Death Row Dad

DEATH ROW DAD

(Short story inspired by "Shame" by The Avett Brothers)  

My father and I exchanged many a glance through that dingy Plexiglas wall. We tossed almost tears and wordless questions back and forth, playing catch the only way we could. Silence had always been a part of our relationship.You'd be lucky to get two grunts out of him. He let his actions do the talking, and that was part of the problem. He didn't act much either. That trait of his, among others, never made the jump between generations. I'll talk your ear off-- your nose and eyes, too, if you give me the chance. I was one chatty kid, lemme tell ya. As much of a clam as my old man was, he never minded my mouth one bit. In fact, Pop brought me along whenever he needed to get a point across to someone. Imagine five year old me, sitting in a union meeting, rattling off a list of my father's concerns. Ha. Now that I think about it, he might not have needed me at all. Just another ploy to keep me away from that abusive, alcoholic bitch...

My wife came to visit once. Never repeated the kindness. She told me my father had the saddest eyes. Cloudy, violent and turbulent... yet sputtering and dismal-- an exhausted hurricane. My wife said she could feel dad's guilt weigh down her diaphragm. That look in his eyes... that sad, sad look. I knew it, too. It predated his accusation and conviction, but try proving that to a jury. Give a forlorn stare like that and say nothing when grilled by an overzealous prosecutor sporting a massive hard-on for 'justice'... Would it even matter if he was actually innocent? The reason I knew my father could never have killed my mother was also the same reason they found him guilty for it. The poor guy couldn't be bothered to fight a damn thing. No matter the cuts... bruises... berating... my father took it all in-- absorbing more sadness into his deep eyes.   

       

Sixteen at the time of the initial trial, there wasn't much I could do. My father never made friends, and the only family he had left sported the suffix 'in-law.' It's hard to win a fight without a corner to come back to, especially when you lived your life without throwing a single punch. The jury found my father guilty without even taking more than a minute to deliberate. Call it inspired; call it scarred. Studying law became my life. I succeeded in becoming one of the best defense attorneys money could buy. My father refused representation for his first appeal, no matter how hard I pleaded. I turned in as many favors as I could, but I couldn't manage to get my hands on the reigns of his defense. My father was on the Texan death row, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. So I came to the trials, visited when I could. We exchanged our sad stares. He returned to his cell. I returned to mine.

The day finally came when my father was willing to talk. Wanted a true one on one with me as his last request. That day was yesterday. Today's the first day of his death. That conversation... In my mind, Pop's words are as fresh as a steaming pile of horse manure.

...  

"So this is it, huh Pop? Today's the day."

"Sure is."

I shook my head and pulled at my hair with my shaking hands. The man remained so apathetic, unperturbed by the great injustice costing him his life.

"I found a detective willing to reopen your case you know. He's willing to pull some strings and get your date pushed back, even this late into it."

"..."

Of course he said nothing. He simply stared into me.

"Let me appeal, Pop."

"Joseph, I didn't call for ya just to have a row."

I shuttered with frustration, my face reddening by the minute.

"Take a seat, son. Settle down if ya can."

I obeyed, as I always had.

"Done a heap of thinkin' in here, I have. Hadn't much choice on account of the lack of viable options for a non-reader who ain't fond of workin' out or sports."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

My dad said nothing more, peering off at a wall.

"Um, is that it? It sounded like you were setting up to say something else."

"Ah, yeah. Sorry, Joe. Got to thinkin' again. Somethin' else popped into my head."

"It's fine, Pop. What were you going to say?"

"I'm ready to confess."

"Say what?

"I'm confessin' to ya, boy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your momma's death. I done it."

"No... no, you didn't. I know that for a fact. You were working. I was the one who found her. I called you up and you came home, way more bent up than you should have been. Not guilty bent up... losing your wife bent up. Lacking an alibi does not equate to guilt. That jackass prosecutor had a field day because you refused to--"

"Joey. Joey, stop."

"..."

"I know I didn't physically murder your mother. Course not. I'm talkin'... indirectly."

"Uh, still no."

"Hear me out, champ."

"Fine..."

My father took a deep breath. It must have been so hard for him, talking this much. As furious as I was at my old man's stubbornness, I cherished this surprising chance to truly meet the man. I felt like the lonely voice trapped inside-- peaking out through occasional body language-- finally got to leave its prison. Shame the same couldn't be said of the actual prisoner.       

"When I met your mother, she was a sweet child. Too fragile to drink, not broken enough to feel. She loved me, saw a sad man and wanted to make him smile."

"Sure as hell didn't stay that way."

"Yeah, and it's my fault."

"Pop, don't be stupid."

My father shook his head.

"I never could smile for her. Never could say the word she so desperately needed to hear. She needed a man to yell at her. Tell her to put down the bottle and pick up the pieces of  her life. That woman offered me her everythin', Joey boy. I gave her nothin' back for it."

"What are you talking about? You gave her everything. She never had to work a day in her life."

"I gave her an empty house and an empty heart. Not a reason to live. I worked and worked. Gave her money when she needed somethin' else entirely. I gave her a son, thinkin' that'd fix it. But you ended up lovin' me instead of her."

"She fucking beat me, Pop. The woman was a vile, irredeemable bitch. Of course I didn't love her."

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak about your mother that way, son."

"Fine. But don't you dare blame yourself for that. She made me hate her all on her own."

"She did what she done as a cry for help. I know that now. She wanted me to supervise her. To come home and protect her the way I protected you. That's why she got mixed up in that crowd. Took up drinkin'. She created a problem for me to fix. To make me come back and take care of things."

"..."

"I didn't do a damn thing, son. A damn fuckin' thing."

"There's nothing you could do, Dad. She was a lost cause."

"When are you gunna learn, Joe? I don't want ya defendin' me."

It was at this point that my eyes welled up with tears. I saw the door handle turn. I knew the officer was coming in to tell me our time was up.

"You won't do it, though... You won't even defend yourself when you know you didn't do it."

"That's right."

"..."

The officer stood in the doorway. He looked at my dad and nodded. My father got up slowly. 

"How you managed to turn out well is beyond me. I'll blame God. I'm thankful for it. Thankful for you."

"So is that why you called me here? To try to absolve your shitty wife?"

"Nah. Had a question."

"Well, what was it...?"

"I met that girl of yours.Your wife know's you love her, don't she? Yeah, she does..."

"Uh, that's not really a question, Pop."

My father smiled, possibly for the first time in his life.

"Good to hear."

           

   

"The Artist's Lament"

"Sometimes I wonder if my dreams are only just. Lately, I've started to look at those around me and feel like I've lost touch with reality somewhere along the way. My passion tells me otherwise, but when the world seems blind to your ambition...

Yes, it's one of those days.

You have to remember... those with the most confidence often have the most insecurities to hide. I'm not my brother; I'm a dreamer. The sting of reality is a pain known to all humanity, but it is felt the worst by those who live in a dream. I've come to terms with the fact that I cannot live a normal life. I'm not cut out for the world outside of my art. My false bravado can only compensate so much for the isolation and uncertainty. I want to shout in my native tongue and have someone understand me, but that's a wish without a chance for being granted.

I have an affliction that just so happens to be productive. But my affinity for art, is it an advantage? My passion boils, but it burns me. I'm a kettle filled with the finest tea sitting in a room of devout coffee drinkers. I can only make art, nothing else. Being normal is an impossibility. I'm not bragging, this is a lamentation! My hands are only meant for creation. Asking me to work a normal job... that's suicide."

"FAT ASTEROID" - a sci-fi short story

"We've got an unidentified fighter diving into the crossfire."

"Is it one of our boys?"

"Negative, sir."

"Who is it then?"

"The ship is reported as stolen. Its AUTO-HUD AR ID's aren't registered in any galaxies in this quadrant. It's actually just coming up on the screen as an image of a... middle finger." 

"So it's hostile?"

"Not sure. We've yet to make contact, sir." 

"What are you waiting for? Engage. We cannot allow anything to endanger this mission. For the sake of the human race."

...

The food-covered pilot snickered, amused at the confusion his presence caused. He spotted a floating snack bag and clapped it with his chubby hands. The bag popped, causing salty green orbs to float about the obese slob's crammed cockpit.

"SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM."

The fat pilot gripped the ship's steering handles and skilfully swerved out of the path of an enormous destruction beam. The line of purple light blew up three ships behind him. He dodged three more such attacks while eating the salty floating orbs using only his mouth.

"This is Assistant to the Admiral Janek Pulitzen. You've entered an active combat zone between the GFHI and a hostile group of Pandolian seperatists. Promptly identify yourself or be destroyed." 

"Ohhh! You sound SECK-SEEEEE! Babe you got video transmission on that shiny ship of yours? Nothing turns me on more than having a hot babe watch me kick maximum assage."

"Excuse me? I'll have you know I'm a respected fleet coordinator and a--"

"Blah, blah, blah. Are you showin' me tits here or what?"

"Over my dead body, creep. You are violating seventy-six counts of personal craft space regulation. Operating an unregistered and outdated space vehicle  Piloting a fighter-class ship housing war-grade technology and weaponry. Entering restricted airspace. Harassing an GFHI officer. Refusal to--"

The interloper's space junk encrusted craft expelled an enormous cloud of radioactive pollution from its rearmost exhaust.

"Make that seventy-nine," the pilot jeered, speeding straight into the Pandolian vanguard.

The alien's ships were odd, resembling large glowing orbs. The blue bubbles fired tiny purple laser pellets at the dingy brown spaceship. The dirty ship activated its bottom thrusters at the last second and shot upwards. Missing, the two Pandolian ships were hit by their own fire. Their ships quietly popped-- immediately suffocating all inside.


"Under the Foreign Species Cooperation Act of 7840, you are to submit to the will of the Galactic Force of Human Isolationists.  Remove your ship from hostile territory and dock with our flagship at once."

"Sorry sexy, that act don't apply to humans and I'm as human as they come."

"How can we confirm your humanity? Your ship is not registered in any human galaxies." 

"If you boot up that cam of yours I'll let you check. If you play your cards right, I'll even give ya proof of gender." 

"Fine. I'm initiating visual communication, now. Gender verification is... unnecessary."

The ship's greasy windshield blipped and projected the face of a very professional looking young brunette in a white GFHI uniform.

"MMMMM... SEXXXXY!! Oh that uniform... Who knew extremists had such style? This will really get my juices pumpin'."

Seeing the grotesque blob of a man on screen, the girl's face contorted into reflect her disgust. Her lip trembled.


"..."

"What's wrong, baby doll?"

The pilot flew three loops around the rouge Pandolian fleet, causing three more incidents of friendly fire. He nearly crashed into a four ship wide cruiser, but pulled down at the last second.

"Your..."

"Don't forget that the video transmitter adds at least ten pounds."

"The Fat Asteroid..." 

The admiral's assistant immediately cut off communication, ending both visual and audio contact.

The portly pilot grinned ear to ear. The cruiser dropped a massive bomb down below. Rather than evade, the pilot ejected a stringy white goop into a space. He fired a radioactive pulse, causing the gook to solidify into a sloppy, pancake-like shield. The bomb bounced off the white shield and collided into the cruiser. The beat-up brown spaceship dove down even further, escaping a massive explosion that not only took down the cruiser, but the five fighters surrounding it.

...

"Admiral Arkclaysx, I've identified the unknown craft..." 

"Well?"

"It's the Fat Asteroid. I made visual contact with Regs Bilken. There's no mistaking him. Looks just as gross as the posters."

"Son of a bitch... What's that psychopath doing here?"

"The same thing he always does by the looks of it."

"..."

"Admiral? What should we do? Pull out?"

"..."

"Admiral!?"


"YOUR MOM SHOULD HAVE PULLED OUT. Hyoohhhh!"

"Bilken!? This is a secure channel! How did you...?"

"Don't worry about that, baby. Just got back from the Pandolian CO's ship, and boy did that scaly mofo make me an offer. 300,000 damels. Yeah, I know. Coins? What a hassle! But no, I'm totally into that vintage stuff. Speaking of stuff I'm into, what kind of underwear you got on, babe?"

"You'd betray your own race for a mere heap of coins? Pathetic..."

"Do you know the exchange rate of  damels to MWD? It's worth over a cool mil. That's nothing to shake a snake at. No, sir. Damels are classy as shit. Plus, they're all those old rest stop vending machines will take."

Assistant Admiral Janek fell silent. She looked down at her communicator, receiving a pulse inside her head. It was a message from the President of Unified Space Warp Affiliates-- the group holding the largest share in the GFHI. A message to her... a lowly space dog, from arguably the wealthiest man in the universe.

MSG:// 0:5456 - DONZA KEROGUN: Start a bidding war with the Pandolians. Allow it to rise to any amount. I will cover any expense. Do not attempt to outbid them. Stall the Fat Asteroid. Your reward will be great. 



"We'll offer you 1.3 million MWD for your... services," Janek bid.

"Halls yar, we got ourselves a biddin' war," Regs Bilken, outlaw and pilot of the Fat Asteroid, cheered. "Let's put Papa Pandolian on the line, shall we?"

Janek stumbled back, suddenly face to face with the rough scaly face of the Pandolian Leader and the Regs Bilken's greasy jowls.

"Hope you don't mind me overriding that little block you set on visual communication," Regs laughed, licking crumbs off his face. "I just want to make sure I have your full attention."

Jenek hid her blinking wrist communicator behind her back.

"Gyurh som tonkeh shegale fanto don kegon," the commanding Pandolian croaked hoarsely.

"Speak Humandarin, idiot," Regs said. "You think this chick speaks your language? Of course not, she's part of an army of freaking bigots. Why do you think you guys are fighting in the first place?"

"Bigots!?" Janek echoed. "As if a man of your moral bankruptcy has any space to pass judgement."

"Do not deny ear to the Pandolian pilgrim's plea," the alien grunted. "I repeat: our offer is now double."

"HELL to the YES," the Fat Asteroid chanted. "You bubble boys got some deep ol' pockets. What now, my deliciously racist little muffin top? Does your company want to keep the Milky Quadrant human only, or will it let these big bad lizards come in and mine up all their asteroids?"

"Three million MWD," Janek replied.


The Assistant Admiral's high bid caused a stir on the Pandolian side, causing them to murmur amoung themselves.

"Tonkeh shegale dyukn don GOTTA!?" 

"Forba... tanken kudo farra gon kor lie temba menka forba jungsta."

"Forba don... jungsta?"

"Ku."

 
The head Pandolian looked up and nodded.

"We bid four million..."

Before the aliens could finish their bid, Janek but in with her own.

"4.5 MILLION," she burst.

The Pandolian shook its head and grinned.

"You do not lend ear for all plea. Pandolians bid four million... damels."

Janek's entire body shook, astounded that the small army of refugees had so much coin to spare. The Fat Asteroid's greedy eyes ignited with a tremendous green fire.

"HOLY CRAP ON A PANDOLIAN PANOLI! DING DING DING. WE GOT OURSELVES A WINNER. LOOKS LIKE I'M BUYING CHICKEN DINNER FOR ALL THE BABES IN BABYLON-SIX!"

"Calm down," the Admiral Assistant snapped. "You still haven't heard my counteroffer yet."

"No, that I have not," Regs said eagerly.

"10 million MWD."

The Pandolians laughed.

"What's so funny!?"

"This plea... it is made under a false tense," the Pandolian CO said, grinning.

"Yeah, no crap," Regs said, changing his cheeky demeanor to a much more serious one. "Your group, the GFHI, is funded by special interest groups-- mainly human-lead corporations looking to eliminate competition from alien-run corporations. They don't even shell out a full million for services rendered. "

"What? How do you--"

"What's wrong, sexy? You prone to judging ships by their paintjob? My brain is the same size as my gut. That's how I've managed to get this far doin' what I do and stayin' alive."

"You use your unstoppable dogfighting skills and stolen tech to interfere in space battles and hold both factions hostage until one outbids the other... then you completely destroy the opposing side. You're a murderer, an extortionist and a thief. You don't have brains... you have reflexes and good ship."

Regs Bilken chomped a stray green puffball floating by and smiled.

"On the contrary, I tend to save lives," Regs corrected. "Fun fact: most of the conflicts I resolve involve a surrender. Instead of the loss of lives, money is lost."

"Greed can be good if the greater sum lies in the hands of the worthy," the Pandolian CO said. "While you war for a cause you do not fully understand, the Pandolians wish to simply make a peaceful life. A free existence. Eons of lightyears away, our planet Pandola sits in a remote corner of the Gunkryar Galaxy. It is cold and dark, relying on a the bubbling of phasomian--"

"Get to the point, grandpa," Regs said with a yawn. "This is an auction, not a history lesson."

The grizzled Pandolian leader nodded.

"We escaped tyranny only to face oppression. This 'Fat Asteroid' to us... is a beacon of hope. The savior of our entire species. All our collective life-savings, these damels, they are well spent... to save our lives."

"I don't care what that sentimental alien says, Fat Asteroid," Janek said bitterly, "you're still a greedy pig if you capitalize on war for your own gain."

"That's the price of business, babe," Regs Bilken laughed. "I only ask for money when my ship needs upgrading or I feel like splurging on some gourmet grub. It just so happens I need quite a bit for something, but I'm in no rush. Hell, normally I just do this for kicks. You're only bidding with money, but if you knew me you'd try something else. Catch my drift, sexy?"

"Something else? Oh God, you can't possibly mean..."

Regs Bilken blushed and started snickering like a girl-obsessed school boy. The fat pilot's laugh was extremely high-pitched and awkward... and always ended in a snort.

"Uron don korsh-korsh dykun don tago!?" the Pandolian roared furiously.

"It wouldn't be the first time," Regs smirked. "Or the twenty-third."

"Your race does not face danger," the alien protested. "I am not at understanding. What creature would value a reproductive act over great wealth?

"Um, me?"

Negotiations halted, abruptly falling silent. The only sound to be heard was Regs Bilken's creepily excited panting.



"If I show you my breasts, will you decimate the entire Pandolian fleet?" Janek asked softly.

"YUM TON KEEDO KOOGLA! Laugh worthy... There exists no man who would allow genocide just to see a pair of--"

"DEAL! HEHEHEHEHEH, SNORT!"

"KOOGLA TABU! DON NOKO KOOGLA KUMBA KO!!"

"That's quite enough of that," Regs laughed, booting the raging Pandolians out of the channel. "Mmm, let's see those chim-cham chillies, baby."


Janek faked a smile weakly, using every last ounce of her willpower not to vomit. Good thing Regs had kicked the Admiral from the channel. Her father would die of embarrassment if saw his daughter debasing herself in such a way. The Pandolian ships began to glow purple, preparing to mount a retreat.

"Hurry up girl, the Pandolians ain't gunna wait for your foreplay."

The young woman sheepishly tapped the yellow squares on her top, causing it to disappear.

"OH YEAH BABY, LINGERIE! WE GOT OURSELVES A DIRTY FLIRTY. MMMMM...."

"Ugh..."

Assistant Admiral Janek Pulitzen's hand hovered over her bra, vehemently opposed to exposing herself to such a horrid man.      

"C'mon, baby... Don't fight it... Show Daddy Bear the way to the honey trees. Let the Bees out of the hive. Or are they D's? Oh boy, I hope they are... Heheheheh. SNORT!"

Janek's face crumpled up, no longer able to stomach the outlaw's disgusting behavior.

"PEZT, PEZT... KOOOOOOM!" 

The image of the Fat Asteroid's face turned to static and the line went dead.

...

"What the hell!?" Regs shouted into his mic. He darted his ship back, narrowly evading another hit.
"Babe, are you there!? Did you see who sucker punched me?"

"..."

"Bah, that shot must have busted my communicator! Screw my luck. I was totally about to see some boobs..."

The Fat Asteroid's windshield blipped, showing he was receiving another call.

"Mmm... yeah! You're back, babe. I can't wait to see what letter we're working with. What have you got for me? "

Rather than breasts, the image of a still faced man with long white hair, pale blueish skin and big green goggles appeared on screen. The man was decked out in sleek white leather attire, adorned with detailed steel plating. The entire cockpit was ominously dim, lit only by the green glow given off by the ship's touchpad control panel.


"A quick death," the man replied coldly.



"I should have known you were behind this," Regs muttered, attempting to dodge the rapid fire of laser blades being fired at his beat-up brown junker. "I knew she was bluffing. Stalling me. I just ignored it cus she was hot as hell."      

"Incorrect, the man who issued your bounty is 'behind this,' Bilken."

"Well, if you want to get technical about it..."

A ship suddenly came into view, turning off its cloaking device. Rather than a massive warship, the craft appeared to be no bigger than a recreational space cycle-- a black speeder module made for fast travel. The typically peaceful vehicle had been heavily modified, making it into a lightning fast killing machine. It housed only one weapon, a micro-compressed laser blade blaster. The ship's owner had decided to allocate the majority of its resources into evasive and boosting capabilities. The weapon itself actually borrowed power from the thruster system, meaning it had to slow down to make strong attack, or make rapid sweeping attacks at close range. It was a ship the Fat Asteroid met in combat many a time, though in various incarnations.

The ship's name: RS-VPX.mrk.7. Better known as the Response. Piloted by the half-human half-Xeli bounty hunter... Xylo Exodus.


"Do not attempt an escape, Fat Asteroid," Xylo warned coldly. "A time-space stasis barrier has been cast around the entire battlefield. This time, there shall be no warping away. There will be no escape. Only consequences." 

Regs Bilken bit his tongue and tapped away at the various buttons on his chair. Two pods opened from the side of the Fat Asteroid firing off a barrage of missiles large enough to wipe an entire army.

"I know better than to run from you, asshole," Regs replied, spewing out more white goo. "The only thing faster than your 'Response' is your dad's sexual stamina."

"Incorrect, my father is a Xeli," Xylo said sedately, effortlessly dancing through wave after wave of missiles. "Our race only mates one xox out of the annual cycle, or 2.5 of your 'months.' Thus we develop a--"

"Yeah, and you take after him because you have no concept of what goddamn joke is," Regs scoffed, firing a laser at each glob of gook, evaporating them.

"Incorrect, I am still half-human," the bounty-hunter asserted, landing a brutal, laser-tipped ram to the Fat Asteroid's hull. "I understand humor. You simply lack the ability to execute an amusing quip."

"I'll execute YOU, you little bitch."

The Fat Asteroid and the Response clashed again and again. While neither ship could land a significant blow to the other, the Response's quick, weak strikes were steadily whittling down at the Fat Asteroid's shields. It was only a matter of time before Xylo outlasted Regs... and he knew it.

...

"Submit, Bilken," Xylo ordered.

"Pass. I know you want to salvage all the nifty gadgets on my ship for yourself, and I just can't let you have that pleasure."

"..."

"If I'm going to go out, I'm gunna do it being the biggest asshole possible.

"Dying as you lived."

"You know it, bitch," Regs Bilken laughed, popping open a minifridge. He pulled out a large frosting-rich pastry. "Now if you don't mind, I'm gunna commence dying as I lived."


The Response's engines revved deafeningly loud, his thrusters primed and ready.

"So be it."



Xylo attempted to land the coup de grace on his longtime rival, but he found his vehical unable to boost at all. Instead of a fatal dash and slice, the Response chugged forward at a snail's pace. The black speeder collided with the Fat Asteroid with a tiny tap.

Regs Bilken had his cake and ate it too, smirking all the while. He soaked in the bounty hunter's silent dismay, savoring each savory moment.  


"Whasfst's wffong, Exoffdus?" Regs taunted with his mouth full.

He swallowed a hearty gulp of moist cake.

"Something gumming up the works?"

"..."

"Xylo, you're fast, I'll give you that... but you're oh so careless."

"..."

"Plytanium. That's what the goop is called. It's an experimental weapon made by the Vridianites. They gave it to me as a gift for settling their dispute with Syphlons five months ago. That's 2 of your 'xoxes.' Cool stuff. Starts out flabby and mushy... but when exposed to a certain type of radiation it completely solidifies. While you were busy dodging missles, I dusted the stuff all around us. I missed you on purpose, not wanting to prematurely harden the plytanium. I let the radiation from your engines do that job. The way you sped around... I knew you'd completely total your ship."

Xylos eyes narrowed. His hands began to tremble.

"Yeah, asshole, your whole ship is utterly useless now... leaving you to float helplessly in space. Even if you somehow find a way out of this, you're still fucked. You'll never get the plytanium out of your engines. Time to start from square--"

Xylo ended transmission.




The fat pilot frowned, polishing off the last of his cake.



"Sore loser."


...

MUSIC PROMPT FICTION #2: Frédéric Chopin

MUSIC INSPIRED BY:

Frédéric Chopin - Prelude in E-Minor (op.28 no. 4)

"CHECKMATE"

It had only taken me but a moment to realize the state of affairs. The years of affection, the toil, pain and sacrifice-- all a miserable joke. My charade, the secret life of sin and assorted debauchery I'd hid for so long... nothing but a cough at a concert. She heard them all along. The moans... The rustling of sheets... All trifles to her. My perceived cunning had been nothing more than an illusion  brought on by her feigned ignorance. Yes, it was she... not I who truly was the deceiver. My queen. Oh, my precious queen... Oh how I pampered thee. If only as a bribe... but still. How could you do this to me? How could you do this to your country? Though I suppose I must come to terms now with the fact that it was never your country at all. The land you loved through your teeth-- the land you sold into slavery. Our land... our daughter's land... my land.

Lesser men than I oft divorce or dispose of their wives when the marriage ship starts to hit the rocks. Alas, I'd have been better off a lesser man, cursed by my own desire for integrity. How I envy the rabble! What ease, to live as  a rapscallion, undaunted by public scorn-- with a pride so besmirched a stain blends rather than stands out. I wish it was in my character to bail out and seek safe harbor like cowardly deserting pirates with not an ounce of loyalty. After all, I'd always believed that a captain ought go down with his ship and commanded such behavior from the admirals of my Navy. 

Was I a bad king or a bad husband? I ask myself such futile questions as these as I toss and turn in my cell. Trivial. Trivial in the fact that their answers matter not as my wife's powers of deception were so masterful that even the world's greatest tactician could not have seen through her plan. I'd selected my mate for her beauty with her high learning as an afterthought. Who would have thought that her thoughts were after my crown. My late father had advised me against allowing a woman a choice and the danger of providing them with books and education. At the time I found his warning to be senility induced ramblings, the nonsense spouted at the deathbed by a dying sovereign in a last ditch effort to preserve the ways of his era. I see now that they were sage. Lethally true. 

She never loved me. 

NEVER.

Me. A king. A man with limitless power and prestige. 

Such an unforgivable betrayal! Sure, it is true I never felt a thing for her, but that is not to be expected of me. Her grace is my embrace. The only sight upon which she sets her horizon is my glorious hand. The hand bearing the ring she shares. The ring she kissed loyally in front of my entire court. Or as loyal as she allowed it to seem... as it is now known that she had been a spy from the kingdom of Gamalur-- a land decimated and destroyed by my father. What loyalty is that, anyway?  With her entire country dead, why would she still operate for its favor. Those fake tears... I am the one who deserves to cry. My bloodline now ends with me. The storied history of my family's monarchy, a brilliant book hundreds of years in the making., sees it's final chapter. Yes, my people called my grandfather a tyrant unfit to inherit his father's crown. True, my father and I continued down his path of firm rule with an emphasis on building our wealth. But they did not see the end goal! Their rebellion snuffed my candle before I could reach the top of the tower where they could finally see the great heights all the harsh steps we were taking lead. They dared criticized a plan before its results were in!? TRULY. She betrayed the entire country, no the ultimate fate of the world, by betraying me.

That is what you did not see. No one saw it. That was my plan. I had to bleed the people dry to amass funds in my war chest. Our military was on its way to becoming an unstoppable army. In a mere decade or two, we would have had the power to obliterate and enslave all the other kingdoms. If my people trusted in my power rather than her so-called 'wit'  they would have lived to see the day when we made foreigners slaves instead of them. They would have been able to live the life of ease and luxury they so foolishly chastised my family for living. Oh, such is my curse... to be born with great misfortune. My ill luck fated me to be in charge of such an ignorant and selfish lot. They never deserved my family. We should have completely stripped away all their freedom years ago. But no, my kindness got the best of me again. I foolishly allowed them to work for me and die for me in the way they saw fit... in their own homes with their own families.  They will see that life won't be so simple with me gone.

I do not care that I am to be beheaded tomorrow, as I would have committed suicide out of spite anyway. I've done the Lord's work, I shall be seeing him shortly. They call me an arrogant narcissist... but they can have their dumb opinions-- I never cared for them. I do not fear death. I look forward to seeing God. It will be nice to speak with an equal for once.

The Gunslinger's Last Stand

"Step outside."





The words hung in my mind like a lynched outlaw hanging from the rafters of an old western mission. I'd heard various two word tall orders since I posted my manifesto on Facebook... since I channeled my pain through my gun. 

Drop it.

Hands up.

Stand down.

Remain still.

I think this was the first pair of words that wasn't shouted at me. Somehow, it made his words more threatening. The grizzled Texan channeled Heston-- gritting a cigar in his mouth while he stroked his unshaven chin with his gasoline stained fingers.The mechanic wasn't a native Montanan, a fact made clear by the faded confederate flag plastered across his sweat-soaked wife beater. While I'd faced off with many a fighter on my journey to Canada, this man had a gruff aura about him-- an unbreakable confidence.

That Dirty Word (A Killer's Monologue)

"I used to be a man. A man with a mind geared for the petty and mundane… just like you.  I cared about things, some of which had eyeballs and hearts. Things like jobs, kittens, babies and clothes. Things I know now are all equally irrelevant. All cosmically insignificant and oh so squishable. What am I now, you ask? What can I be, if not a man? What creature looks and lives like a man, but is not a man at all? The hell if I know, still making sense of that myself. Other people call me names— people like the police or my relatives, but who are they to me? What gives them the right? Demon, madman, psychopath… all those labels make me sick, but of all the insults I’ve been called… I’d say being called human stings the absolute worst.

Humankind. What a miserable bunch. At the very least, I’m an honest being— open with my odium. Hypocritical cowards, every last one of them. They’re revolting. They lie to everyone they meet about everything, trying to hype their accomplishments or downplay their failures. They want praise, pity or any form of goddamn attention in between. I just got promoted! My wife died! I have cancer! Why the HELL should I care!? Do you shed a tear when you step on an ant? Cheer when you see a bee pollenate a flower? A human being is nothing but meat with self-awareness, riding high on their horse of moral resolution. The containment of thoughts within the brain is the only thing stopping humanity from killing each other. In that sense, I guess you could say it was my outward thinking and openness that caused me to do what I did. Honesty is my only sin. I’m far too genuine to be a human.  I don’t fit in their fake system… their crappy circles… their grubby little ‘families.’

Nauseating. Utterly nauseating. FAMILY. The very word induces vomit. The concept of family is nothing more than a pathetic excuse to exclude others from receiving your kindness. Another selfish ploy to horde love and supplies— a shameless extension of man’s obsession with immortality. You live for your family? You mean your only purpose in life is to ensure the perpetuation your meaningless genetic code. How fucking noble. Of course I hate family because it’s basically just a fatter selection of humanity, a crappy clump of man meat innately huddling for an inane desire for ‘evolution.’ Of course they arrogantly assume the continuation of mankind is considered beneficial. For whom? Not animals. Not the planet. NOT ME.

Society is the longest running joke there is. Every day is progress? Yeah, progressively worse. What does society create? What does it accomplish? More human beings and less human beings, yet sadly fate favors the former. The only reason mankind isn’t already extinct is because fucking is more socially acceptable than killing. Both are forms of pleasure. Don’t think so, eh? Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.

C’mon, now… Haven’t you ever hated someone? Not annoyed… irked… bothered… hated. ABSOLUTELY DESPISED. This person—a lightly used term—has face on which the slightest smirk can set your soul on fire. Boil your blood! RUE YOUR VERY EXISTENCE. You can think of someone… I’m sure you can. That asshole boss or backstabbing co-worker? Fake friend or a real enemy? Maybe Mom, sis, bro… or is it dear old dad? A cheating spouse perhaps? The politician ruining a country? A group you hate? That sick animal abuser you saw on the news. Rapist...? A terrorist group…? The whole country from which they hail? A serial-killer? Everyone who has ever murdered?

You see it don’t you… the color grey. It paints over that bullshit code of morality and ethics that you and the rest of your kind clutch so dearly to. You can call a grizzly bear invisible, but it will still bite your head off. You can call a lie the truth… but it will still live inside you and tear away at your mushy little human parts. When given the acceptance of society, mankind will willingly commit to committing genocide. You think you’re so different than Nazi Germany? The Pope commanded the Crusades, an absolute bloodbath. Why is a Muslim’s death more acceptable than a Jew’s? America, land of the free. Home of the brave. Site of the massive slaughter of an entire culture. God bless our troops— government sanctioned serial-killers.

              

There’s that word again… serial-killer. That magic word that makes everyone simultaneously defecate themselves and turn their noses in a conditioned response of disgust. I suppose you’ll tune me out now. Go ahead… go on your way and go about your day, thinking you’re morally superior. I don’t care what you think, and nor does history or the greater cosmos. I’m the happiest man alive— doing what I love."

Dereliction of Deity

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of creative writing, and this is told from the point of view of a Catholic priest which I certainly have never been. I'm no hypocrite, I never force my opinion on anyone, so just read and don't be offended, okay? When it comes to religion, I'm all for freedom of belief and allowing individuals to find the truth that works for them (as long as it does not infringe on the inherent rights of others.) That said, I am an Atheist and damn proud of it-- willing to explain and defend my faith in humanity. Enjoy.



Dear Father,

Do not mistake this letter of concern for a prayer. Yes, when I was a much younger man I looked to you for advice-- even revered you above all else-- but alas, that time is no more. I now find your existence implausible, an angle I see as an optimistic one. If you do happen to exist, I'm terribly sorry... for you must be the loneliest creature in all 'creation.' I say this sentiment not as passive aggressive blasphemy, but out of a sense utmost and genuine pity.

Perhaps you're asking yourself why a lowly mortal would pity the great and glorious all-father, hands of earth and sky, know-er of the why and the all-seeing eye. Simple really. Your character is tragically beset by crippling narcissism, a condition made even sadder by the myth of perfection you desperately perpetuate. You say you've made man from your image, yes? Meaning our emotions are derived from your own? The Holy Bible accounts countless times when you display anger and sadness. There's no denying it, Yahweh.  The sin of humanity disturbs you, and causes you to isolate us-- damn us to hell even-- but who is really being isolated?