. He had mixed feelings about not being a crackpot as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He took a deep breath and prepared himself, summoning his own energies. Hex didn't like not knowing what Moth was capable of, fortunately Fang took the cue and, giving a quick wink to Hex jumped out the open window. Moth jumped out of his chair with such force that it flew against the back wall and shattered. Hex stood as well, his mind focused on the wand on his inside left coat pocket.

“Son of a bitch! What have you done? Go get that can now!”

Hex smiled and sat back down.

“I'm afraid I'm gonna have to say no to that.”

Cold blue fire erupted around Moth's eyes.

“I hired you to bring me Aethron and you will bring it too me!'

“And I brought it to you. It's not my fault you let it get away. Now, you could hire me again to bring it to you again, but I'm afraid this is my busy time of the year what with cheating spouses and the whatnot. You can, of course, lodge a complaint with the Detective Guild, but seeing as I have completed our contract the the letter I think things aren't going to go your way and it would be a real shame for you to lose a complaint to the Guild. Even a man of your money can find it difficult to find a detective when they've lost a complaint. Make it a lot harder to find that cat of yours. Also, you seem to have shown something that the MRC might be interest in”

Moth settled back into the cool demeanor he had when he first walked in.

“You have no idea what you have done or how much you will pay.”, He said calmly as he turned and strode out the door.

Hex put his head on his desk and began wondered if there was any need for detectives in the Pastoral Lands.

Moons Over My Hammy, Fisticuffs and Banishment

Back in my college days, as you might imagine, there was no shortage of time spent at all night diners in the ridiculous hours of the morning, drinking coffee and eating food of questionable quality (oh sweet youth, how I miss thee). Our rotating stable of chow holes was composed of IHOP (always a stalwart), Red Lion (their cheap ass pyramid breakfast was a life saver), Hoots (a local favorite. Their mozzarella sticks were the greatest hangover preventative ever created) and America’s other stalwart, Denny’s. All the nights in those days were the same, but it was a warm early morning, the hallmark of Oregon’s all to brief respite from the rain and cold which dominated most of our days when myself, my friend A, and his brother B found ourselves at Denny’s ready for cheap food and crappy coffee.

For background, it’s important that you now A and B had a bit of an interesting relationship. They very much loved each other, but B tended to be a bit, well, “erratic”, and neither were afraid to quarrel…At best. We were sedately giving the menu a once over as we sipped on coffee which was surely strained through a sock as they had long ago ran out of coffee filters making crass jokes about math and prostitutes when the waitress approached us.

“Hey, y’all. You know what you want?”

B looked up at the waitress and blithely asked, “Are the moons your butt cheeks over my hammy?”

This query was quickly followed by A throwing his water into B’s face. B, in an attempt to be diplomatic, threw his full glass of water and A’s head. “What the hell?” went to “Holy shit!” when A leapt across the table and punched B square in the jaw. Next thing I knew there was a two man gang fight going on. In retrospect it was far more contained and brief than it felt like at the time, but for me, sitting in booth calmly drink my coffee I was expecting the cops to fly through the door at any moment. I had already put on my, “I don’t know these guys officer!” face when they stopped. It was as if they both fell the other had had enough at the same time, and everything was okay again.

“Y’all need to get out of here before I call the cops.”, She had the calm demeanor of a long time waitress who had seen worse what had just transpired and was only telling she was going to call the cops because it would give her an excuse to murder us if we sassed her back.

I slid out of the booth, shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “Kids these day, eh?”, dropped a twenty on the table and headed into the dark. Still hungry.

The good old days?

My super awesome unicorn best friend Jen Foo, posted a link to an excerpt from a book which Esquire published on 1949 regarding how to be the perfect hostess. The bit they put up regards dating advice for men and women. I couldn't help but comment.

Do you bring the names of other men into the conversation to give yourself a sought-after appearance?

Don’t. This may give a man a sense of inferiority — he is uncomfortable with you, and soon drifts away to someone else. It may make him wonder how much talking you do about him.

Shut your whore mouth. I've got a fragile ego and need to keep up the delusion that I am the center of your world.  
        
Do you wear clothes that make you a little more up-to-the-minute than the other women in your set?
Good — provided your taste is reliable and that the clothes suit you. Men may rant about the “crazy hat” but they swell with pride when their lady companions arouse admiring stares.

Men are only concerned with impressing other men with human trophies. Dress smartly and you can marry a man with a yacht!
        
If you are asked to get another girl for a foursome, do you pick one obviously less attractive than you are?
You are unwise to do so. Get the most glamorous girl you know, and both men will be pleased.

The English language has evolved a bit since 1949.
        
Do you make a point of building up other women, even those you dislike, in discussing them with a man?
This is sound practice. But don’t put it on so think that it sounds like a line.

Don't talk about other women because you find them interesting or admirable. Talk about them because...I got nothing.
        
Do men marvel at your capacity for holding liquor?
A great mistake: it gives you a fast reputation and runs into money — the man’s money — besides.

You can't have a couple of drinks without passing out or throwing up on the bar? Whore. Also, what gives you the right to take my money? When I offer to pay I don't mean for every drink!
        
How many comfortable chairs are there in your living room?
At least two, I hope. No man can fall in love unless he has a chance to relax and he can’t if either of you sits bolt upright.

Easy for you to say. You had it easy back in 1949, before the Chairpocalypse. Before comfortable chairs became the purview of the politicians and and captains of industry and their MegaCorps.
        
Do you keep men interested by hinting that later — not tonight — you’ll be really demonstrative?
This is a low trick and one that a surprising number of men see through at once. If you kiss a man, it should be for your own pleasure and not to reward him.

I don't think they're really talking about kissing here.
        
Do you make things easier for a man by suggesting that he climb into a car first, if he’s driving, or by asking him not to stand up when you come into the room?
This is an error — men know that they are supposed to show these signs of consideration to a girl and they respect her more if she takes them as a matter of course.

When a woman I am courting does not allow me to provide her with shallow gestures of affection, I just get so mad!
        
Do you ever embarrass a man by telling him he’s good-looking or has big muscles or is too, too intelligent?
Try it! Almost any man can stand almost any amount of flattery, however obvious, without embarrassment or surprise.

Both myself and my therapist beg to differ.
        
Do you knit when you are having a cozy, fireside evening with a man?
For some reason, men hate to see a woman doing anything with her hands when talking to her. Undivided attention is best.

I don't even know where to start. Knitting? Fireside evening? It's like whoever wrote this was staring at a Norman Rockwell painting. And was drunk. Also, can the guy do something with his hands while the woman is talking? WINK.
       
Do you either play bridge or dance really well?
If not, take steps to correct this at once. You’re better off if you do both well, but one talent is mandatory.

At. Fucking. Once. MANDATORY.
       
Are you so beautifully groomed that you make an average man feel like a lout when he takes you out?
Fine. Men are extremely critical of any imperfection in a girl’s neatness. If he feels like a lout once, the average escort will take pains to be better-dressed himself the next time.

Great. Now women know that we think of naught but their appearance. Ever vigilant to find imperfections. Guys, we're gonna have to switch to plan B and start attacking their intellect. Spread the word.
       
Do you, when you have first met a really attractive man, clinch your future acquaintance by some polite variation of “Come up and see me sometime”?
It often helps out on the occasions when the man is too shy to make the first advance himself.

As a cripplingly shy person, coming up to me and saying, "Wanna drop by my place and fuck me sometime?" would have decidedly mixed results.
       
Do you keep your friendships warm by chatty calls to your men friends at their offices?
This is fatal.

I concur. Boo adultery!
       
Do you use artificial conversation gambits like “What movie would you choose if you had to see it every week for a year?” to start talk with a shy dinner partner?
A very good plan — someone has to start the conversation and a question like this can keep it rolling for quite awhile.

Hang on. Women can start conversations? Well, fuck me running.

Do you save yourself wear and tear by not troubling to entertain men bores?
A grave mistake. Bores have their uses since a clever girl can practice her conversation on them, with nothing much to lose. Besides, they often have attractive friends.

Yes please. If you are not interested in me, if you could lead me on so you can become a better public speaker, and insinuate yourself in my life so much that you meet my attractive friends and then hit on them, I will love you forever.
       
Do you suffer from indecision when ordering dinner or drinks in a restaurant with a man?
This maddens them — learn to make up your mind rapidly.

Thank God I have never been indecisive over a trivial matter a single day in my life. Silly women.

Do you use the continental approach, based on the belief that an immediate pass flatters a woman?
This is the average man’s greatest mistake. If a pass, on first acquaintance, doesn’t insult a girl it at least bores her.

How do I know if I've been using the continental approach if you won't tell me what it is? What the hell was a "pass" in 1949? Did it involve mutual masturbation or soy sauce? Both?
       
Do you show your real fondness for a girl by telling her about her bad points and advising her how to improve them?
This is again an error. If you must tell her you hate her perfume or how she does her hair, wrap it up in heavy sugar coating.

Oh! Now I get it. This is an elaborate joke!       

Do you show your devotion to a woman by holding her hand or putting your arm around her when her friends are present?
Please don’t. Even a girl who is affectionate in private dislikes public mauling.

This is hardly a public mauling. Just...trust me on this one.
       
Can you describe the dress or hat worn by the last two girls you took out?
If not, notice and comment on the next few. Women appreciate having men notice the efforts they make over their appearance.

The last two women I took out wore neither hats nor dresses so I think I'm good on the noticing thing. Thanks though.

Do you have a double code about drunkenness for men and women when they are together?
If a man has to get drunk, he’ll be more attractive if he restricts this behavior to stag company.

Well, they got me on this one. Well played, Esquire. Well played,
       
Do you sometimes take a girl out on parties of four or more, as a change from twosomes?
A good idea. A girl may feel hurt if you never ask her to meet your other friends.

I don't think they are talking about what I think they are talking about. Then again, they didn't have the internet back then.
       
Do you make distinctions between the jokes you’d tell a man in the club and those you’d tell a girl in a parked automobile?
Almost no women like bathroom jokes or jokes with dirty words.

So...I can't tell jokes to women if I'm not in a parked car? This just made my "game" a great deal more difficult to execute.
       
Do you tell a woman she’s beautiful, even if she isn’t?
This habit hurts nobody and makes a lot of girls happier.

I'm glad the person who wrote this is dead.
       
Do you ask an attractive girl — who is probably busy most evenings — to call you up sometime when she’s free?
Don’t do this: you may always ask a popular girl far enough ahead of time to find a free evening.

Wait, what?
       
Do you plan your evenings with a woman ahead of time or leave the choice of amusement up to her?
It’s much more flattering for a man to announce the evening’s program, showing he has given thought to her amusement.

I know what you like better than you. I hope you know how to play bridge!

Do you believe it necessary in the modern age to push in a girl’s chair for her and to light her cigarettes?
These small courtesies mean a lot to a girl.

Sure. Modern age. I must admit I have a weird compulsion to light a woman's cigarette. Unless I am in danger of lighting their hair on fire. That tends to ruin dates pretty quickly.
       
Do you ever tell a girl you love her, under the spell of the moment, when you suspect that you won’t tomorrow?
This is a dirty trick and if you do, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Moreover, the word will soon get around to other women.

Whatever you do, do not do anything that will lead to women knowing you're an asshole. Telling them you love them when you know you don't is totes the lesser crime though.
       
How many times a week do you shave?
Once a day is minimum, if you care what women think of you.

Well. I'm fucked.
       
Would you dine a girl expensively and not buy her flowers, or economize on the place and bring her at least a gardenia?
Most women would prefer having flowers and less to eat.

Hear that, fatty? Also, how fucking expensive was a gardenia in 1949!?
       
If your hostess at a dance is obviously having a whirl, do you consider it necessary to dance with her?
You always should, as a matter of good manners.

Fuck that noise. This monkey don't dance.
       
Do you try to arouse a girl’s interest by boasting of your success with other women?
Don’t ever do this!

"So, there I am, plowing Christina Hendricks and...Hey! Where are you going? Why does that always happen to me? She's probably a lesbian."
       
Do you consider it a young girl’s own business whether she gets tight and is indiscreet when she’s out with you?  
Keep an inexperienced girl from getting tight, if you have to spank her, and don’t let any woman become indiscreet through liquor. Triumphs over drunken women don’t help any man.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to explain to the authorities that you assaulted your date in order to prevent her from being drunkenly "indiscreet"?
       
If a girl you’re fond of asks you to be nice to her cousin with adenoids and buck teeth do you cut her off your list?
Not pleasant, but if you rally around and give Cousin Belle a whirl, you’ll soon be known as the nicest man in town.

"Adenoids" and "buck teeth" is suspiciously specific. Is there something you would like to get off your chest author?
       
If you had a quarrel with a girl — in which she is clearly in the wrong — will you wait for her to apologize before calling her up or risk being a door mat and do it first?
Be a door mat — it’s easier for you to call a girl than for her to call you.

Depends. Did the quarrel come about because she was tight? WINK.

Antisocial Network

So Facebook wants to know what's on my mind. I'm pretty sure that's a disingenuous question. Sure, everybody loves my photos of the delicious, ten dollar grilled cheese sandwich I had for lunch, and the link to the cute dog in a Santa hat that I posted, but what's really on my mind? I suspect not. Does it want to know what's on my mind when I wake up at three in the morning with a knot in my gut like a monkey fist? Does it want to know why I almost had to flee my company Christmas party? Does it want to know why, sometimes, I just sit in the dark and think about the scars left by knife wounds of regret?

I don't think so. There are things which are best left unsaid. We all have stories we will never tell, and with good reason. The real trouble begins when we start to think too much about who we will tell what. Who gets what secrets, and what secrets do we take to the grave. Should we take any secrets to the grave? Who are we hurting if we do? Who are we hurting if we don't?

We all want to talk. Sometimes we want to yell, to be heard and understood. Who do we want to be heard by? Who do we care about. Maybe it's just easier to let it go. To tell Facebook that you love mashed potatoes as opposed to the woman whose hand you are holding. That the new CD by your favorite band is amazing and the fact that you were able to get out of bed in the morning isn't.

There are so many things Facebook will never know.

12/12/12

12/12/12, 7:47am
Ran into Barron Von Terror while getting my morning cup of joe at Grind Buds on Haight. He got a latte with no foam (WTF man?) and commented that it was fine weather for dirigibles. I am suspicious.

12/12/12: 10:37am
Got a text from Dr. Atomic inviting me to his Christmas party. Sometimes I feel like he only invites me to these things because I always bring a nice bottle of Scotch. And that one time I saved his life at the Battle of the Somme. Googled dirigibles.

12/12/12, 12:22pm
Got an email from agent Fox asking me if I could lend a hand with the situation on Mt. Lava Island. Had to remind him that it’s EOQ and I’m slammed. He apologized and said he totally understood. He’s an OK guy. So, turns out that dirigibles are just blimps. What a pretentious asshole.

12/12/212, 1:14pm
Went to the bookstore to pick up a copy of DeLillo's new book, Cassius Clay on Dinosaur Island. Hope he's finally figured out how to end a novel. Who the fuck buys a blimp?

12/12/12, 2:19pm
Thank god for Facebook! I totally forgot it was Patriot Lad's birthday. He's not a lad anymore so I suppose I should stop calling him that. It's just so hard to think of him as anything other than the scrappy young go-getter who helped me defend the world from villainy. Still not sure why he moved to San Francisco though. Probably wanted to get some distance between himself and The League of Justice Hero's after "the incident" with Hypno-Clown. What the hell is good blimp weather anyway? A lack of other blimps so as to render blimp related accidents an impossibility?

12/12/12, 3:12
I quit quitting smoking. I'm not even sure why I stopped in the first place, it's not like it's going to kill me. The doctors called it a "happy accident". I remember once eating some rotten food to see what would happen. Nada. Where the hell do you get a blimp license anyway?

12/12/12, 4:20pm
Decided to ditch work early and hit happy hour at the Golden Horseshoe. Jack is working which makes the end of my day even better. He's a nice guy and makes for good conversation. Also, he buys me a drink every now and then. I wonder if Terror's blimp has a wet bar.

12/12/12, 6:16
Jack told me that his greatest fear is growing old and becoming irrelevant. I told him I knew the feeling. I didn't tell him that I have been irrelevant since the invention of the atomic bomb. Who needs somebody who is stronger and faster than anybody else when you can remove a city without even seeing it?

They try and throw me missions every now and then, but we both know it's just a pity job. I'm nothing but a man to humor as he tries to push his way through a life that is going to last too long. A life that will see people grow old as I stay a picture of youth. I have done my best to accept it. To be the opposite of Baron Von Terror, an impossibly old man that has nothing left but blimps, steam powered exoskeleton's and a hope that the world has not changed.

I can hear sirens now, and what I imagine is the low hum of dirigible engines. I order another drink.

Thimble

There's a needle in my chest, which points to my heart. Every time it beats, it approaches the the tip of the needle, just avoiding it each time by the slimmest of margins. I imagine the cartoonish "POP" sound it will make on the day my luck runs out. It makes me feel les anxious each time my ventricles open and close? I don't know, it's hard to tell.

Sometimes I wonder what will happen when the wall of my heart reaches the event horizon. Will my heart fly around the inside of my chest in keeping with the cartoon theme, releasing its lifetime of blood? Maybe something else will come out? An ichor which has been building over a lifetime, pushing at the walls of my heart since my life began perhaps? Maybe it will be emotions tangible. Feelings made manifest will fill me until I burst. A pinata of joy, hope, despair, longing and love. I don't know, it's hard to tell.

What does it matter? That I have a heart? That I have a needle? Neither has served me well as I slip through the cracks of this world. Then again I suppose it's better than nothing. Or maybe not. Every time I push through one layer there's another waiting for me. Every day is a day where expectations are adjusted. There must, of course, be a moment where all the layers are gone and I can finally rest right? I don't know, it's hard to tell.

Killing a man just to watch him die.

For awhile now, in an effort to entertain myself, and continue to be able to pretend I am a "writer", I have been posting supper short short micro stories on my books of face. Because I am lazy, some time ago I decided to pick a single name to always use for my male and female protagonists. As an unintended side effect most people assumed that I was writing an ongoing narrative. Some sort of story in stages. That wasn't the case, but I decided not to disabuse anybody of that notion.

A few weeks ago I found myself thinking of my male protagonist as though he was, you know, a real person. Thinking about where he was going. So it was I found myself talking to a friend of mine over drinks who happens to be one of the few who followed my scribblings and found myself telling her that I thought it was time my male protagonist got himself a drug problem.

"Maybe," I mused "It's time to kill him off."
"You totally should," She said. "It would fit in with the overall dark story you have been telling."

With that I knew it was time for Malcolm to die. I quickly decided that it was going to be suicide and on Wednesday began laying the ground work. By Friday he would be gone. I was surprised to find that I was kind of excited by his imminent death. It felt like the right, though oddly sad thing to do. Friday morning I was at work, writing the final scene in my head when I realized I couldn't do suicide. The reasons are complex and not for this blog, but I found I had painted myself into a corner. I won't lie. I panicked.

There was only one thing to do. Go to a bar after work and drink my way to an answer. Whiskey, thankfully, brought inspiration. As I began to write Malcolm's demise I began to feel bad for him. His time had come, and yet I wondered if there was an out. Maybe he could find salvation at the last moment? I was writing out the scene where he had been struck by a car before I knew it and realized that was that.

Malcolm was a good guy who just got a bad lot in life. I'm gonna miss him.

Two sides of a coin

I was unemployed. I mean bottom of the barrel unemployed. I had cashed out my 401K for 13.74 and half a tube of stale cool ranch Pringles. I did, however, have Jr. Employee status at my local bar so could still afford to get drunk. And on that night I was a viking. As I made way home I realized I needed some supplies from the grocery store. Stumbling through the aisles I grabbed only what I needed, and only what was the cheapest they had. Fixins' for baloney sammiches and toilet paper. It was a classy night all around.

I made it home safely (thank you lizard brain!), put my things away, and passed out. Having no obligations other than the occasional weeping jag, I slept until lunch time. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes I went into my kitchen to make coffee, ramen, and a tasty baloney sammich. As I pulled out the pack of mystery meat I was confronted by the manufacturer of my generic brand of...stuff. "Red Dot".

So it was that I made my soup and sandwich and watched my stories. A few hours later it was time for me to make a lil trip to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I reached for the toilet paper I had bought the night before. As I began to rip it open I saw the generic logo. "Red Dot."

Those bastards got me coming and going.

It's what now?

It's coming up on the time of the year where I realize I'm dead inside. Perhaps I should back up a bit. I used to love Christmas in a way which is illegal in a couple of states. I don't mean in just the childlike IT'S-CHRISTMAS-I-CAN'T-SLEEP-WAKE-UP-MOM-AND-DAD kind of way either. As I outgrew that phase I retained a love of Christmas. I loved Christmas music, all the classic TV specials, the tree and decorations. The whole bit. I even went nuts with the gift buying. I would spend more time than is reasonable roaming far and wide looking for the perfect gifts for my family and friends. The thrill of the hunt was my December ritual.

And then, one year, it happened. I was pleased enough to have a tree in my apartment even though I didn't help pick it out with my room mate. The decorations she put up were nice as well, but the last second shopping I found myself doing was a pain in the ass. "Good enough" was my hallmark that year. That was a the beginning of the end. Everything after that was a downward spiral. With each passing year, December became a month of chores. Eventually, having landed in a pad by myself, the collapse was nearly complete.

Christmas would come and go, and to look at my apartment one would never even know the holidays were neigh. I became a trope. The guy who thought of Christmas as just another day. I was Scrooge, but not rich or quite as huge of an ass. For a time I dated a woman who probably loved Christmas more than me, and was almost better at it than I was at the height of my powers. A bit of me always felt a little bad that I couldn't match that love, but her enthusiasm always made me smile.

The last nail in the coffin (pun intended) was when my father passed away. He was the last parent to actually surprise me with Christmas presents. I was in college and he blindsided me with a hard shell case for my guitar, some sheet music for some songs I had been wanting, and a couple of vintage barrel house blues records that I didn't know I wanted til I saw them. It sounds like nothing, but in hazy hindsight it was everything. I've haven't been much of a friend of Christmas for some time, and it really doesn't bother me, but every now and then I miss it. Whatever it is.

Time Traveler

I am a time traveler. Not the cool kind though, like Dr. Who or Martin Van Buren (little known fact!). When I travel back in time I can't save Lincoln ("Look out Mr. President! He's got a gun!" See? Nothing.) or convince Hitler that the Jews aren't so bad by beating him to death with a chainsaw. No, all I can do is go back and watch my life unfold, long and slow like a Tarkovski film. On the plus side the view is spectacular and vibrant. There are details that I can see which were lost to me then, but as an observer from afar are crystal clear.

The trick, of course, is to avoid addiction. The past, even when immutable, is an alluring place to be. It is filled with breathtaking secrets and euphoric victories often forgotten. It is a place where I can vindicate my past choices with future successes, and turn my back on the dark corners I would rather not examine. It is a beautiful maze filled with shiny baubles and tar pits. Sometimes I don't want to leave, and sometimes I can't.

Now I'll tell you a secret. You're a time traveler too. If you're lucky you don't know it. If you're smart you never will. It's too easy to live there. To set up camp in the heart of that soothing addiction. To sit down and never stop looking at the shiny baubles. To step into the tar pit and let the thick, warm blanket rock you to sleep. To forget that there is a future because the past is known, safe, and certain.

The Fear

There is nothing as terrifying as fear. I don't even know what that means, except that I do. It is not what you think when you think of fear. It's not as simple as being afraid of THE DARK, or SPIDERS, or MIDDLE AGED MEN NAMED LUCIOUS WHO WEAR TOP HATS.

It's too smart for that. It stays vague but rooted. It won't let you see it, pin it down, fix it. Yet it will come and wake you up in the middle of the night and whisper in your ear, "I have a secret, and if you can figure it out you can get rid of me. I'll give you twenty guesses." And then it smiles. A sick smile. The smile of a killer.

That is how it begins to eat at you. You begin to think of all the things it could be. You relive the fabricated failures and regrets of your past. You think not only of the things that have hurt yourself, but the things that hurt others. You expand a singularity into a new universe of mindless doubt. A single event becomes a global dread. You know how to control it, but forget what control is.

It prods you to examine, and in doing so you begin to poke daemons, and shake the cages of old memories. You begin to draw a diagram of your past. To try and connect the dots and write large a pattern that will be the solution to...Everything. When you think you are done you pull away from your work with blurred vision and trembling hands and see that you have drawn a circle.

I Think It's Broken

So it had been a bad day. A really bad day. But it had finally wound down and it was time to head on out, meet up with some friends, and bitterly complain about our mundane lives. I was gonna need some money though, and that's when my friendly friend the ATM came to mind. He'll have money for me! He's always good to me like that. So with a song in my heart and a spring in my step I made my way to Mr. Moneypants, who is always happy to assist me.

Except for this time.

It's always a shock to be told your simple transaction for a pittance can't be completed, or that your balance is roughly $0. He still wanted to be helpful though, and provided me the option of looking at recent activity. "Well, let's just see what's been going on here." I thought. Suddenly I was assaulted with a flurry of withdrawals. Withdrawals I'm pretty fucking sure I didn't make though probably did. I do remember making deposits though. "What of the deposits!" I cried. There was no answer beyond the gentile hum of a machine that had grown cold, and ceased to love me.

I paused for a moment. Considered my options. Then finally did what any dignified member of a civilized society would do.

I punched the ATM. Just so it understood where I was at, you know?

Now, this is the important part kids so gather 'round and pay attention. However much you may believe that your local ATM is a poorly constructed piece of junk it's not. They are, as it turns out, incredibly sturdy machines. Much more than, let's say, the human hand. Moreover, as is so often the case, physics is not on your side. If you throw down with your ATM machine, you will lose. It's a tough lesson, I know, but it's a tough world.

Being An Adult Blows

Call me naive if you like, but I am of the general disposition that there was an implicit promise that when grown up my life would be a lot better. Isn't that pretty much the promise? You jump through the hoops of high school and parental control, put up with being broke in college for four years in spite of flinging yourself into a giant debt hole, then it's on to the sweetest freedom right? Well, I beg to fucking differ, because so far all I have to show for being "on my own" is an ulcer the size of Kansas City, and a bank balance whose digits, when added together, equal eight.

Sure, as a child you have to put up with a lot of shit. You control nothing. You have no voice in anything. You are, for all intents and purposes, a slave to the wisdom of your parents. The benefits though? Oh they are sweet. If there was something you were afraid to do, like a cannonball off the high dive board, and finally got the courage to do it you could shout "watch me!" until you got your folks attention. When you made that leap you were celebrated as a hero.

What a brave little tyke you were! "Let's get you out of those wet clothes and into a warm Happy Meal" was the order of the day. You felt like the king of the world, but in retrospect there was a long way to go before the really frightening crap started. Climbing a tall tree may have been a big deal when you were ten, but that doesn't exactly prepare you for the day when you've got rent due and all you have is $3.58. In pennies. That you were hoping to use to buy some Top Ramen. And when you do figure out a way around that who's there to pat you on the head and give you a cookie?

Do I pay into a 401K? You're damn right I do. It's the smart thing to do. It's the grownup thing to do. It's also the damn boring thing to do. I want that money! Thinking about marriage? You'd better start saving now, cause that 30 year mortgage ain't gonna pay itself. And while you're at it you might want to look into moving. Sure, that cool city you moved to when you were fresh out of college was a lot of fun, but is it the kind of place where you want to buy property? And what about raising kids? You gotta think about the children. Of course, this is all assuming that you've gotten past the punching a girl in the arm and calling her a doody-head phase of your life and can construct reasonably mature relationships.

I'd also recommend that you disabuse yourself of any notion you might have of still being indestructible. I'll admit it worked great for me yeas ago when it could be argued that I was, in fact, somewhat impervious to harm. Back when I could get hit in the head with a pole vault pole and scoff at the very idea of going to the hospital. Back when we would stay up all night drinking frighteningly cheap beer until the sun came up letting us know that it was chicken fried steak and a short stack of pancakes time. Before I found I had the preternatural ability to severely injure myself while sleeping.
Now, more than a couple of cups of coffee makes me feel like I swallowed a blowtorch, and after about three beers I'm getting awfully tired and after all it's already 9:00 and I've got work tomorrow.

In the Zone

You don't want to be at work. You never want to be at work really, but today is just ridiculous. Yesterday (the ever changing standard by which you always measure the present) was ok except for when your dad called you to let you know that he's been recently plagued by nightmares about dying, and just though you should know. Oh, and then you remembered that it was your friends last shift at the bar and you sure as hell could use a drink. Why did you think it would be a couple of beers, man this sucks, and let's meet up next week so you can spend some of that unemployment? Instead it was an avalanche of shots. Bullets of Irish whiskey aimed with dead-eye accuracy for your liver and consumed as though if you ever stopped the Pope would die.

But you're not hung over.

Your legs feel slightly like jelly because they are filled with restless boredom. Your stomach churns as you shift in your chair. You don't want to be at work -- You want to be laying in bed, covered in flannel while flipping through the channels complaining about how there's nothing good on TV anymore. Maybe you just want to go to sleep. God knows you didn't get much sleep last night. Or the night before that. Or for too many nights to keep track of anymore. You're no doctor, but you're pretty sure that by going to sleep at an obscenely early hour on a Friday you can make up for the years of sleep you've been missing out on. A good, deep sleep that when you try to explain to others can only be done using trite phrases like "arms of Morpheus" or some other bullshit.

But you're not really tired.

Your mind is simply pre-occupied with the past. With memories of your life long ago that have faded around the edges. It's not really a surprise, they were things you didn't even really think about as they were happening much less after they were over. Now, however, you are desperate to seek them out again as though they were a lighthouse on the horizon; lose it and you, yourself, are lost. So you claw at the interior of your brain to regain those memories. You think about how you used to sneak into the fair every year for the sole purpose of ogling the older girls with their huge bangs and leg warmers and then go eat fried bread. Back before you relegated such things to the dustbin of pointless adolescence. You remember 3am at the breakfast joint with your best friend pouring liquor in your coffee under the table.

Getting handed the keys to your new car that was purchased by your dad in the shortest lived mid-life crisis ever, and having decided that it was impractical for a man of his age to be driving a sports car just let you have it. Trying to remember the name of that girl who sat in that very car waiting for you to kiss her, but you couldn't.

Then you find yourself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. At how amazingly different your life has become. At how much better and how much worse things are now. You wouldn't trade anything to go back to those days, and yet you would trade your very life to return to the memories. To return to the construct that you have built for yourself and can, sometimes late at night, convince yourself was the reality.

Addiction

I am, in every conceivable way, a child of the 80's. I can name for you all twelve members of the Legion of Doom. If one were to say to me, "It's a wagon wheel!", I would immediately respond with, "It's time for timer!" I will tell you about the horrors of new coke if you would like. I remember "Manamal".

What marks me most as a member of the leg-warmer and giant bangs generation though, are the video games. We were the people who went beyond pong to games that were sophisticated tests of 8-bit skill and stamina. Sometimes when I see kids running to the store to pick up the hottest game of the month (I believe it's "FightFight Revolution XV: The Bloodening" right now) I often find myself thinking just how badly I could kick their asses at Karate Champ.

So it was that huge portions of my childhood were spent in a dirty, but much beloved arcade. Poorly lit with stained brown carpets creating the only appropriate atmosphere to try and master Defender. Then, one day, a new game came onto the scene. It was a game that would change the world. A game that would launch a thousand ships. A game that would bind us all.

Super Mario Bros.

It was a game like no other. A game that everyone simply had to play to be cool. Every day after school I would go straight to the arcade in an attempt to feed my new found addiction. Every day after school I would arrive to find a trio or quartet of swarthy teenagers huddled around the game, each with all the money in the world in tokens lined up on the machine in reservation. It was a shiny barrier telling those of us with dreams of playing that our time would be better spent working out our strategy for Elevator Action. It only got worse as the teenagers got better at the game and could play for hours at a time on one token.

I was on the verge of giving up when I was hit with divine inspiration. The arcade, on Sunday, opened at 10am. To play my game I would be there right when they opened! I was, at that moment, clearly the smartest child on earth. The first Sunday in which I incepted my plan I was up and ready to well before the time of opening. Shortly before ten I was on my bike and speeding towards digital nirvana. Just as I suspected my plan worked perfectly. When I arrived there was nary a soul to be found other than the bleary eyed attendant.

For months that became my Sunday ritual. Up by ten and off the arcade where it was all mine. After a couple of weeks the attended started giving me a few tokens to run next door and get her coffee.

I still love the video games, but sometimes as I'm immersed in the latest graphical wonder I'll think to myself, Yie Ar Kung-Fu was so much better.

Hex Monroe: Warlock Actuary

This is an excerpt from a novel I am not working on. I do, however, have a tag line: "In the battle between good and evil, you can't put a price on life. Well, actually you can. If you hire Hex Monroe for all your actuarial needs!"

Hex walked into his office, and with a wave of his hand ignited the candles which filled the room. He was often told that he would be better off using the light switch, but he was oft misunderstood by his peers. He sat down at his large desk -- It was covered in futhark ruins carved by his own hands in order to protect his most valuable client files. In the distance he heard the roar of a dragon, and a smattering of gun fire. He wondered if any of those firing upon the dragon were clients of the firm. If they were, he mused, he was pretty sure the payouts to their heirs would be appropriate given their occupations.

Hex thought about scrying for some information on who would be stationed nearby in the ADC, but knew that he was just trying to put off thinking about the Henderson incident. Hex had been told that everything was on the up and up, and all the paperwork seemed in order. Still, the inconsistencies he had found in the previous days had him worries. If nothing else, why would there would be such a large pay out on a librarian who wasn't working in either the Eldritch, Developmental, or Forbidden branches. Hex stood up from his desk, and began to walk towards the filing cabinet containing the Henderson file when he caught the faint smell of blood.

He knew that I a new case was heading his way, and without thinking turned towards the opposite wall just as a scroll was delivered via the network of pneumatic tubes which Count Lockhart was so anachronistically fond of. Pulling the scroll out of the tube, Hex slumped his shoulders as he resigned himself to the reality that his investigation up to this point had been a waste of time, and he would be better off putting his talents to better use. Sitting back at his desk he solemnly opened the scroll, and invoked the spell of authenticity that he had customized himself many years ago. All but 28 letters in the declaration glowed green, which was no surprise. Nobody ever told the whole truth when they filled out the forms for a policy.

Hex was about to cancel the spell and begin the paperwork for processing the form when something about those 28 letters caught his eye. He sat for some time looking the document over. He recast his authentication spell to make sure a mistake hadn't been made. When he was sure he wasn't mistaken or hallucinating Hex jumped up and ran to grab the Henderson file. Flipping open to the initial calculations he had made, and cross referencing them with the charts he had attached to the back, Hex finally began to understand what was going on.

Back at his desk, Hex called unto him a piece of parchment, and his pen. He furiously scribbled a short note and, using a Photostat spell, placed it, along with a copy of the new case into an envelope. Hex turned around in his chair, and slid over to the window. Opening it up, he looked to the left at a gargoyle perched on the corner of the building.

"Greycloak!", Hex shouted with an uncharacteristic impatience.

The gargoyle remained motionless, and Hex felt his anger rising.

"You might look like stone, but I can see you blinking!"

Greycloak took a deep breath and turned his head towards Hex.

"Damn! What stupid thing do you want me to do this time?", He said with an exaggerated sense of burden.

Hex held out the envelope and said, "I need you to take this to the Department of Library Oversight, and personally give it to Doctor Riverblood. Go directly there, and don't give it to anybody else."

Without a word, Greycloak took the envelope and launched off the ledge of the building. As Hex watched him fly silently into the night, he feared it might be the last time he would see him.

You Never Know Until It's Over

We were laying down in the truck bed in a last ditch attempt to keep the chill coastal night air at bay. The fire we had built up on the beach was long gone, and we were more than a few beers to the wind. In silence we just stared up at the sky as the truck wound it's way back towards A.P.'s cabin (which was actually his parent's but he had the good sense to steal the keys and make copies). The sky blazed with millions of stars, the absence of city lights allowing them to manifest themselves as though they only existed for us.

In our semi-isolated state all we could see were those stars. The sky twisting and turning as though it had a life of it's own. Later in the evening would be boisterous laughing, more drinking, and juvenile pranks played on the first unfortunate soul to pass out, but for that one moment there was nothing to do but gaze upward with silent awe. The quiet was breached only once when A.P. lazily stirred for a moment before saying, "I think I'm having a flashback. I totally feel like I'm dosing right now".

It Was Nice Knowing You

I fear, gentile reader, that I am not long for this Earth. Is it a terrible disease, gambling debts to shady thugs, lactose intolerance? No, rather my delightful company has seen fit to upgrade our vending machines. That's right, my mortal undoing is going to be triggered by an apparent act of kindness by my employer.

For those of you lucky enough to not know me, let me be very clear about something. I am not a healthy man. Almost everything I do to my body, and put in my body is bad for me. I smoke, I drink, and I eat the kind of food that would make any reputable person in the health care industry beat themselves unconscious with a reflex hammer in a desperate attempt to forget the horrors of what they would see. I react to exercise like mole-people react to sunlight. A friend of mine recently ran the NYC marathon, which made me recall the time I spent six months in college training for a local run before somebody pointed out that sitting on the couch drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching reruns of Fantasy Island wasn't exactly the standard training procedure that one does when preparing for such an event. I was recently encouraged to start taking vitamins, and it took me twenty minutes searching the internet to find out what the hell vitamins even are.

As much as I get a giddy sort of joy from finding new ways to defile my precious bodily temple, I have a line I thought I wouldn't cross. That line is the kind of food that is now contained achingly close to my desk in an elegantly temperature controlled vending machine. Which is to say, absolute and utter crap. You know what I'm talking about. The burrito that doesn't even look good in the slickly produced packaging photo. A Jimmy Dean mini-sausage and cheese breakfastwich that looks more like Gertrude Stein than a human consumable. White Castle hamburgers that look like, well, White Castle hamburgers. Only produced and packaged in 1921 at the original Wichita location.

Vile gustatory items to a one. And you know what?

It's only a matter of time until that line is obliterated and I eat each and every one of those hell spawned "food" items. While at it, I shall I wash all those edifying edibles down with any one of the numerous energy drinks we now have. As somebody who drinks about two pots of coffee a day, let me assure you that adding energy drinks to my current course of liquid Satan is nothing but a bad idea. A very bad idea.

I have looked into a brightly lit, rotating, horror dispensing oracle and seen the way in which I shall pass from this world. I imagine that sometime in mid-January I'll be found, bloated and frozen in place, at my computer like some sort of 21st century mummy. My heart will still be beating in vain from the excessive amount of stimuli still working it way through my system. A heady mixture of cholesterol and industrially created chemicals being pushed through my withering veins with each pump.

Is it possible to live a rich, full life in two months?

Public Service

I've recently been seeing folks coming to my site via some rather odd search terms. In order to fulfill certain "obligations" to the state I will now attempt to provide pertinent information to those individuals.

"how to make an omelet" -- If you need to scour the internet including sites named "Aimless Monkey" for information on how to make an omelet, you probably shouldn't be cooking. Please put down the pots and pans, back away slowly, and head to your nearest International House of Pancakes.

"31-year old virgin" -- Sorry. You're on your own.

"chewing nipples" -- I don't know if you're looking for pictures of people chewing on nipples, or instructions on how to chew nipples here. If you're looking for pictures, how many pages did you have to go through making explicit offers of hundreds of images of nipple chewing before you got to my site, and why did you think this page was going to be the one with the hottest nipple chewing action? If you're looking for instructions -- Well, go find a nipple and chew on it. I guess.

"clown-on-clown action" -- I'm not one of those 'afraid of clown' types, but I haven't slept in days.

"man whore" -- Send me a self addressed stamped envelope with your address, a picture, and a bucket of chicken and I'll be right over.

"monkey masturbation" -- Drop by my place tonight around 8ish. Please bring a bucket of chicken.

Other Places

Last night I dreamt I was bleeding. It was a small cut on my chin that I only noticed as I was looking in my rear view mirror, changing lanes across the Jefferson Street bridge. I was on my way to the mall to pick up a shellacked wooden slug, and an Orange Julius. I'm not sure why I would, even in a dream, purchase something as garish as a carved slug, but I sure was looking forward to that Orange Julius.

Last night I dreamt I was a baseball player. Short stop for the single A Kansas City Mountaineers. I was an unremarkable player on an unremarkable team. We were sponsored by the Lou Thomas Ford dealership, and had that name emblazoned across the backs of our jersey's with, "we provide service, not excuses" right below. Our pitcher was the only guy on the team with any talent -- Some folks said he had enough to make it to the show. Unfortunately, he also had a heroin habit so most people didn't think he'd make it to the end of the season.

Last night I dreamt I could fly. I never actually flew, I was simply aware that at any time, were I so inclined, I could lift effortlessly off the ground and race with the birds that wheeled high above me. Yet I was content to walk down the street as would any other person not gifted with the wondrous ability of flight. I didn't exactly have any emotions one way or another about my gift. I simply didn't feel like flying.