Saturday, February 27, 2016

From Noah Cicero to you

Hi, I have not seriously written on this blog in six years. I am leaving it up because people have told me they like to read it. But I will never write on it again. Thanks, Noah Cicero

Thursday, January 12, 2012


i won't be blogging, I should be able to start blogging somewhere else soon.

Thursday, August 04, 2011

Done Blogging, Going to the Irrelevant Wilderness

I think I am done blogging. Blogging is no longer relevant. I don't want to twit or tumble or work really hard maintaining an internet presense. I think my life is fucked and I need to fix things and like, try to make money and write books I want to write.

1. If you would like to contact me for an interview or article or anything, my email is

2. I'm going to the wilderness of the irrelevant, the relevant bores me. I look at the relevant and think nothing, my mind goes dead, I have few things in common with anyone anymore. I'm reading Froissart and listening to Darius Rucker. I do like some new Bon Iver songs though.

3. If you want to give me a job, I don't care where, if it is in Florida or a safe part of Mexico, I'll go. I would like 11 dollars an hour and to get health care. I also don't care what the job is, I no longer have any self respect.

4. I will sell my printed books and ebooks for 20,000 dollars, hell I'll sell you every blogpost, everything is for sell. Send me an email and I'll sell them to you, you don't have to publish them, you can just give me the money. You can burn them or fuck them or kill me, it will be okay.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Well, back to Ohio


got a job bussing, hopefully it turns out okay.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

I don't think you can order Treatise or Burning Babies

If you order Treatise or Burning Babies, I seriously doubt anything is going to come.

I'm working on getting the books at new places.

It will probably take a couple of years.

Just don't die and one day you'll get to order them.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Memoirs of a Pizza Boy (A Nano-Farce)

Preface: I don't remember writing this. I had to find something on my old floppy discs and had to look through all of them to find it. While looking through all the docs, I found this. I honestly don't remember writing this and I never submitted to anyone. I'm going to be really busy over the next few weeks and won't be able to blog, so if you want to read it, go ahead. It isn't edited and I don't care about editing it. If you want to publish it, email me, thanks, enjoy.

Memoirs of a Pizza Boy
(A Nano-Farce)

Hello my name is Rocky and I’m dead.
This novel will lead to my death.
Aren’t you excited?
I have been dead for a week
I have been told that I need to write about my final days. I do not know who told me. I believe it was God, but I’m in existential heaven, and there is no God here. So I think it was just Sartre dressed as a woman.
It is very peaceful here.
I do not have to work. So I will be able to complete my manuscript in peace. And get it published in hell I guess.
I used to write books on earth. Only got one published though. It was POD, which means Print on Demand. It sold 28 copies and got seven good reviews.
The story begins now.
It is a funeral on Belmont.
The sun is shining.
Everyone is dressed in nice clothes bought at Wal Mart.
I’m wearing a watch.
I usually don’t wear a watch.
But it is funeral and for some reason I have the sentence in my head, “Men should wear watches at funerals.”
I do not know where this sentence came from.
But I believe it is true and follow my duty of wearing a watch.
The dead person is Carol.
Carol used to own a strip joint before she died.
Carol had black hair and green eyes.
And wore fur coats from the seventies.
She was a wretched woman.
Most people didn’t like her.
I did.
Most people don’t like me, so I guess that is why.
Carol killed herself.
She had so many good reasons. It would take another book in itself to explain.
She would never say, “I’m sorry.” She was very stubborn.
Maybe she felt guilt about something.
I don’t know.
She slit her wrists in her bathtub.
Her daughter found her immobile dead body lying there in a pool of blood and shit.
Carol left a suicide note saying, “I love fat dick.”
No one yet understands what that means.
But it must mean something.
But things mean things all the time, and we just walk by them. Like the meaning is just a shoelace or a sock on the floor.
So why not just walk past the meaning of, “I love fat dick.”
There are many people at the funeral. A lot of dancers and patrons.
My girlfriend Tasha is with me.
She is wearing cornflower blue for some reason.
I’m not asking why.
Because I don’t care.
And so are four of the other dances who showed up to pay their respects to this dead wretched creature.
Carol’s daughter gives a speech in front of the casket.
Carol’s daughter is wearing an ugly Wal Mart dress bought for the funeral. It is blue with white dots all over it.
Carol’s daughter is fucked out of her mind on oxies right now. So are most of the people there.
Carol’s daughter speaks, “My mother… Was really mean… She was not nice person by any account… Her mother hated her… Which could be the cause for my mother’s terrible personality… But what the fuck… You know… I remember one time when she was high off of ludes she beat me with a baseball bat… Then she broke a beer bottle off of my brother’s head… It was a bad night… When I was in high school I would come home to her fucking on the couch… And she wouldn’t stop… But I really wanted to watch television… So I would lay on the floor and watch Leno while they fucked… It was disturbing… But I really wanted to see what Monday’s Headline were… For Christmas one year she was so high she forgot to buy me any presents… So she gave me four hundred dollars… I spent all the money on drugs… I told her I did… She asked for some… When I was eighteen she had me dance at the strip joint when there weren’t enough girls, she would say, “You gotta help out around here you fucking free-loader…” My mother… My dear sweet mother… She is dead now… People die all the time… And last Tuesday was her time to go… I really can’t believe it… I’ve been waiting for so fucking long for that bitch to die… Anyone who drinks three gallons of Crown a week should surely die before they are sixty… I get all of her money… She had a good amount of it… Also I own the strip joint now and tip out is lowered to fifteen dollars a night… Twenty-five a night is too fucking much… Greedy fucking bitch my mother was…”
Carol is almost crying but not quite.
It was beautiful performance by any standard.
A hired pastor goes up.
Carol had never been to a church since she was a small girl.
The Past is also high off oxies and used to always go to the strip joint.
The Pastor says, “Everybody bow their heads. Our God somewhere deep in my asshole. Hallow be something blah blah death. Carol was a great lady. She once told me that God saved her. She was just a bar owner, but God told her, ‘Carol, open a strip joint and they will cum.’ We all know Carol’s strip joint wasn’t clean. She had drug dealers give her a percentage to deal to the girls. She let girls give hand-jobs. And if the guy spent enough money he could fuck right at the bar. We know these facts. But no matter what Carol kept the Lord in her heart. When I was in there last week, Carol said to me tanked and fucked up on oxies, ‘God loves me Pastor, God loves me like I love steak.’ I remember when I graduated from pastor college. To celebrate she set me up with one of the girls for a small fee. It was a delightful night. The girl kept passing out because she was high off of oxies. But I have always preferred to fuck sleeping girls. Carol was a strong woman. I once saw her pick up two full kegs at once and lift them above her head. It was amazing. It made me cry, because I knew the spirit was in her then. I knew that God loved Carol and made her so strong that she could lift up two full kegs of beer. I always involved Carol in my prayers to Our Lord and Savior, I would say, ‘Lord, tonight when I go to the strip joint. Please guide Carol to not make me pay a cover charge.’ Oh, Carol, I can’t believe you’re dead. May the Lord bless you.”
The pastor then fell over; his tears were like dirty worms coming out of his eyes.
No one helped him up.
No here gives a shit about religion.
We care about oxies and dancing and poor poor dead bitch Carol.
Someone brought out a stereo and played, “Whiskey Drinking Woman.”
It was Carol’s favorite song.
They lowered her casket with her in it into the ground.
We watched bored.
I had to pee badly.
I wanted it to be over.
Tasha looked at me and said, “I kind of liked her.”
I said, “Yeah, somewhat.”
Another dancer named Cherry said, “Do you guys have any oxies?”
“No,” said Tasha.
“I need to get some, or I’ll go through withdraw in about three hours.”
“Go ask Diamond, she’s probably got some valiums,” I said.
“I spent all money last night. Do you think she will give me some for free.”
“Go ask her,” said Tasha.
“All right.”
Cherry walks over to Diamond while the casket is still being lowered.
Nobody even looks.
No one cares.
When the song finishes we all walk to our cars.
At the cars we all talk quietly.
The pastor walks over to me and says, “Hey Rocky.”
“How much is Tasha going for nowadays and how long?”
I light a cigarette and scrunch my face up and say, “I think 300 for two hours, but you gotta talk to her. I ain’t her pimp.”
“That ain’t bad. Who’s her pimp then?”
I point to where they just lowered Carol into the ground.
The pastor looks over to where I’m pointing and stares like a retard. Then it hits him. Then he says, “Well, can I be her pimp then?”
“You don’t even have socks on, how are you going to be a good pimp.”
The pastor pulls his pant legs up. Looks down and sees he has no socks on.
“You’re right. I should just stick to preaching.”
“Yeah, you gotta continue with Lord’s work. Look at all the people you’ve converted today.”
Tasha and I get into my 1988 Delta 88 Oldsmobile. The same model of car that was used in Dirty Harry Blood Pool when he gets chased by the remote control car. So the car is pimpin.
The passenger side arm rest has fallen off the door and is in the backseat. Tasha knocked it off because she got emotional about something, slammed the door, and it fell off. Which I guess according to the internet is a common trait of 1988 Delta 88s.
Now the passenger window doe not work.
My armrest has fallen off but is still connected to the wiring. It is held on by several pieces of scotch tape.
The tape player does not work. But the radio does. That is also held together with a piece of scotch tape.
The car has over 140 thousand miles on it.
I put about three thousand a month on it being a pizza delivery boy.
Tasha says to me, “I have to shit hurry home.”
“You know, Carol was a real legend of Belmont. She had that bar there for over twenty years.”
“Yeah, but she’s dead now.”
Before I go deeper into these memoirs.
I have to supply a geographical description of the Youngstown-Warren area or as some call it, “The Mahoning Valley.”
I want to give this description so I won’t have to later. And also this area is like a character in itself.
The core of the Youngstown-Warren area is the Mahoning River.
The Mahoning River is where the steel mills used to throw their waste.
The Mahoning River is brown and toxic.
You can’t even eat the fish out of there.
If you went swimming in there you would probably die a week later.
It goes from Warren to Youngstown.
The road 422 follows along side of it.
The area can be considered one large city with a bunch areas that have different names.
It takes approximately a half an hour to travel from the middle of Warren to the middle of Youngstown. It takes so long because there are so many fucking lights on 422.
Here are the names of the towns that populate the Youngstown-Warren area and a little description of the mental stability of the residents.
Warren: The people are depressed, masochistic, and violent. Amongst all the people that live in Warren you will not find one gram of self-esteem. They also like to fight with each other a lot. There are a lot of people on bicycles because of DUIs. Warren is very integrated racially; it is basically made up of poor whites and blacks.
Niles: Everyone from Niles is weird as shit. Niles has like five people that own a house. Everyone lives in one of the five giant apartment areas. Those long three story square apartment buildings.
Girard: Everyone is drunk and violent and everyone under 30 is for sure on coke. There are houses, but they are cut into smaller apartments where people live and drink. In the summer everyone sits outside and drinks. There is a lot of drinking in Girard. The men have square heads and the women have octagonal heads. It is weird.
Liberty: The people of Liberty are quietly miserable. The Jews used to own Liberty but their kids graduated college and there are no jobs for college-educated people in the area so they left. And the older Jews went to Florida to retire. Liberty is predominately poor whites and black people, and the black people that got some money bought Jews houses on the nice side of Liberty. The really nice part of Liberty is where the Indian doctors live. For some reason every doctor in the area from rectal surgeons to pediatricians are Indian. I don’t know why somebody would travel half way around the world to live in Youngstown, especially when their country had tigers and Cobra snakes which are really cool. There are no cool native animals in the Youngstown-Warren area, we have white tail deer and dirty ass possums, that’s it.
Youngstown: Hell. Most of the population is illiterate. Twelve thousand of its citizens are get disability. It is ugly. Nobody is happy. There is a college located there where like two of the fifteen majors they offer can get you a job. If you go for English or Anthropology unless you get straights As no good grad school will accept you. If any at all will. The cops don’t even exist. No money, death.
There are other towns like Struthers, Boardman, Austintown and Campbell, which are just extensions of the Youngstown misery.
And there are two nice towns where rich people live: Poland and Canfield. The rich sit in those two towns hiding like rats.
Here is a list of some Skid Row type districts in the area:
Belmont: Liberty
Tally Ho’tel and Knights Inn: On Belmont in Liberty
McKinley Motel: On 422 in Liberty.
Market Street: Youngstown.
The Trumbull Avenue side of Girard.
Briar Hill: Youngstown.
West Gate Projects: Youngstown.
Dogpatch: White trash hell Liberty.
Bel Air trailer park: Dogpatch annex.
So this is the Youngstown-Warren.
You know now what is where and what the names signify.
We can match on into the memoirs of a dead pizza boy.
I’m at the pizza shop.
Smoking a cigarette staring at the abandoned kmart across the street.
In the parking lot sits semi-trucks.
There are two poor folk bars in the parking lot of the abandoned kmart building. And dead Carol’s strip joint within five minutes of walking.
Truckers park, get drunk, go to the strip joint, and go to sleep.
Behind the pizza shop is section eight housing and cheap apartments. There is a small quickie mart with bars covering the windows down the street from the pizza shop.
People from the section eight housing and cheap apartments go to the quickie mart constantly because they don’t have cars.
I sit on the stoop of the pizza shop and watch them walk by.
Most walk by with paper bags with tall boys and forties and bottles of wine in them.
A lot open one can and drink on the walk home.
They pick the bag up to their face with both hands and drink one of the two tall boys in the bag.
It is beautiful.
It will be snowing like a mother fucker and there will still be people coming from behind Papa John’s, walking through the three inch thick snow, ten degree weather to get some beer.
I sit and watch this.
It somehow comforts me.
While sitting there Fluff walks up.
He’s a fifty-year-old crack head schizophrenic black guy missing some teeth. His bottom lip touches the bottom of his nose.
Fluff’s hands are like rocks.
Cold jagged rock.
He is emaciated from not eating right.
He comes to the pizza shop all the time and asks for messed up pizzas. If we have one, we always give him one.
He isn’t homeless though.
The government has set him up with an apartment.
And supplies him with SSI checks.
That is usually gone by the second week of the month though.
About that time he comes down and asks him for two dollars from me.
I don’t mind giving it to him, because I don’t really mind giving two dollars to anybody.
I mean, what the fuck is two dollars.
If someone needs two dollars and they ask you for it and you won’t give it. Why kind of asshole are you?
Fluff walks up to me.
I stand up and shake his hand.
It is still hard.
“I need your help man,” Fluff says.
“What do you need?”
“Advice for what Fluff,” I said.
“I got a woman living with me Rocky.”
“You always got a bitch Fluff, how you do it?”
Fluff laughs.
Then he says, “Lets go in your car and talk.”
We go in my car.
It is all very serious.
Fluff says, “I don’t know what to do. I haven’t lived with a woman in over twenty-two years. I don’t know…. I’m scared…. I don’t know what I’ll do Rocky. I like to be alone. I don’t like people telling me what to do. When people live with you, they always tell you what to do.”
“You’re a loner Fluff.”
“Yeah, I’m a loner. I like my freedom. That’s why I walk up and down Belmont like I do. I just walk around. I get money and get some beer. You know?”
“Yeah, there is a strange freedom on Belmont.”
“Strange is the word.”
Fluff and I laugh.
“I’m scarred,” Fluff said.
“I know what you mean.”
“This woman, I don’t know. I asked my mother. And she said that I should try to stick with her. That she hopes that before she dies that I’m settled down with a woman. She would like to see that before she died. But I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”
“Try to live with her Fluff.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Can you give me six dollars?”
“For what Fluff? I’ll give you two, not six. I’m a pizza boy Fluff.”
“I need to get a rock. Now listen to me Rocky. Just hold and listen… Last night we had sex. She was naked and she looked good. I hadn’t touched a naked woman in years Rocky, fucking years.”
Fluff starts crying and goes, “I’m scarred.”
Then goes on, “I told her, if your shit stinks. I’m not gonna eat it. But I went down there and it tasted so good. I was in heaven Rocky. I hadn’t touched a naked woman in so long. But then I was like, ‘you gotta suck my dick.’ And she said she don’t do that. She said she hadn’t sucked dick since 1992 Rocky. She said she don’t like it. That’s why I need six dollars. Because when you high off that rock, man you will do anything. So I need to get her high, and then she will suck my dick.”
Fluff is crying more.
“I need that six dollars. She’s back at my place now waiting for a rock. And after she smokes that rock. She will be high as hell. And she suck my dick Rocky. I haven’t had my dick sucked in so long. I need this man…. I’m scarred…. I need six dollars. Please Rocky. Please let me have six dollars. Help me out. I’ll pay you back. Come on.”
I look at Fluff crying.
Pull out my wallet and hand him six dollars.
Fluff and I get out of the car. He gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. For some reason he always kisses my cheek.
Then he heads down the street.
You may be wondering, if I was at work. Why wasn’t I inside the store doing some work. I only make $5.15 an hour. I don’t think that is enough money to work. Hell, that is barely enough money to get a human to show up. If there was no such thing as starvation no one would.
I am at my mothers.
My mother lives in a trailer on Trumbull Avenue in Girard.
She is 320 pounds of pure fat.
She used to be a whore.
My mother would go from truck lot to truck lot selling her fat ass. I don’t know who. But she had many customers.
She has been prison three times, for a total of four years.
She is a painkiller addict. She loves oxies.
She broke her leg once trying to get some oxies.
It was stupid.
She called me from the hospital, “Rocky, come to the hospital, visit your poor mother. I broke my leg.”
I show up there. I took my time, I was in no rush. I would have not even went but I had the day off and had no excuse for not going.
She said to me after the doctors left the room, “I got Ahab to hit my leg with a baseball bat, I was withdrawing and sick as dog, you know.”
Ahab is my mom’s boyfriend.
He is a huge fat black man. He is like 6-5 and 350 pounds. He is huge and fat and weird.
He is also a painkiller addict.
He has spent a total of six years in prison for dealing drugs. And I think he shot someone, but I’ve never asked.
He works at a factory now.
I am sitting at the kitchen table. My mother is sitting across from chain smoker. I take ten-minute breaks.
She is also drinking a tall boy and she keep farting every three minutes. Almost on a cycle.
While we are sitting here at the table.
Ahab is in the living room watching television, also farting every three minutes. His are not synchronized with my mother’s though. So there is a fart approximately every minute and a half that takes place in the trailer.
I look at my mother and say, “Mom, what’s the meaning of life?”
“Well, there was this time when I was eight. I was in bed. And my sister was in her bed on the other side of the room. Grandpa came in and gave my sister an onion and said, ‘Enjoy this onion Susan.’ Then my daddy came over to me. It was late and he had just gotten home from work. He laid on top of me. Pulled my underwear and fucked me. My sister watched from across the room. He did all the time for a year. Well, until he got sent to prison for fucking me all the time. I never told anyone. I didn’t think it was anyone’s business. My sister and I became lovers after that. That was strange. My mother told the police because she got jealous. I would like to think that she did it out of kindness towards, but even when I’ve got like three oxies inside me and a twelve pack and some whiskey, I think she was just jealous. I think the meaning of life, is to enjoy pain. To love suffering. To make suffering your purpose. To relish in it, to roll around in it like a pig in mud, to swim in it like a fish, to fuck the suffering. To cause suffering that is important. It is no fun to suffer unless you are causing other people to suffer. To cause other people to hate life as much as you, the hate you know. In suffering there is peace. There is love in suffering, love for the suffering that is.”
“Mom, you’ve told me that story about grandpa like fifteen times.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Ahab yells from the living, “What the fuck are you two assholes talking about?”
“The meaning of life you son of a bitch!”
Ahab comes into the kitchen.
Which is connected to the living room, so it was only like four steps.
Ahab gets a tall boy out of the refrigerator and sits down at the table.
Ahab speaks, “Let me tell you boy what the meaning of life is: You are young, like twenty-five or something. First you get a bitch pregnant. Then get her to move to the projects. Then secretly live with her. Then start dealing crack. You can make like fifty-five-thousand a year dealing crack in the projects. But you gotta make sure you don’t get disrespected by no mother fuckers. You gotta make sure you get some good guns, you know what I’m saying. When I was your age I fucking owned Briar Hill, I mother fucking owned that bitch. I had all the mother fuckers getting crack from me. I was making good money. Now once you get the money, you can all the bitches you want from the projects. I mean think about, you have tons of cracked out bitches, and men with cracked out bitches. The bitches will fuck for crack no fucking problem. And the men will pimp their bitches out for crack. And some will pimp their kids out for crack. Your mom told me you never took anyone’s virginity. This is your chance. Only crack dealers get to fuck the fifteen and sixteen year old bitches. You think you gonna get to get to fuck any fifteen year old bitches being a fucking a pizza boy. Pizza boys don’t fuck fifteen year olds. With the money you can get a Cadillac with some rims and speakers. And the bitches be all over you. And you living for free because you in the projects. And you let that bitch with your baby clean the house. You will be king of the projects, you know.”
“Didn’t you end up in prison like three times for dealing crack, and got shot twice.”
“Yeah, but there are sacrifices that have to be made.”
“For fifty-five-thousand a year?”
“Well, it does sound better than mom’s version of the meaning of life.”
“Don’t listen to your mother, she’s high on oxies.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Hey mother fucker, you want your ass kicked. Cuz I’ll kick your ass.”
“Go ahead bitch.”
Ahab gets up and picks me, dangles me upside, and swings me into the wall. For some reason we find a reason for him to do this every time I come over. It brings me back to childhood or something.
My mother, Ahab, and I are all laughing.
I ask my mother, “Where’s Chuck?”
Chuck is my youngest brother, I think he is nineteen. Something is wrong with him.
We do know what.
He sits in room all day playing the guitar.
He has mastered Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn and Jimmy Page, and he hates Eric Clapton.
My mother responds, “He’s in his bedroom.”
I go into his bedroom.
Chuck is sitting there playing Pride and Joy by Stevie Ray Vaughn.
He does not stop playing when I enter. I sit on the bed.
He keeps playing.
Chuck doesn’t even look up.
His eyes are closed.
There is a little bit of slobber running out of the corner of his lip.
He finishes the song and looks up.
He sees me there.
Chuck does not speak.
Chuck barely ever speaks.
I say, “That sounded really good.”
Chuck says, “Thank you.”
Then Chuck improvises a blues solo with his eyes closed slobbering.
I stare into space.
Then he stops again and says, “Carol’s dead.”
Then he plays the solo to Stairway to Heaven.
Then Chuck says, “I need to get a job.”
“You should get a job at a music shop.”
“Yeah, but then I will have to talk to little bastard rich kids whose parents bought them Gibson Les Pauls for Christmas. And they want to learn the new NickleFuck song. And I will want to grab their little twelve-year-old heads and ripped them off. And jam their two-thousand dollar guitara up their fucking asses. It will be horrible.”
“Work is horrible Chuck.”
“All work.”
“Yes, all work.”
“Not if your band, work is fun.”
“Chuck, you live in Girard in a trailer. You aren’t famous. You would be in a band that played at local bars. You would make like fifty dollars a month.”
“What if I went to New York City.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like NickleFuck.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m going to go get mom to give me an oxie.”
Chuck leaves the room.
I pick up the guitar and play the chord A minor.
Then C.
Then G.
Then E minor.
Fade to Black
Before I show what emails I woke up to this morning.
I have to tell you about my book.
I got one book published on a small POD press. For those of you not in the literary world, POD means print on demand.
Which means that the book is basically printed in a high tech Kinko’s printer. The books fall apart easily and reviewers, bookstores, etc find them disgusting to the nature of literature.
I’ve sold twenty-eight copies through
In two years.
But I do have like seven good reviews on the internet and in underground magazines.
But the world of TIME and Newsweek do not care about my book.
My book’s name is The Ugly Mongrel.
It is about my mother.
No one cared that I knew that I got the book published except for Tasha.
Everyone accused me of printing it myself at Kinko’s. They would say, “How much did you pay to get this printed?”
I would say, “I didn’t, someone published it.”
They never responded to that sentence, so I think they didn’t believe me.
Then they would ask what it was about, and I would say my mother. Then no one I know would read it, because everyone hates my mother.
There are people in New York City, Paris, London, Denver, Los Angelos, and several parts of Canada that are very interested in my mother though.
They are obsessed with my mother.
People email me constantly asking for short stories and poems about my mother.
I do not understand it.
I like to write, and my mother’s story sounded interesting, so I wrote about her.
People take it very seriously though.
They think she is sad and pathetic and a symbol of America’s oppression of the lower classes.
Well, to go on with this memoir.
Everyday when I wake up I check my email.
I go to the email and click mail on Yahoo.
This morning I have eight emails.
I will copy and paste them onto word so you can look at them.
This is from one of the top two book companies concerning my book. This guy writes all the fucking time.
Dear, Rocky
I love your book. I think it is masterpiece. Your mother is inspiring. But you already know that. What I want to talk to you about is you killing yourself. If you kill yourself then I will publish your book at Harper Collins. I will pay 20,000 dollars for it. You will be dead, so you won’t get it. But you can make a will, so it goes to someone you like. See, you being alive is bad. Your book is good, but it is weird and different. People don’t like weird and different living writers. Like you say very Marxist things in your writings, and if you are alive that is dangerous. But if you’re dead, then it is okay. Because the book can’t hurt anybody. We can brush it off as you being a mad man, screaming out of his mind. And we can analyze it and talk about it like it is a fossil. But if you are still alive, that means in some way the book is still alive. We have to consider the implications of what it means in today’s era. And you will be talking about it in interviews. And maybe write some more books of the same nature. We cannot have that. We cannot give a crazy loon saying the word “class” any power in society. We both know that, you wouldn’t have written the book the way you did unless you knew that. We have a republican president you know. Things need to be about family now. Even though things have never been about family in this country, that is what sales now. We are conscious that your book will sell. There is a lot of demand for pissed off working class writing. We know that from Bukowski selling so much. But we think the book would sell more, we could do better publicity, and make you more a mythos if you kill yourself.
Do you understand Rocky? Am I getting through to you. If you want your weird and different book to reach the masses it would be if you were dead. Imagine the back jacket, “Underground legend Rocky kills himself because his opus never reached the masses.”
Isn’t that beautiful Rocky?
People would review in huge newspapers because they would think, “Wow, he was such pained human being he killed himself. I need to give him a good review.”
It would work like that. They wouldn’t even read the book if you killed yourself. They would just give you great reviews based on that fact alone.
Think about it.

Your friend,
Preston Hughes.
This is my next email, from the guy who is going to publish my next POD book.

Dear, Rocky
I bought 700 ISBNs today. I want to publish sixty of your books next year. Do you understand.
Your mother is very important to me.
Write about your mother.
I want to rape your dog, do you have a dog.
Tim Jones.
This email is from a fan.
Dear, Rocky
Can I get your book in France. I live in France and want to read your book. I read about in some magazine. Your mother sounds interesting.
This is from someone I just submitted a book to a week ago.
Dear, Rocky
We read your book and found it good but thin. We liked it very much. But for a first novel it is too thin. If you write a longer novel and it is good as the stuff we just read, we will totally do it.
Lisa Armstrong
She was talking about a book I wrote that I think is better than the book about my mother. But it is only 80 pages long in Microsoft word. I understand that it is too short. People like to hold thick books in their hands. They like thick steaks and dicks and books. That is life.
This is from my friend in New York City.
Dear, Rocky
I have nowhere to go.
People think if they get a nice couch and microwave and a flat screen television. And some Dave Eggers books. Maybe some black rimmed glasses. Or a car that is red and shiny. Or a gun.
Things will be good.
That’s not true.
You sit on the couch. That’s all.
A lot of people have guns and they never shoot who they wanna shoot with them. Man is moving nowhere.
I live in an abyss of stupidity.
I want to be spanked for these thoughts.
I should be.
I should be taken out and shot.
Then things would be good.
Time would pass and I wouldn’t have to worry if I left my stove on.
Or if I will have to fart when I’m out on a date.
People would still suffer, but I would be dead. And I wouldn’t have to cause or think about any of it.
I’m still here.
Tomorrow I will write a short story about an alien that eats children’s brains.
Your friend,
There are some more emails, but they are boring.
Tasha is a communist.
She has built a stripper army.
They aren’t exactly communist.
The communists don’t even know they exist. Nobody does.
The government has been so busy looking for Arab terrorists they have stopped considering their population a threat to national security.
The stripper army’s philosophy comes from books by Marx, Engels, Trotsky, Lenin, Sartre, De Beauvoir, Che Guevera biographies, Abbie Hoffman, and Charles Dickens.
Every Thursday about ten dancers come to my house and sit in my living room. Tasha gives a speech and they all listen.
It’s Thursday.
I’m sitting in the living room.
All the furniture is from thrift stores and discount outlets, or just given to us. There are pictures of Lenin and Trotsky on the wall.
There is a fourteen-inch television, a computer, and couches.
Our house is located in Youngtown. It is a two-story house we rent for four hundred dollars a month. I’m serious. It is possible to rent a house for 400 dollars a month in Youngstown. We live here with two other dancers named Charm and Liza.
I will get to those women later.
The house has not been remodeled since the fifties. It looks like hell. There are holes in the carpet. The sink is a dirty red color. The toilet has to be flushed with a dangling chain, etc. It is home though. It is where we live and it supplies heat.
It is Thursday night and the women are running around getting ready for the mini-rally about to take place in the living room.
Chips and beer are served.
There are two new girls tonight and it is very exciting.
We all sit in the living room.
The women sit around waiting in anticipation for what Tasha has to say.
I feel I should mention the general state of the females, including Tasha.
The women are not indie girls or scenesters or punks. They are very regular people, well in terms of what it means to be regular when you grew in trailer parks and projects and small apartments. Never having much food or things, being involved in acts of incest before the age of ten. Being pimped out by their parents. Stealing bread to survive. Being beat by their fathers then their boyfriends. Spending time in prison. I mean for living in those types of circumstances they are normal.
They aren’t intellectuals. They never saw the hammer and sickle before Tasha showed it to them. They didn’t know what capitalism was or what communism was before Tasha showed them.
But most so-called intellectuals really don’t know what those things mean either. It is the state of American education.
Teach the children about American wars, teach the children about American politics. Tell them it is beautiful. And no matter what, and I mean no matter what never put anything into context.
It is sad.
Since the women don’t know who these heroes of political thought are, and really don’t have the time or patience to learn what the theories are.
Tasha basically shows them where to direct their anger.
What saddened Tasha the most, which drove her to these actions is seeing young women direct their anger at their friends, at their children, at their lovers.
You will see what I mean.
Here is Tasha’s speech, “Now listen you mother fuckers! We must stop fighting amongst ourselves. We must recognize who the evil fucks are who have done this to ourselves. It is not our parents like the bourgeoisie liberal psychologists want us to believe. But it is our own government, our economic system that has caused this anger in us. Poverty does the same thing to everyone, it causes the same motivations. The same hate in everyone. It does matter if you are black, white, or Mexican. Poverty causes people to be mean, to steal, to be violent, to treat their children like shit, to treat the people they love like shit. To treat their fellow man like shit. We are pitted against it other since birth, to fight for attention and toys. Then we grow and are fighting for minimum wage, $5.15 an hour. The capitalists have us fighting for $5.15. For one five-dollar bill, a dime, and one nickel! They treat us like expendable objects! How are we supposed to be nice to our fellow citizens if we live every day fighting like rabid animals for one five dollar bill, one dime, and one nickel. How can we be anything but angry when our cars won’t work for a week straight, when our clothes washers are broke, when our sinks are spitting out brown shit water! When we get sick and we need to go to the doctor, and we can’t because we have no health care. And at the same time we can’t take off work because they will fire us if we do! How we are suppose to be happy when we can’t afford to take even one week off a year! How we are suppose to be anything but angry when our managers tell us to clean a shitter for one five dollar bill, one dime, and one nickel. We are dancers now. But when our knees finally give out, and our bellies are lined with stretch marks from having babies. What are we going to do then! Be servers making 12,000 dollars a year! Be secretaries making 12,000 dollars a year! Be hairdressers making 20,000 dollars a fucking year! And they tell us if we save our money we can get ahead and leave our class to one the above ours. What fucking money are we suppose to save! What money, where is this money. Where is this time to go to school when the kids to be fed and watched. But we know the truth behind. We know other women and men, our own relatives who have taken the government’s grants and loans. What did they do, they betrayed us. They left us here to die! State colleges aren’t institutions of learning; they are institutions where the rich train us to become like them. But we all know many that went to the state colleges with loans and grants and couldn’t find a job afterwards, their jobs were outsourced before they even graduated. And if they did find a job, we all know what happens then. They become blind to the horror of the lower classes. That we don’t exist. That we are just lab rats for them to write sociological papers on. But we do exist. And we aren’t fucking lab rats! We are humans too. And that’s why we are here tonight. To admit to ourselves and to each other that we are humans. That even though we of different races, some of the people here are Mexican, some black, and some white. That it is not race that makes us who we are. But what are circumstances. And we all have the same circumstances. Therefore we are the same kind of people. We are of the same race, the race that has been getting shit on since the day they were born!”
The dancers clapped.
I clapped.
The women in the room are very angry.
They are angry to the point of being psychotic.
Tasha goes on after the claps have died down, “Women started the French and Russian Revolution. A revolution will not win unless it involves the women. We as women must become conscious of shitty state in this society. Look at what media wants, they want to be housewives again! Nothing disgusts me more than the word ‘housewife.’ That word is an abomination! We become conscious of the fact, that we are people too. And that in no way, are we second-class citizens. That any man or any woman has the right to tell us what to do. That we as humans can make our own choices. And that no one can order another human around, they can suggest it. But not order it. We must take charge and tell all the mother fuckers of the world, that we will be put down. We need to start with our men. We cannot give men money that are in prison for beating us. That is fucking stupid! I am tired of seeing bitches give money to men, that are in fucking prison for beating them! You are stupid, you need that fucking money! Grow the fuck up girls!
This revolution will not be worth anything, unless we stop following duties that have roots in a miserable past, and start behaving like we living in 2005. Also what about our men. Our men are drug dealers, our men are factory workers, pizza boys, gas station clerks, in prison. Our men are angry also. And there is a reason they are violent and angry. Because they are pitted against each other, just like us. We must recognize, that we are not alone. That our suffering is individual, that we can be understood. That the white man’s suffering is the same as the poor black woman’s suffering. That the root of the suffering lies in circumstances not color or gender that the suffering comes from the outside in. Not the inside out.”
The women clap again.
Two of the women look kind of embarrassed because they give money to men in prison for beating them.
Tasha sits down.
We all eat chips, drink beer, and order a pizza.
I’m the strip joint where Tasha works.
She is naked somewhere.
I scan the room looking for her.
I see her.
She is on the stage.
I see her pussy.
It is beautiful.
Her pussy is fantastic.
From that pussy comes pee.
It does give life.
She kills all possible life that could come forth from that pussy.
Tasha has had like four fetuses sucked out of her.
She has never cared about it.
In some strange way she kind of enjoys killing the babies.
She says giggling all the time, “Rocky, if I could I would take my dead fetus and throw it at the abortion protesters.”
The bar is non-alcoholic because the ladies are nude.
So I drink diet soda.
Cherry sits next to me.
Something is wrong with Cherry.
She has been on crack for like three years now.
Her skin tone looks like hell.
She falls down all the time.
It is sad and somewhat horrible.
One time Tasha went downstairs and saw her naked on the floor masturbating while eating a piece of pizza.
Cherry is a great person.
Cherry says, “Last night I had a dream. God was in it.”
“What did God look like?”
“God was this horse thing with Stevie Ray Vaughn and Jimi Hendrix heads on it. It had two arms holding a guitar. It didn’t talk. It played the guitar and I understood.”
“Are you serious?” I say.
“Yes, I’m very serious. This is so serious I might kill you.”
“Oh, go ahead.”
“Well, I said to God, ‘God, what should I do? Keep my baby and love it. Or sell it for oxies to these strange British people who want it?’”
“What did God say?”
“He said sell the baby.”
“Wow, that’s a good God. Hmm, there are British people trying to buy your baby?”
“Yeah. These two British people saw me in a super market and asked me to buy it. They said the dollar was so low they could make a killing buying poor third world American babies.”
“Fucking shit, I wish somebody would buy me and bring me to England.”
“Me too. I want to fuck Colin Farrel,” says Cherry.
“So did you sell your baby?”
“Yeah, I made like five thousand on it.”
“You gotta do what you can.”
“You got that right.”
I’m in the bathroom.
I’m staring to the mirror.
I have a face.
I look at my teeth in the mirror.
I have a gap between to my upper front teeth.
There’s a brown dot on one of the front teeth.
It is staring at me.
Telling me I should go to the dentist.
But I look closer.
It is an abyss.
The brown dot is Youngstown.
I’m sinking into it.
There is snow and slush and cigarette butts.
Shotguns and garbage cans.
Rust, vomit, and the look of angry faces.
This cavity will take twenty-five dollars to fix.
The woman said, “Show up with $25 and we will admit you.” Basically saying, “We know you aren’t going to pay your bill, no one does.”
I’ll go someday when I care.
Perhaps the tooth will fall out.
I’ll get a grill with fake diamonds.
I will be sweet.
The bitches will want to suck my dick.
But that won’t happen.
There just won’t be a tooth there.
There will just be an ugly human missing a tooth.
Maybe I should go somewhere and die.
I go to Charm’s room in the house.
She is sitting on the bed.
Huddled in a ball.
I sit next to her.
Charm is kind of doomed.
She grew up in the West Gate Projects.
Raped by her step dad.
Watched her dad get shot in the parking lot at the mini-mart outside the projects where she lived.
Kicked out her house at age twelve.
To become a whore.
Lived with a bunch of runaway kids.
Sucking dick for food and drugs.
Met a guy in the juvenile jail.
He beat her for years.
She was a whore for anybody with the money.
And I mean anybody.
The men the other girls wouldn’t fuck, she would.
She accumulated some venereal diseases.
They are cured now.
She has had like five to seven abortions.
Tasha let her live in the house because she had no other place to go.
She gets SSI now.
She never leaves the house.
Charm sits in her room, usually huddled in a little ball.
She smokes weed and just stares.
She has little television that she watches soup operas on, court shows, CSI, and LOST.
I’m in here to check on her.
“So Charm how are you doing today?”
“I’m okay.”
“Is there anything you want to do today.”
“Would you drive me to Mosquito Lake. I want to look at the stars.”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
I help Charm put her clothes on.
I get her pants and sweater.
She slowly puts them on.
Her face never changes.
It just looks frightened and sad.
We go outside and get the car.
We drive along.
It takes around a half an hour to get there.
Charm puts in a rap CD and listens and stares out the window.
She doesn’t speak.
She just stares out the window.
We go through Vienna and Fowler and then Johnston.
She looks around at Johnston and says, “This place looks quiet.”
“It’s more boring.”
We arrive at the lake.
She gets out the car and walks around.
There are some clouds in the sky, but not many.
We sit and just look at the moon whitening the water.
Charm says, “Ever go swimming in there?”
“Yeah, once when I was twelve. It gave me spinal meningitis, almost fucking killed me.”
“Damn, you almost died.”
“Yeah, had a temperature of 106. Was stuck in the hospital for a week.”
“Well, you still here.”
“Yeah. When I was about fourteen my dad brought me out fishing on the lake on a small boat. We caught some fish. I remember poking their eyes. I remember their eyes being really slimy and gross. But when your fourteen slimy and gross are awesome.”
“I like to go swimming.”
“So do I.”
“I hear they gonna open up the Youngstown pool this year, did you hear that?” Says Charm.
“Yeah, I heard that. Tasha’s mom has one of those three foot pools we can swimming in the summer. When we go, you’ll go with us.”
“Oh, that sounds good.”
We sit there for about another ten minutes.
Then we drive back.
Charm doesn’t speak all the way back.
She almost smiles for a little bit.
I like the lake too.
It is quiet.
The moon can be seen.
The lake has a soft gentle sound.
The night is always beautiful at that lake.
The lake is green and ugly during the day.
But at night, it is peaceful.
It says, “Look, if the water can survive. You can.”
That’s nonsense.
But what the fuck, who needs to make sense these days.
Sitting at home reading the paper.
I notice a picture of my ex-fiancĂ© with the small headline above it, “Woman Rapes Baby.”
The article said this, “A young woman named Cassandra Stevens put peanut butter on her vagina then placed her vagina onto her one-year-old baby’s mouth. The baby then licked the peanut butter off her mother’s vagina.
Cassandra Stevens was discovered during this hideous act by her husband. Her husband Bob Stevens called the police.”
I always knew that bitch was sick.
One day we were at Diary Queen on a hot summer day. And there was this eight-year-old girl and she said to me, “Man, that bitch is hot.”
Then I kept reading the paper. Which is a horrible thing to do with one’s time.
There was an article about Bush’s State of The Union Address it said, “Bush is our great leader. Without Bush, we will all die. Terrorists will fuck out mothers and daughters. They will turn all the men into bitches. All death all the time. There will be no Amercan Way Of Life. Only American Way Of Death. Bush is our Supreme Lord. The Democrats are all bitches. All humans are bitches except for Republicans who are Gods of the earth. Who own the earth. Republicans are an all loving, all giving party. We owe our lives to capitalism. Capitalism has given us microwaves and Ford cars. Capitalism loves us. Bush loves us. We are all bitches. Bush’s love is not unconditional though. He needs your support, or he will not love you. Bush wants you to believe in God and family and homophobia and xenophobia and phobias that you’ve never heard of, he wants you to believe in those too. Believe or be shot in the street like a dog. Or have your house blown by a missile shot from Lake Erie.”
That was a strange article I think.
There are more articles, mostly about lawyers who have their husbands killed.
Mobsters building highways.
Cocaine dealers doing drive-bys.
How there is gay propaganda all over the television.
That there is a liberal media at all.
That there is God and He loves you.
That certain churches are doing really stupid events.
That some white kid shot two other white kids over a pound of weed.
That some black kid shot two other black kids over a pound of weed.
That some Mexican kid shot two other Mexican kids over a pound of weed.
That they closed a strip joint because a coke dealer paid off the mayor because the coke dealer in that strip joint was dealing without his permission.
That some guy stabbed his wife and child then lit the house on fire.
How they are going to pave the richest people’s streets first, and it is only fair because they have the biggest televisions.
Our congressman did nothing but sit in his office and eat potato chips and watch soap operas.
They found the biggest indoor weed crop in America’s history in downtown Youngstown.
Our area’s top lawyer swindled thousands from poor people.
A back doctor raped four of his patients.
A man in a trailer park cuts his penis off to become a woman. It doesn’t go right and he dies. They find over twenty dead animals in the trailer.
A drug dealer executes two crack heads for not paying up. Even though they only owed six bucks a piece.
Some more stuff about how God is awesome and Bush rocks.
And they found a dead crack head in an abandoned house and they don’t who the fuck it is.
That’s the news and heard it here first.
I go this place, it will remain nameless.
At this place a man can pay $150 to get a shower and a hand job.
You might be thinking this is an Asian Spa, but it isn’t. There are American girls here. The only place like it in the area.
I get to sent to a room by a woman.
It is a small room with a massage bed.
I take off my clothes and wrap myself in a white towel.
I sit there on the bed.
There’s a clock, I have an hour.
This is my life.
Waiting for hand jobs on a long thing bed.
This is the world.
This is what the world of humans, animals, and plants can give a human for $150.
I deserve this.
I’m not dead.
Haven’t blown my brains out.
Or gone to prison.
I show up for time at work.
I don’t shoot people.
Or steal from old people.
Don’t run credit card scams.
Haven’t designed any computer viruses.
I deserve this.
I need this.
If I don’t get this shower and hand-job I might blow my fucking brains out.
Then I will dead.
But I saved up the $150 and I’m going to get a lovely girl to be my friend for an hour.
I have Tasha.
But we are more like friends.
We talk a lot.
We have things in common.
We found that out through talking.
I will not have to talk with this woman.
This woman does not care what my favorite color is.
She doesn’t care about my mother’s neurosis.
How my father is a dumb angry automaton.
She will not ask those things.
I sit here and wait.
Eventually the door opens.
The girl is about five five and skinny with brown hair.
She looks at me and I look at her and realize, it’s my sister Tianna!
I’m like, “Fuck, Tianna, what are you doing here?”
“I’m working dick fuck.”
We stare for a second.
Then she is like, “All the other girls are busy… I’ll give you a hand-job but I’m not fucking you.”
“That’s fine. I still want the shower and everything.”
She looks at me and laughs.
Tianna leads me to the shower room.
She takes my towel off.
My flaccid dick is out in the open.
She laughs and says, “Look at your little peepee.”
“Shut up.” I say real childlike.
Then she has me stand there and she shoots hot water on me while laughing at my flaccid penis.
I ask, “Have you seen dad lately?”
“Yeah, last week I drove over to get some money. He was sitting there yelling at the television. He kept saying that we are going to run out of oil and that there will be violence and death and all kinds of weird shit.”
“Yeah, that’s dad. Did he give you any money?”
“Yeah, he gave me a twenty. I wanted forty, but that’s all he had.”
“I saw mom the other day. She was high off of oxies saying dumb shit like always.”
“Yeah, that’s mom,” says Tianna.
Tianna finishes my shower.
She dries me off.
She says, “I feel like a retard drying you off.”
Tianna hands me the towel and I finish what’s left.
We go back to the room where the massage table bed thingy is.
She lays me down on the bed and asks, “So you want a massage asshole, or should I just get to the point?”
“No, my back is fucking killing me. And I paid good money for this twat face.”
“All right, all right.”
She takes off her clothes.
Revealing a small shaved pussy.
Small pretty tits.
Long soft legs.
And a belly lined with the stretch marks of pregnancy.
That reminds me to ask how her kids are, but then I remembered they were taken away because she left them with a baby sitter and didn’t come back for a week. And when she got back they were in the custody of the United States government.
I lay on my back.
She gets on top of my back.
I can feel her soft pussy on my lower back.
She massages my shoulders.
Then flips me over.
And massages my arms and legs.
Then begins the sexual activity.
I pull her on top of me and kiss her.
She opens her mouth.
Usually the ladies keep their mouths closed.
But I know my sister and knew she would open her mouth.
We kiss and she lays on me.
She looks pretty in the little room.
Not like an angel or anything.
Just nice and soft.
I like it.
I grab her small ass and squeeze.
It is nice, round and firm.
I whisper to Tianna, “I love you.”
And she whispers back, “I love you too.”
Then she goes down and jacks me off.
I blow a huge load.
I make a horrible amount of noise while it squirts out of my dick.
My sister Tianna puts her hand in it and then rubs it all over my face.
I say, “I’m gonna kick your ass.”
She laughs.
I laugh.
Life is good.
We put on our clothes.
And she says, “It was just like when we were little remember?”
“Yeah, it was. If you ever want to do this for free. You know where I live. You know Tasha don’t give a fuck.”
“Maybe,” she says smiling.
Then I leave.
Less than two minutes down the road I forget about the whole event and start thinking about stupid shit that makes me want to ram my car into a telephone pole.
They executed Flip four months ago.
They injected him.
Then he died.
I didn’t know Flip.
Flip executed three men.
He made them get on their knees and he shot each one in the back of the head.
It can be assumed Flip killed more than those three men though.
Flip had already gone to prison for three years for shooting another man.
They just caught him this time.
The news said that Flip rejected his last meal.
A woman I work with at the pizza shop that works at the prison said he was so violent that he was permanently locked up far away from the other prisoners.
His lawyer on the news said he was very intelligent and had cold dead indifferent eyes. That you knew he would kill you if you were left alone with him.
They showed his picture on the news.
He was a strong looking young black man.
No ugly or attractive. Just a normal looking man.
But his eyes were angry.
Cold and indifferent.
He was fierce and kind of creepy looking.
Flip had grown up in the Youngstown projects like Charm.
He had spent his whole life in those projects.
He grew up to become a drug dealer.
He grew up to live by the gun.
I asked Charm if she knew Flip she said, “Yeah, when I was young. When I didn’t have no home. Flip didn’t didn’t have no home either. He was angry, I remember that. He would break shit all the time. And he was real crazy.”
And that’s all she said.
I think about Flip a lot driving around delivering pizzas.
I see his face.
He was twenty-five like me when he shot those guys.
He came from this area too.
But he came from the projects.
Like Charm who sits huddled in bed.
I’m an existentialist so I don’t believe genetics cause people to kill people.
So I have to accept that this world, this country, this city made it possible and easy to shoot three men in the back of the head.
A mixture of intense anger and dehumanization.
That Flip could look down at another human and just shoot.
That it didn’t matter.
Drug dealers and mobsters do kill people.
But not like that.
Criminals need to spread fear to gain respect. It is part of the game.
So they do drive-bys and car bombings.
But I’ve never heard of a drug-dealer shooting another person in the back of the head with such little remorse.
To shoot the three men at once he knew he was going to get caught.
He was conscious that he never get away with that.
He couldn’t get away with shooting one man and not killing him. How could he get away with three executions.
Flip wanted to be caught.
He wanted the police to show up with their guns.
Guns just like his.
And take him.
And one day kill him.
He didn’t want to be killed like the men he killed.
He just wanted to be killed.
He had grown up with punishment.
With severe endless pain.
He had grown to love suffering.
Suffering had become his God.
He prayed, worshiped, and brought gifts to his God of suffering.
Flip loved suffering.
He didn’t want to be executed nice and easy like he killed those three men.
He wanted a long insufferable time between the announcement of his death. And his execution.
He wanted to dwell like a madman on his death.
Flip wanted to sit in his cell and savor every morsel of his coming death.
Flip is inside all the people of Youngstown and the surroundings.
This want for blood.
For violence.
For unbearable long-suffering we have been taught to love and cherish.
All Flip was, was a gross exhibition of what the people of this area are like in on the inside.
But we all on Flip’s side of the spectrum of hate, despair, and the want bloody violence.
I walk into my dad’s apartment.
He is sitting on a lazy-boy chair.
There is a bottle of Vio and a Pabst on the end table beside him.
He is watching the news.
His face doesn’t change when I come into the room and sit on his couch.
He doesn’t speak.
I sit there for a long time.
He still doesn’t speak.
He never talks.
Just silence.
After awhile.
He looks at me and says, “I worked in the steel mill for twenty-four years. You know that you son of a bitch!”
“Yeah, you fucking tell me every time I come over.”
“I started working in the steel mill when I was eighteen-years-old. Look at you, your twenty-five and you’re a fucking pizza boy.”
“There’s no fucking steel mill to work at scumfuck.”
“Shut up! I worked in the steel mill for twenty-four fucking years. I went there five days a week for twenty-four fucking years and then they close the mill! They closed it! I was suppose to fucking retire from there. I was fucking suppose to work there for another six fucking years! But no! Americans want to buy foreign steel! Mother fuckers!”
“Does your ex-junkie third wife still haunt the bathroom?”
“Yeah that fucking bitch. First she fucking dies in there. Then she haunts the son of a bitch. My toothpaste keeps disappearing. I find it jammed deep in the shitter. So I have to stick my hand in the shitter with shit in it and dig the fucking toothpaste out. Fucking crazy bitch even tortures me in death.”
“Ever think about getting a hobbie?”
“What the fuck you say? I watch Nascar every Sunday. Every Sunday I sit here and eat chips and watch Nascar. You gotta fucking problem with that?”
“You fall asleep by the end of every race. I bet you don’t even know who won last Sunday.”
“Mother fucker, I know who won!”
“Who tardfuck?”
“Shut up!”
“You have an attitude problem.”
“My attitude is fine you son of a bitch!”
“You are deranged. You should get help or something?”
“I will get drunk,” says my dad.
“Let’s just not talk.”
“That sounds fucking good.”
We sit in silence.
In my house on the Southside.
I’m sitting on the floor reading a book.
I hear screaming from the cellar.
It is Tasha.
I run down into the basement.
She is kicking the washing machine.
Throwing broken microwaves at it.
Punching it.
Calling the washing machine a son of a bitch.
I say, “What’s wrong?”
“Open the fucking door!”
I walk over to the washing machine and open the door. There is water, lots of water.
Too much.
“Its broke?”
“What the fuck does it look like?”
She continues to kick the washing machine.
And throwing my shit at it.
We just bought an used one about two months ago.
Before that we didn’t have a washing machine for six months. We had to drive down to the laundry mat to wash the clothes.
When shit breaks, and it always does.
She flips out.
I don’t think she has ever owned anything new. Or could afford to fix anything immediately.
She grew up with hand-me-down clothes.
With a used bicycle.
Read books bought from thrift stores.
Sometimes she get nice stuff from discount clothes.
But she has never had a car that was more than $800, or a new stove, or microwave, nothing.
Just used junky shit.
Tasha is tired of it.
Tasha is tired of junky shit.
I’m tired of it too.
She doesn’t calm down for two days.
She eats pissed, ties her shoes pissed, chews bubble pissed, she is just pissed.
Eventually she forgets about it.
When the car broke she is laid in the driveway and cried for an hour.
I wish I could buy her something new. But I don’t have the faintest clue how one goes about getting the money to do that.
Tasha makes good money now dancing and doing privates every Sunday. Which adds up to about $26,000 a year. Which ain’t bad. That gets new clothes bought from places like Wal Mart and Target. But not enough to get new shit.
I work with a schizophrenic named Jeff.
Here are incidents at work: During all of these events I am standing in the driver’s area. Where drivers stand and do nothing. Sometimes we fold boxes.
Jeff is telling the in-stores who make $5.15 an hour that he makes $24,000 a year.
I say, “I only make $12,000.”
Jeff says, “Dude, that’s because you don’t hustle. You gotta talk them into tipping you. You gotta tell them that those lines on the credit card are for the tip and shit.”
I stare.
The in-stores stare.
Later on in the day Jeff tells me he won a thousand dollars on horse races last night. I asked him how he bet. He could not answer.
The only way to be on a horse in Youngstown is by internet.
So I asked him if he had the internet. He said no.
I don’t even think horses race in the middle of winter.
Another day he told me that he was going to buy a racehorse with his tips, and that he would make $50,000 a year with it. I’m serious. I googled, “buy race horse,” it said that it costs $8,000 to $12,000 for a race horse. And that it is around fifty thousand for training and upkeep on the animal.
He makes $12,000 a year.
Jeff also randomly tells me he is going to get brand new trucks for like $5,000. Next week he has no truck.
He is insane.
He is also terrified of black people. Not like a normal racist, like, “Damn niggers blah blah stupidity.” But something like, he is just terrified, he is convinced that all black people are trying to steal his pizzas out of his car and want to kill him.
I can only imagine he grew up with dumb money grubbing racist parents.
What is strange to me, or new.
Is that usually schizophrenics believe they are God or bad painters. Schizophrenics love to be bad painters. They liked to say the phrase about themselves, “Genius touched with madness.”
But Jeff is different.
Jeff is Godless and doesn’t even know who Picasso is.
His God is capitalism.
But he is poor.
He is poor with delusions of grandeur.
Which is just ugly.
Jeff also has a girlfriend he does not allow to leave the house. She must sit there in the house all day and night. She is not allowed to leave.
He feeds her only old pizzas that were mess ups.
In a liberal daydream people would run to the girl’s help and try to rescue her from this insane man.
But down here, beneath the world of media and literature and political influence we just say, “If a bitch would take that shit, she’s probably a fucking asshole anyway.”
I’m outside with Frankie one day.
A black guy in his late twenties.
He has told me he’s a gang member and works there because it looks good for his parole.
He carries a blue bandana around with him.
One of his front teeth is broke.
I’m sitting in his car smoking outside the pizza shop.
Frankie says, “What is wrong with that bitch Megan. She is always on our shit. About our fucking name tags and hats and all kinds of shit. She ain’t even a manager.”
“She says she is a trainer or something.”
“I don’t know what the fuck she is, but if she don’t stop with this shit. I’m gonna get a hood-rat up here to fuck her up.”
I laugh.
“Another thing, she don’t know how to talk black. There’s black up here, this pizza shop is on the border of Youngstown. She needs to learn how to talk to black people.”
“You’re right about that.”
“No shit. I was thinking about, I think the difference between the black attitude and the white attitude in this area is this. A person with a black attitude knows that they are getting fucked and they will always get fucked. A person with the white attitude knows they are getting fucked too, but they think someday with some magic fairy shit they will what is coming to them. They whites is wrong, there ain’t nothing coming but another piece of shit day. And you don’t need to be a certain color to have this attitude, you can be black and have the white attitude, and be white and have the black attitude. That bitch Megan, she is all white all the mother fucking time.”
“You got that right.”
Both of us sit in the car smoking knowing nothing is going to come but another ugly piece of shit day.
I love the internet.
I wake up everyday and stare at that box.
There are links.
I click them.
Check my email.
Read the lit blogs.
Then look at porn.
Then google jelly fish.
It is beautiful.
I’m in a bookstore.
Walking around looking at books I don’t wanna read.
It is painful.
There are books everywhere and I don’t want to read them.
They are all bad.
Horrible trite monsters eating at people’s brains.
I see a girl.
She is like eighteen with long brown hair.
Kind of pretty, in some weird way.
She is looking at comic books.
I don’t know anything about comic books.
I stare at her.
I feel heartbroken.
Like I soiled my pants.
I want to talk to her.
About what though?
I don’t want to talk.
I just want to see her naked.
That is all.
Just fuck her without speaking.
But no.
I have to talk to get fucked.
There is nothing around me.
Just dead lifeless paperbacks.
There is a CD section near by with bad boring music.
She is looking at comics.
If I could.
I would cry.
I don’t know if there is any life left in me.
Any desire to care anymore.
What does it matter when you live in a country where truth is bought and sold like cooking products or hair styling gel.
Nothing matters here.
We don’t matter.
Why should I care?
Why should I even speak.
If a major corporation wanted to cheeseburgers the new God, they could. They could buy up enough commercial time and make everyone believe in the cheeseburger God.
They do anyway.
We all believe in cheeseburger Gods.
My mother and Ahab died two days ago.
In their trailer park was a meth lab.
It blew up.
And took the whole trailer park with it.
I do not feel sad.
I’m sitting in my bedroom.
Charm comes in.
Charm says, “Your mom and Ahab died.”
Charm sits down beside me.
She holds out a candy bar.
I take it.
I eat the candy sorrowfully.
Charm says, “The funeral is in an hour, we need to go.”
I put my shoes and we leave.
Tasha, Charm, and I all ride together in Tasha’s hoopty.
My mother and Ahab are being buried on Belmont in the same cemetery as Carol, the one across from the discount clothing store.
There are a lot of my mom’s past johns there.
They miss my mother in some strange way.
Ahab’s family is there.
There are a lot of people on oxies.
Some are stoned.
I think Tasha took six valiums today.
She stares like a bewildered reptile at the universe.
Charm is looking at her feet, she has big women feet.
My father is there, for some reason he goes up and speaks.
“That woman, was something else. She couldn’t cook. She couldn’t clean. But she worked hard for the money. The cops used to say, she was the hardest working damn lot lizard they ever seen. That’s all. Also Ahab was a nice guy. He was a lot nicer and funnier than my wife. I liked Ahab better than my wife.”
Ahab’s brother goes up and speaks, “Ahab once saved me from drowning in water. We were sled riding on a pond and the ice broke. Ahab jumped right in and saved me. He went deaf in one ear because of it.”
Somebody yells out, “That’s It’s a Wonderful Life.”
His brother goes, “Shit, you’re right. All right, Ahab taught me how to steal cars. And he taught me how to shoot a gun and clean it. He was the one that told me when I was ten that if I rub my penis white stuff would come out, and it would feel real good. Before I went to the pen for the first time he told me all the shit I needed to do to get respect in the pen. He was nice and funny too, in a strange kind of dark way. And that woman, oh, she wasn’t bad. I tell you what, that bitch didn’t take no shit. For a white bitch, she was pretty strong.”
Ahab’s brother sits down.
Someone said I should say something, so I do. I go and say this, “My mother and Ahab were people. They survived and bred other people. My mother told me to never butt fuck on the first date. I did not follow her advice and found out she was right, it leaves a bad impression.”
There are laughs.
“Ahab was a good guy. He was funny. And always paid back what he owed you. He would always ask for twenty dollars and give it back within a month.”
A lot of “mm-yeahs” from the crowd.
And I finish it by saying, “At least they didn’t kill themselves.”
The pastor goes up after me. He said he would do it for free if Tasha would give him a blowjob. Tasha is going to give him one immediately after the ceremony.
“Now everybody bow their heads. O father, bless these bless Loretta and Ahab. They were good people. The best you can get. That’s all. Amen.”
It was obvious that the pastor was dying for a blowjob and just wanted to get the service over with.
They lowered my mother and Ahab into the ground.
My brother Chuck who is also Ahab’s son plays Lets get it on by Marvin Gaye on the guitar and sings it. At the end he bursts into a crazy Stevie Ray Vaughn solo.
We all disperse.
Some people are crying.
Some just want to go home and watch television.
Tasha and the pastor go into a mausoleum and do business.
Charm and I sit in the car and smoke cigarettes.
It is cold in Youngstown in the winter.
People say it is because of “Lake Effect.”
I don’t know what “Lake Effect” is.
I don’t think anyone else does either.
I don’t even think our weather anchormen know.
They were all trained at YSU for Communications.
Which is a major that guess teaches people to communicate.
It is about 20 degrees.
Last night I got pulled over by a police officer.
He said, “You didn’t stop at the stop sign. And your license plate lights are out.”
In Youngstown having a light out on your car will get you pulled over. If you speed, run red lights, swerve around drunk, you can do pretty much anything you want. Except for black guys in one single car, they are doomed to be pulled over.
So I’m at work, and there is still light outside.
I’m going to replace the lights in the parking lot.
There is a parts store next door.
I buy some lights for three dollars.
I know the guys at the parts store, so they let me borrow a flathead.
I go back over. My hands are cold now.
I stare at the lights.
This is what people do who fix little on cars.
They stare at it.
They know it involves screwing and, “right tighty lefty loosy.” All heartland men know that phrase, because our fathers beat it into our heads. And I mean BEAT it into our heads.
I unscrew the screws on the lights.
The lights don’t come out though.
So I’m fucked I think.
I open the hood.
Can’t get to them through the hood.
I stare more.
Then I realize I have to take the plate off and remove the chrome thing surrounding the plate.
I do.
I am able to pull the lights out.
I stare at them and fuck with them for a long time.
I am very cold.
Eventually I figure out that I have to twist the light sockets out of the light container thing.
Do these things have names?
I twist them out and put the light bulbs in.
I can’t get the chrome thing back on.
I throw it in the back seat.
Turn on the lights.
And go look.
Only one of the fucking lights are on.
So I hit it a couple of times.
And it comes on.
Lights on your car for some reason will come on if you hit them.
I don’t know why.
I’m not an electrical engineer.
It works.
Like the witch doctors of the past using herbs to cure people.
We Youngstown people have ways of keeping our hoopties going.
I feel like a man now.
I have done something to my vehicle while it is very cold outside.
This somehow means something.
This coldness and the vehicle combined makes me into a man.
To some being a man is taking care of your responsibilities, having children, paying bills on time etc.
But so few of us do that, we have had to create new standards of what it means to be a man.
And fixing your car in extremely cold weather is one of them.
I’m sitting in the kitchen looking out the window.
There is snow on the ground.
Black people wearing stocking caps and large worn coats stumble down the street.
I just stare pointlessly.
And then a cat walks into view.
One of those mangy gray and black cats.
The fur is extremely thick, it has been outside all winter.
Just walking around.
Trying to find shit to eat.
The cat did not die.
The cat is pretty as it walks around.
It looks peaceful.
It is used to trying not to die.
Work meeting bitches.
It is 8am on a Monday morning.
Everyone at the pizza shop is there.
We are all standing.
We all look like hell.
Our faces look all puffy, burned out, and ugly.
The manager says, “Now listen up. We have an inspection. If we fail this inspection, we all lose our jobs. They close down the store. So listen, this is important. You must wear your name-tags and your hats. If you do not wear your name-tags and hats you will be brought outside and executed. Men wearing black and gray military like uniforms will come and shoot you. You will be dead because you refused to wear your name-tags and hats. Also they will kill brothers and fathers and rape your sisters and mothers. Corporate is very concerned about name-tags and hats. Any questions?”
One the in-stores asks, “What if we forget our name-tag.”
“You will die a horrible bloody death.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Second, we must clean shit. We must clean all the screws; we must clean the wheels on the tables. We must wipe down the walls. We must mop properly. Moping is very important, the floor must look clean. Got it! Good. Third all drivers must learn the phones, all drivers must answer the phones. Except for Jeff because he is insane, and we all know he will fuck up the orders. And he will probably start annoying the shit out of the customers about his horses. Forth, all in-stores must count the exact amount of pepperoni that goes on each pizza. There are posters above the make-line that show how much pepperoni go on each pizza, we must not deviate. That goes for all portions. Our product cost has been like four percent. We need to bring it down to two percent. If you in-stores don’t start putting the exact amount of portions on each and every goddamn pizza, you will be executed by the men in black and gray. Fifth, I’m going to start sending people home early, labor cost is at an all time high of three percent. We need to bring that down to one percent. Corporate said if can’t get it down to one percent, then they are going to fly the pizzas in from India. Or perhaps replace you with robots. They haven’t decided yet. So even if it is busy I will send some of you home. And I might fire some of you in the next week for really silly reasons to save on labor. Sixth, corporate wants over ninety percent profit. We must accomplish this goal because the owner said he wants to buy a hummer, a boat, and take a trip to Africa this summer. And unless we get ninety percent profit for the next six months, he will not be able to accomplish these goals. Seventh, corporate has told me that we must pledge allegiance to George W. Bush every hour of the day that we work. And that you must vote republican or die. And that if anyone even mentions Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter or happiness in anyway will be shot by the men in black and gray. Eighth, some of you have said that $5.15 an hour is not enough money to scrub toilets, or work hard. I asked corporate about that, they said do it or die. Over the course of the next few months we will be adding more and more work for you to do, but we will not be paying you anymore. You will do the work or die, it is your choice. You must realize that you are not humans, but tools, instruments of production, you are soulless, godless, loveless, shit eating dogs. And that if you think even for one moment that your life could be any better than this, and that if anyone has it better than you, you are lying to yourself. Corporate has told me to tell you that all have their kids have diabetes, and therefore they suffer worse than you even though they are millionaires. And that they have to deal with something called Post-Modern-Emptiness which is worse than any of the suffering your asses could have. So because of that, and the fact they don’t want you to have something called Post-Modern-Emptiness they said you can never ask for a raise, even if you work here for twenty years, you will under any circumstance ever make more than $5.15 an hour. Good, have any questions?”
We all just stood there waiting to go home.
I’m at the strip joint.
There are naked girls walking around.
Sometimes I look at them.
I look at their asses.
It is nice.
I notice the pastor is sitting a couple of seats down from me.
I go and sit and next to him.
He looks at me and says, “Rocky, the weirdest thing happened to me yesterday. Jerry fucking Farwell called me on the phone. He said, ‘Listen, you need to tell your parishioners that God hates Muslims, Liberals, all blacks that refuse to speak white people English and poor people.’ He also said, ‘If there are any poor people in your church, any of those shoeless stinking vomits of mankind, kick they them out because we need money, empty those seats and fill them back up.’ I was like, ‘Dude, you’re creepy and hung up.’ It was so weird.”
“Are you for real?”
“Yeah, I’m for real. Jerry fucking Farwell called me. Then, do you know what happened? Pat fucking Robertson called me, he said, ‘Now listen, we know you have niggers and white trash that attend your church. Why don’t get some of those dirty mangy niggers and white trash to vote for Bush. You know those niggers smell, they smell bad, I hate niggers. My dad told me that all people that ain’t white and don’t have money are evil. He said God hates niggers, spics, yellows, wops, Catholics, and dirty shitty white trash. That’s the way I raised, and I don’t care. Those liberal scum fucks are goddamn pinkos even though every liberal scum fuck I’ve ever met is rich. That doesn’t matter, what matters is that some of them have the audacity to even go near those nigger scum, white trash turds, and spic wetback bastards. I’m Pat Robertson and God loves you.’ I was like, ‘Dude, what the fuck year are you living in.’ He responded, ‘I live in a mixture of 1325 Europe, 1941 Germany, and 1835 Mississippi.’ I hung up on that shit. That guy is crazy man, he’s crazy.”
“You got that right. Have you see Cherry?”
“Oh, man. You didn’t hear. They found her dead in a crack house off of Albert Street. They think she either had a heart attack from smoking too much crack. Or zombies ate her,” says the pastor.
“Zombies ate her?”
“Yeah, they said there were bite marks all over body. They had to shoot her in the head to kill her actually.”
“How many oxies did you sniff today?”
“Like six, I got a prescription. I went to the doctor and told him my knee hurts from dancing so much.”
“When the fuck do you dance?”
“Well, one of the girls told me it worked for her. So I used it. And since I’m a man of God, and all those doctors are republicans he believed me.”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“No, this republican thing has really worked for me. All these bitches come to the church now asking for religious guidance. They think if they religious it will align them with the republican party and get them money or a tax break or something. So I’m like, ‘Hey baby, why don’t you sit on it.’”
“Does it work?”
“Yeah, sometimes. They think God loves them if they fuck a pastor. The whole time while we are fucking I quote random psalms I kind of remember.”
“Let me ask you pastor, you even believe in God?”
“How can you ask something like that? I make forty thousand dollars a year and have health care. Who the fuck cares?”
“You make forty thousand a year, you don’t do anything.”
“No, fucking shit. I’ve never done anything all my life. And you wanna what the best thing is about being a pastor, the job never changes. You say the same damn shit for the whole thirty years. It never changes, because God doesn’t change,” The pastor laughs at that hysterically.
“When’s Cherry’s funeral?”
“Tomorrow at the cemetery on Belmont across the street from the discount clothing store.”
Someone emailed me and said somebody reviewed The Ugly Face.
I click the link and look at it, it says, “Reading about Youngstown made me vomit. It was a good healthy vomit though. Rocky’s writing is amateurish but at the same time has a certain amount of archaic and mid-twenties sophistication. Rocky seems to have emotion, and I almost had some emotion while reading his book. But since I have a horrible case of Nihilistic-Post-Modern-Emptiness I could get none. So I will just say things about his language and his craft. And other random weird shit.”
There more. It talks about how I fuck with endings. How I’m a horrible person and all kinds of shit like that.
They are right.
I am a horrible person.
I used my mother to create a book.
My mother is dead now.
One of the things the review said kind of pissed me off though, “There are a lot of Ebonic type phrases in it.
I sat there staring thinking, “My step dad is black, my half brother is black, and half the people I talk to on a daily basis are black. What are the fucking chances.”
But I guess they assume I’m suppose to be white, and that means something. Being white.
I’m just a guy who lives in Youngstown. I’m not white. I’m not black. Fucking shit. Maybe somebody should bitch about Hemingway when French appeared in his book.
It doesn’t matter though, it is a good review.
As long as the review is good, that is what matters.
Maybe suburban educated people don’t understand that beneath the layer of shit the media has built, that there are white and black people that speak to each other. That hang with each other. That in each other houses. Or maybe in some parts of America it is still Jim Crow fucking bullshit.
I don’t know.
This all troubles me.
I feel hurt when someone says I’m speaking Ebonics because of some philosophical reason or as a joke.
Oh God, when will this race shit ever end.
It is 2005, why do I have to do with this race shit.
This problem should have been solved by now.
But it isn’t.
And no one cares.
And there are assholes who think racism will end in the constructs of capitalism. But the essence of capitalism is alienation, division, making other people surplus.
Maybe history needs to pass.
I wonder how long the foreign slaves in Italy were pissed and shitted on. They never talk about that in history class, maybe they fucking should.
They probably just kept fucking the other races.
Which I fully support.
I believe wholly heartily in inter-racial fucking and breeding.
I want America to be yellow.
Like Puerto Rico.
That’s why Tasha and I abort all of our possible humans. They will be white. There are enough white people.
There needs to be more mixed people.
I am tired of white people.
I am tired of this race shit.
People need to grow the fuck up
People need to grow the fuck up in this world and start behaving like people, and not like fucking retards.
I walk into the bedroom.
Tasha and Charm are on the bed.
Tasha is holding a handgun with a fully loaded clip.
She is drinking cheap wine out of the bottle.
Charm is lying peaceful. Her head is on Tasha’s lap. Tasha slowly pets her head with one hand.
They are both naked, why I do not know.
Tasha stares into space, looking mean and angry.
I sit down on the bed fully clothed and say, “What’s with gun?”
“I’m going to shoot the computer,” says Tasha.
“How come?”
I got a Trojan virus. I am fucking tired of Trojan viruses. I want to use the computer, I want to click links and end up at goddamn websites. Not have the fucking computer freeze up like a bitch!”
“Did you hear, Cherry is dead,” I says.
“I know. The zombies ate her.”
During this Charm just lies there.
“When I was young. We ate cabbage soup. All we had was cabbage soup. The factory closed and my father was thrown away like garbage. Like garbage. So we ate government cabbage. And cereal without sugar. I wore hand-me-downs. I slept on a rough mattress. I was jumped constantly. One would come from behind and hold me. While another would beat me in the face and stomach. This was my life. At night I would hear gun-shots. People would die less than fifty yards away from me. One I walking and saw a man dead with blood. I’ve listened many times to the screams of women being raped. Of death, hell, blood, and loss. They told me the teachers to go to school. To apply for a pell grant. I got one. So I went. They told me the American dream was to live in the suburbs, that I would graduate from state university and live in suburbs. How am I suppose to sit in a house peaceful, far away from the people I once knew, knowing that there are still gun shots. That good men still die for nothing. How many people I grew up, only grew up to enter prison. I cannot live peacefully. I know this violence, I know this anger. I have come to love this ceaseless anger that exists in me. I don’t have a clue how to quiet it. I went to college and graduated but it did nothing. My anger is there always beating loud. The suburbs were not built for people like me. I think I’m going to shoot the computer.”
“The police will come, don’t do that.”
Tasha continues to pet Charm’s head.
“I do not care if the police come. The police can come, I will shoot them all. Their deaths mean nothing to me. Everyone deserves to die. I’m sure there will be at least one person happy that I’ve killed these certain humans. No one is innocent. We are all guilty. We all bear the guilt of this civilization. We keep it going. The workers build the buildings, and deliver the food and water. The rich plan the suffering and we carry it out. Only the poor are innocent. They didn’t plan it; they didn’t build or deliver the goods. And they couldn’t afford to stop it. I want to remain here, without shit, it is horrible when something breaks and I can’t go to the doctor. But at least I’m innocent. At least I know when I get up in the morning, this isn’t my fault. I am an Iraqie. Liberals say we shouldn’t have banded together to stop the wars. Who am I to stop anything? I am the anything that needs to be stopped. With what money and time am I suppose to stop a war. Bush owns television, I can’t even afford cable,” says Tasha.
“What did the doctor say about your knees?”
“Well, today I went to the free clinic. I went in there and said, ‘My knees have water in them. I’m in constant pain from dancing.’ The doctor looked at me and said, ‘You should stop smoking and drinking. And believe in God, and stop dancing.’ I said, ‘I can’t stop dancing, that’s how I pay my bills.’ He said, ‘God hates you. And this is a Catholic hospital, have you eaten the Eucharist lately?’ I said, ‘Yes, I ate my boyfriend’s ass just yesterday.’ He didn’t like that. I said, ‘I need surgery, but I don’t have health car.’ He responded with, ‘You should take baths with Epson Salt.’ I said, ‘I do.’ He said, ‘That’s good keep doing that. Also you should believe in God, and God will take away your water that is located in your knees. Also this hospital doesn’t do abortions. And we know all you dancers are drug-addict bitches. So here is a prescription for chewing gum, you should chew it, and then shove it up your poor stripper ass.’ That’s what doctor said.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
Tasha never shoots the computer. She falls asleep soon after.
Tasha, Charm, and I are watching television.
George W. Bush’s State of The Union will be on in a minute.
Tasha and I are sitting on the couch together.
Charm is on the floor huddled in a ball. She is playing a hand-held game.
Bush comes on.
He is my president.
He reigns over this land.
He is God.
Bush has a stupid look on his face.
A very undetermined kind of complacent childish look.
Bush speaks: Good evening my fellow Americans. America is the greatest country on the earth. We are better than all other countries. There is France, Germany, Kenya, China, Columbia, all of them. We are better! Even though many of those nations have national health care. And there is less of a difference between the richest and the poorest of some of those nations. Means nothing!
America is God.
Because God loves America.
All Gods love America.
Jesus loves America.
Yahweh loves America.
Allah loves America.
Vishnu loves America.
Even the mother fucking Buddha loves America.
Because we are great!
We have brought things to the earth like Elvis, the nuclear bomb, Jefferson Davis, the television, Warren G. Harding, Ted Bundy, Tom Cruise, Michael Jackson, all kinds of great shit have provided the world.
But there is a danger.
There are terrorists.
And they have a new plan.
A very big plan.
They are training hamster spies.
These hamsters are vicious terrorists suicide bombers insurgents Iraqis evil evil evil!
These hamsters can be anywhere.
Under your covers.
Inside you toasters.
In your car.
Inside of your eight-year-old daughter’s cranium.
Intelligence tells us that we will soon have to cut open people’s craniums with drills to see if terrorist hamsters are inside.
I am telling America.
Beware of all hamsters!
They are terrorists.
They are enemies of the state.
All hamsters hate American!
All hamsters hate the America Way of Life!
All hamsters have one mission and that is to destroy us!
Hamsters believe that just because we put them in cages and force them to live lives of servitude because our children enjoy them so much.
Hamsters believe these are justifications for blowing up subways, ramming mopeds into buildings, killing our mothers, raping our daughters, ass fucking our sons without lubrication.
They must be stopped.
I’ve decided to wire tap all hamster cages.
To implant little microchips inside of hamster skulls so we can monitor their thoughts at all times.
America must not, under any circumstances negotiate with hamsters!
We must be resolute on this.
No negotiations with hamsters.
Your life, your wife’s life, and your children’s lives depend that no negotiations with hamsters take place.
Hamsters are evil!
Hamsters hate humanity!
Hamsters hate the Christian God.
We also believe that hamsters have built several nuclear devices. These hamsters are planning on killing millions of Americans with these nuclear devices.
Many Americans will die because of these hamster terrorists.
We have already foiled several hamster attacks on America.
They planned on blowing up the Grand Canyon, lighting Yellow Stone on fire, ripping out the eyeballs of everyone in Chicago, gang-rapping Laura Bush, taking little hamster poops on the citizens of Florida, eating Mount Rushmore, and chewing on Baptist Church pews in the south.
The hamsters must be stopped!
Intelligence has told me that the hamsters might have orchestrated Hurricane Katrina, and that in fact it was the hamster terrorists and not me who carelessly let all those poor people die.
Intelligence has even told me that hamsters have caused jobs to be outsourced. And not anything I’ve done.
Hamsters are the reason Americans die in Iraq, not me.
Hamsters! I tell you. Those dirty hamsters!
I have been told I must talk about other things besides hamsters, so I will talk about this.
All women must procreate within the next year.
All women!
If you cannot procreate, we will kill you.
You will be dead.
You are just getting in the way.
My own mother will be killed.
All men that cannot get hard and squirt love juice into female pussies will die also.
All men that refuse to fuck women will become killed.
We need children.
We need lots of fucking children!
You must start a family.
If you have finished puberty and do not have a child you will be shot!
I know that females are going through puberty at younger and younger of ages. The average is ten now.
I do not care.
You must procreate!
But do not worry parents, I’m sending a law to congress stating that parents can choose who will have their daughter’s baby.
It will be like the good old days.
And to men if no parents choose you as good enough for procreation, you will be shot.
I want fifty million babies born next year.
I’m sending a law to congress stating that if you have over four babies by the time you are twenty you will never have to pay taxes. You will get college free, you will get a free car, a free house, free everything. And if you have over ten babies by the time you are thirty. You will get a own your big screen television.
Do you understand!
Procreate or die!
Even though the world will run out of oil by the time the baby is thirty. It does not matter. What matters is that there are babies and lots of them.
See what baby do is, is cause you to suffer.
I like to see suffering.
I like to see poor people get their arms blown off. I have soldiers with cameras in Iraq, they send live internet feeds of little five-year-old girls screaming in agony with their arms blown off.
I lubricate myself and get to business.
I really enjoyed Hurricane Katrina, seeing all those fucks drown. Oh, that got my penis all crazy.
I jerked off for days.
And seeing those poor white trash bitches drown with them.
Oh, that got me going.
Dick loves it too.
We both like to see little naked babies with their brains spilling out all over the sand in Iraq.
Nothing turns me on more than severed body parts.
Oh, yeah, baby, give it to me.