He Doesn’t Care If You Live, Die, Or Anything In Between, Unless Of Course You Pay Him

When all of this is over, there are going to be people who will talk about how it was this person’s fault, or maybe that country’s. They have already begun to point the fingers in the halls of power in many countries and I thought it prudent to remind people of a few things because I like to write and I have a lot….I mean like, a lot, of free time on my hands lately, even for me.

How the virus started is, as far as I am aware pretty much codified at this point to the wet markets in Wuhan. Pangolin, bat, something like that. it made the jump to humans as these things do and that is the only even remotely scientific thing you will hear me say for the rest of this.

What is important is the cover of the Los Angeles Times for Monday, January 27th of this year. If you can see if the picture I have linked here you will notice down in the bottom left-hand corner, below Kobe Bryant’s death, squeezed in next to the Grammy’s, you will see a story about two cases of the “new virus” from Wuhan, China.

January 27th.

Now, if you listen to the Orange FuckWaste, you will know he started the Coronavirus Task Force, or whatever the fuck it was called a few days later. However, if you recall he did not give his first big briefing/campaign rally talk on the virus to the American people, those who voted for him, and the rest of us who are smart until the 12th of March.

So, in those days between, nothing of particular substance was done at the national level, and quite frankly nothing has yet, to help stop the spread, flatten the curve and curtail the now growing death count of the virus.

He turned down the testing kits is what some say, although there are articles that say the opposite. So, for a moment, let us pretend the bumbling fuck never had that blemish. Not say he accepted, let us chalk that one up not at all.

Even with that having been said, there is the fact that he, repeatedly, has accused hospitals of hoarding supplies and falsifying numbers.

Why…Oh Why…Would a hospital want to inflate the numbers of dead and sick? Unlike the vaguely memorable, quasi-reality TV “star” Trump thinks he is, doctors don’t pretend to have things they do not have. They instead rely on things like science, and numbers, things he ignores on a nearly second by second basis.

I don’t write my politics very often, everyone knows I am as gay for the liberals as you can get, but you know what, when the orange-faced shit gibbon endangers the lives of my children by his not even half-assed attempts at containing a deadly virus, I get a little testy if I can be so direct.

So while he is being a racist and calling it the China Virus, a vile and stupid name from a man who shares the same characteristics, the people he is supposed to be governing are dying. New York is not the last of the hot spots, we all know this. This thing won’t “be over by Easter”, this is the long, fucking, haul people.

Stay safe and take care of each other the best you can, from as far away as you can, because I guarantee you he doesn’t give a fuck how many of us die as long as he gets to buy another election.

The Card – Rickson Finale

Rickson stared at the damn screen for at least twenty minutes before he shook his fucking head and decided to play with whatever fucking idiot was running this con. He typed, well, henpecked more than anything, and when he was done he was as proud of himself as he ever had been.

MY DEMAND IS FOR THE CITY OF LONDON TO HAVE NO FUCKING CRIME FOR THE NEXT 30 DAYS. NOTHING ILLEGAL AT ALL.

He hit send without thinking about it and went about the real work of the day without giving what he had typed another thought. However, had he been even vaguely observant he would have noticed that the phone had buzzed mere seconds after he had typed up the email and hit send. It was a single line, a single word.

APPROVED

——–

Three weeks later and Rickson was sitting on the porch of his house. There was no noise, no cars going back and forth, absolutely nothing but a light breeze high up in the trees that he ignored because it seemed as fake as the rest of this thing.

Three weeks and there hadn’t been…anything.

Not a mugging, a rape, a murder. Not even a speeding ticket was given in the entire City of London proper. The Mayor was talking of reallocating the police force to the outer parts of the country, where there had been a dramatic rise in crime in recent weeks with as many as 65 murders in Oxford alone. The world was going mad, but London was quiet, serene. People walked instead of taking cars, they smiled at each other and all but ignored The Tube, relishing the fact that they could safely walk anywhere they wanted to and not be molested by anything.

Mayor Khan had as much as got up in front of the city and guaranteed them that the police force was such a threat to the criminal element they had tucked their tails between their legs and they had run away to leave the righteous and beauty of London be as was it’s historic due.

Yeah, he really said that.

Rickson knew that wasn’t true. he knew the truth. He couldn’t believe it, but he knew the truth. That damn card was nowhere to be fucking found anywhere. he knew he had left the damn thing on the desk and someone had come by and bloody nicked the thing. After he says no crime there is a theft. Bullshit promises.

What he wanted to know. What he NEEDED to know and what kept him up for hour after hour the last few days is what would happen when the month was over and the crime returned. The police dispersed over half the damn country, there was going to be a…he couldn’t even think about it without going half-mad from the guilt of a thing he had thought a damn lark.

Nodding his head he walked back into the humble house he had inherited from his mum and dad when they passed a few years ago. He had never been married or even really dated. The job had been his life for more years than he was comfortable admitting and he knew, HE KNEW, that what was to come was directly his fault.

He sighed and stepped up onto the chair in the kitchen. It was a hickory chair his dad had bought when they had a holiday in America. It gave him a smile as he wrapped the bedsheet around his neck and tied it off nice and tight so that he wouldn’t fall out of it when he inevitably started to kick in a few moments. He had left a note on the table and that should be enough.

With a final sigh, he simply tilted the chair and fell into his noose, his neck breaking perfectly at the C2 vertebrae and killing him instantly. He didn’t kick at all it turned out.

_____

The letter was in some kids’ hand now, he had heard the old man next door make a lot of noise and had peaked in just as he had hung himself.

He walked in just as free as you please and loaded up his pockets with anything he thought might fetch a price later and pocketed the letter without reading it just in case it had some account number in it he could use.

There were no words on the paper when he opened it though, just a shiny black card with a .onion address on it and nothing else.

To Stink, Or Not To Stink? Is It Really A Question?

Thioacetone is an organosulfur compound with the chemical formula C3H6S.

Yup, I just wrote that sentence. Why? Well, I was going to write a story about a terrorist that essentially disables entire city blocks by making people pass out from a thing that smells so bad that it makes you pass out from the fumes. Oh yeah, true story. Look it up, Oxford in ‘67, nasty stuff.

Then, in a moment of what I can only call clarity, a few things occurred to me. I shall present these in a nice bulleted list below.

  • I know nothing about chemistry.
  • Do I want to write a story about a brown liquid that smells super bad?
  • Who wants to read this story?
  • There are things a dude on a couch should maybe not write.
  • Finally, and importantly, see bullet point the first.

I try to stay in my wheelhouse when I write things. I research as I can, do my due diligence to at least make it sound authentic, but I am pretty sure that my writing about chemistry is like a baboon describing what it is like to swim next to a blue whale. I write stories, not science.

Bet you didn’t see this bridge coming.

This is why these motherfuckers writing about a virus they don’t know a goddamn thing about pisses me right the fuck off. I mean, fuck man, people have died because of the idiocies that have been spread over this thing. The couple in Arizona that drank chloroquine phosphate. Do you know what chloroquine phosphate is? Yeah, I had to Google it too. Just because SqueezyCheese says a thing does not make it the fucking gospel. There are these people that go to school for a very long time to learn what these things are, Google is not an M.D.

Do not take medicines doctors have not told you to take. I know that is ironic coming from the junkie, but come on man, a little common sense goes a long way here. When you get the aforementioned “medication” from a thing that kills parasites in your koi pond, maybe, just maybe, you should fucking reevaluate your decision-making paradigm there a second friend.

They are listening to a man who says more stupid things in an average tweet than some people say in years. A man who is literally composed of hamburgers and spray tan, a man who laughs in the face of people dying because he wants money.

Think.

Three Years and Ninety-Six Minutes Now That I Think About It For A Second

I have been sitting here a few days and for the life of me, I cannot seem to get the creative juices flowing when I sit down to write, even though I have a story in my head I am pretty sure wants to come out. I will be patient though, forcing the issues just produces a mediocre product that I would be ashamed to let anyone see anyway. Thankfully, this is me and I always have something to talk about, ESPECIALLY when I have nothing to talk about at all.

I am pretty sure you all know I have a baby brother. Well, he is 37 now, but you get the point. I am also fairly certain that y’all know that he and I share the same birthday, last Monday, the 2nd, three years and ninety or so minutes apart.

This is not going to be a rant about things that I thought about ranting about. No, we each walk our path and hopefully, we will find a grassy spot to meet one day. Until then, I want to tell you a story about him. Not one of those embarrassing ones that I am obligated to tell, nor is it one that shines any other light on him than the best. It was simply a thing that occurred to me this morning and I want to talk about it.

Andy, my brother, was put in a tough spot after my dad died. I mean, talk about emotionally devastating for the kid. He was next door at a neighbors house when it happened and I made, not my mother and I as she often told him, the decision to keep him as far in the dark about my father’s worsening conditioning in the months, weeks, and days leading up to his death a few days short of our 18th and 15th birthdays.

He had to grow up almost instantaneously, or as much as a fifteen-year-old is expected to, and do things that no one his age should ever have to do. He sat there strong and powerful the day or the service, he was respectful and kind to everyone who gave their condolences. He waited the agonizing three months until the ground thawed enough, hurray for Western New York, for us to lay him to rest.

I think that is when we went down our divergent roads. I lost myself in writing and the internet after and he found friends and music and tried to fill his life with constant noise to drown out the things that whisper in your head in the dark of the night.

He did so well at it too. I failed fantastically on multiple occasions, but Andy always seemed to hold it together when he needed to and I was so very proud of him for that.

After mom died nearly a decade later, we were essentially strangers. He lived in Kansas and Naomi, the kids, and I were in New York. We didn’t keep in touch at all really, it was just one of those things that I think I assumed he would end eventually.

It simply didn’t happen that way, not that way at all.

I can count on my fingers, with some to spare, the number of times I have heard my brother’s voice in the half-decade since Naomi died. It doesn’t hurt. I suppose it did at the beginning, but it was wrapped in so many other pains I just dealt with it all at once and learned to live the life I needed to with my Ducks and My Tribe.

That’s it, I think I have anted to say a version of all of that for a very long time and I am glad I got it out. It was not a sad or angry thing to write, just a thing that needed to be laid to rest at very long last.

Rawrz

As A Wise And Sweetheart Kitten Said, Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead

It isn’t that I forget what today is. I don’t try to hide from it at all anymore. I simply have, I think, got to the point where I do not let it hit me so hard as it once did. Plus, since it is mom, it is never a bad thing to just let it pass as uneventfully as possible. This year I thought I would write something, well, something instead of letting the day pass unremarked upon.

For years now I have been trying to come to terms with this well of anger I have inside of me that is towards my mother. Not because it is ruining my life it has helped it along in a few different ways I can think of off the top of my head. No, I want to come to grips with it because it is simply a thing I do not want to have to handle anymore.

I want to be able to think of my late wife on Mothers Day, of my best friend, of all of the mothers I know that are fantastic in every way that you can be fantastic and flawed all the same instead of thinking of the darkest and most violent period of my life. I want to be able to tell a story about a thing and not have my fucking brain start to tell me how it would have been even better had SHE, yes in caps and bolded, not been there to ruin it all for me at the end of the things.

I am not going to make some proclamation that I am never going to get on the evil feels train again, that would be stupid because if I know anything about myself, it is that I am always capable of feeling things I do not want to feel, ESPECIALLY at times I do not want to feel them. What I can do however is try and be mindful of what my thoughts are and, if I can, redirect them to something more positive when I get those thoughts and images that I do not want to have, and if I can’t redirect them, at least be aware that they are influencing me at that point.

Other than that, I am just going to do the one thing that I know would piss her off the most.

Live life the way I fucking want to.