Jeremy Thompson's Blog

The Phantom Cabinet 2's Kindle Edition is Available to Pre-order!

The Phantom Cabinet 2’s Kindle edition can now be pre-ordered, with an October 10th delivery to your device.



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Description:

Martha Drexel’s long, lonely years of catatonia have ended, but what now steers her body? What makes shadows weighty? What collects and enslaves the ghosts of tortured-to-death Southern Californians?

Let’s give cyclical violence another whirl, shall we? Let’s revisit old friends and enemies and wonder which amongst us will be dismembered.

The Air’s Not Supposed to Grow Skin, Right?

I thought that I'd start the day by writing and editing an entire story. Here's what I came up with (© me, now):

The Air’s Not Supposed to Grow Skin, Right?

by Jeremy Thompson


It all began with a tingling, like static electricity was spilling into my room from everywhere. Spectral tides teased my little hairs to standing.

Then something spitter-sparked in the corner of my vision. Then it seemed as if the floor had belched up great clouds of glitter, or my ceiling had dissolved and that substance was raining down.

But the glitter wasn’t moving at all, only sprouting twinkling filagree, tracery that stretched and interacted until strange corridors were born, even as my walls dissolved to accommodate ’em. Upon those outlines grew bones, then muscles and veins, all interwoven together.

I had just enough time to see patchwork skin—knitted from all human ages and ethnicities, plus all sorts of organisms I’m not quite sure of—slither into existence and constrict around me before all went dark.

There’s now some kind of resonance in the air, nearly mechanical, that makes my ears want to seal over. I’m posting this as fast as I can, then I’ll call 911.

* * *

Update: Okay, I called the cops, and they said they’d send someone to my house, but that was hours ago. I’ll try ’em again soon, I guess.

Shining my phone’s flashlight on that which entombs me, I’ve seen apple sized-segments of flesh opening up into amoeba-shaped orifices, beyond which sounds something sub-audible.

* * *

Update: I can hear ’em now, whispering in English, Japanese, Spanish, and other languages that at least sound human. Prisoners, all. Hundreds of ’em, maybe. But the English slang that some speak is either archaic or unknown to me.

More disturbing are the bellows and grunts that could indicate evolutionary throwbacks and the various shades of buzzing of what could be extraterrestrials. Such suffering in the air; I can hardly hear my own.

Should I shine my flashlight into the holes between my prison and others? Can I risk drawing attention to myself? I called the cops again and they claimed I was pranking ’em. Let me think on this for a while.

* * *

Update: I’ve done it. Somehow, my eyes haven’t dissolved and streamed down my face yet—there are fates far worse in store for ’em, maybe.

I’ve seen It building itself, you see, picking Its victims apart with yards-long, rotating fingers. Choice tidbits—ears, eyes, inner organs, hair, whatever—It incorporates into Its vast Self. The rest, It feeds to ravening shadows—some kind of fucked-up commensalism, I guess.

* * *

Update: The entity, with Its constellation network of eyes framed by peacock feathers, with Its long, spiraling limbs built of impossible jointage—The Continent That Slithers—lets the tension build. The orifices between It and me are widening. By the light of my phone’s screen, I see the lines in my palms and the prints on my fingers begin to eddy.

What did we ever think we were doing? We learned to love each other and assumed that, ultimately, that would be enough? But what will we be when we’re no longer ourselves? Will enough of our minds survive to recognize what’s been done to us? Will our spirits be reknitted, too?

My phone’s dying, anyway. Two percent charge and fading. This’ll be my last update. Honestly, I no longer see the point of ’em.

But, hey, parts of me might visit you soon.

I Don’t Care if “The Mirthful Maidens” Sounds Like the Title of a 1920s-Era Softcore Porn Film; Those Bitches Are Horrifying

While watching Tales From the Void a couple of months ago, I decided that it would be fun to write a story for r/nosleep.

So here it is (© me, now), free to read, or check it out at: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...


I Don’t Care if “The Mirthful Maidens” Sounds Like the Title of a 1920s-Era Softcore Porn Film; Those Bitches Are Horrifying

by Jeremy Thompson


When I was still in college, and drinking everything alcoholic anytime I could, I developed a bad case of the shakes. Reaching for an inebriant after even eight hours without one, my hand would quiver as if caught in its own private earthquake.

Post-graduation—pre-marriage, pre-fatherhood—I moved back in with my parents for a time while pretending to look for a decent job. I drained every liquor bottle in their cupboards within a week, then spent my every last cent on cheapo booze. When they realized what a lush I’d become, Mom and Dad locked me in their basement for two weeks with only bread and water to live on. I survived delirium tremens and acute boredom, and have been sober for nearly fifteen years since.

My college years are a blur to me now; it’s a miracle I even graduated. The friends I acquired and shed, the parties I attended, the women I bedded and later assumed I’d hardly pleasured, all seem painted fog now unraveling, some Ghost Me’s fading memories.

Thus, I’m somewhat surprised to see my hands shaking just as alarmingly as they did in the grips of my college alcoholism, as they hover over my MacBook’s keyboard, waiting for my brain to tell them what to type next.

Of course, I must start with Morty.

Morty Greenblatt was forced on me in my childhood as a sort of arranged friendship. His parents were good friends with mine, and lived just two blocks away, so carpools and get-togethers forced us to interact whether we wished to or not. We were in the same grade, and often shared the same classroom. Devoid of blood siblings, we became nearly brothers. We even started to look alike.

As elementary school segued to middle school, then high school, I watched Morty gain confidence with our peers. Jealous and awkward at parties, I tried to look elsewhere as he sucked face with girls I’d fantasized about. Everywhere we went, he amassed friends, while I faded into the background.

When I made plans for college, Morty announced that he’d be taking a year off, to travel around the world and get a better idea of his place in it. We bro-hugged goodbye and then fell out of touch. Alcoholism seized me and my social awkwardness withered.

Post-graduation, after I sobered up, I began freelance copywriting. Churning out SEO content as fast as I could, I earned enough to land my own apartment. Gina Stoneman worked at the Ralphs down the street. We began dating, then married, then our twin daughters, Kenna and Casey, were born. I became a marketing manager for Stolid Staffing Solutions and moved us into a nice, two-story home in suburbia.

While I was becoming a somewhat respectable citizen, attaining love and financial security, the only time I interacted with Morty was when we commented on each other’s social media posts with dumb emojis. So, imagine my surprise when he showed up on my doorstep one day without warning.

“I got your address from your parents,” he said, half-apologetically, after summoning me with a thrice-rung doorbell one Sunday evening. My wife was in the kitchen, washing dishes, and my daughters, twelve years old at the time, were likely in their rooms with their phones glued to their faces.

Morty moved as if to hug me, then shake my hand, but instead settled on a shoulder slap. “It’s been a long time, man,” he added, as I squinted at him as if he was a mirage.

“Uh, hey, uh, Morty,” I eventually said. If not for his occasional Instagram selfies, I’d have had no idea that this was the guy I’d grown up with. He’d bleached his hair, grown a goatee, and embraced tattoos and piercings to the utmost degree. He dressed as if he was at a Lakers game and reeked of marijuana. The shade of his eyes attested to its strength.

“Can I come in for a second? Let’s catch up, crack open a few brewskis. Oh, that’s right, you’re sober. I remember that essay you posted. Got any soda around? My mouth’s dry as hell.”

Well, what could I do but usher him into the living room? “Gina,” I called, “we’ve got a visitor! Would you fetch us a couple of Pepsis?”

Gina did as requested, introduced herself to Morty, then returned to her dishwashing. Exiting the room, she gave me a loaded look, which read, “What the hell’s this loser doing here?”

Strained conviviality had my old friend and me exchanging “Hey, remember when…” reminiscences. Punctuating our shared history, our laughter rang hollow. Then we segued to our current circumstances.

Morty had become a drywaller, I learned, though I’d surely already read that on social media, then forgotten it. He bounced between San Diego and Los Angeles to attend various concerts, and took his parents out to breakfast every other Saturday morning.

Honestly, twenty minutes into our convo, I was mentally praying for him to leave. Whatever had bound us together in our youth had long since dissolved, and I was bored beyond belief. Then Morty finally revealed what was on his mind.

“Hey, man,” he said, “it’s been cool catchin’ up with you and all, but I really came here for some advice. I mean, out of everyone I’ve known, you seem the best situated. Wife and kids, a good job, and look at that body. I bet you get your gym time in, don’t ya?”

“When I can.”

“Okay, okay. And you gave up drinkin’, too. Like, how can you stand to be around people? But that’s not what I’m gettin’ at. It’s these women I keep seein’, these Mirthful Maidens.”

“Mirthful Maidens? What’s that, some kind of folk music group?”

“Nah, man. Check this out.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and summoned an image to its screen. Holding it out for my inspection, he said, “My uncle Benjy used to collect vintage magazines. Sometimes, I’d look through ’em. This was one of his favorites.”

“WINK?” I asked, reading the magazine’s cover. Its pin-up art, credited to Peter Driben, depicted a grinning, black-haired beauty reclining in high heels, stockings, and undergarments. Just above her head were the words MERRY MIRTHFUL MAIDENS.

“Yeah, man, WINK.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Who gives a shit. Sorry, but listen, man, the mag itself doesn’t matter. I’m just sayin’ that these chicks I’m seein’ all look like the broad on its cover: long legs, slim waists, perky tits, toothy smiles, like ultra-sexpot Lois Lanes. They could be sisters or somethin’, or share the same plastic surgeon, maybe both. See what I’m gettin’ at?”

“Well, damn, congratulations. How many of them are there? Oh, to be single again.” The walls were thin in our house; instantly, I regretted my last sentence. Gina was in the kitchen, where the knives are. How could I have been so stupid?

“Nah, man,” said Morty. “This ain’t about pussy. Something’s…wrong with these women. I don’t think they’re human.”

Shaking my head, I replied, “Well, if they’re trying to get your attention, there must be something wrong with ’em.”

“Crack all the jokes you want, homie, but don’t do it around these chicks. I mean, you should hear how they laugh. It’s like they all swallowed harmonicas or somethin’, like they’ve got reeds in their throats. And, I swear to God, man, they’re always laughin’. Sometimes, when they’re in the corner of my vision, their mouths open too wide, like snakes.”

“Dude, you reek of weed, Morty,” I said. “Are you on harder drugs, too? Has anyone else seen these chicks? Have you tried photographing one?”

Ignoring those questions, Morty said, “I first saw ’em at a Crystal Stilts concert, in NYC, back in 2012. Right before the band played, I heard this strange noise behind me. Turning, I saw three of the sexiest women I’ve ever seen in person. They were all dressed in black leather, wearing black lipstick. All were staring at me, laughing their weird ass laughter. My skin really started to crawl, man. Then Crystal Stilts played one of the greatest post-punk sets I’ve ever seen, and I forgot about those bitches…until I saw four more of ’em a few months later.”

“In New York?”

“Nah, man. Cancun. A coupla buddies and me went there to swoop on some spring breakin’ bitches, get that prime pussy, ya know, that young pussy. We were watchin’ a wet t-shirt contest, starin’ at titties, salivatin’, when I saw four Mirthful Maidens standin’ off to the side, wearin’ old-fashioned, black bikinis, laughin’ at me. Man, I pointed ’em out to my homies Steve and Bill, and Bill walked over to ’em, tryin’ to fuck one. They just kept laughin’ and laughin’, and Bill came back and said, ‘They must be shroomin’ real hard.’ That night Bill fell off our hotel balcony, or maybe was pushed, I dunno. Ruined the rest of the trip, that’s for sure. Dude was dead as fuck.”

Of course, I felt obliged, at that moment, to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah, I bet you are, buddy. A real bleedin’ heart, that’s what you are. But where was I? Sorry, I haven’t been sleepin’ much lately. Give me a second. Okay, I’ll say this: I’ve never seen the same Mirthful Maiden twice. Over the years, I’ve seen, let me see, probably at least a couple hundred, all with that wavy black hair, all with those perfect bodies that would give any straight dude a half-chub if the chicks would ever shut their fuckin’ mouths. Always wearin’ black. They’re never with boyfriends, or any non-laughin’ friends. They’re never alone, and I’ve never seen more than nine of ’em at once. Everyone seems to ignore ’em, but I don’t know how they can. Those sounds they make, man, they’re…unhuman.”

Wow, this guy’s really gone off the deep end, I thought. “Listen, Morty,” I said. “I’ve been laughed at by women, too. I know how small it can make you feel, how cruel it makes them seem. But you’ve met some nice ladies over the years, too, haven’t you? Why don’t you focus on them?”

“Because I’m fuckin’ afraid, bro. It not just out in public that I’ve seen the Mirthful Maidens. One night, just a few weeks ago, I woke up and saw two in the corner of my bedroom. I grabbed my cellphone and ran outta there, and called the police. But, of course, the chicks vanished by the time the pigs showed up. There were some in my parents’ backyard the other day, too. My mom and dad had no clue who they were, but weren’t bothered by them. I shouted threats at the women, but they kept laughin’ and laughin’.”

“Wow,” I exhaled. “This is some kind of joke, right?” As if I couldn’t see the fervor in his eyes, or the sweat on his forehead.

“No joke, man. I see ’em everywhere I go now, in the U.S. and out of it. They’re always lookin’ at me, always laughin’ that weird ass laugh. I’ve been half-expectin’ a couple of ’em to walk downstairs as we’re talkin’.”

“Well, Morty,” I said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing before. I’ll tell you what, though. Next time you see these Mirthful Maidens, call me and we’ll confront them together. How’s that sound?”

Morty sighed. “Better than nothin’, I guess. You’ll hear from me soon enough.”

After giving him my phone number, I showed him to the door and watched his departure. He pulled a joint from his pocket, sucked fire into it, and sauntered over to his car. Carefully, he checked its interior for bogeywomen before driving off.

I felt someone touch my elbow, and nearly shat my pants. But it was only Gina, making that face she makes when she’s attempting to hide her anger.

“I heard every word you two said,” she practically hissed. “I don’t care if you guys were friends way back when, Morty Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is sounds like a dangerous crackhead and I don’t want him near our daughters or me ever again. You stay away from him, too. He’ll probably attack some poor woman someday, and you’ll be arrested as his accomplice if you’re not careful.”

After a moment of consideration, I thought, Sorry, Morty, then threw my arms around Gina and said, “Whatever you say, dear.”

I felt the tension flow from her, as her speech grew sardonic. “Jeez, I’m lucky that I didn’t laugh around that asshole. He’d have accused me of being a Martian.”

I considered her greying hair and her plump figure, which had never rebounded far back from its pregnancy weight all those years ago, and thought, Fat chance. Then, feeling guilty, as if Gina had read my mind, I offered to rub her feet.

Of course, Morty called me a few times after that, but I let him go straight to voicemail. He direct messaged me on social media, but I never wrote back. One time, he returned to my house, but my wife answered the door and told him I wasn’t home. When he asked when I’d return, she shouted, “Just get out of here, you psycho!”

A few weeks after that, San Clemente beachgoers realized that the man they’d assumed was only sleeping on his Corona Extra beach towel was turning purplish-blue, choking on his own vomit. Morty died there, on the sand, chock-full of heroin and fentanyl, on an otherwise idyllic day. It was all over social media, with old classmates of ours and folks I’d never met coming out of the woodwork to praise Morty’s many virtues and condemn opioid addiction. “My heart is open to anyone in crisis,” some wrote. “Don’t ever feel alone in your affliction.” I wondered how they’d have reacted to that Mirthful Maidens story.

Strangely enough, Gina demanded that I attend Morty’s funeral.

“But people might know that I said I’d help him, and didn’t,” I protested. “They’ll blame me for his overdose. I can’t stand being yelled at.”

“Oh, grow up, you big baby,” she countered. “It’s bad enough that you didn’t post anything on his Facebook wall. If people don’t see you there…well, word gets around, doesn’t it?” Naturally, she made no offer to accompany me.

So, the day came. Half-strangled by my new tie, feeling as if my toes were fusing together, so tight were my new dress shoes, I walked into a chapel. Sneering at the sandals worn by a few mourners, I made my way to the funeral guest book and wrote my name—clearly, lest anyone call me absent.

Feeling as if I was being pointed out by old classmates I’d rather not reconnect with, I claimed some pew space, stared lapward and twiddled my thumbs, waiting for the service to begin.

Then I became aware of a bizarre sort of sobbing. At least, I assumed it to be such until I noticed three beautiful women in the pew across the aisle. Dressed in identical, semi-formal, black dresses, they leaned forward to make heavy eye contact with me, never closing their mouths. And, indeed, their laughter sounded as if it was pouring out of harmonicas. The Mirthful Maidens, I thought, astounded. Still, no other mourner seemed troubled by them.

As one funeral officiant or another stepped behind the pulpit and began blah-blah-blahing, and the Mirthful Maidens continued belching their bizarre laughter, I wondered if I was being pranked. Had Morty paid those women to act that way, then committed suicide? Was he even dead in his open casket, or was he ready to spring up and shout, “Joke’s on you!” Was everyone but me in on it? What else could I do but flee?

And, of course, when I told my wife about it that night, after nearly an hour of cunnilingus that only one of us enjoyed, she snickered. “My, oh, my, is my big, strong, handsome man jumping at campfire stories? Does he need a kiss from his momma? Will that make it better?”

Gina kissed my forehead, then fell asleep.

Listen, whoever’s reading this, I know most people have never given any thought to the percentage of women who wear black. It’s a very flattering color choice—fashionable, elegant, mysterious, even slimming. The color fits nearly every occasion, every skin tone and body shape. So, there’s really no way to avoid it when going out in public.

Similarly, in a free society, people laugh when they please, even if what comes out of their mouths when they do so is somewhat discordant. Not all vocal cords are the same; some people laugh like Fran Drescher does. But, please believe me when I assure you that what flows from the throats of the Mirthful Maidens isn’t human.

So maybe this is some kind of It Follows/Smile kind of curse—though, rather than being the only one who can see the whatever-the-hell-they-really-are, I’m just the only person who’s bothered by them. To everyone else, it’s perfectly normal to have gorgeous chicks dressed in black, laughing and laughing, anywhere and everywhere, all the time.

A couple of months after Morty’s funeral, I was at a steakhouse with my wife and daughters. It was my birthday, so I was allowed to gorge myself on a fourteen-ounce, Oscar-style ribeye and a basket of fries, plus a couple of Pepsis to wash them down with, as my tablemates nibbled at salads. Just as I was preparing to broach the notion of dessert, a familiar sound caught my attention.

There were four Mirthful Maidens, in black V-neck dresses, occupying a table to the right of us. Meeting my eyes, they laughed their strange laughter, with nothing on their tabletop other than their folded hands.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” asked Kenna. “Why are you starin’ at those women?”

“Do you know them, or somethin’?” asked Casey.

“The Mirthful Maidens,” I muttered. “They were stalking Morty, now they’re following me.”

“Okay, that’s enough soda for your father,” said Gina, waving our waiter over. “Let’s go home and give him his presents.” To me, she whispered, “Don’t you dare make a scene.”

On the drive home, I tried to redeem myself. “None of you thought those women were strange, huh? Just sitting there, laughing nonstop, eating and drinking nothing at a restaurant.”

“They must have just arrived,” said Gina. “Don’t blame them for bad service.”

“Our service was fine, though. And didn’t you hear their laughter? Humans don’t make sounds like that. It was like something out of a nightmare.”

“God, Daddy, you’re so cringe,” said Casey. “Women are allowed to have fun in public without a man around, ya know.”

“Yeah, this isn’t the eighteen hundreds,” chimed in Kenna. “You don’t have to be frightened just ’cause they’re havin’ fun.”

“That’s telling him, girls,” Gina commended. “Never let some Neanderthal try to put you in your place. Not even Daddy.”

“That’s not what I was…ah, you know what, forget it.” If ever a man, alone, has won an argument against three ladies, I’ve yet to hear of it.

Speaking of arguments, over the years, I’ve noticed that whenever a female I know takes issue with another female and wishes to badmouth her, I’m supposed to echo that disparagement: “What a bitch,” “Who does she think she is,” etc. But whensoever a woman gets on my bad side and I speak ill of her to another lady, the lady I’m talking to always takes the other woman’s side. “Consider her perspective,” they tell me. “Every woman has had umpteen horrible encounters with horny, psychotic walking boners. How was she supposed to know if you’re a good guy or a bad guy?”

Like, suddenly, I’m Mr. Misogynist, out to undo women’s suffrage and overturn Roe v. Wade, just because I took umbrage when a drunk chick grabbed my glasses off of my head and tried them on without asking, then dropped them when handing them back, then laughed at their cracked lenses. Do you know what I’m saying, fellas?

So, yeah, just like with Morty, the Mirthful Maidens have become a regular feature in my life, appearing with increased regularity. Never have I seen the same Maiden twice; never have they shut their damn mouths.

I’ve seen them at the gym, on the street, and staring from the windows of passing vehicles. I’ve seen them in the background of old sitcoms, ravaging laugh tracks. I’ve seen them on airplanes, seen them in my dreams. And, of course, I’ve heard them, too.

Eventually, I started photographing them with my iPhone, pretending to be texting people, snapping shot after shot of Maiden after Maiden. I figured that I’d expose them on social media, create a Facebook page where others bedeviled by them could contribute. Then Gina got ahold of my phone one night and beat the shit out of me until I deleted every shot.

“Pervert!” she screamed. “What, am I not good enough for you?! You have to go around taking upskirt shots?! You’ll end up on the sex offender registry!”

“Those weren’t upskirt shots,” was my sad defense. “You don’t think it’s strange that I’m seeing women dressed in black everywhere I go, and they’re always laughing like malfunctioning androids?”

“You’ve caught your friend Morty’s delusion,” she said, “but you’re a married man, not an incel. You don’t have to view women as a hostile force. Keep this up and we’ll have to put you on some kind of antipsychotic medication.”

Naturally, I spoke no more of the Mirthful Maidens to Gina…until I arrived home from grocery shopping one Saturday and found six of them in our living room.

There my wife was—wineglass in hand, eyes twinkling with imbibed cheer—delivering high school anecdotes as if hosting longtime friends. Around her, quite drinkless, were a half-dozen beauties in black blazer jackets and black slacks, belching their hideous laughter in bizarre synchrony.

Noticing me, Gina cooed, “Oh, hello, honey. We have company today. Put those groceries away, pour yourself a soda, and come join us.”

On the way to the kitchen, ignoring the Maidens’ gazes, I paused to kiss my wife on the cheek, then whispered into her ear, “What the hell’s going on?”

“Be nice,” she hissed back at me.

Okay, I’ll admit it. During my brief time in the kitchen, I thought about fleeing through the back door, and hopping fence after fence until I was at least three cities distant. My teeth were chattering. I was more goosebumps than man. My every small hair felt ready to launch from its follicle. But, for all that I knew, my wife was in danger. So, I slapped myself across the face a few times, did some deep breathing exercises, and returned to the most surreal, one-sided conversation that I’ve ever heard.

“Oh, you absolutely must try their scallops; they melt in your mouth,” said Gina, scarcely audible over the grotesque laughter. “They make this blackened swordfish with Cajun butter, too. Oh my God, it’s so good. That’s why we ladies get married, isn’t it? So that we can force our husbands to order food we want to try, then snatch bits of it off their plates without seeming gluttonous.”

Gina’s always been talkative when in the right company, but this time, she really outdid herself. With nary a lull, she segued from food to theater, then to reality television, then to traveling, then to the challenges of raising twin daughters.

When she tried to draw me into the conversation, I nodded and mumbled nonsense, unable to hear so much as a syllable of my own utterances. I doubt that Gina even noticed. Whatever validation she acquired from the Mirthful Maidens’ unending laughter had really galvanized her. If she didn’t have to stop for a potty break, she’d have gone until her voice gave out.

After my wife exited the room, I somehow found the courage to grab the nearest Mirthful Maiden by her shoulders. “What are you doing in my house?” I demanded. “Why have you been following me? Have you hypnotized my wife, somehow? I mean, what the fuck?”

Of course, the only answer that I received was more laughter. And so, my temper overcame me and I began to shake the woman. Her head violently rocked back and forth, and her mouth stretched all the wider.

“Who are you people?” I hissed. “What are you?”

Then most of her head, from the upper jaw up, spilled over her back like a Slinky, revealing a vast chasm within her, from which indigo light spilled. I couldn’t look away from it, even as I realized that the radiance was emanated by a substance that looked like moldy cream cheese, which shaped itself into a replication of poor, doomed Morty’s face and shrieked a shriek that couldn’t be heard over the laughter.

Time fell away from me then. When next I returned to my senses, I was reclining on the couch with Gina pressing a wet rag to my forehead. My daughters were looming over me, too, biting their lips.

Sitting up, I asked, “Are they gone?”

“Are who gone?” replied Gina.

“Those women you were talking to. Did you see them leave?”

“Women? What women? You must’ve been dreaming after you passed out. What happened there, anyway? Did you drink enough water today? Let’s get you on your feet and find you a doctor.”

It’s been years since that day. Still, the Mirthful Maidens await me all across my city and beyond it, all the time, always laughing, always staring, in sunshine and pouring rain. Sometimes I sneer at those bitches or raise my middle finger at them, but mostly I pretend as if I don’t see them, just like everyone else does.

My wife now goes to the gym with me, five days a week, bouncing from weights to cardio with ease, reclaiming her old hourglass figure. She’s dyeing her hair black, too, the same color it used to be. At least, I think she’s dyeing it. Friends and strangers elbow me and tell me how lucky I am to have landed her. I wonder if they’re right.

My daughters are shedding their baby fat now and acquiring the curves people covet. They no longer seem much interested in their phones, though.

Sometimes, when I’m dining with my three ladies, in my peripheral vision, one of their mouths seems to widen more than it ought to. Sometimes, when I crack a dumb dad joke, the three of them start laughing and laughing and it seems that they’ll never stop. And don’t get me started on all the black clothes they’ve been buying.

Toby Chalmers Commits “Career” Suicide: The Complete Saga

My collection Toby Chalmers Commits “Career” Suicide: The Complete Saga is now purchasable, courtesy of The Evil Cookie Publishing! Kindle and paperback editions!

https://a.co/d/2a0n0CP



Book overview:

An animal-vegetable hybrid home invader!
A murderous small press owner!
Abductive extraterrestrials looking to collaborate!

As author Toby Chalmers shifts his creative focus from horror to pervy bizarro fiction, a succession of freakos enters his life. Will he survive their attentions? Will he ever write a bestseller? And why has cancel culture latched its mephitic gaze onto him?

This collection includes the previously published novellas Toby Chalmers Commits “Career” Suicide and Toby Chalmers Hits a New Low, plus two more misadventures!

Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapter 11

Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 7: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 8 and 9: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 10: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's the final chapter.


Chapter 11


Just remember, your name is Bon Jippity today, and your literary review blog is called Future Fear Classics, Toby reminded himself two weeks later, hurrying from an Atlanta park’s parking lot toward a half-dozen pavilions, each of which had been draped with plastic sheeting that had been sliced and sewn together to resemble the flying extraterrestrial from the film Nope. Beneath that sheeting, seated at pristine picnic tables, were nearly two hundred out-of-shape people, all dressed in red coveralls, replicating those worn by the Tethered in the film Us.

Toby was running late, having remembered the luncheon’s Jordan Peele theme that morning, in his uncomfortable motel bed, hungover. Locating red coveralls of his own had been more difficult than he’d presumed. He’d driven all over the city until he’d found a too-large pair at a thrift shop. The wig and fake beard that composed his disguise were leftovers from a long-ago Halloween party, one in which he’d masqueraded as Jesus and handed out LSD-laced communion wafers. They itched far more than he remembered.

Seated in the sun a few yards before the nearest pavilion, his pink head slowly crimsoning, a bald, potato-shaped man served as an ersatz gatekeeper. A cash register and clipboard sat atop the small table he occupied. A pair of large, blue coolers sat on the ground aside him.

“Well, a fine hello to you,” the fellow said with an Irish accent. “I’m jovial Jon McLood, Pfeffernüsse of Terror’s big boss man. I’m a real sweetheart, though, trust me. And just who might you be?”

“They call me Bon Jippity,” Toby lied. “I write for Future Fear Classics. This is my first one of these shindigs. I couldn’t be more excited.”

“It’s my third, personally. Three years in a row.” Jon glanced behind him and waved his hand, indicating the faux Tethered. “Where else can one find such a diverse group of freethinkers?”

“You said it, buddy. That’s the most diverse group of Caucasians that I’ve ever seen.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, hey.” Toby pointed. “Is that Joseph McCarthy Jr. himself?”

“Sure is. Joe’s a close personal friend of mine. When he asked me to man this table today, I couldn’t have been more honored.”

“And who’s that guy he’s holdin’ hands with?” Toby asked. “Wait a minute, isn’t he that one actor? The dude who wore a wire mesh trashcan over his head throughout that one slasher flick and never said a word?”

Shit, Toby thought. Joe’s gay or bisexual, or something. If I get caught attacking him, they’ll call it a hate crime.

Begrudgingly, Jon said, “Yeah, it’s him. Trey Geehan, Mr. Bigshot Celebrity. I stopped by Joe’s house this morning for pancakes and that guy was there, too. He wouldn’t say a word to me, though, being too busy shouting at the makeup artist he brought with him, demanding that she make him look like he’s not wearing any makeup. He’s giving a speech at this thing later, as if Joe couldn’t do that better himself.” Jon exhaled and shrugged. “Anyway, fifty bucks please.”

Toby handed over a portrait of Ulysses S. Grant and watched his nom de plume get crossed off of the guest list. “This cooler’s full of sandwiches,” Jon said. “The other’s full of drinks. Grab yourself one of each and get over there. Go mingle. Oh yeah, before I forget, here’s a commemorative lapel pin.”

From his fanny pack, Jon withdrew a TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pin and handed it over. The man was wearing one, too, Toby realized.

“I’ll come back for the refreshments,” said Toby. “I wanna go shake some hands first.”

“Suit yourself,” said Jon. “Just remember to ask for consent before touchin’ anybody.”

“But of course. I’m no rapist. Not me. Never.”

Passing a trashcan, Toby disposed of his TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pin. His heart was jackhammering. Spreading a fake smile across his face, locking eyes with Joseph McCarthy Jr., he thought, I’m really goin’ through with it. Soon, this smug prick’ll be sobbing. I’d better feed him his teeth and sprint away quick, before any of these sloppy fatsoes gets ahold of me. Good thing I took the license plates off my car in the parking lot.

“Mr. McCarthy Jr., we meet at last,” he said with false conviviality. Everyone in earshot was watching him now, grinning at their recollections of their first encounters with their hero, he who’d helped to reshape the literary horror landscape more to their likings. “I tell you, good sir, without Transylvoria, Future Fear Classics—that’s my blog—would’ve never been birthed. You’re an inspiration to all of us. Might I please shake your hand?”

Toby paused, just out of reach of his target, thinking, The second that he stands up, he’ll get a faceful of fist. I’ll send him crashing into Mr. Makeup and run away, cackling.

“Of course, of course,” Joe enthused, remaining seated for the moment. “I’m always more than happy to meet a fan. So, what’s your name, anyway?”

Just as Toby was about to answer, a peevish voice rang out behind him. “Don’t touch that man, Joe! He’s a bigot! A monster!”

Oh fuck, I’ve been recognized, Toby thought, revolving on his heels to see Jon McLood waddling toward them. The man’s face was redder than ever. He seemed on the verge of tears.

Outraged voices, demanding explanations, sprayed sandwich shrapnel to all corners. Transylvoria’s staff and supporters climbed to their feet while Toby stood, stunned immobile. Sweaty hands seized him. Rancid breath wilted his neck hairs.

“You’ve got the wrong guy!” he protested. “I love everyone! Every race! Every age! Every viewpoint! Every gender!”

“Oh yeah, then why did you throw this out?!” Jon demanded, thrusting the commemorative lapel pin in Toby’s face.

“It was an accident! My hand slipped! I was plannin’ to fish it out of the trashcan later! I just didn’t wanna get my hands dirty until after I met Mr. McCarthy Jr.!”

Now Joe was squinting at Toby inquisitively. “We’re all wearing our TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE pins,” he said. “Why didn’t you put yours on right away?”

“I was nervous to meet you. I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly.”

“Is that so? And what’s your sexuality?”

“Straight, man…I’m straight. But I’m not judgin’ anyone else’s predilections. Love is love, right?”

“Of course it is. And right now, I’d love to see you explain your bigotry.”

“This is all just a misunderstandin’, Mr. McCarthy Jr. I’m not a bigot.”

“Do you think that assholes are disgusting, and only sickos find them erotic?”

“Hey, man, if a hot chick waxes and bleaches hers, and then washes it thoroughly, I’ll get all up in that thing. Tongue, dick, whatever.”

“Oh, so only high-maintenance, female anuses meet with your approval. I suppose that you’re not including trans women in your assessment.”

“Well, I mean, I’m not here to judge anybody. I’m sure that their assholes are very attractive. They’re just not my type. Why are we talkin’ about assholes, anyway?”

Incensed, Trey Geehan lurched in front of Joe to thrust a forefinger in Toby’s face. “I’ve been in over three dozen films!” he shouted. “You think you’re better than me?!”

“I don’t even know you, man. I’m not making that claim.”

“And now you’re assuming that you know my gender, based on how I look?! He’s a bigot, everybody, some kind of right-wing fiend!”

Desperate to throw a fist at somebody, anybody, Toby thrashed in his restrainers’ grips. His fake beard came loose and was tugged from his face.

“He’s wearing a disguise!” Jon McLood shrieked. “I knew there was somethin’ off about this guy! I mean, who turns down food and drink that they’ve already paid for?!”

Smirking so sharply that it seemed as if his head might bisect itself, Joseph McCarthy Jr. tore away Toby’s wig. “Phony hair, too. It seems that we have a Republican in disguise here. What’s his real name, I wonder. Somebody grab this guy’s wallet and find his license.”

Furious, Toby asked, “You don’t recognize me? You helped erase my fiction from the world and I’m unknown to you now?”

“Well, you do look vaguely familiar, now that you mention it.”

“You claimed that I kidnapped your nephew, you fat lump of cock mold. Do you even have a nephew, or did you make him up just to ruin me?”

“He took Shadrach!” Joe announced to every ear at the luncheon. Straining his mind for a recollected name, he arrived at, “This man is Toby Chalmers, the guy who hates black people! He’s out to abduct me now, too, because I stand up for diversity!”

“He’s lyin’!” shouted Toby. “I grew up listening to hip-hop! I’m a fan of lots of African Americans! Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle are two of my favorite comedians!”

“Dave Chappelle’s a transphobe!” Trey Geehan countered. “Diversity hates him now!”

“So…you hate a black man?!” asked Toby.

“Shut up! Shut up!”

A fist met Toby’s gut. A boot toe met his ankle. Soon he was lying prone, beneath a sweaty, reeking dogpile.

“Let’s teach this bigot a lesson!” declared Joe, now tumescent.

“Tell us what to do, wondrous leader!” Jon exclaimed. “We’ll do anything for you!”

“Pull down some of this plastic sheeting and roll Toby Chalmers onto it. Does anybody have any sharp tools?”

“I’m a tree trimmer by trade,” one neck-bearded fellow attested. “I’ve got saws, pruners, and axes in my truck.”

“Bring ’em all,” said Joe. “We’ll show this bigot that everyone’s beautiful inside…even him.”


* * *


Later, the coolers were loaded back into Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s Prius. He’d be feasting on leftover peanut butter and jelly sandwiches later, with plenty of juice to wash ’em down with. The tree trimmer’s tools returned to his truck bed. The plastic sheeting was torn down from the pavilions for disposal, with that which had been bloodied buried amidst the cleaner pieces. Aside from that gore, no trace of Toby Chalmers could be sighted.

Their postures now clenched, their faces exultant, Transylvoria’s staff and well-wishers headed toward their vehicles. They’d never forget this great day. If it escaped their minds for so much as a millisecond in the future, their much-treasured keepsakes would bring everything rushing back: recollections of Toby’s defiance, then begging, the coppery scent of fresh blood, and the exhilaration of helping to bring justice to an oft lawless planet.

Some cracked jokes as they reached the parking lot: “You know, deep down, Toby Chalmers wasn’t so bad, after all.” “I’ve never felt closer to Toby Chalmers than I do at this moment.” “Who knew that fighting bigotry could feel this darn good?”

Soon, they’d all driven away, save for Joseph McCarthy Jr., Jon McLood, and Trey Geehan.

“So, you’ll stop by for breakfast tomorrow, before you fly back to Ireland, right?” Joe asked Jon, as Trey climbed into the Prius’ passenger seat, sighed emphatically, and closed his eyes.

“Miss a moment with my absolute-doot-doot-doodely favorite person on Earth? Never! I’ll be there bright and early, with bells on. I’ll bring croissants, donuts, and cronuts…all you can eat.”

“Yummy, yummy, yummy. I’m salivating already. Ya know, you’re my top pal-o-roony, Jon. I wish that you lived here, in this city, so we could hang out every day.”

Overcome with emotion, Jon slapped Joe on the back, murmured, “Thank you,” and hurried over to his rented Nissan Rogue. Joyful tears careened down his face as he sped into the evening.

“Finally,” Joe muttered, releasing the fart that he’d been holding in for hours, which bugled for perhaps twenty seconds before sputtering out. “No twenty-one-gun salute for you, Toby Chalmers.”

A chopped-up author’s severed big toe rolled out of the leg of Joe’s coveralls.

Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapter 10

Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 7: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 8 and 9: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 10.


Chapter 10


“Wow, they actually did it,” Toby announced to a hypothetical audience, alternating between primal rage catalepsy and giggly nihilism. He closed his laptop to avoid smashing it, then massaged his temples, blinking frantically. He clamped his jaw shut to stifle his screams.

All of his books’ Amazon listings were gone, as was his Author Page. So, too, had every trace of his fiction been expunged from Goodreads. Google searches turned up no literature, neither synopses nor cover art. Years upon years of honing his fiction yielded no evidence whatsoever online.

Toby had purchased author copies of his own titles before the great erasure, however: a hundred of each book, stored in boxes in his garage. Attempting to list them on eBay, he’d found his account deactivated. He’d left a copy of each in his local Little Free Library bookcase, and planned to do so again, probably. Otherwise, he wasn’t sure what to do with ’em. Would door-to-door selling gain me sales or bullet wounds? he wondered.

After composing himself slightly, feeling half-spectral, he reopened his laptop, to search for traces of his existence on social media. There, too, all evidence of his books and references to him as an author had vanished. Posts and replies branding him a racist remained, though, along with screenshots of his drunken meditation on blackness.

Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s call to action post had been edited, with every mention of Toby removed. Lest Toby feel entirely neglected, however, Joe had crafted a brand-new post in his honor, released to the masses just a few minutes prior. And, boy, was it a doozy.

Toby saw his own photo staring back at him—a squinting, smirking portrait that he’d always hoped conveyed wit, but feared imparted the opposite impression—the one he’d been using as his author photo for the last couple of years. Aside it was a second photo, its subject a strangely hirsute grade-schooler that Toby had never seen before. Beneath them, it read:

AN UNCLE’S ORISON

Oh, my wonderful, diverse social justice superstars, my much-valued supporters in horror fiction renovation, my Rocks of Gibraltar in the tempest, my radiance in the howling void, I beg of you, right now, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, please, please, please attend my plea.

After the opioid epidemic seized ahold of my sister Clementine, after she let horses sodomize her for bindles of heroin and became famous on the internet, after she overdosed in the carwash with nary a vehicle in sight, she made the courageous choice to check herself into rehab. The good gal’s been an addiction center patient for just over two months now, showing extraordinary progress, and I couldn’t be prouder of her.

Clementine has a tremendous heart and I love her dearly. So, naturally, I volunteered to take care of her son while she gets the treatment she needs. I’ve paid for his food out of my very own pocket, introduced him to some of my favorite horror films (Jordan Peele’s first, natch!), and ensured that he kept up with his schooling. Overall, Shadrach’s a great child—smart as a whip and nearly as handsome as his dear old uncle is—but he’s had some, let’s say, moral deficiencies that I’ve been helping him overcome.

As much as it shames me to admit it, the boy’s shown evidence of insensitivity to the black cause. I caught him laughing at an African American that he saw on TV, as if that individual was less human than those of other races.

Well, you know that Joseph McCarthy Jr. won’t permit bigotry in his radius, especially when it’s coming from his own family! Immediately, I devised a series of role-playing exercises to make poor, misguided Shadrach sympathize with black folks and their culture. The boy was showing great progress; congratulations were forthcoming. Then infamous racist Toby Chalmers came along and spoiled everything.

I don’t know how they first communicated—some sort of clandestine message board, I’m assuming—but one night, a fully grown fellow showed up on my doorstep, asking for Shadrach by name. The boy’s just eight years old. No way would I let him near a cisgender, racially challenged, straight man I don’t know.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Toby Chalmers,” the man answered.

“That evil fellow from social media who thinks that blacks are worth less than dirt?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Toby then declared. “Don’t you know that those coal-coated animals will never accept you, that they’ll rob and rape you any chance that they get?”

“Lies!” I shouted. “Black is beautiful! It is! Stay the heck away from my nephew or I’ll call the police!”

Silly me, I assumed that Toby Chalmers possessed enough intelligence to realize that I’m not a man to be trifled with, that I have pal-o-roonies all over the planet, linked by a love of horror fiction more powerful than religion. Your strength is my strength; my strength is yours.

But then I began sighting Toby Chalmers when Shadrach and I were out in public—lurking in a parking lot’s periphery, seated behind us at the movie theater, even browsing at the comic shop. As I couldn’t prove that he was stalking us yet, I tried to photograph him with my cellphone, but the man kept hiding behind his hands every time I snapped a picture. Clearly, he was planning something terrible.

My worst fears were confirmed just a few nights ago. Shadrach and I had spent the entire day together, shopping and singing, dancing and gaming, grubbing and gabbing, as close relatives do. After an invigorating supper of lobster ravioli, I left the boy to his own devices while I attended to some Transylvoria correspondence. There are many exciting things in the pipeline, believe you me (OMG, OMG, OMG, one of my favorite movie stars is thinking about writing a monthly column for us! Keep those fingers crossed, fam).

A couple of hours later, with my evening’s editorial duties behind me, I looked at the clock and realized that it was my nephew’s bedtime. Naturally, a nurturing fellow such as myself would rather die than miss an opportunity to tuck that boy into bed. My heart was so full of love; indeed, I couldn’t stop smiling.

That lip curl upended itself when my door knocking went unanswered. Entering the guestroom that I’d donated to Shadrach for the duration of his stay, I found him absent. Most of his clothes were gone. The screen was missing from the window frame.

Indeed, it seems that evil Toby Chalmers has abducted poor Shadrach, undoubtedly to indoctrinate him further in Toby’s black-hating ways. I’ve already contacted the police, but I need the help of all of you good people, too. Spread these photos and this story all across social media, so that if either of the two shows their face anywhere, the authorities and I will be notified, and Shadrach can be deconditioned, and Toby Chalmers can face justice.

Now and beyond forever, I love all of you, my exquisite, intelligent, diverse pal-o-roonies.

“What…the…fuck?” said Toby. Before his eyes, by the thousands, Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s words accrued likes and reposts. Replies sprouted every second: “Toby Chalmers can’t get away with this,” “We’ll stomp that child rapist to mush,” “Stalkers don’t belong in our country,” and myriad variations.

This smirking sack of pudge actually thinks that I visited him? Toby wondered. He thinks that I abducted his strange, hairy-faced nephew? Do I have a lookalike out there? Nah, Joe must be fabricating this story, for attention. Where’s this asshole live, anyway?

A quick internet search revealed that Joseph McCarthy Jr. and Transylvoria were based in Georgia. That’s like three states over. No wonder the cops haven’t bothered me yet. Will they, though, sometime soon? Do the posts of social media jackals carry much clout with authorities? I doubt that there are many Transylvoria fans with badges, but how can I be sure?

Whatever the case, I can’t keep letting this lit scene fascist take shots at me. People incapable of writing horror fiction don’t deserve to control it. No one does. Art should always, always, always evolve unrestrained, and have its existence acknowledged. I’m gonna have to kick this loser’s ass, aren’t I?

Grinning at the thought of Joseph McCarthy Jr.’s mouth imploding under a clenched fist, at watching that slanderous scumfuck writhing on the ground, choking on his own teeth shards, Toby navigated Transylvoria’s website.

“Holy mackerel,” he soon exclaimed. “Transylvoria’s Media Outreach Luncheon—whatever the fuck that is—is just a couple of weeks away. Joe is signing autographs there and everything.”

Perhaps I can’t fight cancel culture as a whole, Toby thought, but I can at least hurt this malefactor, this prime pile of dog shit. How satisfying will that be? I can wear a disguise and devise an escape route. If I do happen to get caught, assault’s just a misdemeanor anyway. Totally worth it.

He flexed his fingers and stretched. A mad impetus had seized him. I’ll start a literary blog under a false name on a free site and whip up a dozen quick reviews, he thought. That oughta get me through the luncheon’s registration page. Their website doesn’t take payments, so I’ll pay the fifty bucks there, in cash. I can do this. I’ve gotta do this. Fuck Joseph McCarthy Jr.

Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapters 8 and 9

Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 7: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 8 and 9.


Chapter 8


Yet again, his grip on his dwindling optimism weakening by the moment, Toby visited his Amazon Author Page. Only self-published efforts met his gaze.

He’d released improved edits of Fleshless Fingers and all of his bizarro books, and put together another collection, Mementoes of Madness II, to showcase his short fiction. Not being particularly artistic, he’d culled his cellphone gallery for drunkenly-shot photos of landscapes, spoiled fruit, stars and roadkill, and fashioned makeshift cover designs from them. Sadly, none of his efforts had resulted in so much as a single sale.

There’d been plenty of ratings and reviews, though, both on Amazon and Goodreads, each bearing but a single star out of five. None of the reviewers had bothered to read so much as a word of his prose, it seemed. They wrote, “Don’t buy from this racist,” “Each dollar spent on Toby Chalmers’ fiction gives Hitler’s ghost a boner,” “Nazi writers, fuck off,” and similar single-sentence contributions. Many listed black authors who consumers should consider, as if Toby was actively attempting to oppose such individuals. Some of the reviewers’ names he recognized, editors and authors now united against him.

Toby had deactivated his every social media account, hoping that his detractors would find someone new to disparage. But successive searches of his name continued to summon fresh vitriol. Alleged anarchists wanted him arrested. So-called liberals were calling for his suicide.

Only black-hating racists, none of whom had the slightest bit of interest in reading his fiction, defended him. They seemed to have adopted Toby as a member of the far right, though he’d never so much as registered to vote, out of disgust with both political parties.

“Don’t do it,” Toby muttered now, even as he visited social media and searched for his name yet again. The top result, new to him, had already attained over two million views, hundreds of thousands of likes, and thousands of replies and reposts. Wow, that’s the smuggest avatar photo that I’ve ever seen, Toby thought. This dude looks like he had his own cock removed, just so he could blow himself every time he sits down to pee. Why’s he wearing a dashiki? He’s whiter than I am. Joseph McCarthy Jr., huh. Runs Transylvoria, apparently. Didn’t I send that magazine a review copy of Fleshless Fingers all those years ago? Never heard back from ’em, or read an issue of theirs, for that matter. What’s this douche have to say about me?

He read:

A CALL TO ACTION

Hello, hi, and howdy again, my beautifully diverse followers. ’Tis I, your ally in all equality efforts, your genial genius, your longtime pal-o-roony, Transylvoria Joe. By now, you must know that I’d never let a single day go by without connecting with you, my horror brethren. And boy, do I have a sermon for you now.

Remember those terrible days when the literary community eschewed censorship? Straight, cisgender, racially challenged males filled books with their rightwing ideology and profited, flaunting their collective privilege in everyone’s faces. Perpetuating white supremacy, gender inequality, heteronormativity, and even worse, gender binarism, they gave us heroes only they could relate to. Ooh, I’m shaking just thinking about it.

When those authors filled their books with hate speech, claiming that they were practicing idiomatic realism, we, as a society, actually nodded our heads and said, “Well, I guess that makes sense.” Boy, were we ever wrong.

Those straight, cisgender, racially challenged males had us all fooled, you see. They wrote bigoted characters so well because they’re bigots themselves. Those of them who became editors only published people just like them. That’s why we at Transylvoria, along with countless likeminded horror fanatics, have spent the last few years pushing those has-beens aside, so that diverse authors can finally stand up and take their well-deserved bows.

Indeed, we’ve taken great strides forward in abolishing literary inequality. But if you think that it’s time to rest on our laurels, to abandon our egalitarian efforts and let the old guard strike back, I say to you not today!

Think about it for a moment. Sure, most straight, cisgender, racially challenged, male authors have seen their books go out of print. And most right-thinking publishers will no longer consider such men for publication. The problem is, with the self-publishing tools available these days, anyone can invent a publisher on the spot and self-publish whatever they want.

This means that straight, cisgender, racially challenged, male authors can reprint their old fiction, and even print new fiction, with impunity, and steal sales away from the far more deserving diverse authors. It’s sickening, really. One Stephen King is enough!

The onus is on us, united, to balance the scales in the horror lit scene. Books by straight, cisgender, racially challenged, male authors other than Stephen King must be removed from circulation, permanently. Libraries and book retailers, both online and brick and mortar, must be urged to destroy all such books in their possession immediately and never restock them.

No longer should straight, cisgender, racially challenged, male authors be allowed to self-publish horror fiction. No longer should they post short stories to their blogs or social media accounts. Their books’ Goodreads listings should be deleted, as should all mentions of them online. In fact, these guys should never be allowed to refer to themselves as authors again.

We can erase the literary scene’s past mistakes, one straight, cisgender, racially challenged, male author at a time. For our first target, I nominate Toby Chalmers. The man unequivocally stated that he hates black people. Well, we love black people and hate Toby Chalmers.

Contact Amazon today, all of you. Tell them that you’ll boycott their company if Toby Chalmers’ books aren’t removed from publication. Start a petition. March in the street. Recruit others to our cause. Silence anyone who stands up for Toby Chalmers.

As always, Transylvoria pride forever. I platonically love each and every one of you. Air kisses all around.

“Air kisses all around,” Toby muttered. “What a piece of shit.” Can this man and his lickspittles really do it? he wondered. Can they erase every trace of my fiction, make it as if I never wrote anything?

As he read reply after reply praising Joseph McCarthy Jr. and his position, and denigrating Toby as if he was Hitler reincarnated, the notion seemed far less than impossible. All of these insane, wretched fascists masquerading as liberals, he thought, shaking his head. How did society ever devolve to this?

My books can’t just disappear. I’ll beat cancel culture, somehow. For the moment, I’d better stockpile author copies of my books while they’re still in print. Guess it’s time to spend some money on this “career” of mine. Yippee.

 
Chapter 9


“Hey, Shadrach, someone’s callin’ me. Why don’t you run into the store and grab us some juice boxes and pickle-flavored cashews. Here’s twenty bucks. With the leftover money, you can buy some candy or a magazine, or whatever you want.”

“I don’t hear your phone ringing.”

“It’s on silent mode.”

Suspiciously, Shadrach squinted at his least favorite person, as Joe slid his phone from his pocket and pressed it to his ear. “You’ve got Joe,” he greeted. “Oh, hey there, buddy. What’s the good word?” His free hand made a shooing motion.

Reluctantly, Shadrach emerged from the Prius. What’s this psycho up to now? he wondered. His phone screen was dark. No one was calling him.

Thus far, Joe had limited his domination games to his own private property, but there was a first time for everything, and Shadrach didn’t trust him one iota. There were fourteen vehicles in the parking lot. Would anyone protect Shadrach if Joe went on the offensive again?

He entered the supermarket and grabbed a shopping basket. Rightward, flies buzzed in the produce section. Leftward, oldsters lingered to converse with cashiers, though their groceries were already bagged. Those sonances seemed strangely subdued.

The pickle-flavored cashews and juice boxes were easy enough to find—Shadrach had accompanied his uncle on many a shopping errand—and he wasn’t in the mood to purchase anything for himself. Still, the air conditioning felt good on his skin, and he was in no hurry to return to his uncle’s side, so he wandered from aisle to aisle, avoiding the eyes of his fellow shoppers.

Suddenly, just as Shadrach strode past shelves of dry noodles, a stiff forefinger met his shoulder. “Are you gonna buy anything, nigger?” hissed a voice in his ear.

Reluctantly pivoting on his heels, the boy beheld his uncle. Joe had changed his clothes in the car. The black hat and zipped-up windbreaker he now wore were emblazoned with the word SECURITY. Coiled tubing ascended from his collar to a phony earpiece.

Blushing furiously, more embarrassed than he’d ever been, Shadrach begged, “Please don’t do this.”

“I asked you a question, boy! We’ve had a report of theft on these premises! Do you plan to pay for those groceries?!”

Other shoppers had drifted over to observe the spectacle. Shadrach couldn’t read their expressions through his sudden tears.

“I…I have twenty dollars,” he whined, pulling the bill from his pocket.

“Dirty, stinkin’, thievin’ nigger! Twenty dollars was the exact amount reported stolen! I knew by the look of you that you were no good! Put down those groceries and put your hands behind your back!”

“Oh…I’m sorry, Uncle Jojo. I’ll be good from now on. I’ll only laugh at what you say I can laugh at. You don’t have to do this to me.”

“Save it for your court date, nigger! Put down those fuckin’ groceries! Put your fuckin’ hands behind your back! Right fuckin’ now!” Joe now brandished handcuffs and grinned from ear to ear.

Supermarket employees joined the shoppers at both ends of the aisle, swelling the audience to two dozen Caucasians, all of whom crept steadily closer.

“Um, excuse me, what’s all this about?” one elderly mop-gripper queried, squinting through cat eye glasses.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Joe, “this here’s my nephew. He was actin’ like a racist so I’m teaching him empathy for black people. He’s experiencing but a taste of what they’ve endured in this country for so long. Soon, he’ll love his fellow humans as much as I do.”

Surely, someone will stand up for me now, Shadrach thought, sniffling. They’ll call over a real security guard and get my uncle the help he needs. Maybe my mom can leave rehab early and take care of me again.

But as the grocery basket was torn from his grasp, as his arms were pinned behind his back so that his wrists could be handcuffed, as he was led from the store and shoved into the back seat of his uncle’s Prius, all Shadrach heard was a slow clap evolving into full-blown applause.


* * *


After lunch, after dinner, after tearful trembling in the bathtub until its water grew chilly, Shadrach raged his way across Joe’s guestroom, shrieking into a pillow that he held over his mouth. Grace Jones’ Vamp character bared her fangs on framed posters all around him. Shadrach wished that she’d climb into reality to make a meal of his uncle.

The room, which he’d been staying in ever since his mom entered rehab, always smelled like rotted onions and bad milk, no matter how wide he opened its window. If ever it had been vacuumed, he’d never witnessed it. Neither had the bedsheets been washed, nor the cobwebs swept from the ceiling corners, since his arrival. Shadrach wouldn’t miss the place, he decided.

He’d swiped a garbage bag from the garage, which he now filled with clothes, everything but his hated Transylvoria attire. With grim satisfaction, he kicked the window screen from its frame. He wanted to punch holes into the walls and urinate onto the carpet, but feared that his uncle would burst into the room at any minute and chain him to the bed.

“Fuck you, Uncle Joseph,” Shadrach muttered, climbing out of the window, into the night. “I’ll hate you for the rest of my life.”

Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapter 7

Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 6: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here's Chapter 7.


Chapter 7


“Shadrach, get out here!” Joseph McCarthy Jr. hollered houseward, from the back patio. Another vibrantly sunny day. He’d never felt more virtuous. Perhaps he’d lock himself in his home office and masturbate later. Exhilarated, he bounced on his toes.

Moments later, his nephew materialized, wearing his TRANSYLVORIA PRIDE shirt. Sighting no cotton balls on the back lawn, he relaxed his posture, just slightly.

“You look frightened today, buddy. Is everything okay?”

“Um, I guess…I mean, yeah. It’s okay, sir.”

“Look me in the eyes when we talk, boy. And what’s with this ‘sir’ stuff all of a sudden? You’ve always called me Uncle Jojo. Don’t you love me anymore?”

Dragging his gaze toward his uncle’s beaming countenance, Shadrach uttered, “Uh…yes, I do.”

“Yes, you do…”

“Yes, I do, Uncle Jojo.”

“There now, isn’t that better? You’re trembling, boy. Are you comin’ down with a cold?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Excellent. Excellent. In that case, check out what I bought ya.”

With a few prancing steps sidewise, Joe unveiled his latest purchase: a kids’ ride-on utility terrain vehicle with off-road capability, electrically powered.

“You…bought me a jeep for toddlers?”

“You’re within its age range. Why don’t ya give it a spin? This baby’s got a steering wheel and a gas pedal, and can go seven miles per hour. Plus, it’s the best color in the world: hot pink.”

“Oh…okay.”

“That’s the spirit. Take a few laps in the backyard while I figure out our lunch plans. It’s all charged up and ready to go.”

Joe disappeared into the house. After sweeping his scrutiny across the backyard’s perimeter, so as to ensure that nobody was observing him, Shadrach climbed into the driver’s seat. He stomped on the pedal and the vehicle vroom-vroomed forward.

Well, I guess this isn’t so bad, Shadrach thought, turning so as to coast parallel with the back fence. It’s faster than I walk, at least. Plus, Uncle Joseph isn’t mad at me anymore, I guess. He honked the horn a couple of times, felt the breeze in his hair, and allowed himself to grin.

A few backyard laps later, boredom set in. How long do I have to keep doing this, anyway? he wondered. Suddenly, he heard an air horn, just behind him.

“Stop the vehicle, nigger!” his uncle shouted.

“Oh no,” Shadrach murmured, fantasizing about plowing the UTV through the fence and driving forever. Instead, he brought it to a stop and turned toward the shouter.

Huffing and wheezing, his face oozing perspiration, Joe hurried over. He’d exchanged his earlier attire for a policeman costume, complete with aviator sunglasses and a phony chest badge. Its dark blue hue made his pallidness all the more striking.

Pulling a plastic gun from his belt holster, he stuck it in his nephew’s face and shouted, “Get out of the vehicle now, nigger!”

“Please, Uncle Jojo, not today.”

“Uncle Jojo? You’re no relation of mine, boy. Are you high on crack or PCP? Who’d you steal this vehicle from?”

“Steal? You literally just gave this to me.”

“A liar, too. Can even one nigger ever tell the truth?”

Fighting back his tears, Shadrach climbed out of the UTV.

“Lie face down on the grass and put your hands behind your back.”

“But that’ll bother my allergies. Please, Unc…officer…sir. Can we at least do this inside the house?”

“Are you resisting arrest, nigger?! Should I shoot you right now and save the taxpayers the cost of your prison sentence?!”


* * *


Peeking between wooden fence slats, Clara and Cora Achebe, eleven-year-old twins clad in matching green sundresses, gasped.

“I thought Daddy was kiddin’,” Clara said to her sister, absentmindedly tugging her braids, as she did when she was nervous.

“No, that mean ol’ white man’s definitely gone crazy,” replied Cora. “Look, he’s puttin’ handcuffs on poor Shadrach.”

“Grindin’ his face in the grass, too. This must be the devil’s doin’.”

“We’ve gotta help stop this. Should we call the police?”

“Not unless you can turn us white first. I’m not tryin’ to get shot.”

“Should we tell Daddy then? He could snap that psycho like a twig.”

“And end up in prison. Nah, I’ve got a better idea.”


* * *


Amongst the exalted pantheon of individuals Joseph McCarthy Jr. deemed his pal-o-roonies, Jon McLood—who ran the horror fiction review site, Pfeffernüsse of Terror—ranked at the tippy top. If not for the fact that Jon was a racially challenged, cisgender, straight male, Joe would’ve offered the guy a position at Transylvoria every time they exchanged texts.

Perhaps two years prior, they’d met at Transylvoria’s Media Outreach Luncheon, an annual event wherein Joe offered horror fiction journalists far and wide an opportunity to chat with their betters for just fifty dollars apiece.

Flouncing from table to table—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in one hand, an apple juice box in the other—Joe had held court, soaking in every last bit of the dippy, saccharine, overdone adulation that he felt he deserved. At last, his capering steps carried him before a potato-shaped man in a green fishing vest, whose long, rust-colored beard evoked inverted Troll doll hair, stretching in sharp contrast to his bald, spit-polished noggin.

Though the luncheon’s every glad-handing grubber recognized Joe on sight, he couldn’t resist introducing himself to each new face, anyway. To Jon, as per usual, he said, “Hello, hi, and hey. I’m Joseph McCarthy Jr. But don’t worry, my dad wasn’t that Joseph McCarthy. He was liberal to the bone, just like me. He even shook Nelson Mandela’s hand once.”

“Oh, I’ve read all about it,” Jon replied. “Me, I’m jovial Jon McLood. Here, how about a friendly fist bump?”

They bumped fists, causing Joe to accidentally squeeze his juice box too hard, squirting his little straw right on out of it. He met Jon’s eyes and they were giggling.

“So, what do you do?” Joe asked, claiming a chair. Jon lifted a finger and opened his mouth. But Joe had already placed both of his fists upon his own hips, to better declare, “Me, I’m Transylvoria’s Editor-in-Chief.”

“Oh, of course I know that, you big, beautiful, silly man. I’ve been reading your magazine since it was still Draculiterary. You’re a frickin’ hero to me, like Batman and Superman amalgamated. I’d wear underoos with your face printed on ’em if you sold them. As a matter of fact, believe it or not, I started Pfeffernüsse of Terror to be just like you.”

“Pfeffernüsse of Terror? What’s that, some kind of bakery? I’ve always had a weakness for cookies.” Joe patted his bulging stomach. “And muffins and cakes, too.”

“Oh, we’re cookin’ alright, but only with words.”

“You mean…”

“That’s right, we review horror fiction, just like Transylvoria does.”

“Whose books do you focus on? Not racially challenged, cisgender, straight males, I hope.”

“Never, my friend. How could I look at myself in the mirror if I did? How could I sleep at night? We do dedicate a week to every new Stephen King book, though.”

“Of course, of course. Stephen King’s our sole exception, too. It’s like, sure, cover the best of the best of the racially challenged, cisgender, straight males, but why bother with any others? Let historically marginalized voices be heard.”

“Right? How else can we atone for our own privilege?”

“I always pay mine forward. I’ll tell you that much.”

With that, they really got to talking, for the rest of the luncheon and beyond it. Their discussion spanned not only inclusive literature, but also music, television, films, dreams, aspirations, celebrities they’d paid to be photographed with, and autographs they’d framed. They pulled out their phones and followed and friended each other all across social media. They shook hands, fist bumped, hugged, patted each other’s backs, and played grab ass, so much so that each, a few times, wondered if the relationship that was forming between them was strictly platonic.

Joe invited Jon back to his house that night for a Jordan Peele marathon. Between films, they drank hot cocoa and gossiped about horror industry politics.

Declaring themselves “platonic twin flames”, both shed tears when Jon had to fly home to Ireland the next morning. As promised, they kept in touch, texting and direct messaging each other several times daily.

So, indeed, it came as no surprise when Joe, fresh from his latest assault on his nephew’s “ingrained racism”, encountered a lengthy text from his buddy the very moment that he picked up his cellphone. It read:

Hey-ho, JOESANNA IN THE HIGHEST, ruler of all that he surveys…

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately (what else is new, right?). This approach that you’ve come up with to combat your nephew’s racism…my friend, it’s entirely revolutionary! I mean, holy Jean Piaget! With every step you take, you bring us one step closer to smashing white supremacy! Hip hop hooray!

Sadly, my own daughter, little Ginger, has expressed bigotry of her own lately. She actually said, with her cute little mouth, “People with penises can’t be girls, Daddy.”

I felt so ashamed of her then. Transphobia in my own house! So I asked myself, “What would the wokest bloke that I know, Gorgeous Joe, do in this situation?” I’m sure that you’ve already guessed the solution I arrived at.

That’s right, I’m scheduling gender-affirming surgery for little Ginger. Soon, she’ll have a penis where her vagina once rooted, and will know once and for all that gender is determined by spirits, not bodies. The other kids at her elementary school will learn from her example, I’m sure.

Due to brave, forward thinking men like us, this beautiful planet of ours might just have a chance after all. Otherwise, we’d just end up with a bunch of Toby Chalmers’ tearing everything down to satiate their destructive, bigoted ideologies.

You’ve heard about Toby Chalmers already, I’m sure, but on the off chance that you haven’t, he’s this bizarro fiction writer that thinks blacks should only come out at night, because every race, blacks included, hates people of African descent. He also wrote terrible things about black actors and rappers. What kind of monster doesn’t like “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It”?

At any rate, here’s a link to his post, in case you want to make an example of the guy. Love you, buddy.

Joe had an erection, he realized. Lightly stroking it through his pants with his free thumb, he clicked the link and began to read.


* * *


“Hey, Shad. Yeah, you. Come talk for a minute.”

Sniffling, Shadrach glanced to the fence with eyes that itched terribly. Licking his lips, he tasted tears and snot. Joe had removed the handcuffs, but left him out back for hours. His parting words were: “Uncivilized niggers don’t belong indoors! Sleep outside tonight like the animal that you are!”

Drawing closer, Shadrach asked, “Is that Cora or Clara?” He’d conversed with the twins through the fence on a few prior occasions, their outgoing natures overcoming his own bashfulness.

“Clara. But my sister’s with me, too.”

“I sure am. Hi, Shad.”

“Hi, Cora. Hi, Clara. How’s it goin’?”

“Better than it’s going for you, that’s for sure,” Cora said.

“Be nice,” Clara chastised.

“I am being nice, sister.”

“Not as nice as I am.”

“Way nicer. Always.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Come on, girls, don’t fight,” Shadrach pleaded.

“I’d like to fight that bitch-ass uncle of yours.”

“Clara!”

“Oh, like you weren’t thinkin’ it, too. We saw what he did to you earlier, Shad. We peeked through the fence cracks. It was so horrible, I almost cried.”

Though Shadrach’s first instinct was to deny everything, he swallowed those words down before they could emerge from his throat. Instead, he said, “Uncle Joseph is such a bully now. I think he’s gone crazy.”

“Doesn’t that man read horror all the time? He probably started out crazy.”

“Cora! She doesn’t mean that, Shad.”

“Don’t tell him what I mean. You heard those racist things he was shoutin’. A white devil, that’s what he is. He’ll probably kill Shad soon enough.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Shadrach admitted.

“Well, whatever’s happenin’ with that man, we need to get you away from him,” Clara said.

“But my mom’s in rehab and none of my other relatives want me. Until she gets better, I’m stuck here.”

“Actually,” said Cora, “my sister had an idea about that.”

“Let me tell it, Cora. You’ll go all mush-mouthed again if you try.”

“Will not.”

“Whatever, girl. Shad, I know of a spot where you can hide for a while, where your uncle will never be able to find you.”

“Yeah, where’s that?” Shadrach asked, disbelieving.

“Do you know that place next to the swap meet, where there’re all of those trees and boulders and stuff, and no one’s allowed to build houses, or even explore, because it’s protected land, or somethin’?”

“Uh…I think so.”

“Well, my friend Shareese’s brother and his homies used to get drunk and do drugs there. They left tents and sleeping bags behind. You could live there for a while. Cora and I’ll bring you food and stuff. That way, you’ll stay safe until your mama gets outta rehab.”

“You want me to be homeless?” Shadrach asked.

“At least you’ll be alive,” said Cora.

“It’ll only be for a while,” added Clara. “We’ll spy on your uncle’s house for you, too, and let you know if we see or hear anything about your mama.”

“Huh. Let me think about it.”

Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapter 6

Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Here are Chapters 1-3: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 4 and 5: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...


Here’s Chapter 6.


Chapter 6


Awakening in his bed, fully dressed, yet again, Toby Chalmers groaned and vowed to cut down on his drinking. He made that vow often in the a.m., though it always evaporated hours later. Days encompassed too many hours. The tedium of modern existence demanded a tonic to fuzz his thoughts and make him grin.

His kidneys ached most mightily. He was lying on his cellphone, he realized. Retrieving it, he discovered that its battery had died. I must’ve started an ASMR playlist and passed out while watching it, he thought.

After plugging the phone into its charger, he set off for his bathroom, for the usual morning routine.


* * *


Damn, that hits the spot, Toby thought to himself, polishing off the last of his breakfast burrito—leftover steak sliced into morsels, plus eggs and mozzarella cheese, enwrapped in a flour tortilla. He’d been making himself breakfast burritos nearly every day lately. Beef, chicken, bacon, potatoes, bell peppers—their contents might’ve varied, but the satisfaction they provided remained constant. He liked to wash them down with the same customized beverage: half chocolate oat milk, half organic cow milk, stirred until perfectly blended.

He'd worked out already. Time to brush his teeth. Then, to keep himself occupied for a while, he’d return to the story he was writing.

Why bother? he wondered. After all, he hardly needed the scant income that his efforts earned him. With Toby’s austere lifestyle, the trust fund he’d drained years prior would last him until death. Moreover, the days where he’d felt a pressing need to contribute to the artform he so cherished were long gone. He didn’t even write horror anymore, just puerile, perverted bizarro fiction that he could barely stand to put his name to. That was the only writing he could sell.

Well, at least I have fans, he’d told himself until recently. Eventually, my horror stuff’ll catch on and I can craft stories that I’m proud of again. But was that even the case? In his early days as an aspiring horror author, when it seemed as if he’d jump out of his own flesh if he didn’t churn out prose and sleep came irregularly and far too meagerly, he’d been inundated with ideas—morning, noon and night. He’d jotted notes down onto every paper scrap available or texted them to himself when out on the town. He’d felt as if he was but a channel for greatness to flow through, as if he’d embraced a higher calling and would soon be banging celebrities. He'd worked on four separate narratives daily, shifting perspectives with ease, researching on the fly. Now, he could hardly stand to craft a single novella, only wrote because he couldn’t think of anything better to do.

Truthfully, he didn’t even like the scant fans that he did have. Most were middle-aged Caucasian men who seemed far too interested in fucking him. They sent him flirty direct messages, even after he assured them that he’s straight. A few had even sent cock photos and ended up being blocked. One proposed marriage. Another rolled a paperback copy of The Indelible Adventures of Sergeant Thundershorts into a tube and deepthroated it. Toby had met plenty of cool homosexuals back when he’d had more of a social life, who’d sold him great MDMA, respected his sexual boundaries, and even introduced him to pretty women, but a significant percentage of his readers now seemed quite rape-hungry.

Oh well, better get to work, he thought.


* * *

Later, resting his hands, Toby read back what he’d written: “‘Keep perfectly still,’ the man said to his wife, as he stuffed her vagina with grass ’til it overflowed. ‘Once our sexy little sheep slut is eating you out with much gusto, I’ll take her from behind, rough and fast. It’ll be our first threesome. You’ll love it, I say. No, don’t look at me like that. This is all for you, baby.’”

I can’t finish writing this, can I? Toby thought. I always assured myself that I’d never write about bestiality, yet I’m just a page or two away from doing just that. That was the line I’d never cross, I’d assumed. What’s the fuck’s wrong with me?

I’m going crazy in here, cooped up all by myself. What if writing about sheep sex turns me on? I should go out to dinner somewhere, maybe flirt with a waitress. I’ll write my phone number on the check and tip exorbitantly…see if I hear back from her. Oh, that reminds me, I left my phone charging.

Retrieving his now fully-charged celly from his bedroom, he thought, Wow, I haven’t gone on social media once today. That’s gotta be some kind of record for me.

And of course, having mentally invoked social media’s specter, Toby found himself with no choice but to activate an app. Whoa, what the hell? he thought, inundated by notifications. 2,842 replies. 584 quote reposts. Most of the time, I’m lucky to have a few notifications. What did I post again, anyway?

IPA fog had swallowed all recollection of the previous night’s writing. Vaguely, he recalled the disgust he’d felt upon seeing black-on-black police brutality on TV, and how he’d decided to address it. I must’ve achieved some real drunken eloquence, he thought, just like Ernest Hemingway. Good for me.

Then he started reading the replies.

“Kill yourself, you racist pig fucker!” wrote 2Woke2Die.

“Whitey gon’ white,” wrote YUGumpin.

“Get right with Jesus!” wrote getrightwithJESUS.

PatriotiCali wrote, “Finally, somebody understands that niggers should only be allowed out at night. You’re my hero, Toby Chalmers!”

Oh my fuckin’ God, thought Toby. No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Did I accidentally write something racist? Please tell me I didn’t.

His dinner plans now forgotten, he checked out a few quote reposts.

“Look at this bitch ass Toby Chalmers, outin’ himself as a racist,” wrote SWOLLHYPHY.

“Cancel and cancel again for good measure!” wrote QuitStaringAtMyTits.

“More trash writing from a trash writer,” wrote 66picklesandchange.

Toby could put it off no longer. Guess I’d better bite the bullet, he thought. I’ll see what’s gotten everyone so worked up and attempt to explain myself. I didn’t go full edgelord last night, did I? He found his post and thought, Holy shit, it’s a long one. With an extended sigh, he began reading:

Race memory has long ascribed a stigma to darkness. Indeed, from the dawn of humanity, nighttime has provided predators with cover to skulk, stalk, and assault, then disappear back into gloom. Hazards unknown in the day manifest to purloin, rape, and murder. Sometimes those hazards arise in one’s own psyche.

By and large, as a species, we prefer to see our surroundings, to read faces and postures to discern dark intentions. We prefer the warmth of the sun to the moon’s cold indifference. Candles, lightbulbs, flashlights, phones, computers, and TV screens keep darkness at bay. When in total tenebrosity, we strive to sleep, to regain vibrancy in our dreams.

Our distaste for the darkness has even shaped our language. White magic will heal you. Black magic will hurt. A white knight will help you. A black knight will harm. Blackouts hide drunken misdeeds from your memory. You blacklist, blackball, and blackguard those you want excluded, and blackmail those whose money you covet. If you’re believed to be truly evil, some will label you a blackheart. But what of those individuals of African descent known as blacks?

Is it so much of a stretch to assume that humanity’s collective unconscious, which has long associated blackness with wrongdoing, has prejudiced each and every human, blacks included, against people of African descent? Look at the arrest statistics. Look at the black-on-black violence statistics. Look at the slave trade that shaped the United States as we know it: Africans selling other Africans to Caucasians, to treat as beasts of burden. The reasonably intelligent transcend their innate bigotry and give blacks a chance to prove themselves great, but many people are dumber than shit.

Spade, darky, spook, shadow skin, and tar baby—just a handful of the racial epithets crafted to call attention to their skin coloring. Stereotypes about blacks abound even now, perpetrated by the media and black celebrities all too happy to portray themselves as drug dealing criminals for paychecks. Do those rappers and actors feel ashamed, knowing that their actions continue to negatively shape society’s assumptions, leading to more violence and deaths? Or are they blinded by millions of dollar signs?

It's time for humanity to finally embrace the darkness, to cherish the shadows with just as much gusto as we cherish the light. It’s time to stop focusing on black crime and see their race as it truly is, multifaceted and fascinating, just like all of the others are. I don’t want to see another black man begging policemen for mercy as they stomp the life out of him.

Limit horror to horror fiction, now and always.

Toby closed his eyes for a second, as if that could erase his past actions. What the fuck was I thinking? he thought. Suggesting that even blacks are secretly prejudiced against blacks…I mean, Drunk Me could be right, but holy fuck.

He checked on his follower count. Just under 10,000 the last time that he’d looked, it was now less than half that, and still plummeting. He was following less people now, too, indicating that hundreds of those unfollowers had blocked him for good measure.

He had gained a few dozen new followers, though, most of whom used Donald Trump as their avatars. Caucasian incels, the lot of ’em, Toby assumed, shaking his head. Should I block them or ignore them? Are they gonna purchase my books or attempt to recruit me for the Ku Klux Klan?

He checked a few more of his replies. “By ignoring the plight of the trans community, this post is advocating for violence against it,” wrote GenderOmega.

“Cisgender, straight, white men aren’t allowed to talk about race. We must take notes and nod when others tell us what to think, for the good of humanity,” wrote TheTrillestYT.

“Non-Caucasians can’t be racist. Racism belongs only to the devil race, our oppressors,” wrote HorrorHunkSteve.

Should I post a phony apology, see if that appeases these assholes? Toby wondered. Can I blame it all on the beer, maybe donate to a black charity, and be forgiven? Oh, what am I thinking? Most of these morbidly obese shut-ins have never sipped alcohol in their lives. They’re still cuddling up to their mothers, attempting to suck milk from their withered tits. If I so much as imply contrition, they’ll attack me all the harder.

Toby had seen it happen before. Two months prior, horror hack Oswald Mortenson had joked that a world without straight, cisgender, white, male authors was worse than a world without books and begged for forgiveness when the vox populi turned against him. He’d never been heard from again. Even his children disappeared from social media. Then, when Beauregard Liddell, owner of Burning Ladle Books, posted, “I’m sorry, but whites are the best horror writers,” then attempted to pass it off as a week-early April Fools’ Day prank, the publisher’s every author demanded that he cancel their contracts, and he’d retired in shame.

Damn, Toby thought, these whinging crybabies are probably leaving my books phony reviews now, to drive down their average Amazon and Goodreads ratings. He visited his Amazon Author Page and his mouth fell open in shock. There was only one title left: his self-published short fiction collection, Mementoes of Madness.

Fleshless Fingers, his every bizarro title, and every magazine issue and anthology that he’d contributed fiction to were gone. Revisiting social media, he found that all of their publishers had blocked him. Logging out of his account, so as to view theirs, he found that each had posted a press release decrying Toby’s racism, and vowing that he’d never work in the small press scene again. Those posts had gotten more likes and reposts than all of those publishers’ previous posts added together had.

On Goodreads, he found all of his best reviews and ratings absent, and his friends and followers lists drastically depleted. Is this how it all ends? he wondered. All these years of polishing my prose and working to gain a fanbase erased because I posted a single controversial theory? That doesn’t seem fair in the slightest.

He thought about it for a while. While his initial instinct was to crawl into a bottle of hard liquor, then score maximal quantities of whatever hard drugs he could get his hands on, that was quickly eclipsed by a blazing, crimson rage. No fuckin’ way, he thought. These weeping vaginas aren’t gonna make me a junkie. They’re not erasing my prose as if it never existed. I’ll self-publish all of my out-of-print stuff, then start writing horror again. I’ll search out freethinking readers and be more popular than ever.

If only it were that easy.

Cancel Toby Chalmers!: Chapters 4 and 5

Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Chapters 1-3 can be found at: https://www.goodreads.com/author_blog...

Here are Chapters 4 and 5.


Chapter 4


Eyeing his laptop as if it were a dog on its deathbed, Toby Chalmers read what he’d just written aloud: “Grandpappy reached deep into Grandmother’s white-maned punani, wherein he’d stored his dentures to keep them warm and fragrant, and retrieved thirty-two porcelain chompers that he popped into his mouth. The pair then beckoned me to sit between them on the couch. ‘Come here, sonny boy. Lemme tell you a story,’ said Grandpappy, ‘about how a simple sheepfucker invented the first condom.’”

Is this supposed to be funny or ghastly? Toby wondered. Have I no shame left within me? He consulted the clock. Well past dinnertime, he thought. I’ve been fleshing out this ridiculous narrative for hours. A tale within a tale within a tale within a tale, how complex. Good thing I had a large breakfast.

He saved what he’d written to a thumb drive and powered off his computer. Well, I’m too tired to have something delivered, but there’s still time to drink, he thought, making his way to the kitchen.

Toby had mostly given up drugs—no more cocaine, seer’s sage, mummy clumps, or opium—though he still enjoyed MDMA and marijuana at concerts. He exercised every morning to combat the effects of middle age. He’d cut caffeine from his life entirely and even given up sweets. Still, he couldn’t go a day without downing some beers.

IPAs were his favorite. Whensoever he went grocery shopping, any untried variety was an instant purchase. When feeling festive, he layered them in mugs beneath Guinness to make black and tans. Currently, his refrigerator housed eleven different options.

His absolute favorite was known as Aetheric IPA. Sadly, the homebrewing geniuses who’d brewed the stuff were now dead—part of a suicidal death cult, allegedly—and once Toby finished off the few he had left, there’d be no more attainable. Its fruity, floral flavor made every meal, even reheated eggs, feel like a royal banquet. When accompanied by no food, it eroded hunger pangs anyway.

“Well, there’s no time like the present,” he muttered, grabbing a cold bottle and uncapping it. He took a swig and wandered into the living room. He’d recently bought a new sectional sofa, replacing one that always smelled like a dog’s bed for some reason, though Toby had never owned a pet. Onto it he plopped, to bring his TV to life.

It was just his luck that a news broadcast awaited him. Current events were dour, as per usual. Four African American cops had killed an unarmed African American motorist, who’d run a stop sign without slowing in a low-income neighborhood. Footage showed them dragging the man from his Hummer H2 and stomping his dreadlocked head, again and again, as he begged them for mercy, for the sake of his children, then for the sake of his parents, spitting teeth shards with each uttered syllable. Bystanders filmed the assault with their iPhones, chanting, “Police brutality!” and, “Stop, you’re killin’ him!” All kept their distance, lest the bloodlust of those badge-toting sadists next target them.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Toby muttered. Though he’d been obsessed with horror fiction for as long as he could remember, real life horror always turned his stomach. Occasionally, it found him, and he had to endure it. Other times, it found others, and he could escape it by changing the channel.

On this night, however, a simple channel change couldn’t erase the sight of the brutalized man’s visage from Toby’s mind. Though he drank beer after beer and binged Rick and Morty episodes back-to-back, the man’s fading speech, growing increasingly dreamlike as his death’s certainty burgeoned, echoed through Toby’s noggin, hauntingly. The soil beneath Toby’s home, glutted with the blood of innocents since times immemorial, seemed to pulse, as if the continent was awakening and would soon shake civilization from its back.

To make his night even more depressing, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket and scrolled down his social media feed. Naturally, most of the posts that he encountered were reactions to the murder.

“He shouldn’t have resisted arrest!” wrote Zombifkr42.

“Your momma shouldn’t have resisted abortion,” replied ProudLinny.

“White supremacy at its worst!” wrote Uplizft.

“Everyone involved was black, though,” EqualityWhore replied. “If you wiped your ass too hard, you’d blame Caucasians for that, too, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, I am a Caucasian, so I’d be right if I did,” Uplizft countered.

“That explains the 666 birthmark on your head,” was EqualityWhore’s rejoinder.

Scrolling past an ad for a hat he’d already purchased twice, Toby then encountered SloopJamalB’s “Defund the police!!!!!!!!!” post.

“Then who’ll get your crackhead mother to stop licking my dog’s asshole?” replied NahDawgUTrippin.

“It’s a media hoax,” claimed 62BiscuitsYumYum. “Those aren’t even African Americans, just five Jews wearing masks.”

“I seent it! I seent it!” replied DonBibblestick.

“Crackers aren’t allowed to discuss this!” wrote DieWhitiesDieDie. “Let ’em choke on their forked tongues if they attempt to!”

Toby closed his eyes for a few moments, focusing his thoughts. With a series of deep breaths, he cultivated an inner stillness. Reminding himself that each and every post and reply that he’d read belonged to just one person, he chugged the last of his beer and forced himself to grin. “Let a better world start with me,” he said to himself, hoping that it might become his new mantra.

Now soused optimistic, suddenly sure that he could contribute to rational discourse and help better all of humanity, he began to craft a post of his own.

 
Chapter 5


Kneeling at his backyard’s east-facing edge, Lamonte Achebe pruned dead hydrangeas and branches, reveling in the morning quiet. His wife and daughters were late sleepers on weekends; there’d be plenty of time to fix them breakfast—grits and eggs with toast on the side, perhaps even freshly-squeezed orange juice.

One day, Lamonte would retire from his soul-shriveling insurance adjuster job and devote every morning to his flowers. He’d inherited his green thumb from his mother. The good woman’s ghost yet survived in his garden’s floral ambiance, he believed, shaping its heady perfumes and vibrant colors into something truly angelic.

Suddenly, the morning’s sanctity was shattered by heinous sonance: “Pick that cotton, you dumb nigger! Pick it until I say you can stop!”

Lamonte’s eyes narrowed; his hands squeezed into fists. He’d always been a large African American: nearly seven feet tall even in high school, just over three hundred pounds now. Ergo, even the most racist of racists had kept their words civil in his presence. Every time a cop pulled his car over, they took one look at Lamonte and let him off with a warning, unsure whether they were carrying enough ammunition to put him down, should he decide to attack them. Unasked, Caucasians told him of their favorite black sports stars, as if he was some dark totem come to life, and required oblations.

“Well, what are you waitin’ for, nigger?! I don’t have all day!”

Lamonte realized that the hate speech emanated from the backyard next door. Is that Joseph McCarthy Jr. I’m hearing? he wondered. Just a few weeks ago, he spotted me on the way to the mailbox and assured me that Snoop Dogg's Hood of Horror is the best horror anthology film ever made. I guess that the leopard’s showing his spots now!

Well aware that, with his size and strength, he could kill a man like Joe easily, Lamonte attempted to modulate his anger and tune out his neighbor’s bigoted outbursts. Then came, “That’s better, you dirty coon! Be good for your master and I’ll spare you the whip!”

“What the hell’s wrong with that man?” Lamonte muttered, carefully setting his pruning shears down and rising to his feet. I’d better put the fear of God into him right quick, show him that I won’t be bullied, he thought.

Lamonte peered over the fence and his mouth opened, aghast, the retort that he’d planned to unleash dissolving, unvoiced. The surreality of the scene before him made his surroundings seem most fragile, as if they might soon shatter to reveal that he’d been in bed dreaming all along.

There was little Shadrach McCarthy, he of the premature facial hair, now shirtless and shoeless, wearing only a pair of hand-me-down Bugle Boy jeans, which had been cut around the ankles to hang raggedly. Behind him loomed Joseph McCarthy Jr., dressed in a white suit, black tie, and well-polished Oxfords, gripping a replica of Catwoman’s Batman Returns whip.

Cotton balls covered Joe’s entire back lawn. One at a time, carefully, quite terrified, eight-year-old Shadrach picked them up and dropped them into the pillowcase he was carrying. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His lower lip was aquiver. What the hell’s going on here? Lamonte wondered.

“Nigger, nigger, nigger!” Joe shouted, cracking the whip so that the tip of it just missed Shadrach’s trembling buttocks. “Smile while you work, boy! You’re makin’ me nauseous!”

Okay, I’ve seen enough of this madness, thought Lamonte. “Hey, Joe!” he shouted. “Just what do you think you’re doin’?!”

“Keep going,” Joe said to his nephew, before sauntering over to the fence. To Lamonte, he said, “Well, hey there, neighbor. Fantastic weather we’re havin’ today, isn’t it?”

“Sure. A great day for an ass whuppin’, if ever I saw one.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think I’m cool with you shoutin’ the N-word? Next door to my house, where my wife and daughters might hear it? And don’t even get me started on this bizarre slavery reenactment.”

“Oh, come on, neighbor. How else is Shadrach gonna learn?”

“Learn what? How to be a sadistic, racist piece of shit?”

“Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Is that right?”

“Listen, man. Shadrach isn’t like me. He doesn’t empathize with other races. I even caught him laughin’ at an African American he saw on TV. So I thought to myself, if I make him experience a bit of the struggle that blacks have coped with in America, he’ll learn to love his fellow man as I do.”

“Joe, so help me God, if you hurt that boy…”

“Have no fear, neighbor. He knows that I won’t really strike him. Once this is all over, we’ll go out for dinner, and he can eat whatever he wants to. I respect and value your opinion, though. Please understand that. My ears are always wide open for whatever you have to say.”

“I say stop this atrocity.”

“Just as soon as he’s finished.”

Lamonte’s eyes narrowed to slits. He wanted to hurl himself through the fence and crater Joe’s smirking countenance. This piece of shit probably thinks that he knows more about being African American than I do, he thought, just because he read a few leftist articles.

But as far as he knew, as fucked up as it was, Joe’d committed no actual crime. Sure, Lamonte could film the man’s sickening exhibition with his phone and release the footage on social media. Millions would hurl insults at Joe and scream for his cancellation. But then Joe would post his rationale to the applause of like-minded thinkers, and other Caucasian children would be subjected to cotton ball barbarism. Joe wouldn’t lose his job. He’d pat himself on the back for standing up to “anti-woke bullies” and author a child-raising handbook that’d make him rich. It was always dangerous to give the Joes of the world more attention. Lamonte would have to consider his next move quite carefully.

“Enough of this nonsense,” Lamonte grunted, turning his back on his neighbor and heading inside. As he slid his sliding glass door shut behind him, he heard one last bit of hate speech.

“Did I say you could rest, nigger?! I want a good day’s work outta you!”