Liam’s Life Challenge

Hey All,

I’ve been doing the 100 kicks a day for 7 days challenge in support of Liam’s Life Foundation and the Kowal family.

Even though this site is inactive I thought I would post here on the last day in the hopes of inspiring people to sign the petition (link below)

If you’d like to see today’s video as well as all the others in which I embarrass the hell out of myself for a good cause please go to my regularly updated site

Here’s a link to he petition:

The foundation website:

Thanks everyone.  May you have a safe new years eve and happy and successful 2017.




Goodbye muh love.

Hey Everybody,

So todays post will be the last original post on Reluctant Joy for the foreseeable future.

My premium subscription is up in a few days and for a number of reasons I’ve decided not to re-up it. I’ll be losing the shorter address but of course all of my posts will still be up and available for reading by those who find their way here.

Probably by accident.

This was my first blog and I started it mainly because I thought it would help me as I moved into my new life of sobriety.  And it certainly has.

However since I started this blog I’ve been getting more and more involved in the online world and my strategy of having various platforms to do various things seems a bit unwieldy now.  I am now of the mind that a bit of streamlining is in order for both cohesion and time.

So I will be focusing on and when that comes up for renewal I will either keep it as is or perhaps even bump it up to the super-duper death star premium package to make it more professional and easier to navigate for those who stop by.

Please keep in mind that we are talking about me here so “professional” is being used loosely.

The main site which will be the only site updated weekly will be a mix of the usual updates, short fiction, rants and other random hooha that goes through my small, bird like brain.

I really want to thank  everyone for their support and hopefully you’ll all follow me over to and engage in shenanigans with me there.

I leave you with one last micro-story and I hope you enjoy it.


The station was silent. Empty for centuries.

His oxygen is low, his tanks just above empty.

After hours of frantic work he hears the hum of the generator.

The sound of air circulating through the massive structure.

He rips off his helmet and breaths deep.

Safe, or so it seems, for the first time in a long while

A Sci-fi Micro Story

Hey all,

So as I’ve mentioned before I’ll be folding Reluctant Joy’s posts into my main site in a couple of weeks to streamline my postings, time and online hubbery.

Of course all the posts will remain up and available for your perusing until the internet goes down or whatevs.

Anyhoo, until then I’ll keep posting stuff.  This week is a snazzy little sci-fi themed micro-story called Moving Day.  I hope you enjoy it.

Moving Day

Black on black. The undamaged ship nearly invisible in the distance.

She pushes off from her ruined hull, gliding through space a silent arrow.

The stars all around her, blotted out by this system’s sun.

She lands silently, her feet square on the underbelly of her new home.

The airlock is bypassed with ease.

She enters, ready to kill those who believe her to be already dead.

See you next week folks.

Another micro-story

Here’s  another quick micro-story for the week, another wizardry themed quick tale.  While I work on bigger posts for the future.


Fire all around him, flames of purple and green.

The power erupted from within his bones.

A deep cracking sound and pain nearing agony.

Now, his opponents attacks deflected, their faces twisted in fury.

Safe behind the burning wall of his own making.

Micro Story Time

Hey Everybody,

I’m working on a bigger post for next week about my recent trip to Las Vegas so this week it’s just a quick micro-story this week, I hope you like it.

Shadow Lady

The dark haired lady with the shark tooth smile bristled with power.

Reaching inward and lashing out, her magick flew toward her target.

Frozen with fear, stuck in time, her target withered.

Triumphant, she walks back in to the night and the comfort of her shadows.


42.6 Shades of Tumblr

42.6 Shades of Tumblr


Darla Tofu Johansen finished uploading her latest pictures to her Tumblr account and logged off of her computer.

For years Darla thought she was asexual and identified as a CIS gendered, asexual female with white guilt and lactose intolerance. It wasn’t until last year when she turned 15 that she realized she was in fact Otherkin.

This revelation changed everything for her and even though she was still pretty miserable at least she knew what she was. She was a wolf. Sometimes she could feel her wolf self trying desperately to break through. She would occasionally allow herself to go full on wolf form…though she still looked human to everybody else, but what did they know.

She was still adjusting to her new self and her life was very hard. Darla constantly craved red meat, though she was still vegan. She also loved to run through the woods near her home. Well, run may be a bit of an extreme term. Darla didn’t really like physical activity, but she would attach the tail she’d made to her back belt loop, put on her ears and walk around a bit.

The tail was made of faux fur since she hated the idea of hurting an animal simply to giver herself a tail. She new that her Wolf self appreciated this, since her Wolf self was about as socially conscious as a wolf could be, while still being a wolf.

She’d gotten lost in the woods a few weeks ago and that had terrified her. So now she simply walked near the edge of the woods occasionally stopping to stare at all the terrible CIS gendered people around her, pretending to not understand how they contributed to the oppression of her kin.

Darla had never been close to a wolf. She’d seen one through a cage at a wildlife refuge last year and it had terrified her. However, she did constantly look at pictures of wolves on the internet and that’s how she knew she was a wolf.

This morning she’d uploaded her latest batch of wolf photos to her Wolfkin account. She would often tag them and add descriptions such as “Me in full form leaping” or “My true self hunting”. This made her feel better about her life and the positive affirmation she received from her Otherkin sisters always boosted her self esteem.

Today was Friday and Darla was incredibly excited. Tonight would be her third date with Thomas.

Thomas was amazing. They’d met a few weeks ago at the local safe space to listen to a lecture about how the show Sesame Street was really all about rape culture and that both Big Bird and the Cookie Monster represented the aggressive CIS Gendered, white male patriarchy in the form of a yellow bird and blue monster.

This had made total sense to Darla. No wonder I’m such a mess. She thought. I’ve been programmed since birth! If only someone had told me this sooner, maybe I wouldn’t constantly be getting raped.

She had attended the lecture with her friend Jennifer. She and Jennifer have been friends since they were four. Over the years, even though they were very different, their friendship was still tight.

Jennifer was not Otherkin, but praised Darla constantly for being so brave in accepting who she was. Jennifer looked like your average, beautiful, white, 15 year old girl. She had luscious blonde hair and green eyes. Her breasts were far bigger than Darla’s and were perfectly shaped.

Darla wasn’t jealous of Jennifer though. She knew that Jennifer had no time for the boys in school who constantly followed her around trying to rape and oppress her. Jennifer in fact did not identify as a CIS gendered white female.

Jennifer actually identified as a poly-sexual, African-American, 1987 Toyota Corolla drift car.

Jennifer left Darla alone at the lecture because she had to meet her boyfriend, whom she was secretly dating because she knew her oppressive white, CIS Gendered, Hetero-parents would never approve.

Jennifer’s boyfriend was a 38 year old man named Gerard. Gerard appeared to be a near middle aged, African American CIS Gendered male but he wasn’t. Gerard identified as a 17 year old, African American, torque wrench. This was the reason it was perfectly suitable for him to date Jennifer, since he was under 18 and she was really a car…and also African American.

Darla had been terrified at the thought of being alone, even in the safe space, but she let some of her wolf self take over and then became confident. She sniffed the air, took a bite of her yerba mate’ snack bar and that’s when she noticed Thomas.

Thomas looked like your average 15 year old. He was white, a bit chubby, thick glasses and slightly greasy hair. He smiled at her shyly which wasn’t rape, but only a slight molestation, but Darla didn’t mind because she liked him.

After the lecture the two hung out and talked. For years Thomas identified as an asexual, white, CIS Gendered Dyson steam cleaner. Recently however he’d seen the new Star Wars movie and that had made everything abundantly clear.

Thomas felt foolish for thinking he was a Dyson Steam Cleaner now that he had his true identity. Thomas was now Fiction Kin and identified as the Millennium Falcon. His Tumblr account seemed to bare this out, since it was filled with pictures of the glorious space ship with clever captions like “Me hiding in an asteroid field” and “Me destroying the second Death Star” and his latest which simply said “Rey and Finn entering me, I’ve never been happier”.

Thomas only allowed Darla to call him by his slave CIS name, everyone else referred to him as MF. Except for the football team at their local high school, who called him FartSatan.

Darla threw her books in her backpack and made her way to the front door of her home. She was hoping to get to school without being raped, but that never happened. This morning alone she had been raped three times.

The first time was when she accidentally raped herself by staring at her reflection in the mirror and thinking about Thomas. Technically it probably wasn’t rape, but she still felt bad about it.

The second time had been when her father walked in on her while she was in the bathroom. Yes, she’d been completely clothed and her dad had apologized before hastily leaving, but he was a white male after all and he’d stared directly at her, so…rape.

Then her mother yelled at her for doing poorly on her math exam which had made her feel bad and since her mother had not let up for fifteen minutes it was truly like she was being raped.

She walked out of her house and ran smack dab into her uncle Max.

“Well hello there Darla.” He said.

“Stop raping me Uncle Max!” She yelled. Then she growled at him as her wolf form took hold before running away. She only got about forty feet before being completely out of breath, so decided to walk the rest of the way to school.

School was mostly uneventful. She got away with being raped only about 20 times. Mostly by boys who were probably staring at Jennifer, but Darla was standing next to Jennifer so it was kind of like a group rape.

Her science teacher Mr. Maddox had raped her when he told her not to constantly sniff the air during class. She tried to explain that she couldn’t help it, because she was a wolf. Mr. Maddox just laughed at her and told her he didn’t care if she was a Panther, in his class she had to act human.

This raping had been terrible, mainly because she hated panthers since panthers scared her more than wolves. Also, Mr. Maddox was white and probably thought about her sexually all the time, even though it was well known that he was gay and had been in a committed relationship for 30 years.

Now, alone with Thomas after a lovely meal she was feeling very excited. She knew deep down that this was sexual arousal, and even though Thomas was technically a YT-1300 Light Freighter designed for transporting goods and occasionally smuggling; on the outside he was a white male and this left her feeling conflicted.

But she pushed those thoughts out of her mind because quite frankly she really wanted to have sex.

She new she should be afraid, but she wasn’t. She trusted Thomas implicitly. Alone with him, in his parents house, about to lose her virginity, she felt like the luckiest wolf girl ever.

Her Millennium Falcon had been so kind and so understanding, how could she not allow him to make love to her.

Tied securely with locally sourced, free trade hemp chord, her legs spread to their extreme she knew that she and Thomas would be together forever.

“May I kiss you?” He’d asked.

“Yes.” She’d said.

“May I touch your breasts over your shirt?” He’d asked.

“Yes.” She’d said.

“May I remove your shirt and then touch them again?”

“Oh for God’s sake stop asking permission and just do it already!” She’d cried.

“Can I just go ahead and take all your clothes off and then tie you to my bed with locally sourced, free trade hemp chord?”

“Absolutely!” She’d screamed, then ran down the hall to his bedroom.

Thomas was incredibly excited. He hadn’t had sex in nearly seven years, but it looked like tonight he would finally be able to get laid. This was all down to his twin brother Marcus who’d taught him the secret of how to use Feminism and the Social Justice Warrior movement to his advantage.

It had been a lovely evening so far. He and Darla had gone to a local vegan restaurant where Thomas pretended to like the food. He made sure to eat a steak, some bacon and a lovely fillet of baby dolphin before meeting the ridiculous young girl with no self esteem; so it’s not like he was hungry.

He told Darla his parents were out of town for the weekend and asked her if she’d like to come home with him and watch a documentary about how Men were actually all rapists and lied to all women all the time.

Thomas forced himself to remain calm during the movie, because he was laughing hysterically on the inside. Thomas was in fact not 15, nor was his name Thomas. Thomas was actually a 38 year old man with an incredibly high metabolism and a regenerative cellular abnormality that kept him looking underage even though he was nearing 40.

He and his brother owned the house that Thomas and Darla were in. The twin’s parents long since dead, had left their sons their vast fortune.

Thomas, also happened to be a pedophile and was wanted in six states on multiple rape charges. He found Darla pleasing, even though he had to put up with her bullshit. She wasn’t as sexy as her friend Jennifer, but she’d certainly do.

“Darla?” He asked timidly.

“Yes Thomas?” Asked the securely tied young woman.

“May I now lay atop you and put my landing gear in your wolf yim yam and carefully, without trying to oppress you, have sex with your body until we both mutually achieve an orgasm that we can both agree is neither sexist, patriarchal, nor rapey in any form, while I acknowledge my inherent privilege?” Asked Thomas with the acting skill of an Oscar nominated CIS gendered, white male oppressor.

“Yes Millennium Falcon yes! A thousand times yes! Just do me already!” Screamed the incredibly aroused young girl.

Thomas stared down at the under age girl and hoped his brother Marcus was having as much fun as he was. He said a silent thank you to his brother before leaping onto the bed to literally rape the young woman who’d just given full consent.

Gerard was having a great time. He’d had sex with Jennifer three times already and was getting ready for number four.

He loved almost everything about Jennifer. He loved how hot she was. He loved how gullible she was and he also loved how willing she was to believe his lies.

When Gerard had figured out how to hide his misogyny and racism beneath the thick veil of politically correct SJW speak his life definitely had taken a turn for the better.

Gerard of course was not in fact Gerard. He also was not a 38 year old African American male who identified as a 17 year old African American Torque Wrench.

Gerard was a 38 year old CIS gendered white male named Marcus. He also happened to be a rabid white supremacist. He was born with a terrible birth defect. Well a terrible birth defect if you were white and born into a family of racist, white supremacists.

Marcus suffered from a rare condition in which his body produced so much melanin that it made him appear African American.

Growing up this had been terrible. His father was a full blooded Aryan, his grandfather – a Nazi scientist brought over to America through project paperclip – made sure that Marcus’s father was raised to believe in the master race. Marcus’s mother had also been raised to believe these things, since she too was raised by his grandfather.

Because sometimes in order to keep the blood line pure a brother had to marry his sister, or at least that’s what Marcus had been taught.

Being the in-bred, white son of incestuous, Nazi-Aryan parents was really tough on a kid, when that kid looked black. His parents hated him and treated him terribly. Up until the moment Marcus had murdered them.

The crime had been perfect and with the help of his loyal, fraternal twin brother, the two men inherited their parent’s vast wealth.

Their family fortune came from two sources, firstly there was the oil business, which had proven quite lucrative. But of course the bulk of the fortune had come from their parents black market business of importing and exporting rare and exotic animals to be used as sex slaves by insane people all over the world.

Marcus could still remember his father’s words. “You think oil makes you money? Ha! Then you’ve never met a man who wants to fuck a Yak!”

Marcus wasn’t a pedophile per se, but he did love humiliating women and getting them to do degrading things. However, to say that he didn’t enjoy the taboo of his illicit romance would be a lie. But he enjoyed it because he knew when he told Jennifer the truth (and he would eventually tell her the truth) it would crush her.

He’d make sure to do that when he was deep inside her, just to make it more satisfying for him.

“Oh Gerard,” called Jennifer.  “I’m ready for another tune up my beautiful torque wrench”

Marcus looked around the disgusting and sleazy motel room. He stared at the bed with the young teenager on it and smiled at her. His warm, caring smile hid the sadistic, lying bastard behind it.

“That’s wonderful baby, but here, I want you to rub some more motor oil all over yourself.” He said as he began to take pictures.

Jennifer happily did so. “You swear you’re not going to show these to anyone?”

“No, of course not.” Marcus technically hadn’t lied. He did not plan on showing her pictures to anyone. He did however plan on selling them and the other pictures and videos he’d taken, on the dark net. He didn’t really need the money, but it was a fun hobby. “Are you a slutty little Toyota Corolla drift car?”


“No baby, say it into the camera and smile.”

Yup that was pretty fucked up, even for me. Why in the world would I write something so terrible? Well I’ll tell you.

Since I was about fifteen I’ve been an advocate for women’s rights, minorities, and LGBT rights as well. I despise racism, intolerance and ignorance. I think everyone should be treated with dignity and respect.

But more and more I find that this new wave of “free thinking” folk are more concerned with how things are said and not what is said or even facts. They are listening for a chance to be right, they are waiting for an opportunity to pounce on a person for not using the right phrase, so that they can make themselves feel better.

The new crop of Tumblr, tweeter, social media SJWs do not want to listen to a person’s intent, only the specific words that come out of their mouth.

If you disagree with someone you’re attacking them. If you have a different point of view you are a bigot, or sexist, or racist. Long gone are the days of conversation, debate and discussion.

Now, you either speak the double plus good words or you are “bad”.

I have recently been called anti-LGBTQ for the second time in as many months because a character in my novel (The Geek out now!) is supposedly defamatory to the LGBTQ community.

The fact that this character is neither L, G, B, T, nor Q does not seem to make a difference to these people. The fact that they feel he should be, or that somehow because of one certain predilection he is automatically a representative of their community, when he isn’t is all that matters to them.

But I wrote the fucking book and I can tell you that he in no way is. He’s straight, plain and simple.

So be very careful what you wish for. Before you know it, me and the people like me will be long gone, we’ll want nothing to do with you and will decide that quite frankly you are not worth our time.

But the Thomas and Marcus’s of the world. The ones who think it’ll be fun, or easier to simply hide how they feel and join into the Orwellian double plus good orgy of Tumblrisms will be all around you. They’ll say what you want to hear and then go home and speak their mind in private on dark net forums where they’ll probably make fun of you.

Most likely you’re surrounded by many who already do this and you have no idea because you are so full of your sense of righteousness that it hasn’t occurred to you.

But I can guarantee that this will happen, because when all you want to do it is be right, or have your views unquestioningly supported, and not engage in open, thoughtful debate you will at some point find that the man you thought was a Torque Wrench is in fact an absolute bastard and the one you thought was an absolute bastard, while not a Torque Wrench, was at least on your side.

I shall continue to fight the real fight, the good fight from my end.

I suggest you start doing the same.

Or you may as well go ahead and smear some motor oil on your naked body and smile. for more offensive content.

Valentine’s Day. Yeah good luck with that.

Valentine’s day is quickly approaching. I’m not really a fan of most holidays, I’ll admit that. I’ve especially never been overly fond of Valentine’s day. To me it’s just another excuse to put added pressure on some poor shmuck (or shmuckette) to go out of his or her way to make their partner feel loved.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete bastard. I enjoy romance, and I like making my partner feel wanted, desired and appreciated. But, if you need a special day for that, then your relationship may be in more trouble than you think.

I know this is early, since Valentine’s day isn’t for a couple of weeks but I want to end this little rant with a prediction and want it out there well in advance of the insane week long shenanigans that Valentine’s day will provoke.

First, let’s talk quickly about my personal history with Valentine’s day.

When I was a kid, I mean a real kid, you know, grade school. Valentine’s day was an actual classroom affair.

Girls and boys would hand out cards to pretty much everyone. We’d also hand out candy like those crappy candy hearts. I’m pretty sure we ate them mainly because they were made out of sugar and not because they tasted good.

Have you actually eaten one of those things lately? They’re freaking nasty. But, to a kid, sugar is life or at the very least cocaine. So you know, let’s party!

But nothing says I really don’t understand this holiday, like giving a girl a Justice League valentine with Superman wishing her a “Super Valentine’s Day” along with a Ziploc bag of kiddy crack.

Valentine’s day is a very strange holiday for kids to be celebrating. I don’t mean this in any other sense than the fact that – at least when I was young – the concept of what it was truly about was very much beyond my grasp.

Valentine’s day is a day for lovers or for people in love. No eight year old understands that really. For an eight year old it’s about not having to do schoolwork, getting some of that nasty candy and perhaps making a homemade card for your mom…again that gets a little weird.

I am in no way saying that I think little kids shouldn’t be allowed to celebrate Valentine’s day. I really don’t give a crap and in fact I think they should be allowed to because it’s basically tradition at this point and so why the hell not.

I just think it’s weird.

Getting older of course, from your early teens onwards (thanks hormones) Valentine’s day takes on more of the traditional meaning. Gone are the days of everybody getting a card, it’s really about letting that special gal or fella know how you feel.

And how you feel is basically like a raging river of hormonal confusion. Nothing expresses this better than a giant, red, heart shaped card covered in glitter and of course those crap ass candy hearts.

I will say one of the great things about Valentine’s day during this time (13-18 years old) is that it slowly indoctrinates both males and females into a very important aspect of life.

That aspect is rejection. Nothing says “you’re a loser” more than not getting a Valentine’s day card. In fact the only thing that says “you’re a loser” more is if you give a card to someone else, who awkwardly says “thank you” then laughs hysterically when you walk away, without of course giving you a card back.

And that is an incredibly positive experience, best learned early on. Rejection is a part of life, be it in business, love, sex or education.

This is good.

My mother was and is very traditional. She enjoys every holiday, which for her is just another excuse to get all Martha Stewart over something and make gift baskets…the woman loves making gift baskets.

Easter, Christmas, Chanukah, The Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Halloween were all a reason for some sort of candy filled basket and a card. Which is great, love me some candy.

This basket, candy, gift, card scenario was also done on Valentine’s day. Which when you think about it, is a pretty sweet gesture from a loving mother to her children.

Especially in those formative years after a day of schoolyard, romantic rejection when the only thing that will fill the dark, hollow thing that used to be your heart is a basket of flake bars, crappy candy hearts, some homemade chocolate chip cookies and a Valentine’s day card from the woman who will always love you.

However, once you reach a certain age it just gets incredibly creepy.

I was around 26 when I finally had to go to my mom and tell her she needed to stop giving me Valentine’s gifts. I knew there was no alternative, weird, incestuous motive in her gift giving, but it really just made me feel uncomfortable.

Especially since I was earning a descent living by then and it was kind of expected that I return the gesture with my own Valentine’s day gift to my mom in the form of roses, a card and some candy.

She was insulted and hurt at the time, not understanding my reasoning, but it stopped and I’m pretty sure she’s gotten over it by now. I don’t know for certain because I never bring it up, I’m smarter than that.

I also didn’t stop the other gifts on Thanksgiving and various other holidays. Because again I’m not an idiot and my mom is an amazing baker.

Hypocritical? Maybe. But you’ve never had my mom’s homemade zucchini bread or chocolate chip cookies so quite frankly you don’t know what you’re talking about.

But I digress, let’s get back to Valentine’s day.

I’m sure most of you will be making plans. Perhaps in the form of a romantic dinner at home or in a restaurant. Maybe you’ll be buying your special someone something special like jewelry, lingerie or a socket wrench set. I don’t know your plans but hey, go ahead and knock yourself out.

I’ll actually be in Las Vegas for a wedding, which should be nice. It’s also a genius move on the groom’s part to get married on Valentine’s day. First of all, he’s killing two birds with one stone, that’s pretty smart. Secondly, he’ll probably never forget his anniversary, which again is a pretty strong move.

Heaven help him if he does though, woof that’s gonna be a long day.

I am dating someone but she won’t be with me at the wedding and honestly we haven’t been seeing each other long enough for it to warrant a Valentine’s day situation. At least in my opinion and miraculously she agrees, because she’s awesome.

I should be able to slide by on a text.

But you know a really romantic text with some emojis like a heart, smiley face and sad eggplant.

Now for my Valentine predictions and why I think this will be interesting.

This will of course all stem from our out of control SJW/Tumblr induced insanity that swirls around us like a politically correct tornado.

Keep your eyes on Twitter, Youtube, Facebook, Instagram and especially Tumblr for the following statements.

Valentine’s Day is offensive and should be eliminated from grade schools because:

Feminists: It instills in women at a young age that they should base their worth on how popular they are with the opposite sex and that by accepting a gift they are buying into the Patriarchy! Patriarchy is ownership of a woman’s affections, hence her body.

MGTOW: It instills in men at a young age that they must compete with other men for the attention of women by outdoing them in their quest for dominance and acceptance of a woman’s affections. And that the only way a man can be attractive to a woman is by showering her with gifts, while a man essentially gets nothing.

SJWs: Actually they’ll be for this because it’s inclusive as long as those valentines feature androgynous creatures and express an asexual attitude of inclusion. Every snow flake deserves recognition after all.


2) Valentine’s day is offensive and should be eliminated from middle schools, high schools and college campuses because:

Feminists: It reinforces the Misogynistic, Patriarchal, Rape Culture we live in because if a teen or young adult male gives a teen or young adult female any sort of gift professing their attraction to that female, that female might feel obligated to return the affection, even if she doesn’t mean it because…reasons. Also if that same female rejects the male, she may in fact be raped by that male because men are filled with a sense of entitlement because I guess, like, Patriarchy, and all men really want to rape women and reasons and penis stuff.


MGTOW: It reinforces the myth that women are not only equal to men but are in fact superior to men because it is usually the man who must chase the woman and lay gifts at her feet, because while women say they don’t care about that sort of thing they really do because, like, misandry and gold digging whores or whatever and reasons and vagina stuff.

SJWs: Because it’s not all inclusive, it’ll make kids who are LGBTQ uncomfortable that they can’t express themselves, or for those LGBTQ who do express themselves, the rejection by someone who receives a valentine that is not LGBTQ could give them the sads and or lead to harassment, death, rape, a mean tweet storm or whatever…and reasons…and society stuff.

3) Valentine’s Day should be outlawed in countries between grown men and women because:

Feminists: Women shouldn’t have to please their men because their man bought them something pretty. Plus a man buying a woman something as offensive as sexy lingerie only reinforces the White Male, Mysoginist Patriarchal Rape Culture that makes men believe women are property and so “go put this lacey thing on and dance for me baby”…plus you know, reasons and penis stuff.

MGTOW: If it’s not something she really likes she’s not going to have sex with you and will probably try to make you feel terrible about being a cheap bastard because you bought her a gold locket and not a diamond tennis bracelet. Plus, why are you even in a relationship with someone like that, you could have spent that money on a hooker and you know reasons and vagina stuff.

SJWs: There are no pansexual, otherkin, polymorphic, transgendered appropriate Valentines available at Target to give out to the Dragonkin you’ve had a crush on since you realized you were a General Electric Four Slice Toaster Oven. Get on that Hallmark, for not being inclusive, plus reasons and CIS stuff.

Amongst these warring sides there will also be some great stuff used not only by Feminists, MGTOWs and SJWs but also the Christian right about how Valentine’s Day is really based on an old holiday from roman times. Christians will seize on this because it’s pagan and probably devil worship (which is pretty contradictory) and feminists will seize on this because this ancient roman festival involved men whipping women with hides, literally punching them in the face and of course, orgies, coupling and debauchery.

Hard Line MGTOWers and MRAs will seize on this by professing that if women really want to celebrate Valentine’s day that it should be celebrated in it’s original form hence face punching for fertility, some good old fashioned flogging followed by Nekked Giggidy Time!

This festival was called Lupercalia and the history camps are split on whether or not this is in fact the root of Valentine’s day but that wont stop people from using it for their own agenda.

Hashtags should be flying pretty fast and furious so we’ll see. My hashtag predictions:

#Youdontownmybody, #Shesnotworthit, #ValentinesisPatriarchy and #Goyourownway oh and #Hanshotfirst because…Star Wars reasons.

Look, in the end if you’re in a relationship and you want to do something romantic go for it, I just don’t get it.

But, as I mentioned I’ll be in Vegas for a wedding which means I more than most will truly be able to enjoy Valentine’s day.

Because you know, buffets, gambling, reasons and stuff.

Next week I’ll be posting the most politically correct love story every written. It’s called 42.6 Shades of Tumblr and I hope you enjoy it.

So come on back! for tons of other me related crapola.

If this doesn’t do it…

Hey All,

So here’s second free excerpt of the book, again please excuse  any formatting glitches, the paperback and ebook don’t have any.

Again, if you like it, head on over to goodreads or amazon and pick yourself up a copy, hey why not buy five.  I have no reason for asking you to buy five, but that’d be pretty cool if you did.

comic book store approved!

On the drive home he found himself thinking about Little Bird and not Susan. The two dead women were now completely interchangeable in his mind. Gary drove in a daze back to his apartment through Laurel Canyon; his last encounter with Little Bird filled his thoughts.

His leg had healed nicely since Little Bird used the shotgun on him in Finland. Gary, sliding down the wall, in the almost too clean Helsinki alleyway, watched the beautiful North Korean run off with a Norwegian chemist. The chemist Gary had been sent to kill.

It was now nearly six months to the day of the shooting. He was in Hong Kong using the Will Colton cover, and on the ferry headed to Macau.

The job was simple, infiltrate the secured floor of the hotel and kill the North Korean assassin code named Little Bird. His juices were flowing, he’d been dreaming of this since Finland. Redemption and revenge wrapped up in a single job. Moments like this were infrequent and Gary was savoring every bit of it.

It was a rare, cool day in Hong Kong. His skinning knife and Beretta were hidden underneath the specially tailored leather jacket. His 501s, with the slightly flared cuff, hid the back up .22 strapped to his ankle. His subtle, United Federation of Planets t-shirt, with a small logo just above his right breast, was soft and comfy.

He could feel the Green Lantern belt buckle, resting just below his stomach. The plastic yellow sword hung at the center of his chest.

This time, that trigger happy bitch would not get the better of him. Gary was ready to kill.

He entered the elevator and slid the key card into the slot. The light turned green and the elevator sped up toward the secured and private floor of the hotel.

He walked down the hall and used the same skeleton card to enter the designated room. He slipped his blade out of its sheath, silently closing the door behind him. The gun would be easier but he didn’t want easy. This was a something to be enjoyed. The great white shark wanted to fight and kill the other great white shark.

His heart sank a little when he realized the large, nicely appointed suite was empty. The drawers were filled with her clothes. Toiletries were laid out in the bathroom. He recognized her scent, she was around here somewhere.

He found and then cracked the in-room safe easily enough. He retrieved her laptop and powered it up. When the password window popped up, he slipped the special thumb drive into the USB slot and let it go to work. Less than a minute later the program hacked past the security protocols and gave Gary access.

He scanned for anything that would give him clues as to why she was in Macau. If he knew why she was here, he could probably figure out where she was. He scrolled through her emails and found the answer. The email was simple, and contained only the name, address and room number for a hotel in Kowloon. It was Gary’s hotel and room number.

He’d been sent to kill her and she’d been sent to kill him. I fucking love my job! he thought. It was days like this that made the world a glorious place.

He decided to keep her laptop, which he would turn over to Juan. He made his way from the room to the street. From there he caught a cab back to the ferry station. His senses were firing on all cylinders. He watched and waited for Little Bird to make her move, but she didn’t.

Once back in Hong Kong, he stayed just as vigilant all the way back to his hotel in Kowloon. Gary approached the large, glass doors of the hotel lobby, and realized she was doing the same exact thing he had planned on doing. She was waiting for him in his hotel room. That’s where she was going to try and kill him.

Chapter 30

Gary got off the elevator and walked slowly down the hall. The game had changed. Technically, while he felt he had the upper hand, he had become the hunted not the hunter. The knife unfortunately was no longer an option. He drew his Beretta, quietly opened the door to his room and entered.

The scene that greeted him was not the one he’d been expecting. He assumed the suite would be pitch-black. Little Bird would be waiting somewhere in the darkness. She’d either try to shoot him or gut him. If there was an exact opposite to that, that’s what he was looking at.

Sitting on her knees, on his bed, with the lights on high was Little Bird. All of her weapons were on the small desk by the window. She had stripped down to her bra and panties and was smiling at him. It was a tight little smile, the one she always had before a fight.

Gary was quite literally struck dumb. This kind of shit never happened to him.

“Hello Geek,” she said playfully. Her accent was thick but her English was perfect.

She moved her hands behind her back and Gary raised his pistol to her head, assuming her next move would be a throwing knife aimed at his chest. He was wrong, again. He watched while she removed her bra and seductively allowed it to fall from her shoulders and down her arms, landing softly on the bed.

The two perfect breasts that were revealed confused the hell out of him. “Um,” was all he was able to manage.

“I know we’re supposed to kill each other, but I am so horny. What do you say we fuck first? If we’re still in the mood, then we can try and kill each other. Deal?” She slowly stood up and took a step toward him. “Oh put the gun away. I’ve been given five days to kill you. We might as well spend the next four and a half having some fun.”

“Um?” Gary meant to shoot her in the head, he really did. Instead his gun had magically teleported back into its shoulder rig.

Then she was in front of him. Inches away, her arms snaked over his shoulders, her hands clasping behind his neck. Her nearly naked body pressed ever closer until her lips were touching his. All he could see was her smile, all he could smell was soap.

She kissed him softly. He did not return it. “How’s your leg? All healed up I hope?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

“Fine,” croaked Gary. “The Norwegian chemist?” he asked, trying to regain his composure.

She kissed him again; it was as soft and gentle as the first one. “We tortured him. Then I killed him.”

They both erupted in a fit of spontaneous laughter. The laughter stopped and she kissed him a third time. This kiss was not soft or gentle. This kiss was hard and full of passion. Gary kissed her back just as passionately. Seconds later he was being stripped out of his clothes, his weapons tossed aside.

Gary ripped Little Bird’s panties from her body while she yanked his boxers down. He kicked them away, their naked bodies entwining as they continued to kiss. The enthusiastic, mutual exploration, of the other’s body went full throttle from there.

They spent the next three days in bed. When they weren’t making love they were eating room service or watching a movie. Mostly though they just made love, and in between sessions they’d talk. She told him her real name was Kim. He was sure it wasn’t. He told her his was Hal. She was sure it wasn’t. But it gave them something to call each other aside from Geek and Bird.

Gary had never been that intimate with anyone. He’d had a couple of one night stands, and had used CIA sanctioned escorts when loneliness overwhelmed him. Never in his life had a woman so aggressively come on to him. He found that despite himself, and knowing nothing about her, he was falling in love. At least, that’s what it felt like to Gary.

Early in the morning of their fourth day together, they began to talk about what they should do. At some point they were going to have to stop having sex and try to kill each other. Gary was now not looking forward to the prospect. He’d told her that she could defect and she’d told him the same.

Or, they both could just run away together. Leave all of this insanity behind. The two of them decided to put some clothes on and go out for dinner to discuss their plans.

Little Bird got up and headed for the bathroom; moments later, Gary heard the shower turn on. He was in bed wondering what he was going to do. He certainly wasn’t going to run away and betray his country. He also didn’t think she was serious either, but perhaps he could get her to defect. Who in their right mind would want to stay in North Korea when they could live in the United States of America?

Little Bird called out for Gary to join her. He stretched and was just getting out of bed when her phone buzzed. Gary felt a bit awkward but he couldn’t help himself; he picked it up and read the text. In Korean, it read, “Do you have him? Will he come?”

Gary quickly scrolled through the series of texts Little Bird and her handler had been exchanging over the past few days. He mentally went through the timeline. All the texts came in and went out when Gary was either dozing or in the bathroom. The texts, unfortunately, told a very sad tale.

The idea had been Little Bird’s. She hoped to seduce Gary and bring him back to the North as a prize. Once there he’d be interrogated, tortured and finally killed without ever seeing Little Bird again.

To say his feelings were hurt was an understatement. He texted back. “No.”

The reply was immediate. “Terminate before extraction, 1900 tomorrow.”

Gary acknowledged the text, and then turned off the phone before joining Little Bird in the shower.

They spent a wonderful evening at the Kowloon night market, talking about where they’d go and what they’d do. Gary asked her if she was really serious about leaving. She looked him straight in the eyes and told him that she was. Little Bird was still under the impression that Gary was the hunted. But again, the game had changed. Gary was back to being the hunter. He now saw the deceit in her eyes, heard the lies in her voice.

It was decided over a serving of sweet and sour fish. They would spend one last night at the hotel. Early tomorrow morning they’d go down to the harbor and get on a boat. From there, they could go anywhere Gary wanted. A boat, that just by coincidence, Little Bird knew she could steal. A boat that – Gary knew – would be filled with North Korean operatives waiting for him.

They went back to the hotel room and made love again. Gary waited until Little Bird had fallen asleep in his arms before quietly slipping out from under her and retrieving his small .22 pistol.

It hadn’t been easy keeping her from her phone. It had taken a lot of distraction, whisky and beer. Gary sat in the dark, watching the moon over the harbor. He knew he had a choice. He could call Juan. Hold Little Bird at bay with his pistol until a small crew showed up. They’d take her away and she would be his prize. They’d have one of North Korea’s best assassins and her laptop. It would be a major victory.

But, at the moment, Gary wasn’t a trained killer. He was a fifteen year old boy. All the rejection he’d felt growing up, the loneliness the humiliation, it was all there. She had lied to him. She wanted to dump him into the hands of her people, to be tortured and killed. She’d have been hailed as a hero. Never, he now knew, would she think of him again.

If she had simply tried to kill him, that would have been pure. Even if they’d had sex, and then she’d attempted to kill him, that too would have been untainted. It would have been honest. But this charade, this was just cruel.

He could feel the tears welling up and so he shoved them down deep. He stood and crossed to the bed, leaned over and kissed her very softly on her cheek.

“Little Bird,” he whispered. “Are you up?” He shook her softly.

“Hmm?” was her reply, still mostly asleep.

“I think I loved you,” he said into her ear.

She laughed. To Gary it sounded cruel and mocking. “That’s nice,” she mumbled and began to roll over toward him.

She opened her eyes when she felt the cold metal of the small pistol pushed against her temple. Gary pulled the trigger. She died instantly and almost painlessly. It was more than he’d have gotten from her, more than he felt she deserved.
He let his heart go cold and called Juan; got dressed and waited for the cleaning crew. That was how Gary’s one and only love affair ended. for links to my authors pages  and  more

Free Stuff!

Hey All,

I’m very overwhelmed and pleasantly surprised about how my pulp novel The Geek is doing and how much people really seem to be enjoying it.

If you haven’t picked up a copy and aren’t quite sure if a hyper-violent, hardboiled thriller is your thing I’m going to go ahead and post the first three chapters here for you to look at.

If you like it I do hope you’ll swing by goodreads or amazon and pick yourself up a copy in paperback or ebook (ebook also available on iTunes and pretty much everywhere).

Please excuse any formatting errors, I can assure you everything looks fine in the paperback and ebook.

Thanks for stopping by and I’ll be posting a second excerpt next week if you’re still on the fence after today.

Then it’s back to the usual meme filled stupidity.

Chapter 1

Gary had been staring at the old French farmhouse for two hours and seventeen minutes. Every nerve ending in his body was poised to move but, he made himself stay completely still. He wanted to run in there and do what he was being paid to do. He also promised himself he’d wait to see if anyone else showed up before he did. He gave himself the arbitrary waiting period of three hours before going in and the clock was ticking down.

As far as he knew, the only person inside the farmhouse was his target. He’d followed him from the city center, taking the metro out to the end of the line. The last stop was in a sort of no man’s land that divided Paris from the countryside. From there he’d followed the man south to the outskirts of the Loire Valley.

He knew he should go in and put one in the man’s head, but Gary wasn’t in the mood to kill someone today. Today he was in the mood to kill many someones. It was days like today, and targets like this one that made him love his job. At least it helped him remember why he used to love his job.

Killing a person wasn’t so much about training, though Gary had plenty of that. In the end, killing was about will. Either a person had the will to pull the trigger or plunge the knife, or they didn’t.

Murder was different. Anyone could be capable of murder in the right (or wrong) circumstance. Killing took a special kind of person. Gary had been given the tools, but in the end it had all come down to his capacity to kill. His will to kill, separated him from the other 99 percent of the people walking around on the planet.

If no one else showed up at the three-hour mark, he would go in and take care of business. He was hoping for at least three or four more people. Anybody who showed up here today was involved with the target. If they were involved with the target, they were involved with the job, and deserved to die. Gary did not like killing in the name of his country to protect corporate interests. However, what this asshole had done made Gary’s blood boil.

Sidney Tarhanian was a private sector saboteur. Like Gary he had a very specific skill set. Unlike Gary, he had no morals and no remorse for crossing the line. Sidney had worked for many corporations from many different countries. He had no loyalty, no sense of country or duty. If this latest job (and his last, Gary assured himself) was any indication, he had no soul as well.

Sidney had recently been down in Nigeria. American and Chinese companies were fighting it out in a private sector war, vying for all the resources the naïve and underdeveloped country had to offer. Oil, ore, gas, precious stones, Nigeria was the latest in a long line of candy stores up for looting. Sidney had been hired by a Chinese corporation, to sabotage one of Exxon’s drilling and distribution centers. They wanted it leveled, and they wanted it to look like the company had cut corners on safety and design. The goal of the Chinese was to push the Americans out and take over completely.

Sidney was more than happy to oblige. He set about his job with the usual enthusiasm he had for destruction. He completely leveled the drilling site and distribution center, killing 143 workers in the process. Unfortunately for Sidney, because of Nigerian labor laws, 73 of the dead had been children. Their ages ranged from nine to sixteen years old.

Sidney couldn’t give two shits, but Gary was pissed off beyond all reason. He’d been sent to France by the CIA at the behest of Exxon. They wanted to send a message to the Chinese. Gary was technically being used as an attack dog, in the name of corporate supremacy. He knew the suits in Langley didn’t really care about the dead kids. Gary did care, and that’s why he agreed to do the job.

There were a lot of reasons for Gary to hate Sidney Tarhanian. Like Gary, Sidney was a native Californian. Unlike Gary, Sidney had been born into a very wealthy family in San Diego. He’d been a top athlete in high school and received a full ride to USC.

The contacts he made at USC had been used to start his career in sabotage for hire. What most people didn’t know about Sidney, but what his file laid bare, was that the man was a complete sadist. The type of kid who tortured and murdered neighborhood pets well into his teens. Eventually moving on to brutally beating boys he didn’t like, and raping the girls he did. Sidney’s father was wealthy enough and powerful enough to cover up his son’s many sins.

Sidney was the type of person who had picked on Gary all through his childhood. He was the type of person who only cared about himself. In short, the type of person Gary really enjoyed killing.

Gary watched the small cloud of dust. The car enveloped within it sped along the dirt road getting closer by the second. He put the binoculars down and chugged a bottle of water. He watched the car come to a slow stop in front of the farmhouse. Two men got out and headed inside, making the eventual body count three instead of one. It wasn’t as many people as Gary was hoping for but it would have to do.

He put the empty water bottle into his backpack and retrieved his gear. The custom shoulder rig, holding his Beretta and thick bladed skinning knife, slipped easily through his arms, resting comfortably on his shoulders. The Beretta was one of his favorite weapons. He’d had the .9 millimeter pistol since the Army. It was an older model, but it had never let him down. He pulled the pistol from the holster and chambered a round. He slid the safety to hot and re-holstered it. The hint of gun oil and leather mixed with the smell of the countryside blossoms. It brought a small smile to Gary’s face. Better than any incense, it was a lovely aroma.

Gary did not remove the large knife resting comfortably under his right armpit. He patted and stroked the cool acrylic handle reassuringly. The custom knife had been a gift from his handler. It was by far his favorite blade to kill with, though he didn’t expect to use it today.

Gary’s hand snaked down to his belt. His index finger slowly traced the round, green and white buckle. His other hand moved upward and absentmindedly caressed the small yellow, plastic, sword pendant that hung low around his chest. This was a completely automatic and subconscious act. The simple act caused his heartbeat to slow down, and he began to breathe from his stomach.

His worn 501s were comfortable, as was the t-shirt he’d chosen for today. He’d gone with the grey cotton one, with the large Captain America shield on it. He had a large variety of t-shirts he wore when killing. This one seemed more than appropriate for today’s job. He flexed his toes, inside one of the many pair of custom Converse Chuck Taylors he owned, and concentrated on his breathing.

He watched one of the men who’d arrived a few minutes before exit the house. The man took up position just outside the low, brick wall that surrounded the property. He leaned against the rusty iron gate, peeling and eating an orange, with a long thin dagger.

Most people who passed, or drove by would not give the scene a second look. Gary knew the moment he saw it, that the long thin knife was made for killing, not peeling fruit. He also noticed the small bulge against the man’s hip, hiding under his long, short-sleeved bowling shirt. Probably a forty-five, thought Gary. Assholes love forty-fives.

Gary scooted back into the shadows of the copse of trees, from where he’d been observing the farm. He removed a thin, custom-made cotton jacket. It was tailored to hide the bulge of his weapons and he zipped it up to his chest. He then slung his backpack over his shoulder, headed down the hill, and away from the farmhouse. He hit the small hiking trail halfway down the hill. He followed the trail for a half-mile, until it dumped him back up on the dirt road fronting the farmhouse.

Gary observed the man, still leaning against the gate. He pulled a map from his back pocket, unfolded it and headed toward the farmhouse.

Chapter 2

Norman Fletcher neither loved nor hated his job. In fact, Norman Fletcher didn’t love or hate anything. For as long as he could remember nothing ever made him feel happy or sad, angry or hurt. The world for Norman was a grey, dull thing and the people in it were grey dull things. The only thing that ever came close to giving Norman Fletcher joy, was the sight of blood escaping a person’s body. The faster it spilled, the better he felt. Spurting took the grey away faster than spilling. The red, pinkish mist that exploded out of a body after a gunshot was, to him, the fluffiest of clouds.

The red was the only time color entered his world. Better than filet mignon or the finest wine. It was even better than the feel of a woman trying to fight him off as he pushed into her with brute force. The tears of those women came close to taking the grey away. Licking the tears off his victim’s faces, while he raped them, increased the color. Using words like “slut” and “cunt” as he did so helped even more. He would climax deep inside them, and it was over. The color faded and the grey overtook him once again.

Soon he found it wasn’t enough. He began cutting into them too, killing them slowly. The red would mix with the tears and mix with his cum. The world would explode in a technicolor rainbow of pleasure. Always culminating in that last desperate gasp for life, before the slut or the cunt would die. The world would fade to grey again, and he’d be left hollow and empty.

Nigeria had been a rare explosion of color for Norman. A bountiful orchard at harvest time, and Norman picked fruit until his basket was full. He found his job working for Sidney, as close to a joyful feeling as he was capable of mustering. The pay was good, he got to travel the world, and of course, the red was often there. Sidney’s world was full of the red. The countries they tended to work in were full of ripe cunt fruit, he could pick to his heart’s content. Nigeria had been his favorite so far. The government was both corrupt and inept. The brutality in the streets was a daily parade of promise.

Now, leaning against the rusted gate, finishing the orange he’d peeled with his knife, all he could taste was grey. Even the juices, running down his chin tasted like bland nothing. He licked the sharp, double-edged blade, of his thin stiletto dagger. The knife had been used on many sluts and cunts. It was covered in microscopic layers of pain and anguish but still, he could not taste the red.

He was already bored with France. Compared to Nigeria it was a real letdown. He’d been given strict orders by Sidney not to do anything that Norman considered fun. That meant no tears, no red, only grey dull Paris.

He sat in the bar last night drinking expensive scotch that tasted of nothing. He watched all the French whores, laughing with their faggot boyfriends. He had to fight the urge to make the world explode in color. It had been horrible.

In the end, Norman had to rush back to the hotel and lock himself away from the grey dull world. He spent the night, stroking his cock, to pictures of his Nigerian sluts. High definition photos of lovely black skin. The red lines and flowing juice of the sweet fruit, from that wonderful orchard, was the only thing that stopped him. Had it not been for his photo collection, he would have gone out into the night, found some dumb French slut, and added her to it.

He came in his hand and the world sparked in color. Dull color, but still, it took the grey away for a moment. Now it seemed they’d be spending a week at this safe house, in the middle of nowhere. He felt stifled, the grey smothering him like an itchy blanket.

He slipped the dagger into its sheath and thought about taking videos next time. Maybe that would take the grey away better than photos? If he could hear them cry and scream and beg, that would be far better. He cursed himself for not thinking of this idea sooner, but it was never too late to start.

Norman looked down the road, at a grey man stumbling along, attempting to read a map. He’d been warned that the CIA might be sending someone after them, in retaliation for Nigeria. He felt the weight of the .45 at his side resting comfortably, whispering promises of pink mist. The knife too was talking to him, begging to be let out of its prison.

Sidney had warned him not to overreact. The possibility of someone catching up to them, and finding this safe house was very slim. Besides, the grey man walking down the road looked far too pathetic. There was no joy, no color, in killing a pathetic man, only women. But then again, to Norman, all women were pathetic. They deserved to be treated like the cunts and sluts they were.

Norman had hawk-like vision and could tell, even at this distance, that the man coming toward him was definitely not a threat. He was wearing a faggoty white, cotton jacket. The t-shirt underneath had some sort of logo on it, most of which was covered by the zippered coat. His jeans looked baggy and a little too big. The shoes were the worst: Converse Chuck Taylors. The shoe of children, wimps, and of course, faggots.

The grey man was already annoying Norman. He was incredibly average. Not too tall, not too short but perhaps too skinny. Norman envisioned spindly arms under the coat and matching, stick-like legs under the baggy jeans. He was also clumsy. Norman watched the grey man trip over his own feet twice. He was stumbling down the road. He would look at the map, then spin his head around in all directions to check the area. Then he would turn back to the map, tottering all the while.

The only thing that stood out about him was the scar that ran the entire length of the grey man’s face. It was faded; the discoloration from the rest of the man’s skin was nominal. The scar ran from the edge of the man’s left eye, near the ear and then almost perfectly along his jaw line to the chin. On Norman it would look menacing, but on the grey man it just looked pathetic.

He felt sure the story that went along with the scar was equally boring. Likely the grey man had gotten mugged or slipped and fell in the shower. Maybe he tumbled, or was pushed down a flight of stairs. Whatever the case, he knew the scar story was as pathetic and weak as the man who bore it.

Norman was feeling disappointed. He’d never gone up against a professional. To be able to draw the red out of someone like that? That would almost be as good as a woman. This guy, however, clearly wasn’t worth the trouble. He watched the man get closer and closer.

The faggot man with his faggoty shoes looked up from his map. He smiled at Norman, waved and came up to him. The little grey man asked Norman a question in French.

“Fuck off, Frenchy,” Norman sneered. He motioned with his thumb for the grey man to keep walking.

“Oh, hey, you’re American!” said the grey man. “That’s great! Listen do you live around here or something? Because I’m, like, totally lost.” When he switched to English, his tone became far too friendly for Norman’s liking.

Norman now knew exactly who, and what this grey man was. He was the type of person Norman hated above all others. This man, obviously incapable of asserting himself physically, compensated with friendliness. Norman equated this with weakness.

Norman looked him up and down. The sun glinted off of his silly looking belt buckle. It was another reason for Norman to dislike him. “No, I don’t. Seriously, fuck off.” Norman’s hands instinctively glided toward his weapons.

The faggot man appeared to be studying Norman’s face. “Don’t I know you?” He asked in that annoyingly cheery tone, inching ever closer toward Norman.

“No,” Norman snorted, fantasizing about slicing the grey man’s throat.

“Sure I do. You’re the dead guy,” replied the grey man in a far deeper voice. His tone had gone from friendly and goofy to cold and calm.

Norman had barely enough time to process the meaning of this change. Then everything began to move in slow motion. Norman watched the map drop from the grey man’s hands. His own hands moved under his shirt to his knife and gun, but he was too slow.

The grey man’s hand flashed outward, striking Norman just to the side of the solar plexus. He couldn’t understand it, but he was paralyzed, unable to move. The world exploded in color, and pain shot through his body. For the first time in his life Norman felt something without the red. Norman felt fear.

A millisecond later, the man’s left hand rocketed outward; his index and middle finger crushing Norman’s larynx. The power of the blow brought more color into his world. Norman fell backwards, his breathing strangled and desperate. The grey man, who was now an explosion of color, caught him and dragged him behind the wall.

Norman looked up at the man now kneeling beside him. The man, once grey but now a rainbow of brilliant hues, was whispering something. Norman had to concentrate to hear what he was saying, but only caught the last of it.

“… well I hope your two friends are more of a challenge than you were. You’re dying in case you were wondering.” The man dug into his jacket pocket and removed a small, enamel, American flag pin. “I’m going to go ahead and pin this on you. A bit of a calling card to your boss’s clients so they know who killed you.”

The man attached the pin to Norman’s shirt. Norman could feel the life force leaving his body. The world seemed to get brighter for a moment before going dull and grey. The once grey man, who was now a parade of color, was the only light in Norman’s world.

His bowels emptied and filled his pants up with shit. Norman Fletcher felt as if he was floating just above the ground. He stared up, into the eyes of the man who had just killed him. Norman wondered if anyone would ever know about the beautiful things he’d done. The love affair he’d had with the red, and if so, would they understand how amazing his accomplishments had been.

“You can go ahead and die now,” said the rainbow man. He stood up and surveyed the farmhouse. Norman took his final, ragged breath.



Chapter 3

Walking toward the farmhouse, Gary could smell the dead man’s shit. He didn’t know who he’d just killed, but he knew what he was. The stiletto dagger had given that away; a killing knife. He was American, so probably worked directly for Sidney. This led Gary to believe the dead man was most likely as sadistic as the man he worked for. He hoped that was the case; but the man had no fighting skills, the kill had been too easy.

There were a few different types of predator Gary had come across, in his time as an unofficial assassin for his country. Some only hunted the weak and defenseless; Gary wouldn’t be surprised if the man he’d just killed fell into that category.

Then there were those like Sidney. Men who didn’t set out to kill, but certainly didn’t care if people died because of what they did.

Gary was not one of these. He was an apex predator, a great white shark who liked to eat other great white sharks. Unfortunately, there just weren’t that many great whites left. It had been a long time since Gary had tangled with one. Today would be no different. Sidney was a brutal bastard, but he wasn’t apex.

Gary slinked up to the house and walked around it. Sneaking peeks in windows, then crouching low as he passed beneath them. He didn’t see anyone inside.

He approached the back of the house. He could hear two men having what sounded like a heated argument. He stopped at the back corner of the farmhouse and listened carefully. The two men continued arguing on the back patio. Their voices were clear, making eavesdropping easy.

Sidney’s voice was unmistakable. The other man had a refined, New England accent, and a distinctive habit of occasionally dropping his “T’s”. Gary did not know who he was.

“…I think you’re over reacting,” Sidney stated, now in a relaxed tone.

“I’m not in the slightes’. You can ask Norman. Our Chinese contac’ said the Americans know who you are and they’re sending someone to kill you. Us if we’re caught togethah,” the New Englander insisted.

“Dude, this house is as safe as they come,” protested Sidney. “We’ve been coming here for ten years and no one but us has ever been here.”

“Yes, ” the New Englander said with hard accusation “but you killed children this time. You killed seven’y-three children!”

“Hey man!” Sidney replied defensively, “I did my job. We knew there’d be kids working there. If anyone’s to blame it’s Exxon. Fuck them. I did the work and the Chinese transferred the final payment to my account this morning. So they don’t really give a shit if I killed seventy-three kids.”

“No, they don’t, but the Chinese don’ want you being killed – or worse captured and interrogated.” The New Englander paused. “That’s why you can’t stay here. The CIA is sending someone after you.”

“I’m not afraid of a CIA spy,” spat Sidney.

“Good, because they’re not sending a spy, they’re sending an assassin, a trained killah.” The New Englander paused for a moment. “God…what did Lee say his code name was? It was something silly. The Nerd or the Dork or…”

There was a roar of laughter from Sidney. “Seriously?! I’m supposed to be afraid of someone called the Nerd or the Dork?”

“It was something like that. Shit wha’ was it? I should have written it down,” the New Englander said absently.

Gary slipped off his jacket and laid it on the ground. He wanted Sidney to see his t-shirt. He may or may not know what it was, but he definitely wanted Sidney to see it. He pulled the Berretta and stood up straight. He then rounded the corner to interrupt the conversation with extreme prejudice.

“Oh no, oh no, The Nerd is coming to get me…ha-ha-ha! Oh god, don’t hurt me, The Dork!” Sidney was choking on his own laughter when the gunshot rang out and the New Englander’s head exploded all over the small glass coffee table.

Sidney did not freeze when he saw Gary walking toward him, pointing the pistol that had just killed his associate. The t-shirt indeed caught his attention. It was a grey shirt with a round, red, white and blue shield – a single star in the middle of it. He recognized the shield from the movies as Captain America’s.

“You must be The Spaz,” Sidney mocked. He waved his hands over his head, feigning surrender.

“It’s not Nerd or Dork or Spaz, its Geek…The Geek,” said Gary calmly. He pointed the gun at Sidney’s forehead.

“That’s a terrible codename. You should ask for another,” Sidney said calmly. He reached out and picked up a blood-splattered champagne flute. “And you’ve ruined my mimosa, there’s brain floating in it.” He dipped his finger in the cocktail and scooped out the small piece of grey matter. He held it up, showing it to Gary, then flicked it off his finger and onto the lawn.

Gary would have been impressed if he hadn’t noticed Sidney’s legs shaking violently under the glass table.

“You’re not going to kill me. I’m far too valuable and I have a lot of information I can trade,” said Sidney with a confident smile.

“Nah, we’re good.” The gun barrel was now inches from his forehead.

“Wait!” Sidney replied in a panic, his calm shell completely shattered. “I can pay you!”

“Nope.” Gary pulled the hammer back.

“Fuck! The CIA isn’t even supposed to have assassins!” Sidney screamed.

“They don’t.”

There was a flash of fire, followed by the sensation of being struck by lightning. Sidney’s skull exploded and he died in his chair, on the back patio of the French farmhouse.



comic book store approved!