Finnean Nilsen Projects's Blog, page 2

Happy Halloween

We often give our opinion on things (notice how I didn't say "People often ask our opinion on things") and with Halloween just around the corner, the instinct was to come on here and rail against the yearly holly roller reminding us that this is a pagan holiday and the work of the devil!
Luckily, I put the fucking kibosh on that shit right away.  Halloween is all about fun, and there's nothing more fun than some never-before-released zombie killing action from the world of Outpost.  And so, for your enjoyment, here is the charming coming of age story of Lance:


Sorry.It seems the story of Lance is not going to be posted here because once we started hashing out the idea for the short story, we realized it's too long (ten pages and just getting started).  So... No spooky story for Halloween.  This is the problem with being writers: sometimes a story starts short and lasts a long time.  The good news is: Setting aside Outpost Season Two and Camp 417 and a tentative offshoot currently called the Island in our minds, we now have another installment that will be taking place in the Outpost World.  So, there you have it.  I don't know why I'm typing this, we have work to do...
... Oh yeah: Happy Halloween!

"It's the Havasu Zombie Pub Crawl"

No, really, it is.  And unfortunately, we're going to miss it this year.  Scheduling conflicts, you understand.  But that doesn't mean we're not celebrating.  Starting today, the Outpost Pilot Episode will be free for four days.  Totally free.  Seriously, no charge at all.  Nothing.  Free (our second favorite four letter word starting with F).  We're not kidding.  Just click on the title.  You'll see.  Just one click.  Do it.  I dare you...

Why I Love Football So Much (But Possibly Not Enough)

There are few things that hurt a Patriots fan as much as actually losing.  You become so immune to the concept that it can actually happen, that when it does it's devastating.  It's really not fair of them to their fans to win all the time.  But they do.  So when (for the second time) that little rat shit Eli beats us in the Super Bowl, it's not uncommon to see Pats fans literally suicidal.  But there's something even worse than that, I'm finding:
Actually feeling like you'd be better off as a Cardinals fan. 
A quick digression:
I remember the first time Satan (Eli) beat us in the Super Bowl (on a fucking fluke.  Both times.  In fact, I'm no longer going to say Eli beat us, because he is not, and will never be, Tom Brady).  I sat in stunned silence, staring at the television, unable to understand what the "Super Bowl Champions" T-shirts were doing on the wrong team.  Then, once it had begun to sink in, I became enraged.  This had to be a mistake.  There was no way.  I searched for that one thing that ruined it: my son had been allowed to stay up and watch the whole game - for the first time.  That wretched little bastard had jinxed us!  Then, just before my hands closed around his neck, I remembered how fond I am of him, and stopped.  Finally was the call to my dad, to ask if anything this traumatic had ever happened to him.  He explained to me that it was just a game.  I told him it wasn't just a game.  It was eighteen games, and couldn't he understand that?  Or was he just stupid?
If I hadn't been heavily intoxicated, I think what I would have said was: "How could they do this to me?"
Because that's what is so wonderful about sports, and so terrible about me: it's really all about me.
Fast forward to a few years later, much of that time spent on the west coast.  They rarely ever play Patriots games on the west coast.  Sure, I could invest the Mustang in a football package so I could see every game, jack myself into the stream like it was using me as a battery, and let it flow.  I could smoke Red Zone and sit on my couch, eyes bleeding from the constant snap back and forth between games, trying to give a quarter of a shit about any BUT the Pats game.  I could do those things, but I just never have.  Instead I tuned most of it out, because I didn't get to follow my team.
And it's all about me.  (I think I mentioned that, but I put it in there anyway because I never get tired of talking about me.)
In fact, it's so bad that I went to the Chargers' game on Saturday, and I didn't even watch that game (thank God.  It was a bad joke).  I just kind of hung out with thirty thousand other people, drinking beer.  I don't know who they played.  I think I screamed in joy twice - both times the cheerleaders were on the field, not the players.
But, check it: My step brother wrangled me into Fantasy Football this year.  Because he needed the teams and I thought: "Hey, I can make football about me again!" (This would partially explain the Chargers' game.  See, throughout the amazing spectacle around me, I spent most of my time refreshing the scoreboard on my phone, watching my fantasy team.)
And so, I created my team (Whiskey Joe's Pigskin Pros) and got to work.  But something was off, because these guys really love football.  They know everything about the players, the teams, everything.  And not just their teams, but every team.  We were doing the draft and they're going "Why would you get him?  He's injured" or "Shit man, never pick a wide receiver in the first round!"
Stuff like that.  So now I'm losing my shirt, and I'm all pissed off.  And I'm talking to my cousin at the Chargers' game (refresh) and I look over at the scoreboard and they're listing all of the scores and I see the fucking Cardinals have dominated again.  After beating the Patriots in week two.  (If you must know: AZ 3 - 0 NE 1 - 2)  And I'm like "Mother fucker!"
God damn.
Am I going to have to become a Cardinals fan?  I mean, I live in Arizona.  But I grew up in New England.  Can I?  Should I switch allegiance?
I don't think I can.  But I can do two things: One, I'm going to draft Kolb onto my fantasy team.  Whiskey Joe's Pigskin Pros are getting that fantastic fucker if it's the last thing we do.  And two: I'm going to get back in to football.  I'm going to immerse myself in all of it.  Everything.
I'm going to love it again.
Maybe, just a little less than I love me.  

A Conversation With A Character

To celebrate the closing of Outpost Season One with the release of Part Two of the Finale, I sat down with one of the breakout characters in the franchise, Phillip Craig:
DW: Hey, Phil, how's it going?
PC: Good, Damien, how's it?
DW: Pretty good.  I can't remember the last time the excitement around Finnean Nilsen Projects was this high.  Everyone's really pumped to have the first season out there, working hard on putting the box set together, and preparing to dive in to the prequel, Camp 417.  I wanted to ask you some questions and try to give the readers a bit more insight into you and the part you play in Season One and maybe what's in store for you in Season Two.
PC: You can ask and I'll do my best to answer, but believe me, man, these white devils don't tell me shit.
DW: You're white.
PC: Yeah.
DW: So... Why would you call them "white devils"?
PC: I've always wanted to use that line.  Besides, just because I'm white doesn't make them any less pasty pale or demonic.
DW: Gotcha.  Alright, let's get started.  You're introduced in Episode Two.  When were you first signed to be a part of this series?
PC: They recruited me as cannon fodder about a week before the production of the Pilot started.  They called me in and said, "We'd be interested in working with you on a zombie project we're producing."  I held up my hand and said I was in.  Man, I didn't give a shit what else they had to say, I had heard all I needed to hear: zombie.  Done.  I was sold.
DW: But you say you were "cannon fodder," how did it happen that you're still around, now going into Season Two?
PC: The beauty and the fun of working with these guys is that you never know what's going to happen next.  They recruited me as a throwaway character, just the guy to be standing next to Chris when he was delivering a line.  Somewhere, as we went through, they decided to keep me around.  Honestly, man, every week I would go into it expecting to get my intestines shown to me.  It just never happened.  And there's still a few guys that did get the long goodbye and are still walking around here, so I'm not sure they ever let us out of our series-long contract.
DW: You say there's still guys walking around that got killed?  Are they zombies?
PC: I probably already said too much.  The last thing I want to do is piss these fuckers off.
DW:  Okay.  How has your life changed since becoming such an integral part of a major series release?
PC: I'm getting a lot more ass, for starters.  But, still, for me it's all about the zombies.  Zombie killing is my first love, man, and you never really lose your first love.  If by some quirk of fate I end up settling down and my little lady pops out a little Romero or Mikami...
DW: Romero?  Mikami?
PC: First born Romero.  Second Mikami...
DW: Again, Mikami?
PC: He made Resident Evil.  Third Tallahassee.  Fourth... Probably Phil Jr.
DW: You plan on having four boys?
PC: Who the fuck said anything about them all being boys?  Anyway, even if that happened, I'd just call us the Craig Kill Clan and we'd travel the world killing zombies.  It's what I do.  It's who I am.  And you can't hide from who you are, Joey.
DW: My name's Damien.
PC: Noted.
DW: Alright, that reminds me: Do you think video games, movies and television have desensitized you to the violence you've seen in Season One?
PC: I think it prepared me for the violence.  Honestly, man, do you think I'd be here today if I didn't have a copy of Max Brooks' book stuffed down my pants?  I don't go anywhere without it, and it's saved my life more time than you can count.
DW: But some critics have said that you go beyond surviving.  Some have even called you sadistic.
PC: Some critics have called for your book, the Contagion to be burned, man, and pointed out that the kindle's search function maxed out at a hundred uses of the word "fuck" two thirds in.
DW: On a different subject...
PC: I'm not complaining, man, I'm just saying.  I thought it was fucking awesome.
DW: PETA has released a statement...
PC: Man, fuck PETA.  It was one cat.  I swear to God.  You save an entire prison, and kill one cat, they call for your head.  I've got enough to worry about without you bringing up PETA.  In fact, fuck this interview.
DW: Just one last question, and then I'll let you go: can you give us anything, any hint at all as to what the prequel, Camp 417, will be?
PC: Again, man, they don't tell me shit.  But, I can tell you two things I picked up around the office: 1. It's gonna be fucking epic.  Ryan said, and I quote: "We're going to mind fuck this entire genre."  And 2. I've been seeing a lot of Nazis walking around...

Let Stupid People Die

Hi.
How have you been?
Sorry it's been so long since I checked in, but I've been busy.  We've got this new episodic ebook series out called Outpost.  The first season is almost in the bag, with the Season Finale this Thursday.  But soon after we'll have the entire first season out in a box set with some damn cool special features.  Thanks, we worked pretty hard on it.  Trying to get a new Damien Wright book out, but the bastard's been dragging his feet.  So, yeah, how about you?
I'm sorry?
No, I get it, it's been a long time.  I wasn't looking for a fucking guilt trip.  Jesus.  I just checked in to say Hi and talk about something I'm passionate about:
It's called Let Stupid People Die.
Every summer here starts the same.  The Parker Float.  This is where tens of thousands of people get together, get in the water, get drunk and float for a few hours.  And every year (basically) some asshole gets himself drowned.  And every year (basically) it's the same story: John Q. Dumbass went on the float.  Got trashed.  Decided to swim across the river - the Colorado Fucking River - to see some of his friends over there.  Yeah.  Smart.  Did he where a life jacket?  Of course not.  Only sailors where life jackets, baby.  His flotation device of choice is a premixed bag of margaritas.
I have nothing against premixed margaritas, please understand, but when I'm in the middle of the Colorado Fucking River and I'm drowning more fluid would seem to me to be a bit redundant.
And then we get the news stories.  Everyone ringing their hands: "Oh, poor, poor thing.  You know he had kids?  A wife and four kids.  Poor, poor family, now without a father.  Why do we do this every year when people keep dying?"
My response is always the same: "Shit!  He had four fucking kids?  Couldn't he have done the world a solid and died before having kids?  Now we're going to have to deal with their stupid asses and then their kids and so on.  One day, I'm going to driving down the road, and I'm going to see some fucking retard driving the wrong way on the highway and say 'What a fucking idiot!' and it's going to be his little carpet munchers, all grown up."
It's like a fucking plague of stupidity, and it's spreading like wild fire.  And we encourage this.  We legislate for it.  We spend millions of dollars every year on warnings and ad campaigns: "Make sure little Joey wears his helmet.  That's a choking hazard.  Oh, that toy has lead paint!"
There was a time when people believed in Natural Selection.  If the parent was dumb enough to give the kid - who sticks everything in his mouth - a marble the size of a jaw breaker, when the little shit choked to death we all sighed a collective sigh of relief: "That fucker shouldn't have had kids anyway.  We just got saved from seventy years of dealing with that little moron."
Now the parents sue, and the company goes out of business.  And then no other idiot's children die, and then twenty years later one of them makes a left from the right lane and takes out a family of brain surgeons.  And then everyone says "Oh, what a terrible, tragic accident..."
It wasn't an accident, it was an act of God.  It was God or Allah or Mother fucking Nature or whoever reminding us that we really never needed that vapid waste of fucking space anyway.  That's why I don't see why abortions cost money.  If the person has enough money to pay for an abortion, they're doing something right.  Rich people do something to get that way.  In fact, the way it should be is: if you can afford an abortion, you can't have one.  Only poor people get to kill their kids.  Poor people do something to get that way, too.  The world doesn't need less rich people.  They should be passing out birth control to poor people like fucking skittles.  I'm not arguing against upward mobility, I'm saying: once they make it out of the ghetto, take the birth control away.  They're keepers.  Every pregnancy test should be accompanied by an IQ Test.
If you fail either, we have a problem.
Clear out the stragglers.
Trim the fat.
And, for fuck's sake, if we mess up and let one be born: Please, Let Stupid People Die...

A Single Light

A single light.  In a string of fifteen thousand fucking lights, it only takes one to put the whole string out of commission.  Of course, they don't make strings of fifteen thousand, but if they did it would only take one burning out and the entire God Damned thing would go black.  But it wasn't fifteen thousand black that Christmas eve, it was just two-hundred and fifty.  Two hundred and fifty lights just gone out at eleven fifty-five on Christmas eve - the middle string - the ones that draped over the eves in front of the door.    "Honey," Eileen said, "honey it's very important to the kids that all the lights are up."    I looked through the window at the small patch of darkness and watched snowflakes slowly dance their way to the ground.  It wasn't like I cared.  Why should I?  We had plenty of lights on the house.  We had plenty of presents inside the house.  We had plenty of everything and Eileen could never see that it was because of me.  I had bought it.  I had worked for it.  I had built it all.  But she would never admit that.    "Eileen, Sugar, it's one string, okay?  I'll take them all down after the holidays, and next year when I take them out I just won't put up that string.  Simple.  I'm really not interested in going out in freezing weather to fix one damned burned out light bulb."    "They're LED."    "What?"    "They're LED lights," she explained, "they're expensive.  We're not throwing away a whole string just because you're lazy."    "So now I'm lazy?"  I sighed.  "Fine, I'm lazy.  But I'm still not going out on that ladder and trying to fix one bulb in two hundred and fifty.  I spent the last six hours building the doll house for Samantha.  I'm not going out in that."  I waved an open palm at the window.  Eileen looked at me.    The ladder was cold and so was I.  Let me rephrase that:  The ladder was colder than I was, so it wouldn't give me back my hand after I placed it under the eve.  I pulled on it - even though I knew better - and ripped a small patch off my hand as the skin gave way before the frost.    "Stupid," I muttered.    "What was that?"  Eileen asked.  She had her hands wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa, steam billowing up from it, her body covered in fur.    "I said this is stupid," I told her.  "It's utterly, and completely, ridiculous."  I stormed up the ladder.  "If you think the kids are going to notice that one batch of lights is out, tomorrow, when they've got a damned mortgage payment's worth of gifts, you're nuttier than your mother's fruit cake."    "I don't think there's any reason to bring my mother into this."    "I think there's every reason to bring your mother into this."    "Oh?"    "Oh, yeah."  I yanked a bulb out and looked through it.  Seemed fine so I put it back.  "Because you're her.  You've become her."    I looked over my shoulder and caught a flash of her eyes and saw her suck her cheeks in against her gums, which two years ago would have meant I had hit a cord and we wouldn't be sleeping together.  That night it just meant we were back into our old groove of not sleeping together.    "Just like her."    "And you're just like your father," she told me.    "I thought you liked my old man."    "I pretended to."  She dug a furry toe into the powder covering the grass.  "For you."    "Well."  I plucked another tiny piece of glass and peered through it.  I didn't know what I was looking for, but I was hoping I'd know when I found it.  "Luckily we don't have to pretend any more."    "This entire night has been pretend."  She straightened her spine, her eyes flashing silver in the light.  "We pretended we loved each other."    "And the Oscar Nomination goes to..."    "You're not fucking funny."    "I used to be."    "I pretended you were..."    "A lot of pretending, Eileen."    "Would you just fix the stupid light so I can go inside!  It's cold as anything out here."    "So go in."      "Not with you on that ladder," she scolded me.  Kicked more snow.  "If you fell no one would know til morning."    "What do you care?"    Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and she stared at me.  I felt so small that she could have squashed me with her tiny rubber sole.    "I just care, okay?"    "Okay, fine."  I yanked a new bulb and studied it intently.  Clear as anything.  Put it back.  "I'm just wondering.  You've got a life insurance policy on me, right?"    "You're such a piece of shit, you know that?"    "You've told me before."    "And I meant it."    "I believe you."  I sighed away from her, into the darkness.  I glanced back and saw her standing there, the cocoa cold now, no steam.  Her hands were still wrapped around it for warmth, but none was provided by the mug .  My hands were frozen stiff and the spot without flesh was sore and pulsing as I moved from light to light.  But, still, she looked great.  I couldn't put my finger on why, but she reminded me of the first Christmas we spent together.    We were just out of college, and she and I had rented a house at a ski resort because she wanted to have a white Christmas.   We had laid in bed for hours, watching the snow slowly flutter its way to the ground, playing in the breeze and kissing each individual flake as they made their way together towards earth.  We had gone outside to eat the small crystalline drops, and then we had thrown snow balls at each other and I had chased her down, kissed her, and we had made Samantha, our oldest.    I checked another light - I was almost ten percent through the string - and looked at her again.  Long ago I had decided this marriage was over.  I hadn't decided it as much as it had been beaten into me.      I was told: "face the facts, man, your marriage is over."  "Look, this is as an outside observer, as your friend.  You have to move on."  "It's already a foregone conclusion, the only question is: who pulls the plug, and when."  All good advice, I guess.    But up on that ladder I felt the familiar pang in my stomach at the thought of losing her.  It wasn't her fault.  It wasn't really mine.  It was a cycle we had drifted in to.  The cycle where every single time I wanted to say I was sorry, she wanted to fight, and by the time she came around to talk, I didn't have anything left to say.      That old, recycled cycle.    I checked the next light and saw a tiny fleck of soot inside it.  I shook it a minute, and looked again.  One small burn mark, just above the base.    "Found it."  I flicked it at her and fished in my pocket for the spare.  Found it.  Plugged it in.  Instantly the string came to life.  "See, no big deal."    "That wasn't nice."    "What?"    "Throwing the light at me."    "Oh, come on, it was a joke."    "You're not funny," she said again.    I turned away from her and sighed again.  My breath flowed out gray in the cold.    "Jesus Christ, Eli, what do you want from me?"  I turned back to her as I asked and I caught a flash of white before snow slapped hard against my cheek and I lost my balance.  Crashed to the pavement and felt my bones rattle as my muscle softened the blow.    "Holy shit!"  Eileen burst.  "Are you okay?"    I stayed limp until I felt her body close to mine, then snapped forward and grabbed her arms.  Saw the look of abject terror on her face as I tossed her into the snow bank to my right.  Then I hopped up and started piling snow onto her head.    She burst from the bank in a flurry of powder and flailing limbs, and I turned as fast as I could and jetted back into the house.  She followed me with a snow ball in each hand.    "You're not funny!"  She lobbed one at my head but it was far right and it splattered against the wall.    "Yes I am."  I cut around the couch and watched her.  "I'm the funniest man you ever met.  Remember?  You love me so much because I always know how to make you laugh."    "That was six years ago."  She arched her arm for another rocket, but held it.  "Now you're just a pain in my ass that I can't get rid of without losing my house and half my time with the kids."    My stomach knotted and my eyes flushed with water.  I let my eyes bore into hers.    "So that's how it is," I croaked.    "Sorry, babe," she didn't look sorry, "but that's how it is."    I rocked back against the wall and stared at her.  The snow was melting in her hand and small droplets of liquid were falling down to the carpet.  I couldn't believe I had let it get this far.  I couldn't believe she was really that done with me.      I took my ring off.  Crossed around the couch and set it lightly on the coffee table.    "Then we'll file the paperwork on Monday," I told her.  "I'm sick of making you miserable.  I'm sick of being miserable.  I'm sick of fighting with someone I used to love so fucking much."    I left her there, holding what was left of the projectile, and went upstairs.      The shower water was hot and it turned my skin red as the blood my broken heart still pumped.  The bare part of my hand burned as the water cleansed it.  I couldn't be sure but I thought I tasted something salty as the water swept over my eyes and ran down to my mouth.      Eileen wasn't my first love, but she had always been my love.  I don't believe in love at first sight, but I believe in love, and I love Eileen.  I always have, and I always would.  The truth that hit me so hard as I let the scalding mix of hydrogen and oxygen flow over my body was that I was being totally consumed with fear.    I wasn't afraid of a divorce.  I wasn't afraid of the legal fight.  I knew Eli wouldn't take me apart too bad.  And I wanted her to have the house, we could split the time with the kids, and I would take care of her, money was never a problem.    I was afraid of losing her.    As I stood there, tears washing away under the flow of the shower-head, I realized that any life with her was better than a life without her.  Even if it meant fighting every single night.  Even if it meant I was miserable for the rest of eternity, I would always be happier with her than I would be alone.    Right?    I got out of the shower and toweled off.  Dragged my palm across the mirror to clear the dew and looked at the reflection.  I wasn't impressed.  The man looking back at me was broken.  Not even a man.    I left the bathroom and stopped halfway past the threshold.      "I'm not ready for this to be over," Eileen said.  She stood in the middle of the room, mascara tracking down her face in odd angles, twisting my ring between her long, thin fingers.  "Can we talk?"    "No snow balls?" I asked, regretted it.  She was trembling, and so was I.    "No snow balls."    "Sure, let's talk."    "I mean really talk."  I watched a drop of fluid fall from her eyes and drizzle down her cheek.  It hung on her chin for a moment, before dropping to the carpet.    I crossed the room and took my ring out her hand.  Brought it over to the dresser - where my coat was laid over the top - and fished out a fresh bulb from the pocket.  I held it up to her.    "It only takes one," I told her, "to light it all up again."  I smiled at her, and winked.    "You're still not funny."  Her voice broke as she spoke.    "I know," I said, "I'll work on it.  Promise."

The Death of Christmas - By Bill Pryst

Christmas Reed drew hard on his cigar and spit a bit of tobacco juice, letting it dribble down his chin and hang there, gelatinous, before wiping it off with his sleeve.  The stubble made tearing noises as it was dragged over the rough canvas.    "Got damned injuns," he swore, "if I could I'd kill e'ery one of em."    "Well, you can't," Kid Krinard reminded him.  Kid was about sixty, with a bulbous stomach and a back that had to be set every time he lifted something heavier than his rifle.  But he was a sure shot with his Winchester and that was good enough for Christmas.  "We ain't here ta worry bout no damned injuns, neither, we're here to do a job.  Now let's do it."    "Who made you king of this here operation?" Christmas asked.  He was short as an elf and named accordingly, but he was the meanest, most sadistic killer the Arizona Territory had ever seen.  And he was so fast with his peacemakers his victims were full of lead before they heard the leather on his holster move.  "I know what we came for, and I know what we're gonna do."    "All right, Christmas, didn't mean no harm."    Before them the town BitterBrew unfurled like a bad case of the Shivs.  Indians and freed slaves and whores and gamblers and cut throats, all vying for their piece of the vice.  It was the kinda place Christmas would love to get lost for a few days, but he knew he couldn't.  Within the hour there'd be a man dead, and he was going to kill him, and even in BitterBrew there was laws against killing a man without due cause.  Laws that said two hundred dollars wasn't good enough cause, neither.    He looked up at the Kid, and winced.  He was gonna enjoy putting a bullet in the old bastard's head.  Enjoy it something fierce.  Specially since he knew the man was waiting for his chance to end Christmas, and keep the whole bounty.    "Let's get this over with."  Christmas spit some more bile into the dusty, rock strewn street and started the long walk to the saloon.  A tumble weed the size of an oxen rolled slowly across the path.  Eye's watched the pair as they closed the gap, and then calmly pressed through the double-hinged doors and entered the saloon.    The place was packed to the rafters with blacks, whites and reds, men, boys, women and more men.  A feral dog scampered about, stealing men's half-turned mule meat as they hit on big busted women who slipped their hands through their pockets looking for loose change.
    Christmas sauntered up to the bar, climbed a few feet until he reached the top of the stool, and dropped a silver on the counter.    "Whiskey," he said.    "Mister, that'll buy you a whole lotta whiskey."    "Keep it, I'm lookin for someone."    "Who's that?"    "Man called 'the Sandman.'"    "An who should I tell him's lookin'?"    "Christmas."    Silence enveloped the saloon like a weight.  The talking stopped.  The laughing stopped.  A Mexican stopped drinking half through his shot.  The dog took the opportunity to scram with a half a chicken in his jowls, ducking under the doors and leaving a rooster tail of dust as he made his escape.  The only sounds were from Krinard's Winchester as he jacked in a shell, and movement from the second story, just above the men's heads.    "Mister Christmas..."    "Just Christmas."    "Christmas, sir, I don't want no trouble."    "You ain't got no trouble, Sandman does.  If I was here for you, you'da known it when I put a bullet between your eyes.  Now," he leaned forward, "where's the Sandman?"    "He's upstairs," the barkeep caught on his words, "upstairs with one of the ladies, but..."    "Good," Christmas cut him off, "then I have time for that whiskey."    "Let's get this done now," Krinard said from behind him.  "We ain't got all day."    Christmas spun around, now able to look him in the eye.  "I may be goin to hell, Kid, but I'm not so low as to keep a man from enjoying his last taste of a woman before I plug him.  Now sit down an have a drink with me.  We'll get to killin jus' as soon as I say."    "You're the man, Christmas," Krinard grumbled.    "I know."    The bartender brought over two glasses, cleaned them with his towel, and poured the whiskey.  He slid the silver back to his guest.    "On the house, Christmas, sir."    "Keep it," Christmas said again, "for the damages."    The barkeep tucked the silver into his pocket and disappeared.  Christmas tossed back the shot and lit his cigar.  Behind him the patrons had either shuffled out, or gone back to drinking.      "How long do we give him?" Krinard fussed.  "I wanna get outta here and get my money."    "You'll get your money.  Let's give him a minute.  Some men take longer than a few seconds, you know?"    "Funny."    "I hear there's somebody lookin' for me," a voice came from behind them.      Krinard snapped around, his rifle held ready.  Christmas calmly leaned over and took the Kid's full glass of whiskey.  Downed it.  Then turned and looked at the speaker.    The Sandman was young, younger than Christmas imagined a man who'd killed twenty could possibly be.  He might be thirteen.  Maybe sixteen.  Maybe five.  But he was built alright, standing a good five eleven with long, thin appendages that come from growing too fast, too soon.  He was wearing his gun belt like he knew how to move.    "Yeah," Christmas said slowly, "I'm lookin and I guess I found ya, Sandman."    "Too bad for you," he said, "you'da lived a lot longer, you hadn't."    "Wanna do this here?" Christmas asked.  "Or outside?"    "Up to you," Sandman told him, "you wanna die in the shade?"    The crack of gunfire came from Christmas's right and Krinard fell in a spray of blood, his rifle dropping to the floor with a thud.  Christmas was off the stool in a flash, his peacemaker already in hand and firing.      His first two shots went wide left but not by much, and the third caught the Sandman in the shoulder.  But he had his piece out, too, and put a hole in Christmas' thigh as the little man backed out of the saloon, firing.    He tripped down the stairs and landed on his ass in the dirt.  The peacemaker went back into the holster and the left one came out.  He scuttled backward and scanned the windows of the saloon, but saw nothing.      He was in trouble, and he knew it.  Two against one were bad odds.  He had counted on that when he brought Krinard.  But it was obvious to him now that the Sandman had another gun with him, and Christmas was down his extra hand.      A bullet struck dirt beside him and he rolled and saw the Sandman standing in the middle of the street to the west.  Before he had a chance to fire, a bullet cut through his shoulder and he spun to find the Sandman standing in the middle of the street to the east.    "What?"  Another bullet caught him in the opposite shoulder, and he spun again, and again the Sandman was to the west, but the man in the east hadn't moved.  "How?"    "They call us the Sandman," one explained, "because we put so many people to sleep.  But they call us that, too, cuz the Sandman can be everywhere at once, and so can we."    The Sandman walked calmly up to five paces away from Christmas and smiled.  He raised his pistol.  "But it ain't easy being the Sandman."      The gun bucked and spit fire and the Sandman to the east buckled under the weight of a bullet tearing into his shoulder.      "Sometimes," he wheezed, "it takes sacrifices."    The western Sandman adjusted his aim, and pointed the long barrel at Christmas.  "Merry Christmas, midget," he said.  Fired.      The blast knocked Christmas' head back as the bullet tore through his brains and burst from the back.  He collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds and mixing with the dry soil.    "You know," the Sandman said, "eventually word'll get out."    "Bout Christmas?" the Sandman asked.    "No," he told his twin, "bout the fact that there's two of us."    He lit a smoke, and smiled, again.  "By then, we'll have killed so many they'll stop coming."    His mirror image frowned.  "They'll never stop coming.  No matter how many we kill."      "Well then, we never have to worry bout gettin bored, do we?"  The Sandman turned and started towards the saloon.    "How's the girl?" his brother asked.  "She's awful purdy."    "You wanna have a go at her?"    "Hell yes," he patted him on the back, "if you don't mind it."    "Nah, she won't know the difference."    "Oh yes she will.  When you was in San Antonio, I went and got myself circumcised..."

Christmas...

Stay tuned for Christmas stories from Bill Pryst and Damien Wright.  We just have to get our facebook page in order (i.e. to fucking work... piece of shit... only works when it wants to) and then we'll have a short a week for your enjoyment.
Merry Pagan Holiday Turned Jesus Day
The Brothers Finn

Sneak Peak: The Contagion By Damien Wright

One
 “TAX EVASION?  You’re holding a seventeen year old kid on tax evasion?”
    Chad Turner leaned against the hard wall of the FBI field office and watched his contact closely.  Chad was long and lean, dark and smooth, and not in any mood to deal with the fucking NSA.  The agent, his current contact in the Administration, was tall and thick and looked like he was constipated.  Chad assumed he was: too much HGH would do that to you.
    “Is that even legal?”
    “Of course it is,” the agent answered.  “We found a hundred and fifty thousand dollars… among other things, in a safety deposit box under his name.  We can put him away for at least a year for that, plus a few more for possession with intent.  And that’s if we can’t put together any other charges.  It’s all in the folder.”
    “I didn’t realize the NSA was interested in people’s taxes.”  Chad kicked himself off the wall and snatched up the folder, let it fall open in his hands and glanced inside.  “That kind of changes my opinion on the urgency of paying them.”
    Chad flipped through the pages.  He had seen them all before.  At seventeen, Toby Smith, AKA ToBiN, was already a career criminal.  He was a good criminal, by Turner’s estimation, but obviously not smart enough.  He had gotten caught.
    “How’d you get into the box?”
    “Well, we contacted DHS with his name.  They checked it out and then kicked it over to the IRS.  They looked into the family’s financials, which were all fucked up, so they got a warrant to look into the Mustang….”
    Chad was already getting bored.  The only thing worse than doing business with the NSA was having to actually meet with them face to face.  No Show Assholes, every one of them.  They’d sit behind their computers, or work out or whatever they did to look like tree trunks, and then swoop in and take the glory after Chad saved the day.  He had a worse title for the FBI, though.
    “Which was Toby’s,” he cut the agent off.
    “Right, but bought for cash and in his dad’s name.  But, naturally, when they checked the signature….”
    “The dad’s didn’t match?”
    “No, so they were able to get a warrant to check Toby’s financials and they found the box.  They opened it in accordance with the warrant and found about twenty thousand worth of Oxycontins, ten thousand worth of cocaine, another twenty in bootlegged games and such, and a hundred-fifty grand in cash.”
    “Why not hit him for the drugs?”
    “We are not,” the agent said gravely, “giving this to the DEA.”
    “Okay,” Chad sighed, “but they didn’t give it to Cyber-Crimes either?”
    “He’s listed as a national security threat.  DHS would have the lead if he wasn’t a hacker.  So….”
    “He’s not a hacker,” Chad corrected, “he’s a code monkey.  Get on with it.”
    “Well,” the life-sized GI Joe figurine shrugged, “we can push the tax trial for a year or so, ask for no bail because of the circumstances, keep him out of sunlight until we find what’s on his computer.  He’s known as ‘ToBiN’ online.  He’s well known for….”
    “I know what he does,” Chad cut in again.  He knew everything there was to know about Toby Smith, that was his job.  If he didn’t know, then there’d be a problem.  The fact that the NSA was just now finding out illustrated everything he despised about them.
    “Yeah, I guess you would, wouldn’t you?”  ‘Roid-head Bob’ looked at him condescendingly, and then continued.  “Anyway, the little shit never actually uses any of his viruses, at least not when we’ve been able to track him, so we can’t charge him with any of the anti-hacking legislation.  We could give him ten years if he’s been stealing and selling copyrighted games, which we believe he has, but we can’t prove it.”
    “What about the games in the box?”
    “Can’t prove he stole them, and he hasn’t sold them yet.  As is, it’s copyright infringement, that’s it.  If we can get two more names we can hit him with conspiracy and then he’ll serve some time, but just having them isn’t enough.”  Again, Roid-head Bob looked Chad over.  “I thought you would know that.”
    “So you figure you’ll take him off the streets with the tax charge and gather more evidence while he sits in jail,” Chad repeated from memory.  One thing government agents are not, is original.  “Makes sense.  What do you need me for?”
    “We found a program on his computer, and we can’t figure out what it is.  I was hoping you could talk to him and clear it up for us.”
    “Sorry, guy.”  Chad pressed the folder back into the man’s chest.  “That’s not what I do.  I don’t work for the NSA, they work for me.”
    “I was told you were a consultant, the best.”
    “I am,” Chad nodded, “and you’re not.  None of you are.  I use you when I need you, not the other way around.”
    “This is a matter of national security,” he fumed, “we called the Secretary of Defense and she sent us to you.”
    “Did she?” Chad asked, not impressed.  If they would just learn not to give his number out, he’d like politicians a lot more.
    “Yup.  She said if anyone could figure out what it was, you could.”
    “Give me the program,” he grumbled, yanked the phone out of his ten thousand dollar coat pocket and fired it up.  The douche handed him a small flash drive and he pressed it in.  “One would think someone else knew something about their fucking jobs.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You heard me.”
Chad studied the programming code with mild amusement.  It was a “Cherry Bomb” virus, designed to detonate at a specific time and date.  Deferred release was the official term.  But this one was very sexy, extremely well made.  Made for a purpose.  He wasn’t surprised they couldn’t figure out what it was.  It was written in a code only a select group of underworld writers could ever fully understand, a dynamic code, constantly shifting and changing encryption.  Toby hadn’t finished it, though, which was strange.  It was a masterpiece.  The fact that Toby didn’t finish writing it sent a warning pang through Chad’s stomach.  It meant he was definitely planning on selling it.
    “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” the guy in the suit that cost less than Chad’s boxer’s asked, puffed up his chest like an exotic fish.
    “I’ll talk to him,” Chad ignored the question and open the door to enter the interrogation room, but stopped.  He turned slowly towards the agent, smiling, “You won’t be here when I come out, will you?”
    “No, but I’ll be watching.”
    “Good,” he said, “watch and learn.”

                                       ****

Chad crossed the room and was immediately slapped by the hot, humid air that poured from the vent above the accused.  It’s in no way illegal to toggle the thermostat to keep a suspect unhappy.  Chad saw it all the time.  There were more elaborate means as well, but heating up the room and making the suspect sweat was just as effective as the next measure.
    “So ToBiN,” Chad watched Toby’s eyes light up when he heard the name, “why don’t you tell me about the cherry bomb.”
    The room was small and well lit, the only furniture a metal table and three uncomfortable chairs.  The large two-way mirror on the far wall was the room’s most prominent feature.  The rest was very monotonous and depressing, not unlike the rest of the field office.  In the chair against the solid wall sat Toby Smith, a chubby young man with red hair and green eyes.  His face was flushed and he had sweat on his brow, which beaded about the same size as his freckles and acne.  He was still shackled, and he held his hands in front of him on the table, twiddling his thumbs and muttering to himself.
    Chad ran a well manicured hand through his short, expertly cut hair, and continued, “I would expect better work from you.  It’s not finished, I presume.”
    Chad studied the kid, and knew by the glazed look in his eyes that Toby hadn’t been fed in a while.  Another nice infraction that couldn’t be proved in court.  Lower the blood sugar, lower the will to fight.  Toby was eyeing him back, and squinting as if trying to think.
    “Oh wait, I know you,” Toby said finally, “you were ‘The Titan’ back in the day, right?  ‘Turner the Titan’ they call you online, you’re my idol man.”
    Chad grimaced and looked down.  He hated that name.  Only a fourteen year old kid would put his last name in his online alias.  Chad had been fourteen, but it still stung.  He used to get off on people admiring him, but now it was just one more liability.  He didn’t know how Toby recognized him, but shit happened.
    “You’re a fed now man?  That’s fucking disappointing.”  Toby shook his head and shifted in his chair, looking frustrated more than anything.  “I guess they pay you well for screwing your comrades.”
    “Toby, listen to me,” Chad said calmly.  “I had a chair and a choice very similar to the one you have now.  They’ve got you on tax evasion for the money in your deposit box.  They found the drugs, which they can use to charge you with intent to distribute narcotics, and they’ll get the conviction.
    “They’re investigating you for trafficking in bootleg programs and games.  You’re looking at ten to twenty years on that one, alone.  Add in this little baby,” he held up the flash drive and spun it in between his thumb and forefinger, “and they can tack another twenty on.  If they decide to make the terms run consecutively, you’re looking at forty-one years bitch time.  Is that what you want?”
    Toby tapped his foot steadily, glaring across the table.  Young, dumb-ass, cowboy, Chad thought.  He used to be one of those cowboys, but not anymore.
    “I’m seventeen,” Toby said, and straightened his back, “they can’t touch me.”
    “You’ll be tried as an adult,” Chad shrugged, “and they’ll send you away.  Or they’ll just wait a year to file the charges, then you’ll be eighteen, and you’ll be screwed.”
    “They can’t do that, I know the law.”
    “You’re dealing with the federal government, man.  They can do whatever the fuck they want.  Ask the boys in Guantanamo.”  He shrugged again.  “Give them some time.  They’ve already got their lawyers looking into it, and soon they’ll have you charged with so many different things you won’t be able to read all the indictments without your eyes getting fuzzy.  They’ll have to hire a speed reader just to save time.
    “But,” Chad continued, and lightly ran his long fingers along the smooth table top, “if you cooperate, tell me what I need to know, they might go easy on you.  Maybe they drop a charge, decide to make you ‘queen for a day’ and let you rat out all your little friends.  Who knows?  But you’ll have a chance.  I’m being honest with you, Toby.  If you don’t talk, you’re shit out of luck.”
    Chad let Toby think on that for a moment.  He watched him make his decision.  There was never any real possibility that Toby would stand up for something larger than himself.  That was why he was on one side of the table, and Chad was on the other.  
    Toby looked down at his lap.  After a few moments of that, he looked around the room, studying the bright white, painted walls.  Then he gazed at the mirrors for a moment, and finally looked back at Chad.
    “You can’t prove it’s mine,” he said finally.
    “They found it on your laptop.  Don’t fuck with me.  Even if I found it in a dumpster I’d now it was yours.  There’s only two coders in the country that could write something like this: You and SpEkTeR.”
    “Man, fuck SpEkTeR!” Toby snapped.  “Fucker couldn’t write something that nice if his life depended on it.  He sits on his ass and collects credit cards.  Fucking sell out.”
    “Why isn’t it finished?”
    “How do you know they didn’t just bust me before I was done with it?”
    “Because, Toby,” Chad said, and leaned in close, “I know everything.  Fifteen years ago they arrested me and offered me a job.  They did that because I’m the best in the world.  You left it unfinished on purpose.  Now, tell me what you know.”
    “I don’t really know anything,” he stammered.  “Okay, so I am finished, at least I’m done with it.  That’s the way they wanted it.”
    “I know that.”  Chad leaned back, checked his diamond cufflinks.  “Why unfinished?”
    “People do that all the time.”  Toby shrugged.  “They do it so you can’t sell it to a competitor, usually.  Anyway, these guys gave me very specific details on how they wanted it.  I made it to the letter the way they asked.  I don’t know who they are, or what they’re gonna to do with it.”
    “How much are they paying you?”
    “A hundred thousand.”
    Chad raised an eyebrow and glared back across the table at him.  “For an unfinished program?”
    “I don’t understand it either, but that’s what they offered.  I have a lot of people ask for unfinished stuff,” he repeated.  “I figured this guy sort of knew what he was doing.  Maybe he just didn’t know how to do the whole thing himself.  It’s a lot of money, I know.  But what do I care?  I’m a business man: I aim to please my customers.”
    “He had you write it in a very unique code.  Guy like that knows what he’s doing.”
    “What the fuck do I care?” Toby asked again, venomous.  “You give a shit about what your employers do?  Company man?  No, fucking A you don’t.”
    “How do you make contact with them?”
    “I don’t.”  Toby spit on the floor.  “They’re supposed to contact me next Wednesday, that’s when the deadline’s up.  They’ll send me a friend’s request and I’ll save a picture file.  Inside will be all the information on the meeting...”  Toby’s eyes lit up and he held his hands together like a prayer.
    “But hey,” he pleaded, “they’ll probably find out I got pinched.  There’s a whole network that watches for stuff like that.  Once someone posts that I got arrested, it’ll be on every hacker blog in like five minutes so I can’t turn on them.”
    “I know that, ToBiN, but we’re going to try anyway.”
    Chad got up and walked to the door, he had nothing more to say.
    “Hey, what happens now?”  Toby sputtered.  Apparently he thought Chad would hold his hand through it all.
    “What the fuck do I care?” Chad mocked as he turned the knob.  “My guess is you’ll have a very unpleasant next few decades. Say hello to Big Bob the white supremacist for me.”
    The door slammed behind him, but Chad didn’t care.  It always did that in field offices.  They ran so much re-circulated air through them he could practically feel himself getting sick as soon as he walked in.
    As his long, steady strides brought him past the lines of cubicles, he checked his phone and noticed a message from Beth, the love of his life.  He opened it, hoping it would lift his spirits, but before his eyes could scan the text a screen opened with the words “Call from Osirus.”  He answered.
    “Yeah Osirus,” he said into the receiver.  Osirus was his digital gatekeeper.  The program that allowed him access to all the government files that ‘consultants’ never saw.  Because Turner Technologies llc. was so much more than an IT firm that ‘occasionally does business with the federal government.’
    “Code in please,” Osirus responded.
    “CT8507,” Chad breathed as he walked through the revolving doors and emerged onto the busy streets of Denver.  “What do you have for me?”
    “SpeKteR is preparing to make a sale.”
    “Tell the surveillance units to wait for me.  I’ll be in Boston in under three hours.”

"I don't want any..." - By Bill Pryst

"That's not fair," I say, pour beer from the keg spout into a pitcher.  "You can't tell me I'm staying another night and then change your mind and say I have to go home tonight.  If I go home I have a job and a kid and responsibilities.  I don't want any fucking responsibilities, Jim."
My phone rings.  I pick it up and say "I'm on vacation" into it and hang up.
"She also says we have to bring back the keg."
"We're not bringing back the keg until it's empty.  Here, get me something else to put the beer in."
"We're going to put the beer in our bodies, Bill," Jim assures me.  Then into the phone: "No mom, we'll bring it back.  Don't worry."
He's talking to his mom because she put the keg on her credit card because he was on Temporary DuTy and therefore unable to put it on his card.  He got back the night before.  The keg was waiting.  She's threatening to take me home early because I'm stranded in Temecula with no way to get home short of hitchhiking and my son's been at grandma's now far longer than I promised.
"Why were we drinking champagne all day when we knew we had to finish the keg?" I ask no one in particular.
"Because I like champagne."  Into the phone: "No, mom, we don't have any left."
I look through the patio door and see four empty bottles the size of half-gallons on the kitchen table.  The only reason we quit with the champagne is it was making us tired.  I finish filling the pitcher and start drinking it as fast as I can - from the pitcher.  Monika comes out and puts her cup in front of me, I fill it up and hug the pitcher to my chest.  Monika disappears into the apartment.
Beyond the balcony California is sprawled out lazily from two stories down.  The green of plants never designed by nature for the environment clinging tightly to rocks they can't possibly be nourished by.  The labyrinth of irrigation systems set up to feed the plant-life which never existed until we arrived, and would quickly depart should we ever decide to leave.  The entire state in a constant state of being refurbished and becoming new and improved if only on the surface.  A place where if they decided to put the picture of any celebrity with the phrase "Of Course We're Full of Shit" on the flag no one in good conscience could object.
California, the beautiful whore she is.
"Fuck dude I'm tired," I announce.  "We need something to wake us up.  I only slept two hours last night, and your recliner wasn't exactly the Hilton."
Monika appears in the doorway holding a bottle of Sailor Jerry's in one hand, a set of shot glasses pinched elegantly between the fingers of the other.  Her eyes hold the question I need no prompt answering.
"Jim, your girl's got shots."
"That's why I'm so madly in love," he explains as he joins us on the balcony.
We hold our shot glasses together - each is unique in that he bought each of them in Hawaii when he was supposed to be hold up in Pearl Harbor but instead was in Maui in a beach bungalow with Monika.  We salute each other and down the firewater.  It goes down like shit and I have to suppress my gag reflex to keep it from coming back up.
My blackberry rings again.  "Bill doesn't live here," I say into it and hang up.
"I can't get too plastered," Jim says.  "I have to go pick up the Benz."
"Man fuck the Benz.  Oz and Christy and Eric and Nick and his bitch wife are all coming over."
"We'll wait by the pool."
They get dressed, and I stay in my jeans, T-shirt and flip-flops.
"Aren't you going to put on board shorts?" he asks.  "Go swimming?"
"I don't have any.  I was only staying one night, remember?"  Really I don't have any.  And I don't mind because honestly he's been working out the whole time he was gone and now he's all ripped and shit and I don't really like being around him.  Not without my shirt on.
We hit the pool and bring two pitchers - one of them from the blender.  Go back and refill them.  Oz shows up, meets his friend there, and spends an hour forgetting about his cousins and talking to his friend.  I get two more pitchers.  I'm walking through the complex with two pitchers of cold beer, condensation dripping from them, as I pass a mother unloading her two kids.  She eyes me with contempt and scurries her progeny along, trying to shield them from the debauchery that they're sure to experience later in life.
Eric and Christy arrive.  The sun sets.  We order two pizzas, which are not enough.  Nick shows up with his bitch wife - all three hundred pounds of bad attitude of her.  I invite her to join us.
She sneers and says, "I know you all hate me."
I don't say anything and Nick kisses her goodnight and she leaves.  We head to the apartment, where people are now doing beer bongs and even more shots of Sailor Jerry.
My blackberry rings.  I pick it up and say "God hates gay people" into it and hang up.  Set it on the table, and take a shot.
We play beer pong.  I'm on Jim's team.  Which was a better choice for me than for him.  He was a basketball player and he hasn't missed a free throw all night.  I haven't made one, and he's not very impressed.
"Next time I'm leaving you outside," he says, and sinks one.
"Next time I'm fucking Monika and making you pound on the door," I tell him.  He's still not impressed.
Out of nowhere Bitch Wife arrives.  Carrying her child.  Suddenly Nick has forgotten we exist.  He's talking to his line-backer life partner and ignoring his family.  I sit down next to them and strike up a conversation.  Bitch Wife leaves.
"What?" I ask.
"Dude," Nick sighs.
"You just can't say things like that," Michelle explains.  Michelle is Jim's sister.
"Like what?"
No one answers because they all assume I knew exactly what I said.  They are all terribly wrong.
Bitch Wife is back suddenly and ordering Nick to come with her and take care of their new-born.  I remember exactly the problem and explain that Nick has a dick and that means he is not, and never will be, the bitch in the relationship.
Nick leaves with his master.
"What a fucking waste."  I collapse on the couch.  A beer is placed in my hand, a Shock Top.  "What happened to the keg?"
"We threw the keg over the balcony an hour ago," Jim explains.
"How long do you plan on living here?"
"Until the lease is up," Jim nods, "four more months."
"Good luck."
I'm outside and Keith is bumming yet another smoke.  I can't remember who he is or why he's in Jim's apartment - that's right: he's Monika's high-school friend that Jim was convinced she was fucking while he was gone.  Except Keith is very possibly swinging for the other team and very seriously working at Red Lobster as a bus-boy and was totally unprepared when his best-friend told him to come meet her fiance and his cousin - the thirty year old war hero with more petty cash than Chrysler and his cousin, the psychotic author.
So I give him another "Gold" and light it for him.  Because I assume he thinks that's classy.  I'm wearing my top-hat again, which apparently no one thinks is classy.
"Bill," Jim calls, "your ride is here."
I look over my shoulder and there's my two aunts, come to collect, and I'm honestly not upset.  I'm just thankful I can still walk on my own.
I was fully planning on falling asleep on the balcony and having my cigarette burn my fingers until they blistered.  The two parent figures kinda saved me from that.  They drag me out, leaving most of my possessions in Jim's apartment, usher me to the waiting car, and throw me in.  Right next to my grandpa, who is waiting in the car.
"Grandpa," I slur, "grandpa grandpa grandpa.  How's it going?  This is all your fault, you know that?  You did all of this."
"I don't remember doing this," he says.
"Well," I think a moment, "neither do I.  But this all your fault.  You made all us little pain in the asses."  I always say this to my grandpa.  Because he had seven kids.  And of them they had twenty or thirty kids.  And of those they had forty or fifty or sixty more.  And now, because grandpa didn't want to tie it up, there's hundreds of us little bastards running around.
He should repent, but he seems to be proud of it.
I'm rambling about something I don't even know most of the ride.  The only coherent thing I say is "I need more beer.  Can't sleep without it.  Gotta stop and let me buy some more booze."
"No," one says.
"If he'll pass out, give it to him," the other says.
They buy me a forty ounce Bud Ice can.  Heaven never tasted so good.  Not that I would know.  But I always imagine heaven as swimming against the current in a river made of high content alcoholic beverages for all eternity.  It makes me feel better about my health conscience life-style.
They deposit me on the couch, and all sigh.  I can't fall asleep fast enough.  Only I'm not done.  Why should I be?  When there are so many people I need to talk to right now.  So much to say.  So much genius just ready to spill over and they'll never know what they missed if I don't call them right now and explain how incredibly awesome I am, and they are.
"Jim," I say, "Jim... Jim... Jim... Jim... Jim."
"That's my name, and if you don't stop I'll sue you for trademark infringement."
"Jim... Buddy... Man... Like... Fuck you dude."
"Okay, I'm going to fuck my smoking hot fiance right now.  Go to sleep, Bill."
"Everyone else has!"  I don't know why I say it, I just think it'll hurt him.  Why did I call him again?
"I'll choke you!  I'll kill you!  They train us to kill, Bill!  They train us to kill!"
And my phone dies.  Never has it picked such an opportune time.

****

I wake up on the couch.  A dog is looking at me and suddenly, all in one terrible realization, I remember that my aunt has dogs and a cat - all of which I'm terribly allergic to.
I'll spend the next twenty hours sneezing and coughing and wanting to throw up.
We get on the road and the aunt's decide to hit the casino:
"We'll make a few dollars and be on our way," they say.  Halfway in - two hours in - and two hundred down they hand me a water bottle full of wine and say, "Here, it'll make you feel better."
"No thanks," I say, sneeze.  "Just run out the credit cards so I can go home."
My blackberry rings, it says CALL FROM JIM.  I pick it up and say "I don't want any" and hang up.