Marx wailed on his bass. He lay down on the floor and started to spin in a circle on his back using his legs to push him around the stage. The tubes connecting him to his dialysis machine became tangled and when he stood up, he yanked the yellow tube out of his wrist, spraying the audience with contaminated dialysis fluid.
The crowd screamed and the band started rocking even harder. As they belted out each song the crowd bobbed, feebly slam danced, and flashed devil horns. The young locals stood in the back staring in shock, horror, and confusion.
At the end of the final song of the final encore, “Do Drugs, Kill Cops, Burn Churches”—an old crowd favorite, Johnny was overridden with a sense of freedom. He had forgotten the rush of being onstage. The high from holding the adoration of hundreds of people. The thrill of becoming someone different, someone cooler, than his normal self—at least for an hour and a half. As the band played, he shuffled to the end of the stage and jumped off.
The crowd held up their arms to catch him but age and osteoporosis had made their bones brittle. When Johnny landed, the sounds of bones snapping could be heard even over the music.
His body plummeted straight to the ground and he felt his bones break in two dozen places. The crowd parted around him and Johnny groaned in pain. The band, noticing that something had happened and their front man was now missing, stopped playing. All eyes were on Johnny.
He struggled, and weakly raised one hand and his middle finger.
The band never played together again.
Johnny McRazor, now bed-ridden, renamed himself Johnny WhiteNoize and started a one-man experimental act called Screaming Geezer. It was him using a laptop as a sampler while banging on a bedpan for percussion. Gonzo formed a new band with some of the guys in the shuffle board league. They said they played crust-punk but everyone agreed it sounded like metal. Split-Tail dreaded his hair and started doing reggae dub remixes under the name King See-Zar. He spun classic ska, roots, dub, and dancehall every Wednesday night in the Merciful Hearts Nursing Home activity center, and every Friday at the Red Room. Marx, much to everyone’s shame, got really into Dubstep.
Exactly one year to the day from their final show, all four of them died. Their bodies were found by orderlies in their beds. All four passed on peacefully in their sleep. Some say that they achieved punk rock godhood that fateful night, and heaven wanted its turn at some sweet circle pits. Others say they sold their souls to Satan to rock so hard and that night the devil came for what was his. Still others blame the carbon monoxide leak that was later discovered and also killed six other residents that night.
The truth doesn’t matter.
What does matter is their funeral. As per their wills, a combined funeral for all four of them was held. It was one big party. Held at a firehall (instead of a funeral home), it was open to all and, throughout the day, hundreds of people showed up. People brought booze and weed and soon everyone was drunk and stoned—just as their last wishes dictated.
Some bands showed up and played sets in honor of their fallen comrades. The reformed Mouthful of Ants even played a surprise set (though, in all fairness, only one original member was still alive). “This one goes out to the four guys in boxes,” yelled Kiichi at the start of their first song.
At the end of the night everyone passed by the coffins and placed offerings of beer, weed, and cigarettes in with the bodies. And then, one by one, people went up to the microphone and said their eulogies. Everyone had different stories of how the band had affected their lives. For some, they had been saved from a life of drugs, bad sex, and depression. For others, the music had led them to a life of drugs, great sex, and good times. Everyone agreed that the band had inspired them to improve their lives.
And everyone agreed that the band’s final show at the Merciful Hearts Nursing Home activity center was the best set they’d ever played.
“But how do you account for the natural disconnect inherent between all people?”
“Eeeee aaaa gggghhhh iiiiiaaa,” replied the derelict while rolling back his eyes. Drool dribbled down his dreaded beard and slowly drip, drip, dripped onto his handmade cardboard sign.
Ronald looked one last time at the childlike scrawl, Free Nachos, Free Beers, Free Tibet. With a “humph”, he turned and walked deeper into the park.
On every available six cubic feet of grass stood a philosopher espousing the hidden truths of the world. Ronald strolled along and breathed in the clean spring air, looking for a worthwhile opponent to debate.
To his right, a couple lounged while their two small children ran about throwing rotten strawberries at a man who was wildly waving his arms and jabbering about the space-time continuum. To his left stood a well-dressed man in a black suit, arms stretching to the sky waving dollar-bills at beings only he could see. Ronald had debated him two weeks ago—it had just degenerated into a three hour screaming fit.
Everyday for sixteen years he had come to the park, and it was becoming tedious. Before, he could come and dispute the intricacies of the universe for hours on end, but now he could not even find a decent conversation about the weather. Ronald had already argued with everyone in the park, most several times over.
As he walked further into the park he overheard retorts and accusations he himself had once said. When he approached the thick patch of trees in the back, he stared at them and quickly got lost in self-pity.
Through a hole in the overgrown vegetation he noticed a flapping piece of white cloth. The trees were so tightly packed, that, as he approached, he could not make out exactly what he was seeing. Curious over what this could be, and already having given up hope of discussion for the day, Ronald pushed his way through.
He stepped into a clearing circled by the thick mass of brush. In the center a woman stood atop a two-foot wooden crate holding a crisp, blank piece of cardboard. Her hair and face were smeared with dirt and all she wore was a long once-upon-a-time-white dress. Except for the small hole through which Ronald had glimpsed a flapping part of the dress, all the sights and sounds of the park were blocked out by the plant life.
In the numerous times he had been in the park, Ronald had never found this clearing and he had never debated this woman.
“How interesting,” he eagerly said, approaching the woman and pointing to her blank sign, “What statement are you attempting to make?”
The woman stared straight ahead and did not respond.
Ronald spoke again, louder, “What is your point?”
Still no response.
“Come now, why are you here? You must have something to say.” He regarded the strange woman for a few moments and then began to rattle off guesses, hoping one would be the instigator for a vigorous debate.
“A statement on the pointlessness of life?”
“A protest against the commercialization of art?”
“An acknowledgment of one’s place in the universe?”
No matter what theory Ronald put forth, the woman gave no acknowledgement.
“I know—you’re alluding to Plato’s theory of the forms and how all reality is inherently unreal.”
Nothing. The woman just continued to stare off.
Ronald rubbed his chin, taking special notice of his carefully trimmed whiskers. He walked behind and then around the woman, but suffered no stroke of genius.
“I’m going to figure you out,” he said stabbing his finger at her. “I’m going to sit down right here and not leave until I do.”
And that is what he did. He sat down on the grass and stared at her, thinking. He sat there that day and night. He sat there through the next day and night. On the third day, through sleep deprivation and hunger delirium, the answer came to Ronald. He leapt to his feet to proclaim the sudden truth.
“Rrrrrr gggghhhttt.” He frantically looked about in confusion as random noise came spewing from his mouth, “Kkkkk bbvvvveeee.”
Stepping down from the box, the woman looked into Ronald’s eyes with equal parts compassion and pity. She placed
her hands on his shoulders and carefully guided him to stand atop the box. She handed him the piece of cardboard and a marker she gracefully produced from beneath her dress, both of which he eagerly snatched up. With a fury he began to scrawl on the cardboard. The woman turned away before he was finished writing. There was no need to read it.
As she pushed her way through the trees, Ronald stood atop his pedestal blabbering to no one. The grass tickled her feet as she walked to the exit of the park. To her left a couple was asleep on the grass while their two children were elbow deep in the chest cavity of a corpse. Joyously grabbing handfuls of viscera and tossing it into the air, laughing in their gore shower. To her right a well-dressed man in a black suit tossed crumpled dollar-bills into the air. One after another they vanished as if gobbled up by invisible mouths.
“Good day, Ma’am,” said the park guard while tipping his hat to the woman. She smiled and nodded and walked out of the park. She would be back tomorrow, but now she needed another box and more cardboard.
Cripple Wolf
One day I was hanging out and drinking with Cameron Pierce and Carlton Mellick III. I had just watched an episode of “Fringe.” The show opened with a person transforming into a werewolf-like creature on an airplane. The scene was super badass. But then the opening credits rolled and the episode resumed with the main characters of the series finding out the airplane had crashed and the rest of the episode dealt with the investigation into the disaster.
The show sucked but I was fascinated with the idea of a werewolf on an airplane. I thought it sounded like an awesome premise for a story. But how does the werewolf not kill everyone in five minutes?
I presented this question to Cameron and Carlton. Cameron said, “Put the werewolf in a wheelchair.”
The three of us thought the idea was hilarious. The basic plot of “Cripple Wolf” was generated right there. I ran with it and, a few months later, I wrote this story.
Frosty and the Full Monty
I really hate Christmas. Or, to be more specific, I really hate the Christmas season. I can’t stand the gaudy lights, the cheap plastic decorations, the mind-numbingly repetitive music, and the glorification of material goods. I just can’t stand the entire Christmas aesthetic.
When Carlton Mellick III was putting together his Christmas on Crack anthology, I jumped at a chance to write a story for it. I’m not sure why I picked Frosty for the topic. I think it’s mostly because I didn’t want to have to write a story about Jesus or Santa—I just couldn’t bear to do that.
My Mom loves the Christmas season. Quite frankly, she’s rather obsessed. Every holiday season growing up it was a winter wonderland in my house with decorations and non-stop Christmas music.
I kind of feel bad for what I did to Frosty in this story because of my mom. She doesn’t know this story exists. Shhhhhh…nobody tell her.
Cook for Your Life
I don’t like reality shows and I don’t like game shows, however, I think competitive cooking shows are awesome. Iron Chef is my favorite of those types of shows. This story is my tribute to it and especially that crazy Japanese guy with the sword that opens almost every episode. He’s crazy.
House of Cats
I live in Portland, Oregon. I love the city so much. I’ve been fortunate enough to have spent time in cities all over the United States and the world. But no place makes me feel more welcome and at home than Portland.
One of the many quirky aspects of this city is how it is overrun with cats. In most cities you find junkies and dealers hanging on the street corners. In Portland, you see cats.
I have two ideas of what to do with all these excess cats. The first idea is to make cardboard suits of armor for the cats. I would then spend a few days catching as many cats around the city that I could and outfit them all in the armor. The goal would be to create the impression there was a city-wide cat turf war. It would be like the cats were going all Mad Max on each other and shit.
The second idea was this story.
Adrift with Space Badgers
There are three big artistic influences from my youth that made me into the person I am today—Star Trek, Godzilla movies, and E.C. Comics. Everyone knows what the first two are but a lot of people seem to be unfamiliar with E.C. They were a comic book company from the nineteen-fifties that specialized in very bloody and gory horror, science-fiction, and crime stories. They had titles like The Haunt of Fear, Weird Science-Fantasy, Shock SuspenStories, and, their most famous title, Tales from the Crypt. That’s right—the awesome TV show is actually based on a series of gory comic books from the fifties.
I had already done my tributes to Star Trek and Godzilla (Shatnerquake and Super Giant Monster Time! respectively). “Adrift with Space Badgers” is my tribute to E.C.
Basically this story is a bizarro rewrite of two Tales from the Crypt stories—“Survival or Death” by Al Feldsein and Jack Davis from Tales from the Crypt #31 and “Telescope” by Jack Davis from Tales from the Crypt #45.
Punk Rock Nursing Home
A constant question/joke in the punk scene is what’s going to happen to punk rockers when they get old? Will they hang up their patched-up jackets and finally shave off the Mohawks or will they still be rocking out while old, gray, and wrinkly? No one really knows yet—punks have a bad habit of dying before they get old.
This story is my humorous take on a punk rock band that somehow manages to never sell out or get old at heart.
Just Another Day in the Park
This is the oldest story in the collection and the first thing I ever wrote that other people liked. Before this I had been trying to be a horror writer. While I love the genre, I couldn’t write a decent horror story to save my life. After several years of being a shitty unpublished horror writer, I decided to try writing stuff that was just plain “weird” (I hadn’t yet discovered the bizarro scene).
It took me three years to get this piece published—which was in Cameron Pierce’s short lived but awesome zine Furniture Fangs.
All of the characters every played by William Shatner are suddenly sucked into our world. Their mission: hunt down and destroy the real William Shatner.
What would you do if your normal everyday world was slowly mutating into the video game world from Tron?
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