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.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 2, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
GHOST DIAMOND
GHOST DIAMOND
by Jason Earls
author of Cocoon of Terror, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Red Zen, & Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711
The drummer, Neil, hit three cymbal crashes, choking each one by catching the edge of the cymbals, as Ian, the lead guitarist, hit three F power chords simultaneously, fast and sharp – part of the dynamics to the new song his band Hostile Effluvium was working on. Then the drummer stopped playing, stood up from his drum stool and announced, “Wait guys, I’ve got a good idea for a new song.”
Ian scoffed. “But we’ve got to learn this one first, Neil.”
The rehearsal wasn’t going well. Ian was in a bad mood. Worried about his girlfriend acting so crazy lately and maybe even cheating on him. He was also worried about what might happen at the upcoming Battle of the Bands contest they had entered, which was now only a couple of weeks away. Ian didn’t feel like listening to any new song ideas. The bass player, Bob, stayed silent in the corner; he was in a bad mood as well.
“But I’ve got to tell you guys about this new song before I forget the main idea,” said the drummer.
“All right,” said Ian. “Go ahead.” He frowned and took off his guitar, sat down on the floor and crossed his legs.
“I want to write a song about a woman whose husband dies relatively young. Say at 35. He dies of a heart attack. One day his heart just starts beating in his chest like a machine gun and won’t stop. But he keeps on smoking cigarettes and joints anyway and ignores the pain of his fast-beating heart. After 54 hours his heart explodes and all the veins in his head turn purple and burst like fireworks. His wife loses it. She sees him die in the living room while they’re watching a reality t.v. show. She goes crazy with grief as she pounds on his chest trying to get his heart beating again. Finally she takes him to the hospital and he’s pronounced dead on arrival. Her husband always told her he wanted to be cremated so she tells a funeral director about it and they comply and she asks what to do with his ashes after his corpse is burned to cinders. The nice funeral director gives her a few options and the last one involves a company that will make a diamond from the person’s cremated remains. The woman loves the idea and writes the director a check for $10,000 to handle all the details and have the diamond made for her. Six months goes by and the company finally sends her the diamond mounted as a ring and she absolutely adores it, seeing it as a wonderful memorial to her husband who died from an exploding heart at a young age. One night she sits in her favorite chair with the television on in the background, staring at the diamond for hours. She touches it and thinks of her husband. She loves the ring more than anything else because it reminds her of all the wonderful times she had had with her soul mate. And she knows his essence is right there in the ring with her; his mystical essence is inside the diamond; the stone made from the ashes of the man she loved more than anyone else in the world.
“About two months goes by.
“Strange things start happening.
“One night when she gets out of bed for a glass of water she sees an elderly woman wearing a tall white paper hat walking around her house. And the elderly lady doesn’t have normal arms, they’re all orange and gooey and alien-like. The old woman throws the paper hat at the woman one evening with her gooey arms and runs out the front door. The woman just thinks it’s a bad dream. But the next night she says the old woman again, running in and out of her house, carrying torches and thick chains and wearing long fur coats. Then she hears moaning noises and sees men at her window with long pointed noses and bug eyes. At first she doesn’t associate these happenings with the ring. But then the people start speaking to her. They say it wasn’t really a heart attack that killed her husband. They say he committed suicide to get away from his wife. That he actually hated her. They claim he wanted to kill her but he didn’t want to go to prison so he decided to just kill himself instead. They say he left a note in the house explaining everything. They said she should search for the note and read it. Finally the woman gets pissed off and screams at the visitors:
‘YOU LYING MOTHERFUCKERS GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE. FUCK YOU ALL. MY HUSBAND LOVED ME AND I LOVED HIM. HE DIDN’T WRITE A GODDAMN NOTE. HE DIED OF A HEART ATTACK. I SAW IT. HE DIDN’T COMMIT SUICIDE. THIS RING ON MY FINGER IS MADE FROM HIS ASHES. THAT’S HOW MUCH I LOVED HIM. I WANT HIM TO BE CLOSE TO ME AT ALL TIMES. DONT’ YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, CAN’T YOU GET THAT THROUGH YOUR STUPID SKULLS YOU SICK FUCKING GHOULS!’
“And the visitors all crowded around the irate woman. Six of them. White ghosts. They each held up a piece of paper. Each note was folded. She looked at them. Read only a few words. The notes were identical. Creased in the same places. But she couldn’t take the notes. She wouldn’t read them. Didn’t want to believe they were real. So she screamed:
‘GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, GET OUT OF HERE YOU CRUEL PIECES OF SHIT GO BACK TO FUCKING HELL WHERE YOU CAME FROM, YOU’RE NOTHING BUT ROTTEN DICK-SUCKING SECOND CLASS GHOSTS TRYING TO TRICK ME.’
“Then the woman’s finger began to hurt. She looked down at it, all yellow and throbbing. The diamond was glowing red and green. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING, she thought. So she pulls the diamond ring off her finger, runs to the sink and throws it down the drain, flicks on the garbage disposal switch. The metal and the diamond grind to dust. She turns around. The ghosts had vanished. They were coming out of the diamond ring made from her husband’s ashes. So that’s the song idea I have guys, what do you think? Should we write it up?”
Ian sighed and slowly stood up fromn the floor where he’d been listening to the drummer’s long explanation. “Goddamn,” he said. “It’s a little long, don’t you think? That might make a good novel, but there’s no way we can dilute that down to three or four verses of song lyrics without eliminating most of the details.”
“Well, maybe we can have six or seven verses. Who says we have to limit a song to only three verses? Plus, it’s just an idea. Go ahead and work on it you guys. See where you can take it and what you can come up with. I’m easy to please. I’ve got a killer drum beat I can put to it. And I may have a main guitar riff too.” The drummer started playing a 3/4 drum beat. It had a good groove.
“It’s all right,” said Ian. “But we can’t work on it now. Let’s get back to the other song.”
“So you like it?” the drummer said.
“Sure. We can do something with it. Got a title for it?”
“Yeah, Ghost Diamond.”
“Right on. Now let’s get back to the other song.”
“All right.”
-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.
by Jason Earls
author of Cocoon of Terror, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Red Zen, & Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711
The drummer, Neil, hit three cymbal crashes, choking each one by catching the edge of the cymbals, as Ian, the lead guitarist, hit three F power chords simultaneously, fast and sharp – part of the dynamics to the new song his band Hostile Effluvium was working on. Then the drummer stopped playing, stood up from his drum stool and announced, “Wait guys, I’ve got a good idea for a new song.”
Ian scoffed. “But we’ve got to learn this one first, Neil.”
The rehearsal wasn’t going well. Ian was in a bad mood. Worried about his girlfriend acting so crazy lately and maybe even cheating on him. He was also worried about what might happen at the upcoming Battle of the Bands contest they had entered, which was now only a couple of weeks away. Ian didn’t feel like listening to any new song ideas. The bass player, Bob, stayed silent in the corner; he was in a bad mood as well.
“But I’ve got to tell you guys about this new song before I forget the main idea,” said the drummer.
“All right,” said Ian. “Go ahead.” He frowned and took off his guitar, sat down on the floor and crossed his legs.
“I want to write a song about a woman whose husband dies relatively young. Say at 35. He dies of a heart attack. One day his heart just starts beating in his chest like a machine gun and won’t stop. But he keeps on smoking cigarettes and joints anyway and ignores the pain of his fast-beating heart. After 54 hours his heart explodes and all the veins in his head turn purple and burst like fireworks. His wife loses it. She sees him die in the living room while they’re watching a reality t.v. show. She goes crazy with grief as she pounds on his chest trying to get his heart beating again. Finally she takes him to the hospital and he’s pronounced dead on arrival. Her husband always told her he wanted to be cremated so she tells a funeral director about it and they comply and she asks what to do with his ashes after his corpse is burned to cinders. The nice funeral director gives her a few options and the last one involves a company that will make a diamond from the person’s cremated remains. The woman loves the idea and writes the director a check for $10,000 to handle all the details and have the diamond made for her. Six months goes by and the company finally sends her the diamond mounted as a ring and she absolutely adores it, seeing it as a wonderful memorial to her husband who died from an exploding heart at a young age. One night she sits in her favorite chair with the television on in the background, staring at the diamond for hours. She touches it and thinks of her husband. She loves the ring more than anything else because it reminds her of all the wonderful times she had had with her soul mate. And she knows his essence is right there in the ring with her; his mystical essence is inside the diamond; the stone made from the ashes of the man she loved more than anyone else in the world.
“About two months goes by.
“Strange things start happening.
“One night when she gets out of bed for a glass of water she sees an elderly woman wearing a tall white paper hat walking around her house. And the elderly lady doesn’t have normal arms, they’re all orange and gooey and alien-like. The old woman throws the paper hat at the woman one evening with her gooey arms and runs out the front door. The woman just thinks it’s a bad dream. But the next night she says the old woman again, running in and out of her house, carrying torches and thick chains and wearing long fur coats. Then she hears moaning noises and sees men at her window with long pointed noses and bug eyes. At first she doesn’t associate these happenings with the ring. But then the people start speaking to her. They say it wasn’t really a heart attack that killed her husband. They say he committed suicide to get away from his wife. That he actually hated her. They claim he wanted to kill her but he didn’t want to go to prison so he decided to just kill himself instead. They say he left a note in the house explaining everything. They said she should search for the note and read it. Finally the woman gets pissed off and screams at the visitors:
‘YOU LYING MOTHERFUCKERS GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE. FUCK YOU ALL. MY HUSBAND LOVED ME AND I LOVED HIM. HE DIDN’T WRITE A GODDAMN NOTE. HE DIED OF A HEART ATTACK. I SAW IT. HE DIDN’T COMMIT SUICIDE. THIS RING ON MY FINGER IS MADE FROM HIS ASHES. THAT’S HOW MUCH I LOVED HIM. I WANT HIM TO BE CLOSE TO ME AT ALL TIMES. DONT’ YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, CAN’T YOU GET THAT THROUGH YOUR STUPID SKULLS YOU SICK FUCKING GHOULS!’
“And the visitors all crowded around the irate woman. Six of them. White ghosts. They each held up a piece of paper. Each note was folded. She looked at them. Read only a few words. The notes were identical. Creased in the same places. But she couldn’t take the notes. She wouldn’t read them. Didn’t want to believe they were real. So she screamed:
‘GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, GET OUT OF HERE YOU CRUEL PIECES OF SHIT GO BACK TO FUCKING HELL WHERE YOU CAME FROM, YOU’RE NOTHING BUT ROTTEN DICK-SUCKING SECOND CLASS GHOSTS TRYING TO TRICK ME.’
“Then the woman’s finger began to hurt. She looked down at it, all yellow and throbbing. The diamond was glowing red and green. WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING, she thought. So she pulls the diamond ring off her finger, runs to the sink and throws it down the drain, flicks on the garbage disposal switch. The metal and the diamond grind to dust. She turns around. The ghosts had vanished. They were coming out of the diamond ring made from her husband’s ashes. So that’s the song idea I have guys, what do you think? Should we write it up?”
Ian sighed and slowly stood up fromn the floor where he’d been listening to the drummer’s long explanation. “Goddamn,” he said. “It’s a little long, don’t you think? That might make a good novel, but there’s no way we can dilute that down to three or four verses of song lyrics without eliminating most of the details.”
“Well, maybe we can have six or seven verses. Who says we have to limit a song to only three verses? Plus, it’s just an idea. Go ahead and work on it you guys. See where you can take it and what you can come up with. I’m easy to please. I’ve got a killer drum beat I can put to it. And I may have a main guitar riff too.” The drummer started playing a 3/4 drum beat. It had a good groove.
“It’s all right,” said Ian. “But we can’t work on it now. Let’s get back to the other song.”
“So you like it?” the drummer said.
“Sure. We can do something with it. Got a title for it?”
“Yeah, Ghost Diamond.”
“Right on. Now let’s get back to the other song.”
“All right.”
-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.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Scream Like You Mean It
Scream Like You Mean It
By Jason Earls, author of Cocoon of Terror & Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711
The music studio was dark and baleful; a few dim red lights, a lone yellow bulb in a far corner illuminating the abundance of electronic instrumentation and band equipment setting around the main recording room.
The recording session was over now. The producer, William Noxquist, who had been running the entire session sighed loudly and slammed his fist down on the mixing board in the engineer’s room. He mumbled a curse and cradled his forehead in one hand. It had been a horrible recording day. The lead singer, Roan Lombardy of the band Jet-Set Llama, had a major ego problem (typical L.S.D. – lead singer disease); and William had a naturally sarcastic personality, so of course the two didn’t mesh well which had caused arguments after almost every take. To make matters worse, the lead singer’s girlfriend, Samantha, entered the studio as soon as the session was over and began screaming incessantly and ordering everyone around. The band members all hated her and William did too. Bitchy Samantha, with her large fake boobs and her butt-cheek implants and her extensive facial surgery that gave her that off-putting Michael Jackson look.
“I hope you weren’t too hard on Roan today,” Samantha told William as she walked into the small engineer’s room. “You know how he treats me when he’s had a bad singing day. And you just love putting people through this recording torture chamber for hours, don’t you?”
William scowled and glared at her. “Well, little Missy,” he said sarcastically, “Roan’s out in the hallway waiting for you now. Why not go out there and check his mental status for yourself and not badger me about it. Go ahead and haul his dumb ass outta here because I’ve had more than enough of him for one day. You think you can do that for me, sweetie?”
“Why are you always so damn sarcastic, William?” Samantha said. “Why can’t you be nice for just one freakin’ day? Or act the least bit respectful towards me and the other band members of Jet-Set Llama.”
“Hey S-s-s (he almost said ‘slut’) Samantha, I’m dead tired so don’t start telling me how to behave! You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through today. Even before work I had a terrible day.”
She squinted and bunched up her huge tits with the top portion of her arms, then brushed back her new hairdo with a defiant gesture. Surprisingly, she plopped down in a chair beside William.
“Do you wanna know what happened?” he said. “I swear if you hear it, it’ll ruin your day too.”
“Go ahead. It won’t bother me.”
“All right, here goes... On my early morning jog at around 7 a.m., before coming to the studio, I decided to run by the park. I wanted to take a different route to help stave off the boredom of running and when I got near the basketball courts I noticed two little asshole teenagers pulling trash out of a garbage dumpster and stringing it through the trees and throwing it on the sidewalk. Of course that pissed me off since I work hard volunteering on the weekends to keep this town beautiful, and I knew the kids were nothing but little degenerate pricks since I’d seen them around town before and knew their family. So I ran in their direction to shoo them away. I started jogging faster and my face reddened with anger watching them litter up the park. They didn’t even notice me they were so busy vandalizing. Then I saw one of the punks go over to the concession stand, a small blue building, now closed for the winter, and one of them squatted down beside it. I ran closer and they still didn’t see or hear me and I watched that punk squatting by the little building and gradually realized what he was doing: TAKING A SHIT RIGHT BY THE CONCESSION STAND! RIGHT THERE IN PUBLIC! Finally they both heard me running toward them and the shitting one stood up and pulled on his pants, but not before dragging a white sheet of notebook paper up the crack of his ass to wipe it. I couldn’t believe one of these punks would just take a crap in the park in broad daylight. Taking a dump right by the concession stand where people sell food and other people eat it! Can you fucking believe that! Uncouth little retards! They both ran and the one struggled with his pants and I was so freakin’ pissed off I started shouting and they both got on their bikes and pedalled off as I ran on, out of breath screaming at them. I went over to the small covered area where the kid had crapped and saw numerous long winding brown turds scattered all over the cement. Jesus Christ, a tremendous amount of shit came out of that little scumbag’s ass and it smelled like a backed-up cesspool. I felt like calling the police and reporting the incident but I had to get to work and couldn’t fool with it. So I jogged home and took a shower and came to work. That’s the kind of morning I’ve had. Then I have to come to this depressing-assed recording studio and be forced to endure your boyfriend’s nasty prima donna attitude and your constant bitching. What a day... My life truly sucks...”
Samantha slapped the arms of her chair and pushed herself up. She ignored William’s story about the kid crapping in the park and focused instead on his degrading statements about Roan and herself: “You know what, William? You’re nothing but an asshole. Don’t ever talk that way about my man! You’re lucky to even be here recording Roan Lombardy’s incredible voice! He knew Axl Rose in Indianna when they were teenagers, they grew up together, and he even inspired Axl to become a singer and also secretly helped him write some of the songs that later showed up on Chinese Democracy. Roan is a major talent while you’re only a C-level producer! You don’t know jack squat about real talent! Yeah, I know he can barely remember the lyrics to the new songs and he sings off key quite a bit, but you’re still lucky to be able to work with him on this record which is going to sell through the roof and make me at least ten million bucks!”
William sneered at her and shook his head, “Fuck you, you stupid shallow bitch. Get outta here before I slap your fake face off. You didn’t listen to one goddamn word I said. Now leave and take Roan Lombardy the prick with you and go fuck yourselves. I’m just wasting my time talking to you. You’re not even supposed to be in this recording studio anyway!”
Samantha laughed and shook her head, then squeezed her lips together tightly. She stood up to leave but wanted to give William Noxquist one last thing to remember before she left the studio. So she raised her left leg high and stomped down on his foot with her pointed high heel, which penetrated William’s boot and entered the top part of his foot.
It took awhile to register, but the pain eventually traveled to his brain and it felt almost unbearable. William screamed, reached down and grabbed his foot, then growled and lunged at Samantha, taking hold of her throat. When he jumped at her, his arm accidentally pushed the record button. He started choking her and she started screaming – deranged squeals and bloodcurdling shrieks issuing from her luscious lips. He squeezed harder and shook her neck a little and Samantha’s shirt ripped in front from her struggling to free herself. Her shirt gradually ripped more and more until finally her large fake breasts were released.
William looked down at her tits. He gasped at the large dark aureolas and the erect half-inch nipples. They were beautiful. His eyes protruded and he felt his genital region pop a boner. But he continued choking her anyway and she kept on screaming maniacally. Then William leaned down and licked one of her gorgeous nipples. He moved a hand down and squeezed one of her fake tits, then sucked on both breasts some more.
High-pitched screams still erupted from Samantha’s throat and William finally stopped sucking, raised up and gritted his teech and choked her harder. The sounds coming from Samantha’s luscious mouth were shrill and disturbing unhinged caterwauls of insane noise and she sounded like she was near death. He listened to her screams and became worried if he would ever release her or if she’d die. He seemed powerless to stop the choke. He stared down at her fake boobs again, now covered with his own saliva. He felt his massive hard-on raging in his pants so much he suspected it might tear right through the fabric.
The recording button on the console was still glowing a brilliant red. William was still recording Samantha’s freakish screams of death without even realizing it. He listened again to the intriguing noises issuing from her mangled throat and was amazed.
Finally the lead singer of Jet-Set Llama, Roan Lombardy, heard the screams in the hall where he’d accidentally fallen asleep waiting for Samantha to pick him up in her BMW. Her loud disturbing screams had forced him to awake and he groggily rose from the couch in the hallway and ran into the recording studio to investigate.
Inside he saw William Noxquist, the producer he despised, with his hands wrapped tightly around his girlfriend’s neck. Her blouse was ripped and her large succulent breasts exposed as they glistened with a slimy coating. Roan saw William with a large tent in the front of his pants and the producer seemed in a deep daze or trance as he continued strangling the woman Roan loved with all his heart and soul. Her outlandish death shrieks continued unabated, and it seemed like Samantha would eventually run out of air, but she never did.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?” Roan Lombardy yelled.
Roan always kept two weapons handy for emergencies such as this:
1) A pair of homemade “brass” knuckles that he’d made out of lead.
2) A small .22 pistol with pearl handles
Both weapons were tucked away deep inside Roan’s snakeskin boots since last summer he’d been robbed and almost beaten to death by a pimp in an alley and had decided to carry sufficient protection ever since.
He bent down and extracted the brass knuckles from his boot and slipped them on. He went into the engineer’s room, lurched back as far as possible and slammed William in the temple. The dazed producer flew and landed on the mixing console a few feet away. Roan then took off the brass knuckles and brought out the .22 pistol. He aimed right between William’s eyes and let fly with five slugs that shattered the producer’s skull into thousands of tiny fragments as brain tissue and blood flew everywhere. Roan wiped the gore from his face and aimed the pistol at William’s chest and put another slug in his heart just for the hell of it.
Samantha was now passed out on the floor. Roan went over to her. He pulled her shirt back over her fake breasts and tried to button it a little. Samantha was making gurgling noises in her throat and Roan looked at the bright red marks covering her neck. That son-of-a-bitch almost killed her, he thought.
“Wake up, Samantha!” he yelled. After slapping her cheeks lightly, she awoke groaning and drooling and he wiped her face with his thumb. “You’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ll get you out of here right away.”
Then he looked down and noticed the recording light still glowing red on the console below.
“What the hell is that doing on? Was William recording something in here?”
He went over and rewound the file and pressed the play button.
The horrific sounds of Samantha screaming while William choked her filled the recording studio at maximum volume.
Hot and cold chills traveled up and down Roan’s spine.
William Noxquist had captured every ghoulish shriek and eldritch squeal and freakish gasp that issued from Samantha’s throat as he tried to choke the life out of her and thus caused her body to feel excruciating pain.
Roan’s eyes opened wide with pure musical excitement. He couldn’t believe how awesome the screaming of someone near death sounded. A combination of “almost-lost” existence on a terror-filled planet with the bone-chilling fear of postmodern death lurking deep within her subconscious. “Gruesome,” he said. “I love it. I’ve got to use these sounds on our next album. Her screams sound incredible, I always knew she had a superb voice. Surely Samantha won’t mind if we use them as long as I give her credit on the album.”
Over the next few weeks, Jet-Set Llama worked on hiring a new producer for their next album which they decided to call, “Scream Like You Mean It.” Roam Lombardy was cleared of killing William Noxquist on a self-defense claim for his girlfriend, Samantha. And Roan also placed the sounds of Samantha screaming in the middle of their first single, “Blood On A Dog’s Dick” as special effects during the instrumental section; and he also positioned more of her vocal wailings at the very end of the album, which he thought acted as an eerie outro expressing even more harrowing music to be released from the band in the future. The single became an immediate hit and climbed the musical charts; and later that year, Jet-Set Llama won a Grammy for ‘best rock album’ and ‘most stunningly original use of special effects,’ all thanks to Samantha (and William Noxquist, one of the greatest music producers in the world who was tragically killed at the peak of his abilities.)
-end-
(Thanks for reading. If you know of any magazines that would like to publish this story, please contact me.)
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, 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.
By Jason Earls, author of Cocoon of Terror & Heartless Bastard In Ecstasy
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
http://www.youtube.com/user/zevi35711
The music studio was dark and baleful; a few dim red lights, a lone yellow bulb in a far corner illuminating the abundance of electronic instrumentation and band equipment setting around the main recording room.
The recording session was over now. The producer, William Noxquist, who had been running the entire session sighed loudly and slammed his fist down on the mixing board in the engineer’s room. He mumbled a curse and cradled his forehead in one hand. It had been a horrible recording day. The lead singer, Roan Lombardy of the band Jet-Set Llama, had a major ego problem (typical L.S.D. – lead singer disease); and William had a naturally sarcastic personality, so of course the two didn’t mesh well which had caused arguments after almost every take. To make matters worse, the lead singer’s girlfriend, Samantha, entered the studio as soon as the session was over and began screaming incessantly and ordering everyone around. The band members all hated her and William did too. Bitchy Samantha, with her large fake boobs and her butt-cheek implants and her extensive facial surgery that gave her that off-putting Michael Jackson look.
“I hope you weren’t too hard on Roan today,” Samantha told William as she walked into the small engineer’s room. “You know how he treats me when he’s had a bad singing day. And you just love putting people through this recording torture chamber for hours, don’t you?”
William scowled and glared at her. “Well, little Missy,” he said sarcastically, “Roan’s out in the hallway waiting for you now. Why not go out there and check his mental status for yourself and not badger me about it. Go ahead and haul his dumb ass outta here because I’ve had more than enough of him for one day. You think you can do that for me, sweetie?”
“Why are you always so damn sarcastic, William?” Samantha said. “Why can’t you be nice for just one freakin’ day? Or act the least bit respectful towards me and the other band members of Jet-Set Llama.”
“Hey S-s-s (he almost said ‘slut’) Samantha, I’m dead tired so don’t start telling me how to behave! You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through today. Even before work I had a terrible day.”
She squinted and bunched up her huge tits with the top portion of her arms, then brushed back her new hairdo with a defiant gesture. Surprisingly, she plopped down in a chair beside William.
“Do you wanna know what happened?” he said. “I swear if you hear it, it’ll ruin your day too.”
“Go ahead. It won’t bother me.”
“All right, here goes... On my early morning jog at around 7 a.m., before coming to the studio, I decided to run by the park. I wanted to take a different route to help stave off the boredom of running and when I got near the basketball courts I noticed two little asshole teenagers pulling trash out of a garbage dumpster and stringing it through the trees and throwing it on the sidewalk. Of course that pissed me off since I work hard volunteering on the weekends to keep this town beautiful, and I knew the kids were nothing but little degenerate pricks since I’d seen them around town before and knew their family. So I ran in their direction to shoo them away. I started jogging faster and my face reddened with anger watching them litter up the park. They didn’t even notice me they were so busy vandalizing. Then I saw one of the punks go over to the concession stand, a small blue building, now closed for the winter, and one of them squatted down beside it. I ran closer and they still didn’t see or hear me and I watched that punk squatting by the little building and gradually realized what he was doing: TAKING A SHIT RIGHT BY THE CONCESSION STAND! RIGHT THERE IN PUBLIC! Finally they both heard me running toward them and the shitting one stood up and pulled on his pants, but not before dragging a white sheet of notebook paper up the crack of his ass to wipe it. I couldn’t believe one of these punks would just take a crap in the park in broad daylight. Taking a dump right by the concession stand where people sell food and other people eat it! Can you fucking believe that! Uncouth little retards! They both ran and the one struggled with his pants and I was so freakin’ pissed off I started shouting and they both got on their bikes and pedalled off as I ran on, out of breath screaming at them. I went over to the small covered area where the kid had crapped and saw numerous long winding brown turds scattered all over the cement. Jesus Christ, a tremendous amount of shit came out of that little scumbag’s ass and it smelled like a backed-up cesspool. I felt like calling the police and reporting the incident but I had to get to work and couldn’t fool with it. So I jogged home and took a shower and came to work. That’s the kind of morning I’ve had. Then I have to come to this depressing-assed recording studio and be forced to endure your boyfriend’s nasty prima donna attitude and your constant bitching. What a day... My life truly sucks...”
Samantha slapped the arms of her chair and pushed herself up. She ignored William’s story about the kid crapping in the park and focused instead on his degrading statements about Roan and herself: “You know what, William? You’re nothing but an asshole. Don’t ever talk that way about my man! You’re lucky to even be here recording Roan Lombardy’s incredible voice! He knew Axl Rose in Indianna when they were teenagers, they grew up together, and he even inspired Axl to become a singer and also secretly helped him write some of the songs that later showed up on Chinese Democracy. Roan is a major talent while you’re only a C-level producer! You don’t know jack squat about real talent! Yeah, I know he can barely remember the lyrics to the new songs and he sings off key quite a bit, but you’re still lucky to be able to work with him on this record which is going to sell through the roof and make me at least ten million bucks!”
William sneered at her and shook his head, “Fuck you, you stupid shallow bitch. Get outta here before I slap your fake face off. You didn’t listen to one goddamn word I said. Now leave and take Roan Lombardy the prick with you and go fuck yourselves. I’m just wasting my time talking to you. You’re not even supposed to be in this recording studio anyway!”
Samantha laughed and shook her head, then squeezed her lips together tightly. She stood up to leave but wanted to give William Noxquist one last thing to remember before she left the studio. So she raised her left leg high and stomped down on his foot with her pointed high heel, which penetrated William’s boot and entered the top part of his foot.
It took awhile to register, but the pain eventually traveled to his brain and it felt almost unbearable. William screamed, reached down and grabbed his foot, then growled and lunged at Samantha, taking hold of her throat. When he jumped at her, his arm accidentally pushed the record button. He started choking her and she started screaming – deranged squeals and bloodcurdling shrieks issuing from her luscious lips. He squeezed harder and shook her neck a little and Samantha’s shirt ripped in front from her struggling to free herself. Her shirt gradually ripped more and more until finally her large fake breasts were released.
William looked down at her tits. He gasped at the large dark aureolas and the erect half-inch nipples. They were beautiful. His eyes protruded and he felt his genital region pop a boner. But he continued choking her anyway and she kept on screaming maniacally. Then William leaned down and licked one of her gorgeous nipples. He moved a hand down and squeezed one of her fake tits, then sucked on both breasts some more.
High-pitched screams still erupted from Samantha’s throat and William finally stopped sucking, raised up and gritted his teech and choked her harder. The sounds coming from Samantha’s luscious mouth were shrill and disturbing unhinged caterwauls of insane noise and she sounded like she was near death. He listened to her screams and became worried if he would ever release her or if she’d die. He seemed powerless to stop the choke. He stared down at her fake boobs again, now covered with his own saliva. He felt his massive hard-on raging in his pants so much he suspected it might tear right through the fabric.
The recording button on the console was still glowing a brilliant red. William was still recording Samantha’s freakish screams of death without even realizing it. He listened again to the intriguing noises issuing from her mangled throat and was amazed.
Finally the lead singer of Jet-Set Llama, Roan Lombardy, heard the screams in the hall where he’d accidentally fallen asleep waiting for Samantha to pick him up in her BMW. Her loud disturbing screams had forced him to awake and he groggily rose from the couch in the hallway and ran into the recording studio to investigate.
Inside he saw William Noxquist, the producer he despised, with his hands wrapped tightly around his girlfriend’s neck. Her blouse was ripped and her large succulent breasts exposed as they glistened with a slimy coating. Roan saw William with a large tent in the front of his pants and the producer seemed in a deep daze or trance as he continued strangling the woman Roan loved with all his heart and soul. Her outlandish death shrieks continued unabated, and it seemed like Samantha would eventually run out of air, but she never did.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN HERE?” Roan Lombardy yelled.
Roan always kept two weapons handy for emergencies such as this:
1) A pair of homemade “brass” knuckles that he’d made out of lead.
2) A small .22 pistol with pearl handles
Both weapons were tucked away deep inside Roan’s snakeskin boots since last summer he’d been robbed and almost beaten to death by a pimp in an alley and had decided to carry sufficient protection ever since.
He bent down and extracted the brass knuckles from his boot and slipped them on. He went into the engineer’s room, lurched back as far as possible and slammed William in the temple. The dazed producer flew and landed on the mixing console a few feet away. Roan then took off the brass knuckles and brought out the .22 pistol. He aimed right between William’s eyes and let fly with five slugs that shattered the producer’s skull into thousands of tiny fragments as brain tissue and blood flew everywhere. Roan wiped the gore from his face and aimed the pistol at William’s chest and put another slug in his heart just for the hell of it.
Samantha was now passed out on the floor. Roan went over to her. He pulled her shirt back over her fake breasts and tried to button it a little. Samantha was making gurgling noises in her throat and Roan looked at the bright red marks covering her neck. That son-of-a-bitch almost killed her, he thought.
“Wake up, Samantha!” he yelled. After slapping her cheeks lightly, she awoke groaning and drooling and he wiped her face with his thumb. “You’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ll get you out of here right away.”
Then he looked down and noticed the recording light still glowing red on the console below.
“What the hell is that doing on? Was William recording something in here?”
He went over and rewound the file and pressed the play button.
The horrific sounds of Samantha screaming while William choked her filled the recording studio at maximum volume.
Hot and cold chills traveled up and down Roan’s spine.
William Noxquist had captured every ghoulish shriek and eldritch squeal and freakish gasp that issued from Samantha’s throat as he tried to choke the life out of her and thus caused her body to feel excruciating pain.
Roan’s eyes opened wide with pure musical excitement. He couldn’t believe how awesome the screaming of someone near death sounded. A combination of “almost-lost” existence on a terror-filled planet with the bone-chilling fear of postmodern death lurking deep within her subconscious. “Gruesome,” he said. “I love it. I’ve got to use these sounds on our next album. Her screams sound incredible, I always knew she had a superb voice. Surely Samantha won’t mind if we use them as long as I give her credit on the album.”
Over the next few weeks, Jet-Set Llama worked on hiring a new producer for their next album which they decided to call, “Scream Like You Mean It.” Roam Lombardy was cleared of killing William Noxquist on a self-defense claim for his girlfriend, Samantha. And Roan also placed the sounds of Samantha screaming in the middle of their first single, “Blood On A Dog’s Dick” as special effects during the instrumental section; and he also positioned more of her vocal wailings at the very end of the album, which he thought acted as an eerie outro expressing even more harrowing music to be released from the band in the future. The single became an immediate hit and climbed the musical charts; and later that year, Jet-Set Llama won a Grammy for ‘best rock album’ and ‘most stunningly original use of special effects,’ all thanks to Samantha (and William Noxquist, one of the greatest music producers in the world who was tragically killed at the peak of his abilities.)
-end-
(Thanks for reading. If you know of any magazines that would like to publish this story, please contact me.)
http://becomeguitaristfromhell.blogspot.com/
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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, 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.
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