I would rather…

…shoot myself in the head.

Wait, what?  Shoot myself in the head?  How the fuck did we wind up here?  Well, I suppose, in order to understand the end of the story, we have to return to the beginning.  I’ll try not to linger too long, after all, I really should get this over with, right?

Yesterday was a day not unlike any other.  I worked from ten to seven at my part time job.  I came home and finished getting my things together for a book signing, even if I wasn’t able to have my next two books there due to certain technical circumstances.  I spent an hour grooming my appearance, had a light lunch, and then spent the better part of my afternoon promoting my work at the local library.

It wasn’t that big of a deal that I hadn’t had any sleep, I typically don’t sleep when I have so much that fills my day.

  1. I’m a full time father.  Most days I made my children’s lunches for school, my wife’s (when she can come home) and youngest’s lunches in the afternoon, and I make try to attend their various daytime functions, if they have any.
  2. I’m a BBQ enthusiast.  I love to grill or smoke foods as often as I can, and the weather be damned!  I also make and sell my own BBQ sauce via ThatGuy’s BBQ.
  3. I’m a full time author.  I’m always writing, whether in my notebook or my online mediums, and I’m currently putting the finishing touches on books three and four, with two already self published.
  4. I’m a part-time web-designer.  I work by contract, designing or creating e-commerce sites for established and new clientele.  Most of my work is very similar to my own site.  It’s easy enough to manage, or update, but still takes time to get it just right.
  5. I’m a part-time ghostwriter.  Last year, I was approached by a peer in the writing industry and asked if I would want to do some work for said person and I accepted.  I write because I love to, and even if it doesn’t build my pen name’s reputation, just being a part of that machine was enough for me.
  6. I’m a part-time book reviewer.  Much like the web-design, this is by contract.  Unlike said job, this one usually pays in reciprocation.  Sometimes I’m the one paying to do it.  “Now why the Sam-Hell would you go and do something like that,” you ask?  In the writing game, it’s the grease that moves the wheels.  Common courtesy goes a long ways, my friend.

I’m sure you get the picture.  I could go on, my list does continue to grow and change from time to time, but to be honest, this isn’t really the point.  I was talking about yesterday.

After the book signing, I attended a surprise birthday party for one of my brother-in-laws.

Again, wait.

Yes, I mean to say that; I worked for nine hours at my part-time job, I came home and prepared myself and media for my book signing extravaganza, and I had yet to sleep!  What?  Why are you shaking your head like that?  By this time, I have only been awake for twenty(ish) hours, with only two hours of sleep behind that.  It’s no big deal, really.  I’m used to it, after all.

So we’re good?


It was a well-planned party, even if the start was a little bonerific.  Long story, and out of respect, I won’t get into it without the party’s permission, but let’s just say it was hil-freakin-arious!

I stayed for a few hours, well past the twenty-four hour mark, but it was time to get home and pay the (piper) tab for our sitter(s).  Our kids were already way past their bed-times, and the house would need to be picked up a bit before my head could make sweet, sweet, z’s to my pillow.

(Mmm, z’s.  Even now, after I have been awake for two hours, I still tremble in anticipation of the thought!)

It was an hour later that I would find the point of this whole story.  The birth of this blog post.  The reason I should just eat a fucking bullet.  Or, so the words of a drunkard enjoying the sound of his own voice would suggest.

My wife stayed behind to help clean after the party.  It’s what our family does, we work as a unit to get things done.  No sooner had I left, when this, kid, began informing everyone of how incredibly stupid the employees are at my steady job. By his own merit, you know, because driving trucks takes a fuckin’ IQ over one forty to do, the only people who can get a job there are military vets and, well, people so stupid they wouldn’t fit in anywhere else.

My wife let it slip, but when he didn’t stop, she first took offense, and she then went on the offensive.  Apparently, his opinion was shared by the other attending party-goers, for rather than standing on her side, they opted for the “let’s just move past this and forget it ever happened” option.

No problem.  In my line of work, you kind of get used to being shit on.  Kids, walmartians, book-reviewers…  Nothing surprises me.

What really hurts, what disappoints me more than anything else, is the silence that my wife stood against.  Seriously guys.  I wouldn’t have let that shit go down if it was you someone was talking about.  If you weren’t going to stand up for me, you could have at least supported her.

“I would rather shoot myself in the fucking head than to work at Walmart.”

That was the final straw, the one that broke the camel’s back.  It brought forth the fuckyoualls from my wife, drove her to tears, and sent her packing from a party that she was trying to enjoy.  Nothing kills your buzz though, like someone tearing your significant other apart, aside from everyone else letting it happen.

Okay, I suppose I get it.

Walmart’s not the ideal place to make a living.  Pay’s only adequate if you work the over nights, but even then, you are doing more work than you’re actually worth. Especially when you are good at, or enjoy, what you do.  Then, you are the shift’s workhorse.  Expect to be moved around to several departments, to help finish other associate’s work, and to not be thanked for it.  They get off on that shit.

What you do have going for you are the benefits.  Wallyworld’s benefits have saved our family hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars over the years.  They offer bundling packages through your phone carrier that takes a good percentage off of your bill. Associate discount?  Winning.  Stock sharing?  Yes.  401k? Right the fuck on.

I’ve earned the respect of my peers through hard work, believe it or not, and have even made a few friends on the way.  Again, winning.

I’ve made some mistakes in life.  We have been dealt cards that are out of our control.  But rather than lie down and take the ass-raping life tends to hand you, we continue to drag ourselves back to our feet, flash our toothless grins, and fly the almighty bird of defiance.

My wife took one for the team last night, but I was there to pick her back up.  I’m used to taking shit from other people.  Unfortunately for other people, my outlet to healing is in the words.  And.  Oh yes, and.  I will write your sorry asses into my story.

I’ll pass on that bullet, sir.  I’m doing just fine.  In fact, I dare you to wear just one of my shoes for a day, and then we’ll talk about stupidity, bullets, and choice of professions.  I would be surprised if you didn’t cock that big ole tool of yours and put it in your mouth.  (See what I did there?)  Careful now.  That bullet’ll come faster than you expected it too.


Personally, I would rather mind my own business than to piss off a writer.  We tend to hang our laundry out to dry.



Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck. Fuck the fucking fuckers in the fuck, fuckin’, fuck.  Fuuuck me…




Trespasser (Part II)

The look on ole Sammy Dryden’s face was that of pure contentment when it happened. He was fixated on the shape of the ballerina, his one good eye staring as affectionately while the other remained hidden behind its milky cataract blanket.  His heart had simply ceased to continue beating.

His smile softened, then faded altogether as the life slipped away from his old bones. First the knife, and then the figurine he had been carving, fell from his hands.  The first clattered against wooden floor, spinning for several seconds before coming to rest at his feet.  The other landed on its side with a crack.  The right arm of the graceful dancer broke from the impact and shot into the air, bouncing off of the approaching forehead of its maker.

He had been known as Sammy Dryden to his neighbors, though some of the children often referred to him as ole man Dryden, or Sammy D.  He had survived his wife Hazel, of sixty years.  He had outlived both of his sons, Robert and Douglas, who had each served and died for their country.  He himself had served three tours protecting the people’s freedom.  There was no man on God’s green Earth capable of sending him through the Pearly Gates.

As the rains finally died and the water level in the street slowly vanished into sewers already swollen from the storm, it was ultimately time that had betrayed him.

Nobody had noticed when Bryer Street’s oldest resident quietly died that night.  The storm had taken its toll on the community’s residents.  Having become disinterested once they realized that it wasn’t going to be the end of all things, each family had moved into the interiors of their homes to fulfill their nightly routines.

By the time anyone knew he was gone, he had become as wooden as the figurines he spent his days drawing from the wood.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part L)


The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog.  While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience.  Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections.  Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.  

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author.  Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!


His breath rattled wetly in his chest, and he ran with his left hand clutched against it. What had at first been thought to be one broken finger turned out to be two, his ring and pinkie finger of said hand, and the pain was tremendous.  As his feet pounded sometimes on the concrete, others on the grass or sun-baked dirt, his abdominal wound grew ever deeper.

He was a mess.

Blood coated him neck to knees from two different applications.  From a distance, his jeans looked as if he had spilled oil into his lap, but closer inspection gave way to the sickening truth.  His own life was oozing from the grievous wound which lurked, hidden, beneath a layer of duct tape and behind his chainmail shirt.

His eyes, much like the rest of his hardened features, had also begun their own metamorphosis.  Just as his skin had grown haggard and his hair stark white, his eyes, too, began to change color.  One eye had grown red, while the other, blue.  To peer into his eyes for too long was to invite the madness that lay behind them.

There still remained an aura of misperception about him.  Even when he ran completely in the open, people continued to turn the other way.  Nobody spoke twice of the bleeding madman that ran past, nor did they remember having seen him after he was gone.  The other was fully in control, bending the will of those around him just enough so that he was even less important.

It was nearly over and he was God damned for what he had become.  Tears fell openly from the corners of his eyes as mourned for the death of Scott Vali.

He stumbled from time to time when he missed the cadence of his feetsteps, careening drunkenly about as he fought to regain his balance.  Each was more difficult than the last and there was soon going to be a moment when he found himself floundering at the feet of those around him, helpless and quietly expiring.

When the pressure on his chest had grown too heavy for him to bear, only then did he finally stop.  He could feel the rough texture of brick against his back.  Or maybe it was stone?  He didn’t turn to look, it didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.  He was too tired to continue.  It was over.

It was then that he realized that there was something in his right hand.  He had been holding his left hand against him using the wrist of his other, which, in turn, allowed him to keep hold of the small rectangular object therein.  It was a smartphone, the same one he had been trying to take from Tommy, and it was the last chance he would have for this to be over.

Using the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to hold it, he searched through the contacts until he found who he wanted.  One tap of the finger and the phone was dialing.   It only took one ring for him to connect to the very frantic person on the other end.

“Tommy?!”  Why the hell haven’t you been answering my calls,” Misty shrieked through the receiver.  Her voice was thick, as if she had been crying recently, and her words gushed in panic.

“Misty,” he croaked.  His breath was short and he wheezed at the end of the single word he had spoken.

“Tommy,” she asked, suddenly confused.

“Misty!”  He spat her name at the phone.  He wanted to say more, but for some reason his mouth couldn’t articulate the words that should follow.  His mind jumbled the letters together, shook them up and poured them over his tonsils, choking him with their nonsensical patterns.

“Glarglearglearg,”  he spewed as his vision began to darken.

“Who is this,” she asked fearfully.  “Where’s my Tommy?!”  Her voice rose in volume until she was whining the last syllable.  He knew that he should answer her question, but she had asked two of him and he was sure of neither.

It was a shame, because it seemed important to her that she have the answer to each of them.  Quietly, even as she continued to speak from the receiver, he pressed the ‘End’ button and set the phone down on the ground beside him.

He was so tired.  His hands fell to his sides and there was a dull pain in his left which reminded him of something important.  Pain?  He wasn’t sure if even that was the answer, for it was becoming nothing more than a nagging sensation in the back of his mind.

“You’re not giving up on me now, are you,” a small voice asked from somewhere nearby.

He smiled weakly as he recognized it, but for some reason he couldn’t place a name or face to it.

“I can’t go on,” he sighed.  “I’m sooo tired.”

“We have to finish this,” the other insisted.  “Misty has to die.”

“You mean the scared girl on the phone?  But she sounded so nice,” he argued.  He was becoming more childlike by the minute, reverting to something that the other couldn’t keep a hold on.

The other screamed in frustration, but it was as a frail and pitiful sound compared to what it once was.

“Who are you,” Scott asked curiously.  He tried to look around, but he couldn’t lift his head from his chest.  Like his hands, it had grown too heavy for him to control.  He could only watch as the ground between his legs seemed to rush away from him, growing farther and farther away with each word that he spoke.

“You already know the answer to that,”  the other finally conceded.

“I do,” he asked softly.  His lips barely moved as the words passed over them, and even as the last word exited his mouth were his eyes slowly closing.

“I am the evil inside of you, manifested by your dreams and brought to life by your secret desires.  And you aren’t the first.  I have come to many others before you, such as James Holmes.  I have shared lives with Adam Lanza and Wesley Neal Higden.  My words have influence the likes of Robert A. Hawkins and Seung-Hui Cho.  

And now I have had Scot Vali.  People will speak of your actions for months to come, some in secret, others more openly.  Most will forget over time, but there will be one person who won’t be able to let go.  What has been done today will haunt them in their dreams.  It will chase them through their nightmares and it will open a door through which I will be able to once again enter.  

I am, and forever will be, the Omega, and I will feast upon the souls of millions before my time has come.”

Scott didn’t hear the last of the other’s words.  At six forty-seven in the evening, he silently passed away while leaning against the exterior to Dewie’s Drugstore, where he had once met with one of the most beautiful girls in his class and fantasized of smashing her face in with his bare hands.