Mathematical Bliss

New book by Jason Earls:

Mathematical Bliss
A collection of mathematical articles and short stories that feature math in some way. Brilliant numbers, squares, revrepfigits, palindromes, Google primes, mock-rational numbers, concrete primes and more are covered. This book represents approximately ten years of mathematical research.

Order your copy today!
http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/mathematical-bliss/6542538

Derek Trucks Slide Solo

The Monster Hunter

The Monster Hunter
by Jason Earls
author of Cocoon of Terror, Red Zen, Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy, & How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711


My partner and I burst into the restaurant. A hundred people were scattered around the place, all of them dead. Bodies on the floor, blood on the tables, body parts severed, hair clinging to walls, brain matter floating in drinking glasses, miscellaneous gore splattered over plates of unfinished food. Disgusting.

Almost directly above us, we knew someone was still alive. We heard him squealing and growling animal-like noises. We looked up and saw that he was completely naked, swinging from a golden chandelier. Most of his body was covered with blood and the other parts were streaked with long brown marks – obviously fecal matter. We knew he had to have been the killer by his aggressive behavior, not merely a survivor of the tragedy.

We both pulled our Colt .38’s and aimed them at him. He dropped twenty feet to the floor, stared at us and growled with his arms held out and head ducked down in attack mode. My partner and I both dove forward, flipped a table over in mid-air, and ducked behind it. The naked man started screaming, jumped onto a chair, then leaped from table to table, crashing over dinnerware, swinging his arms, debris flying around us, blood and shit flying off the man and hitting the already stained walls.

I leaned up, waiting for the nude man to stop running. When he did, I took aim directly at his throat and said, “I’ve got a good shot, I’m gonna put him down.”

My partner grabbed my arm, “No way! Hold off man, we aren’t supposed to kill him. We have to take him alive or just let him go.”

I scowled and looked into my partner’s face, “Are you totally insane! That fucker killed all these people in this restaurant. Over 100 citizens are now dead because of this sicko!”

My partner stared back in disbelief. “But don’t you know who that is?” his voice a little shaky. “That’s Roan McGuilicutty. The best monster hunter in the world. There aren’t any other types of men like him left anymore. Sure, he goes off the deep end occasionally and kills a large group of human beings, like we see here in this eating establishment, but fuck man, for the most part, this guy is the only individual who can still protect our world from murderous monsters and deadly aliens and other outlandish beings who occasionally attack us – and which we law enforcement individuals can’t even begin to get a handle on. We can’t simply shoot this guy in the neck. He’s the best monster hunter we’ve got. You kill him and we won’t have one single monster hunter left worth a shit on this entire planet earth!”

“Fuck that,” I said. “I don’t give a fuck what his occupation is. Look around, man. We just can’t sit back and let this nude asshole covered with shit murder a hundred people and walk away. That’s fucking nuts, man. Look at him! He’s running around growling like a wild animal full of rabies! He’s totally off his rocker!”

We peeked over the edge of the table and saw Roan McGuilicutty running around squealing and holding a severed head, slapping the cheeks of his own ass.

I aimed at him again again and said, “That degenerate bastard is going down, NOW!”

“NO! NO! YOU CAN’T DO IT!” my partner screamed. He grabbed my arm and I jerked his hand off me.

“We need him!” he said. “Roan has saved thousands of people over the course of his career. Sure, he’s killed a few hundred too, but he does that to blow off steam. He’s the greatest monster hunter the United States has ever produced. Remember the alien invasion back in the early 70s that the government tried to cover up? Roan is the one who saved our asses then! He killed them all. Every single alien. With his bare fucking hands. He didn’t even use a gun.”

“Bullshit. No way was he responsible for wiping out those aliens in the 70s. I heard they called in the Navy Seals and those guys handled it. Roan McGuilicutty could not have killed all those aliens singlehandedly. Those were the most bloodthirsty aliens that ever landed on earth.”

“I’m telling you he did. Roan McGuilicutty is not human. After he saved us from those aliens, he drank a large quantity of extraterrestrial beer he’d found on the alien’s spaceship, and he got so wasted that he killed about 80 people at Burger King. Still, Roan was awesome for saving the whole planet from the aliens. He just has a hard time cooling down when the battle’s over. But he’s still a fucking cyborg, man! Some people really believe Roan is actually the result of an experiment conducted by some foreign country. They think he’s really half animal and half computer!”

I stared down at a corpse closest to me, one of the people Roan had murdered earlier in the restaurant. She was an elderly woman, probably someone’s grandmother, she had a beehive hairdo and was wearing a crude floral-print dress, half her face had been blown away and there was a huge hole missing from her bloated stomach region where it appeared Roan had bit out a large chunk of lard and probably eaten it.

The sight of that poor dead elderly woman enraged me. “FUCK IT! THIS SONOVABITCH IS GONNA DIE!”

I jumped from behind the table and took aim at the insane naked man. He was tucked into a ball at this point, doing somersaults in the air. As soon as he came out of the last one and was soaring toward the chandelier again, his hands outstretched, I fired three shots.

The first hit his shoulder and threw him off balance. The second hit him in the left eye, which caused his eyeball to erupt with a stream of blood and gray matter still attached, while the third shot hit his dangling penis, severing it at the base.

Roan McGuilicutty fell to the floor in a bellybuster-like fashion, landing with a loud smack and emitting a deep pitiful groan. The shot in the eye had been the one to finish him off, but shortly after hitting the floor his severed penis rolled across the carpet and stopped near my boots.

I reached down and poked at it with the barrel of my gun. It didn’t move. I ground the barrel into the middle of the severed penis, cramming it onto the end, then lifted it up. I turned to my partner whose eyes were wide, obviously worried that we would soon be fired for killing the greatest monster hunter in history. I held my gun in front of my partner’s face with Roan’s penis swaying back and forth like a dog’s tail.

“I don’t care what kind of monster hunter that sicko was,” I told my partner. “He killed way too many innocent people for my taste, and he did not save us from that alien invasion, the Navy Seals did. My uncle was a Navy Seal and he was a total badass. He could have taken Roan McGuilicutty out in two seconds flat. My uncle would have never agreed with his gratuitous killing of innocent people for no reason. So you can tell our bosses that I did this for my uncle. Let them fire me. See if I care. I’ll quite this job before I let some naked dickweed covered in human shit kill a hundred people and just walk away. Fuck that noise. I don’t play that shit, homeboy. And you shouldn’t either.”

After my speech, I whipped my gun forward and slung Roan McGuilicutty’s severed penis into my partner’s face. He winced at the motion but the monster hunter’s schlong still slapped against his forehead and he staggered back.

Then I strolled out the door of the restaurant, headed to my car.

Another day’s dirty work done. Thank God.


(Author’s Note: What would I like to put in my stories? I want to put the spirit of the earth in them and the soul of America, I want human yearning in them along with light and ecstasy and tragedy and fire. I will inject my stories with plasma from the sun and dust from the stars and liquid from the moon. My stories will have love and hope and fortune and mysticism and splinters from a whittler and tools that a master carpenter uses every single day. I want to include gravitas and murder and blades of poetic grass with a little gore as well. I want the spirit of strangers whispering and grasping and holding each other in the dark. All of these things will go into my sentences and paragraphs and their essence will dissolve the readers’ hearts into fountains of ecstasy and wonderment and true bliss. My words and broken rules will drip and seep with love and an all-devouring honesty and a gut-wrenching intensity. That is what I would like to put into my stories. I will.)

-end-

(Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or know of any magazines that would like to publish this piece, please contact the author: zevi_35711@yahoo.com. Also, you would be helping out the author greatly if you purchased one of his books from Amazon.com or another online book store of your choice. Thanks again.)

http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711

Bio: Jason Earls is the author of Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Heartless Bast*rd In Ecstasy, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Red Zen (taught by Prof. Robert Siegle at Virginia Tech), If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); }, and 0.136101521283655... all available at Amazon.com and other online book stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Yankee Pot Roast, M-Brane SF, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover’s books, Mathworld.com, AlienSkin, Recreational and Educational Computing, Escaping Elsewhere, Neometropolis, Thirteen, Dogmatika, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG’s Speculative Fiction, Nocturnal Ooze, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, and other publications. He currently resides in Oklahoma with his wife, Christine.

Screaming Guitar

Blow that Trumpet

Blow that Trumpet
by Jason Earls
author of Cocoon of Terror, Red Zen, Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy, & How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711



Yes, Ian’s father did seem a little crazy, but he also had interesting stories to tell.

“Before I got into a band, I used to be a roadie,” said Ian’s father.

They were sitting on his dad’s roof, drinking grape fruit juice and staring down into the neighbor’s backyard. Dogs were barking at them. The neighbor’s dogs. They had two big pit bulls. One had a viciously loud bark that almost broke their ear drums, while the other had a soft quiet bark.

“And I drove a little truck around so I could haul the band’s equipment,” his father continued.

“Different bands would hire me to be their roadie. I would haul pianos, drums, amplifiers, guitars, PA systems. I could pack up a band’s equipment and have them in and out of five different clubs in one day.”

“I hope my band will be able to go on tour sometime,” said Ian. He took a sip of his grapefruit juice and inhaled the cool air, then spat a loogie at one of the dogs below.

“You will. It’s fun. Anyway, one band asked me to play the trumpet for them once. I always liked traditional brass instruments. I was interested in the saxophone and even the trombone. But those trumpets, man. No way. There’s just something about them. I could never get my lips around a trumpet for some reason... but I know if I would’ve ever been able to get a trumpet in my mouth, I could’ve played the fuck out of that thing.”

Ian stared at his father without saying a word.

“One time I went out on a small tour with a real successful band, they had a lot of equipment and I had to hire one of my buddies to help me. He rode with me in the cab of the truck and helped tune the instruments and sold the band merchandise like t-shirts and CDs and whatnot from a booth and he would help me set up the stage and the smoke machine and get the equipment ready. It was a small tour through the southern U.S. that lasted about five weeks. The band members rode in one big car and we followed them in the truck with all the gear. Well, my buddy was real bad about not taking a bath, his personal hygiene sucked. After nine days he was getting pretty damn ripe sitting in the cab of that truck. One night we checked into a motel on our day off. We didn’t have a gig that night and we all wanted to hit the bar and hang out and find some chicks. But my buddy said he was really tired and didn’t want to go with us, said he needed to catch up on some sleep instead. I told him, ‘Well, you better take a fucking bath before you get in that clean bed. You stink, man. I can barely stand riding with you.’

“So I went over to the bar for a couple hours, shot some pool, danced with a few lovely ladies, drank a few beers, had a couple shots of whiskey, clowned around for a little bit. I got sleepy and decided to head back to the motel and guess what? My buddy is laying in the bed all covered up with those fresh clean white blankets on him snoring away. Okay, no big deal, but then I go into the bathroom to take a shit, and I look in the bath tub.

“It’s bone dry.

“There ain’t even one drop of water to be found anywhere. I could tell the soap and towels hadn’t been used. Nothing. Goddamn I was pissed off. I wiped my ass and pulled up my pants and went out of the bathroom. I went over and jerked the blankets off that sonovabitch and screamed right in his face, ‘YOU GODDAMN FILTHY MOTHERFUCKER, GET OUT OF THAT BED AND GO TAKE A FUCKING BATH! YOU SMELL WORSE THAN A PILE OF SHIT YOU GODDAMN DIRTY DEGENERATE!’

“But he just layed there like a corpse and ignored me. So I went over and dug around in my duffle bag till I found my old bullwhip. I cracked it real loud a couple times and he leaned up to see what was going on. I flung it fast and hard and wrapped it around his neck and then jerked him over to me real hard. I yanked him till he was pressed up against my chest and I was staring right into his ugly face with my eyes all narrow and evil lookin’. I whispered real low: ‘Get in there and take a shower now, motherfucker. Or you’re not riding another fucking block with me in that truck outside, you got it? You smell like a bucket of rotten fish bait.’

“And boy he did smell like somethin’ out of a live bait shop, too. But after my bullwhip trick he went into the bathroom and finally took a shower.”

Ian stared at his father. His mouth was open listening to the story. He threw his cup of grapefruit juice down at one of the pit bulls. He realized he had finally heard an anecdote from his father that he’d never heard before. “Did you really wrap a bullwhip around his neck, Dad?”

“Goddamn right I did.”

“Why were you carrying a bullwhip around?”

“For hard times, man. Being a roadie wasn’t always fun, let me tell ya. I was glad I finally started playing guitar full-time though and stopped that roadie foolishness.”

His father pushed himself up and walked across the roof, carrying his glass of juice. He muttered and grunted a few times, obviously still thinking about the old days, and his false teeth clicked in his mouth. He scratched his head and sighed.

Ian felt sorry for him.

He didn’t know where all his stories came from, or whether they were true or not. He suspected the tales could be a result of him being lonely, sitting around having conversations with himself and making things up. But maybe not. Maybe they were all true.

His father turned and shuffled across the roof toward Ian. “One more thing. I almost forgot. A girl called for you the other day. She had a sweet voice. She left her name and this number and said for you to call her anytime after 6 PM.” He lifted a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ian.

But Ian did not recognize the girl’s name. He couldn’t remember her at all. Oh well.

Author’s Note to the Reader:

( Well the story is over and I hope you liked it. I wish I could have provided a few more shocking images – perhaps those would have been more entertaining – but I appear to be all out at the moment. Maybe you could suggest a few. I don’t really like to be shocked, myself. The minutes hours days weeks years & decades passing by at lightning speed are shocking enough for me. My life is almost over. Maybe yours is not. I wish the reader could speak. Tell me what’s on their mind today. We can do anything we want here in these pages with black marks on white backgrounds shining forth on brilliant computer screens. We are mature enough to do so, aren’t we? Tell me something about yourself, go ahead, write it in this space:

–
–
–
–
–
–

I would like to know what’s going on with you. Personally my life is like an amusement park packed with thrills and chills... But wait, I believe Bill Hicks already said it best:

“The world is like a ride in an amusement park. And when you choose to go on it you think it’s real because that’s how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it’s very brightly coloured and it’s very loud and it’s fun, for a while. Some people have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question: ‘Is this real, or is this just a ride?’ And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, ‘Hey, don’t worry, don’t be afraid, ever, because this is just a ride.’ And we kill those people.”
– Bill Hicks

Computer programmers planning riots in cyberspace. Grizzly bears attacking wild mountain men in the forest. Raging fires being started from too much lint collecting in dryers. Beautiful thin women who can’t keep their underwear from falling down whenever they walk around town. Scientists saying there are thousands of plants and animals living and growing upon our bodies right now; hiding, crawling, eating, and sneezing away. We can’t see them but they’re still there. I think we should hire a big robot to come fry them off us with his powerful laser beam. We would all enjoy that, I’m sure, along with a few altered states of consciousness. Everything keeps getting better all the time. I love you all. Goodbye.)

-end-

(Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or know of any magazines that would like to publish this piece, please contact the author: zevi_35711@yahoo.com. Also, you would be helping out the author greatly if you purchased one of his books from Amazon.com or another online book store of your choice. Thanks again.)

http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711

Bio: Jason Earls is the author of Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Heartless Bast*rd In Ecstasy, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Red Zen (taught by Prof. Robert Siegle at Virginia Tech), If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); }, and 0.136101521283655... all available at Amazon.com and other online book stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Yankee Pot Roast, M-Brane SF, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover’s books, Mathworld.com, AlienSkin, Recreational and Educational Computing, Escaping Elsewhere, Neometropolis, Thirteen, Dogmatika, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG’s Speculative Fiction, Nocturnal Ooze, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, and other publications. He currently resides in Oklahoma with his wife, Christine.

Eruption - Van Halen - How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell

Prank Phone Calls to Gorgeous Women

Prank Phone Calls to Gorgeous Women
by Jason Earls
author of Cocoon of Terror, Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, & Red Zen
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711



Knock.
Knock knock.
Ian heard the knocks. He knew it was his father. He got off his makeshift bed. Looked at the walls and ceiling, they were covered with beetles and spiders and centipedes, thousands of them. Goddamn, Ian thought, I’ve gotta get some insecticide down here, this place is fucking infested. He walked slowly up the broken cement stairs, pushed off the boards that covered the entrance. He went up and out. His father was standing there, smiling and wearing his old green army fatigues that were faded and torn in places, plus a navy hat that did not match his clothes. His lips were red and chapped, mist came from them due to the excessive cold – it was freezing outside. Ian didn’t even know what month it was.
“Hello, Dad,” Ian said. “What’s going on.”
“Nothing much. I brought you a wood stove. Sure got cold around here fast, eh? Figured you might need a wood stove in that cellar to keep you warm.”
Ian looked at his father’s little blue pickup. A black wood stove made from barrels was setting in the back. “Where did you get it?”
“At the gettin’ place. Come on.”
His father went over to the truck, Ian followed him, they climbed into the bed, pulled the stove to the edge, Ian hopped down and they carried it over to the cellar and down the steps. They set it against the wall.
“Thanks for bringing it. I’ll get it set up and working tomorrow.”
His father was staring at the Mijnan in the corner. Ian’s weird musical instrument that he’d invented and spent his entire life so far building and improving, and for which most of his friends and musical acquaintances had blackballed him for. His father went over and plucked a string and poked a key on the keyboard, then he fondled one of the brass valves and turned a tuning peg. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped and turned around; he saw copies of Jason Earls’ books stacked in one corner: Cocoon of Terror, Red Zen, Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy, and How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell. His father went over and flipped through Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy, Ian had obviously read it through several times, the cover was worn and even torn on one edge, he had underlined several passages throughout book in black pen. “You must really love this book,” his father said.
“Yeah, I do, everyone should own a copy of that novel. It changed my life. So what’s been going on with you lately, Dad? Any news I should know about?”
“Nothing much. I’ve just been making a few prank phone calls lately.”
“Wha-... what did you say?”
“I said I’ve been making prank phone calls. I got interested in telephone technology recently. I laid off the other inventions. Boy, a person can really get wrapped up in human body enhancement, remember when I was going to install that chip in my brain? Wow, let me tell ya, that shit is ultra-dangerous and the damage inflicted is permanent. Hey, I love technology, I love computers and I love imagining that I’m a cyborg, I like simple modes of communication too and I like secrecy, but ANONYMITY and telephones are my new thing.”
Ian went back up the stairs and inhaled some fresh air, his father followed him. “Prank phone
calls, huh? That sure is immature, Daddio. Who the hell have you been calling?”
“Gorgeous women that I like.”
“Who?”
“If I see any young women that I’m really attracted to around town, I find out their telephone numbers and give them a call and harrass them, or annoy them, or just make weird noises into the receiver, whatever I feel like doing really.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I know I can’t have them. You see, mainly I just call up and listen to their voices and record them talking – if they have a good voice. I have one of those in-line voice recorders from the radio shop and I keep all the tapes of the women’s voices and play them back at night whenever I feel lonely.”

Beelzebub interrupts and says,, listen to this,, look at the page,, pretend I am alive now,, in your face,, do you know I am here,, yes you do,, listen with every hair in both ear canals,, do you hear it,, I’m writing out of loneliness lust rebellion recalcitrance assinine terror in the face of sheer existence inside the turgid universe,, I need all your attention,, there is a stealth bomber breaking the metaphysical barriers of treason above that form immense clouds of stagnant smoke in a sociopath’s nightmare,, a midget in the computer code running this galaxy,, and we will all perish soon,, you and I,, every one of us,, on the back of an atomic bomb filled with pirhanas and rotten human teeth sunken in ravenous sucking mouths,, what can we do about it,, nothing,, maybe we should listen to the silence of John Cage for four minutes and thirty-three seconds,, or just ramble and mumble and rumble on with the deadly gangstas,, Beelzebub out...

Ian squinted. “Listening to unknown women’s voices at night, Dad? Alone? That you recorded? That’s fucking pathetic and creepy as hell. Does mom know about this?”
His father stuck his hands in his pockets, blew out some more cold white mist. He looked depressed. “Of course not. She’s a good woman. I don’t want to upset her with this crap. It’s just a passing phase. But I like telephones, I really do, and I love computers too, I’m going to get a new one soon and may put some sound files on my computer, I’ll store the women’s voices on my hard drive, that’s what I’ll do. I see beautiful women around town all the time, they’re everywhere. Gorgeous women with long legs and plump behinds and long black eyelashes and shiny hair and perfect bodies with huge boobs and erect nipples, their moist vaginas in those soft panties just waiting for me to get in there. I get up close to them and they smell so fucking good. I see them at the bank at the post office at cafes at the Tag office at city meetings at the grocery store and cable office and I am an old man now. I’m a really old man. And I’ll never have them, I’ll never enjoy the company of a young gorgeous female again, I mean REALLY ENJOY them in the way that I want to and the way that I fantasize about and THAT drives me crazy. I’m going nuts. I want one again. A gorgeous young woman. Just one. Or maybe two. But I’m old. They would laugh at me if I asked them out to dinner or for a drink or to see a movie, they would know I’m pathetic, most of them anyway, and it makes me angry. So fucking angry. To know I can’t get them or have them anymore. The way Ted Bundy must have felt, I imagine. So what I do is I find out their phone numbers and call them up and talk to them and try to seduce them or just give them a hard time and then I record their voices and the whole time I’m wondering what THEY think about when they are ALONE, what they CRAVE, what they really want next in LIFE, but it doesn’t really matter because when it is all over I still have their voices trapped on my recorder, and soon they’ll be inside my computer, living inside the motherboard and the CPU, I’ll trap a little piece of their soul in there and afterward they will be ALL MINE and never get that part of themselves back and they can think I am pathetic or old or weak or ugly or whatever they want but I will still have them TRAPPED and I’ll hold on to their electronic presence and enunciations for the rest of my life.”
“I think you’re really getting sick, Dad.” Ian said.
“No I’m not.” he staggered backward.

Beelzebub says,, write these words faster than the speed of a loud gong,, put all your heart and transcendental soul into them,, become a xenogenic bluesman from the great outer beyond,, rant away and become a green-death news junky inventing new forms of telepathy and psychocommunication while encompassing the reader’s body with cerebro-stimulants and hypnotic entities that have traveled past this uber-life,, send your transmissions out on a conveyor belt of shark skin,, make it past the guarding translyvanian wolfhound with one morass of somnambulance lodged in his outtake barrier,, smash their brick-teeth with soft energy squares of light & massive incisors in vortex clouds left behind by a soaring F-14 for edification,, never distraction with flesh contracts doomed to omit coma syndromes,, and by the way don’t ever call this number again,, do you hear me,, I don’t ever want to hear your voice again,, you got that? Okay Beelzebub out...

“You are, Dad. You’re getting ill.”
His father stumbled back again and grabbed his forehead.
“Sit down for a minute.”
His father sat down on a log. He was sweating. His eyes were shut, his mouth was open and he was breathing hard. “I haven’t been feeling too good lately, son. I feel like I’m losing it.”
“Just sit down and take it easy for awhile.”
“How long are you going to live in this cellar, son?”
“Just until I get famous with my Mijnan. Soon I will have lots of good musical opportunites. I’m sure plenty of cash will roll my way. I’ll get a house and become a normal person with a wife and kids instead of living in a cellar like a bum.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Will you stop making these prank phone calls to gorgeous women and recording their voices?”
“I don’t know...”
“You’re going to get caught, Dad.”
“No... I won’t.”
“Yes, you will if you continue. I don’t know what they do to people who make harrassing phone calls, but whatever it is it can’t be good. Will you promise me you’ll quit calling these beautiful women you see around town?”
“All right. I guess I’ll quit.”
“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Beelzebub says,, I am not a writer now,, I quit,, I’m sick of words,, I hate them,, they are dead so completely dead,, except when the temptress rides black trolleys to Egypt,, lambasting pyramids with seduction,, I am so tired now,, I want to sleep and dream,, but the joker won’t let me,, he says he hates writers and that they deserve no rest,, once he asked if I was like Thomas Wolfe or Dostoevsky,, a born writer,, no way I said,, I am more like Sonny Sharrock with pencil and paper and a dull point,, but the joker was not satisfied with my answer,, he wanted to kill me,, I had to stop him,, he said he would bury me alive behind a crack house,, go inside and smoke crack until his eyes turned blue and he got higher than a stealth bomber on the edge of the stratosphere,, then he stared at me with his cold diligent face,, where will we go next,, to the place where maximum entropy and human emotion hides inside the Big Bang,, I quit,, no now I am a writer again,, no now I am a hypnotist,, no now I am a writer again no now I am a scribbler,, no now I am a ventriloquist no now I am a hack,, no now I am a masochist no now I am simply an unwelcome interloper so farewell,, Beelzebub out....

-end-

(Thanks for reading. If you have any comments, or know of any magazines that would like to publish this piece, please contact the author: zevi_35711@yahoo.com. Also, you would be helping out the author greatly if you purchased one of his books from Amazon.com or another online book store of your choice. Thanks again.)

http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://zombiesofthereddescent.blogspot.com/

Bio: Jason Earls is the author of Cocoon of Terror (Afterbirth Books), Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Zombies of the Red Descent, If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); }, Red Zen, and 0.136101521283655... all available at Amazon.com and other online book stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Yankee Pot Roast, M-Brane SF, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover’s books, Mathworld.com, AlienSkin, Recreational and Educational Computing, Escaping Elsewhere, Neometropolis, Thirteen, Dogmatika, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG’s Speculative Fiction, Nocturnal Ooze, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens and other publications. He currently resides in Oklahoma with his wife, Christine.