But that was before I knew Granny was actually a ghost agent black velvet Elvis profiteer… which, to be fair, we suspected for ages. I mean, the old bat wasn’t exactly subtle, all right? Black velvet Elvis in the hall, six in the living room, three in her bathroom and that odd black velvet Elvis playing poker with dogs in her bedroom. Sure, Uncle Johnny thought she just really liked them, but I would point out the price tags on each, and how sometimes they changed.

The way it worked turned out to be dead simple. A buyer would want to buy some prime, rare, black velvet Elvis and they would, eventually, ask the right people. Those people would contact Granny, who would then contact the buyer and pose as an agent. She wasn’t mind you, she was a ghost agent. Posed as the agent, did all the visible work and whatnot, but only collected a tenth of the fee. The real agent just made connections, not getting their hands dirty.

Now, surely, you think, Granny could’ve just been an agent herself, directly. Well sure, but agents are only as good as their connections and there you have it, I would think.

Well, but the other question you must have by now is why am I telling you this? Well, bear with me. We only found out, got confirmation of all of this, when Dwayne tried to buy a new piece of, well, we can call it art I guess, art for Granny. Ended up meeting Granny herself in a back alley. The jig, as they say, was up.

So as I was saying back when I started, yes, I’m getting to the point, I know you’re on the edge of your seat there, if someone had killed Granny before I knew about her other life? Well it would’ve been sad. It would’ve been a damned tragedy. But once we knew, well, when she was found dead the whole family guessed why.

Which is where you come in. Did you think we wouldn’t work it all out? The schemes and the plans? The fact that you were sick of her taking the credit, even though it was what you paid her for? Come on, you’re good, but you ain’t smart, know what I mean?

So yeah. That’s why you’re tied to the chair. That’s why we broke your legs. That’s why I had to, I mean we had to, rent this whole warehouse. I don’t care that you hid all this time in some stupid plan. I’m, well we’re going to, the family and I, keep up Granny’s work. And you’ll give us your connections, won’t you? Eventually.

Oh, don’t worry, we won’t harm your face. We need your face. Reference is a great thing to have, sir. I do have to ask though, why fake your own death just to make a killing selling black velvet pictures of yourself?

Eh, it doesn’t matter. Just hold still.

Or else.

Legend of the Burrito Blade updated with Volume 2, chapter 1, page 2.

Polite Fictions also updated with a short original fiction peice by me. You can go read that by clicking here.

Over the last few days a few different friends have mentioned teas to me. When they do, and all the friends I am talking of are male, they seem, amusingly and jokingly, concerned about the very non-manly names these things have. Two Doves, Raspberry Delight, Fruit Fantasia, Cherry Blossom, that sort of thing. So I gave some thought to it and realized that this is why tea has not gained even wider acceptance in America. It simply isn’t manly enough, where manly is defined as that sort of traditional on paper concept of manly that enjoys tractor pulls, motorcycle gangs and so on. You know, the inaccurate, false and generally trotter out for a good laugh kind of manly. It’s time tea caught on with them.

I gave it thought and identified three key areas where tea can change its image fairly easily and soundly: name, paraphernalia and process.

Name: Tea and Herbal Tea both have to go right off the bat. Tea sounds soft and weak. Herbal tea sounds like something a dirty hippie might drink and we can’t have none of that. I suggest we rename the thing itself to POWER BREW. As for the types of tea themselves I propose a simple system.

When the tea in question is spicy make sure its name has a reference to blades or knives. Instead of Spicy Tisane or Three Ginger we would have Power Brews such as Switchblade, Damascus, Broadsword and Seven Inch Blade (so spicy it isn’t street legal in most states!)

When the tea is tangy its name can have reference to metal. No more Raspberry Delight, Fruit Fantasia or Cherry Blossom. Now our Power Brews would be Crowbar, I-Beam and Chain-link Fence.

Paraphernalia: True tea enthusiasts make tea with all sorts of gadgets. The kettle heats the water. The tea goes in the tea ball. The teapot holds the water and the tea ball. No more!

You heat water inside the Incinerator. The Power Brew is put inside a chamber! It all ends up in a Power Container.

Process: First you heat water in the kettle. Then you fill your tea ball with fresh leaves. Pour the hot water into a kettle and dunk the tea ball in, leaving it to hang there so that the tea can steep until the proper color and flavor is achieved. When done, remove the tea ball and rinse it out so you’re ready to make a fresh pot!

No more!

Insert water into the Incinerator. Load the chamber with Power Brew. Transfer the superheated water into a Power Container. Lock the chamber in, as well. Allow the chamber to explode Power Brew flavor directly into the water, Power Infusing it! Once the Brew is done remove the chamber and empty it, preparing it for a reload whenever needed. Power Brew!

In conclusion, I feel that renaming things in completely unnecessary ways for the sake of appearance could drive the tea market up by an unfathomable amount. Manly men will drink Power Brew. They will happily reload chambers, use Incinerators and drink deeply of some I-Beam and Switchblade. You’re welcome, America.

It was the middle of July when Kevin got the idea to go out on a limb. Literally. He had been eyeing that particular limb for weeks, seeing its size and shape and noticing the odd bumps at the end of it. They weren’t bulbs or anything else that would be normal and tree-related that Kevin could think of. Now, he admitted he didn’t have a great grasp of tree biology, in fact he spent an afternoon debating if it was “tree biology” or “tree herbology” or some other tree-related -ology he simply didn’t know the name of. Arbology, he thought, might be it. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was the limb.

Those little bumps confused him. They seemed to be made of metal, the way they would glint in the sun, and Kevin really wanted to find out what was up with them. He wanted to touch them and sniff them and yes, if the truth was told, lick them.

When Kevin was only five his father had explained that in order to truly know what something is you had to lick it. Kevin’s mother started yelling and waving her hands and shoving his father right out of the room but, sadly for his mother, the lesson stuck. Kevin spent the winter of his fifth year licking many things: his baby sister (once repeatedly until the top of her head wrinkled), a dog, trees, his blocks (a splinter in the tongue almost put an end to licking but didn’t), a goldfish (with the side effect of winning a buck from Marty Feldman) and old Mister Hawthorne. It was Mister Hawthorne that put an end to things.

Kevin licked the old man’s hand while the old man was asleep on his porch. Snap! opened Hawthorne’s eyes, right before he grabbed his cane and swatted Kevin soundly about the thighs and butt.

Kevin tried really hard to stop licking things after that. He failed quite a bit but he did make a good solid effort. Strange, metal-looking, un-belonging tree branch knobs though – those would get licked like nobody’s business.

So Kevin climbed the tree and started to shimmy out down the branch. It was a bit smaller than he thought and bent some under his weight. Kevin trembled and start to reconsider his plan, but then he found the core of his resolve and inched forward.

One inch at a time he went. Knees shuffling up and then hands scraping along bark until everything wobbled too much and Kevin grasped at the branch too tightly to let go. A breath, a count to five and then his knees would shuffle forward again.

The knobs, or whatever they were, drew closer. Now Kevin could see that they really did look like metal. They looked, and here Kevin laughed as he had the thought, like tiny little Jiffy Pop containers. Puffy and silver and wrinkled and begging to be explored. Kevin forgot himself for a second and moved too fast. The branch quivered. Kevin shook. Creaking and snapping and slamming sounds followed quickly with the end result of Kevin on the ground, a broken tree branch on top of him, the tip of it, with bulbs shining brightly, a tiny fraction of an inch from his face.

Kevin laughed and took a deep breath. He sat up and poked and rubbed the knobs on the end of the branch. They felt cold to the touch. Impossibly cold. So he brought the whole branch closer and darted the tip of his tongue out – the knobs were ice cold and tasted like aluminum! He tasted them again and nodded. That was, in fact, the exact taste of…

Wait.

Something was wrong. Kevin froze. He thought really hard and swallowed harder. His whole mouth rang out with the taste of aluminum and ozone. It spread like wildfire and Kevin lay down to get his bearings, suddenly dizzy. He stared at the sky and turned his head to spit, trying to clear the taste out of his mouth. Instead of spitting, however, what came out with a long strand of drool. Silvery, shiny drool.

Kevin screamed and leapt to his feet. He ran in circles, not knowing what else to do. He cried and beat at his head with his fists and ran and ran in circles. Nothing made sense. Would he die? Become metal? Something entirely different? Kevin did not know and did not want to find out.

Exhausted, cried out and with a throat so sore he could only sort of croak his own name out, Kevin sat down and rocked, hugging his knees. There he saw the branch again. He grabbed it, flush with anger, and smashed it, metal knobs first, against a nearby rock. It sparked and started to smoke. Shocked, Kevin dropped the branch and sat back, jaw slackened.

But it was too late. Kevin felt himself harden and crinkle as slowly he became the same cold, strange metal that the knobs were made of. He clawed at it, while he could, and wailed, while he could, but nothing helped. Soon there was a boy, with a branch in his hand, made of metal in the backwoods behind the town.

No one noticed for quite some time, until a dog happened by. Something seemed interesting to him (Gruntfart was the name humans had given him but he, in his heart, knew his true name was Awooooorafrafrafwooga) and he licked the frozen boy. Shaking his head in anger and distaste, Awooooorafrafrafwooga ran off back toward home, intending to lick the humans who laughed at his gastro-intestinal problems until the taste was firmly off his tongue.

The metal spread. It took its time. No need for hurry.

Fiddlestyx loped down the road with unearthly poise and grace. His coat shone with the moon’s own luster and his hooves glinted with reflected light. His large black eyes drank in the darkness around him and gave nothing back. His mane, a long flowing column of silvery hair, whipped in the wind and streamed like a standing wave. His horn stood proudly in the center of his head, and his reared suddenly, tossing his head to the side, simply to hear that horn slice through the air with a hiss.

The forest stood in front of him, and beyond it the small town set there a generation ago by men. Men who alternatively believed and disavowed Fiddlestyx existence. He stopped, peering deep into the trees. Considering. Deciding.
—————-
In the town on the other side of the forest, Brooke sat and kicked her bare feet in the clear cool pool of water behind her house. She was happy. Almost 13 now, Brooke would soon be married. For once, unlike that unlucky bitch Kimmy, Brooke’s parents had picked a wonderful husband for her. Brooke thought about Alessio and smiled. He was tall and brave, and so very kind. Brooke shivered with delight at her thoughts of her wedding, and her wedding night. Soon, she thought, oh so soon.
—————-
Fiddlestyx dug in the dirt with a hoof. The dirt refused to cling, knowing better than to soil the golden hoof of a unicorn. To do that would be to damn your own soul. Dirt, it was not often realized, had a soul. It was the soul of the Earth and the Earth did not wish to damn itself over something as silly as clinging dirt.

The moon hid behind a cloud, fearful of what might happen. The stars twinkled, those bastard joyous stars, always hoping for the darkest of thoughts to prevail. Never trust the stars, for they are wicked and quick to shine light down upon your most hidden secrets. Fiddlestyx knew this, and though the stars often glistened, shedding their light upon his flank in ways that made him even more beautiful, he never trusted them. He would slyly glance at the stars under his thick, luscious eyelashes, but never with love. Never that.

He took off then, into the forest. Fiddlestyx shivered once and then bolted. The wind itself could not keep up with him. His horn pierced the air, scattering molecules left and right, threatening to break a few on the sharpness of its point. Fiddlestyx ran, and then ran some more.
—————-
Brooke splashed twice and then stopped, caught frozen in fear. Behind her a sound. A rushing, whistling sound like the wind but not like the wind. She turned and that’s when she saw Fiddlestyx. Brooke stood and smiled. She flung her arms wide, the joy spreading across her face like an infectious wound.

Alessio leapt out of nowhere and landed between Brooke and Fiddlestyx. He wasn’t about to let this bastard claim another one. His hands grew taut, twisting against the wood grain of the pitchfork he carried. He stared at Fiddlestyx, hefting his weapon, and swore to the stars that never would this unicorn pass.

The horn through Alessio’s gut felt cold. It blossomed there, between one moment and the next, before Alessio could blink. The stars, he swore he could hear, laughed their tinkling laugh. Fiddlestyx shook Alessio’s dead, oozing corpse off his horn and stared at Brooke. Gore and blood ran down Fiddlestyx forehead and he would have a maiden clean it. He would have her do … all sorts of things. For Fiddlestyx wanted virgins – and he would damn well have them.

The town heard her screams. They found only Alessio and hoof prints. And they knew. They cursed, wailed and cried, but they also knew. They always knew, to tell the truth, but they refused to do anything about it. For no one could stop the unicorn when the rage and lust took him. Generations had passed, hundreds had met fates worse than death at the hooves and horn of Fiddlestyx, but none stopped him. Not even the stars.

Last night was a bit kooky. At one point I was on the phone, online doing work on a project – the work required me to talk to two different people at the same time online mind you, and also in a chat room. All at once, you see.

Then I ended up on a different call, which was fantastic and reaffirmed that I work with some great and smart people. Some of who may be laughing nervously the entire time, but I can’t quite prove it, yet. Soon.

Past that, nothing much going on I can talk about.

Come Monday I will be releasing, serializing here at first, another short story for free. This time it will be High Noon of the Living Dead.

Uhm. Shit, that’s all I think I got right now.

So I mention the fact that I just re-watched Flashdance to Kirkbride. Not only that but it then “What a Feeling” was on the radio today in some kind of evil Flashdance attack. So I head banged a little to it, whatever, and told Kirkbride. He sends back this image that he whipped up:

Well his first comment on the image when confronted about it was: “I couldn’t match your super sunlight face with Beal’s beautiful olive skin, but it gets the point across near majestically.” And now you see why I love Kirkbride. But I realized that spurred on by this image I needed to write a new version of Flashdance, starring me. So here it is:

I’m a welder by day. Fuckers. But by night? I dance to the rhythm. The rhythm that is gonna get you. Fucking count on it. It’ll get you with a .45 between the shoulder blades and leave you cold on the ground like a fucking cheap ass whore after a long hard night of pissing off her pimp. Don’t EVER fuck with the rhythm, bitches.

And don’t think I can’t dance.

I can dance like Sammy Davis being dope-slapped by the hand of God. I can dance like Patrick Swayze, if he wasn’t white and was sorta maybe hip. Hells yes, I can dance, motherfuckers. That’s why I make the big bucks.

Do I strip? No. I dance. I dance interpretive dances, German based mostly, sometimes stylized takes on the Eddas and Sagas of Norway. It depends on how much time I have to do my make-up. Last week I recaptured the spirit of 1940 cartooning using only red face paint, a potato sack and Flock of Seagulls hit Telecommunication. I can dance, bitches. I can dance.

Still, I am also a welder. I weld things. Metal things. I weld them to other metal things and the welding makes them stick. Sometimes I cut them apart. It’s not easy work, the cutting and the sticking and the hot and the metal. But I do it. I’m a welder. I weld.

The other week I started to date my boss. Sure it’s wrong and kind of creepy, but who cares? I felt like it. She saw me dance. Then she saw me weld. Now we’re dating. Do the math yourself. While we were talking I mentioned that I always wanted to dance professionally. Not the way I dance now, no, that would make a lick or two of sense. No I wanted to dance ballet. A type of dance I show no real aptitude for, have no training in and don’t really get. But I think it’s pretty. So I decided I want to do it. Fuck you, I can do it if I want. Except, you know, I couldn’t.

Those bastards want training, they want someone who knows what they’re doing! Fuck them and their stupid school. I went to the club that night and did an impressionary take of Beowolf wearing a mermaid outfit to show Grendel’s isolation, all set to The Weather Girls It’s Raining Men. Fuck them.

My boss bought me an audition anyway. That bitch used her shit right and got me set-up. So of course I threw my whiskey at her, punched her lights out and left her. Fucking bitch, who does she think she is waving money around to solve my problems. I’ll show her, I’ll show them all. I’ll go to their audition, the one I hate, that I only made because of that bitch’s money and I’ll… well, they’ll see. They’ll all fucking see.

I showed up. I danced. Hell, I took my welding torch in, too, and I welded some stuff. I showed off my leg warmers and I downed some whiskey. Then I held up a match and blew fire at those motherfuckers. I set them on fire. Judge that, assholes.

When the screaming died they started to tap their feet to my musical choice, Wham!’s Wham Rap. Fuck right they did. One of them was slow, off-beat, I welded his foot. The rest got the message. They let me in. I’m gonna learn ballet. Like no other son of a bitch on Earth, I’m gonna be a dancer. A dancer like you’ve never seen.

Fuck yeah.

I just got some spam with the following subject line:

Longer sperm robot killing free!
I didn’t bother to read the email. I already know that story. Let me explain…

See, once upon a time I worked as a Mad Scientist. It happens, you need to pay the bills and find yourself building death rays. It wasn’t really great work, long hours crappy pay, no good lair to speak of. But I kept at it. And I considered getting into the robot business. Robots sell. They can be a bitch to work out, but if you get it right you can do great things.

Just remember everyone tends to want Cylon eyes and Dalek voices, add the capacity to go up and down stairs, a gun and a laser or two and you have a sale.

I wanted more than that.

So I built a sperm robot. What was the thing for? Well it was a normal looking robot, Cylon eyes and Dalek voice, a gun in the foot and laser ears, but it could also shout “Sperm!” when attacking and then kinda wiggle its hips around as if it was trying to spawn upstream. You would be surprised, or maybe not, how disturbing that was. I figured it would take a lot of people off guard and allow for better killing numbers.

Well, I was wrong. No one wanted one. They were all too freaked out by the idea. So I retrofitted it with a segmented torso, to enhance the undulating swimming motion. The longer sperm robot was born. I was impressed, my customers less so.

Worse yet, they talked about it endlessly. If they wanted to buy a fucking lava gun they would manage to work in “and no longer sperm robot, ok?” every time. Fuckers. It cost me business. It got ugly. I couldn’t even afford henchmen, after a while.

So I ran some ads. I dropped the price. I tried to give them away. I contacted a firm that promised email marketing. They sent out that mail. Well, that pissed me off. First I make a robot that kills my career and then I become known as a spammer? Well fuck. I killed them all, the only time the LSR-4590 was ever used in combat. The undulation was fantastically creepy, for the record.

In the end I destroyed the robots, gave up the gig and got a job doing “normal” things for a change. But today, to get my own mail back like that? Just brings it all back, man. Fucking robots.

(I actually did just get spam with that subject line, I just couldn’t ignore it. Forgive me. Some things beg to be written)

There’s something very important I forgot to tell you.

What?

Don’t cross the memes.

Why?

It would be bad.

I’m fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing. What do you mean, “bad”? Like that Final Fantasy quiz type of bad?

Try to imagine all jokes as you know them stopping instantaneously and every reference in your brain exploding at the speed of light.

Total moronic reversal.

Right. That’s bad. Okay. All right. Important safety tip. Thanks, Egon.

Do not listen to Egon.

Crossing the memes is perfectly safe.

Zod’s right.

Of course I am right.

Oh, shut it, for once.

KNEEL!

KKHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAANNNNNN!

Uhhh, Venkman?

Yeah, Ray?

Traps work on them?

Should. Okay; sticks?

PULLED ‘EM.

Heat ‘em up.

SMOKIN’.

Bang ‘em hard.

READY.

Let’s show these silly bitches how we do things downtown.

TO BE CONTINUED…?

probably not.

There has been talk about both myself, General Zod, and my friend here, Robotic Yul Brynner

Hello, meatsocks.

Yesterday, Robotic Yul Brynner told you to draw. In response some of you said that he was weak and beaten by Richard Benjamin. Some of you suggested that he should fight me, Zod. One of you even suggested that Chuck Norris could defeat Robotic Yul Brynner.

Robotic Yul Brynner was not amused by the Chuck Norris insinuation.

So we wish to set the record straight. You fools think that Richard Benjamin could truly defeat Robotic Yul Brynner?

I have muscles. They are metal. They can crush you watery ones. Squish squash. Squish squash.

Exactly. This is like claiming that I was sent to my endless doom by that wretched ape, Kal-El. How stupid is that? Hello, citizens of Hoostan. It was a movie! They both were!

Hollywood created the endings to make you feel better. We were not defeated. We won. They lied.

Did you see Superman III? Obviously a fake Superman. Same with IV. Why? Because I killed him. He would not kneel and so I, General Zod, destroyed him.

Richard Benjamin ran a lot. It made Robotic Yul Brynner chase him down a lot of corridors. When I caught him his wet bits went squish squash a lot. Then they stopped. Because he was dead.

But you fools demand to believe in these movies you see, as if they were telling the truth. Robotic Yul Brynner, did you know some of them even believe the JFK movie?

I shot him, you know.

I know! But do the stupid humans know this? No! Fools! Your second complaint was that Robotic Yul Brynner and I should fight. Why would we fight? We’re friends! Some of you shall kneel before Zod. Those that might escape my clutches? You will be forced to draw.

Draw meatsock. Draw and lose.

You truly are simple creatures.

And then they said Robotic Yul Brynner would be defeated by Chuck Norris.

I threw him into the sun ten years ago. He did not kneel.

He would not draw.

And now he is atomic matter in your solar orb. The orb that gives me my power. I destroyed your Chuck Norris and made him part of my energy source. I “ate him for breakfast” as it were.

Should we tell them who the Chuck Norris replacement really is?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

HA*click*HAHA*click*HA*click*HAHAHA*click*HA!

That’s right, fools! I am your “Chuck Norris”! I get paid well for it too! I just put on a special suit and swagger a bit and you never know! I mean, you might have wondered why Walker, Texas Ranger bitches about Marsha, Marsha, Marsha, but you are all probably too dumb to notice.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

HA*click*HAHA*click*HA*click*HAHAHA*click*HA!

I hope this clears things up for you, people of Hoostan. Do not doubt us again.

And if you do… draw.