Y = Hope and N = Folly

The green Ford Explorer in front of him found a way to both drive too slow and stop too quickly. His eyes were level with the back of her SUV’s bumper and he took his sweet, endless time to view every sticker. Don’t Tread On Me. Dole/Kemp ’96. Calvin peeing on the homeless. And, to him, the most offensive sticker of all said “Pro-Life.”

Darkseid gripped his steering wheel with his bulky fingers, leaving an imprint on the rental car that he knew would get him into hot water with the dealership back on Apokolips. But he didn’t care about that in the moment. He was fixated on “Pro-Life” because the idea of his work being flushed down the toilet, blown to smithereens, tied to the Source Wall shook him. Millennia of self-funded research would mean nothing if the human public couldn’t settle their petty differences and appreciate his work. The Anti-Life Equation, Darkseid’s ultimate goal since locking his bedroom door and discovering his own Omega Force, would never be fully discovered and implemented if Southern Baptist women were so strongly against abortion.

This folly, this silliness of mankind that thought pro-choice meant anti-life would only delay the actual altruistic Anti-Life right around the corner. Hip girls with star tattoos and protest signs weren’t truly anti-life, and Darkseid let out a large sigh and began mumbling to himself due to his irritation. The politics weren’t focused correctly. His advisors were useless. No matter how many times he had to invade Earth or kill a superhero or alter reality, nothing stuck with these dimwitted rednecks. And the new god thought to himself, “How on old God’s green earth can I ever be the villain? I want to erase life, to anti its ever being. Is there nothing more dastardly? Are self-sufficient women so frightening?”

The light turned green, and Darkseid drove down the road, and he never ended up being the common enemy for the world to unite against. South Carolina was just too busy hating itself.

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Stupid is a Term of Endearment

Here are a couple of pieces I wrote for the zine (‘zine?) Potato Jesus Quarterly. The first is in Vol. 2 Issue 3. The second is either in another issue or lost in the wind. I need to publish things. Here you go.

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Review: Bimini Run, for the Sega Genesis

“Kenji, come in. Kenji, come in. Come in, Kenji.”

Luka reached out for his blunt, but the waves were fierce on that Tuesday morning and his last little bit of happiness went sinking down to the sharks. He and Kenji had been traveling Northwest, past the isles and into the Atlantic, with no directive other than finding Kenji’s sister. Luka had been eyeing Kim for a long time, ever since she was only twelve years old. She had a pretty face then, he used to think, but surely I can wait until we’re both in college together. When she turned eighteen, Luka had been sleeping with his clients for years, but he never had the nerve to talk to her in a one-on-one encounter. How stupid, he used to think. As long as I was respectful, surely Kenji would approve.

Dr. Orca was a thorn in Luka and Kenji’s side ever since the boys arrived in the Bahamas to stay at Kenji’s dad’s timeshare. Kim first went to Orca’s offices due to her toe, having stubbed and split it on an ocean rock right past the shoreline. Orca took a liking to her then, a liking neither boy approved of. Kenji stormed out of the offices of the married doctor, while Luka trailed behind, a bit morose but otherwise perfectly high. Four days later, Kim was reported seen at the private second residence of Orca, out past all the resorts and into mostly uncharted territory.

Luka pulled himself up onto the closest sandbar. “Oh, God,” he muttered aloud after spitting up an ounce of mucus and blood. “Oh, God.” He was stranded on the sandbar for nine hours. By the time the sun had set, he dug four S.O.S. symbols into the sand, each of which had been washed away. In between his bouts of exercise, he sat at the shore and watched the sky turn into a brilliant array of purple and orange colors. His face became flushed with anger when he thought of Dr. Orca, but it eventually parlayed into a greater sadness as he thought of Kim.

Luka stopped his crying once he saw the water turn red. He knew that what had sank with the explosion was coming back to the surface, including his friend. The very next wave brought a slender hand accompanied by half an arm, ragged and sharp in the tears that separated flesh and bone. Luka reeled back and ran towards the other side of the sandbar, hoping to every deity he could imagine that Kenji was alive, even if that was his arm.

The last few minutes of Luka’s life involved running back and forth on the sandbar, realizing that everywhere he looked the enemy was approaching. Orca didn’t even care about them. Orca just thought they were stupid kids. An army of white sailboats, owned by every rich white male in the whole of Bimini, surrounded the boy. Luka closed his eyes when he heard the first crank of a minigun.

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  “Yes’m. I’ve known Ol’ Bill for many ayear now. Been to his place often atime. His wife cooks meaaaaaan apple mess, I tell you what. Oh. Oh, yes’m. Here’s what you do: Go down Bright Street ‘bout half-a-mile, take a left. You’ll know to take a left when ya see Chilly’s Biscuits – that’s the best eatin’ ‘round these parts. Then you’ll see one athose fancy-dancy neigh-bor-hoods called Sicklemore Grove comin’ up on your right. Take that right. Go down aways, past the pink house Miss Margareet built for her cats and then past the rainbow house us boys built when we rounded up all them gays, and eventually you’ll see Ol’ Bill’s place ‘bout a mile away on top of that there hill. At this time aday you might find yourself stuck behind a honkin’ yellow schoolbus, and they stop pretty frequently, be ferwarned. Anyway, the schoolbus’s last stop is the house right next to the wormhole we discovered with tha ancient and immortal god Nyarlathotep inside. Yes’m, Nyarlathotep. Bill’s buster Duck was diggin’ around in a haystack for a lost catcher’s mitt when he acc’dentally discovered a tear in space-time. Funny how the good Lord plans these things for us, ain’t it? Anyway, that rift which shatters sanity grew and grew ‘till it blocked the whole road up to Ol’ Bill’s place. You’ll hafta go through it if you want to get there, but it ain’t a problem. You’ll wantta do some breathin’ exercises in order to prepare yerself for the hideous monstros’ty that infests your mind and has caused many a young lady, such as yerself, to jam her windshield wipers through her own eyeballs. Heh. Funny what that Nyarlathotep can do, when e’rytime I’ve seen ‘im he just floats along in the endless void singin’ the song of unlife. There’s that chance you’ll make it through, though, and when you get to the top of that ahill, I’m sure Ol’ Bill will be waiting for ya with a nice pitcher of water to refresh your irrep’rbly-damaged psyche. An’ if yer really lucky, his wife will have some apple mess layin’ out on the window for ya. Yes’m, you’ll be fine. I’d go m’self but I can’t operate no motor vehicle no more after that wild chil’ o’ mine ran my back over with that aflaming chariot. It’s gonna be a great party, though, Ol’ Bill’s been talkin’ ‘bout it before church for weeks.”