Saying a book is better than Twilight is like saying a book is better than being eviscerated by dirty bums who dig through your intestines searching for half digested food.

Terrorists are Nice

Today I discovered that if you want to insult someone but don't want to sound like a complete bitch, you just add five magic words at the end of your rant: "Yeah, that Alicia girl is so weird. She wears combat boots with a mini and fingerless gloves. She has like no fashion sense whatsoever. Like where was she raised? In an alley by incestuous, genetic dead end vagrants?...I'm sure she's nice, though."

English Major lulz

(from http://www.photoblip.com/pictures/6085/your-english-teacher-vs-the-author.html)

I know, I know, "literature means something different to everybody." But I've never believed that wishy washy crap. I think the author has an exact point to make, and often the English teacher butchers it by projecting her own feelings of gender identity crisis, repressed homosexuality, and deep seated parental issues directly into the text, while the classroom just sort of nods in agreement so they don't look stupid for not agreeing. And then there's the Douche who will elborate on the teacher's ridiculous points while sprinkling literary jargon on his pompous illogical word salad: "Yes, I too thought the blue curtains were a reflection of Cynthia's repressed homosexuality and her inability to connect with her mother in a anally sexual matter. If you view this from a purely Lacanian point of view, the blue curtains are really just a part of the Symbolic Order, and further, if we apply the Deconstructionist view, the curtains are simply a stand in for something Cynthia cannot yet articulate, a barrier between her and facing the inner truths of her repressed desires to be a man."
Silence. We all look to the teacher. She smiles and nods. A few students gush, "Gosh, Stephen is smart."

Another Night on the Town

Another night on the town. Just girls and booze and lots of smoking and driving fast and people laughing like idiots thinking they’re so goddamn cool but really they’re just like everybody else. I’m sitting in the back of the car and we’re moving forty miles too fast in a twenty-five and the fat guy who is driving is smoking a Camel and he’s on top of the whole world, thinking he’s God, as the wheels seem to float off the ground as we reach 100 on the sixty and I’m staring out the window---feeling lost and empty---tracing my name on the fogged up glass, realizing I want to cry, but I’m so dead inside that I can’t. My “friend” James turns to me and he asks me if I want a smoke and I say sure because I can’t say no and I light up and I choke but then I ease into it, and every time I talk, I riddle my speech with “shits” and “fucks,” because I’m a shy weak fuck.

Just another night on the town. We’re driving on Main, and there’s all these empty souls just like us, standing around, chatting, lighting cigarettes, talking about how much they hate their parents, how much police officers suck, who they’ve fucked lately, what drugs they’ve tried--- some new drug I’ve never heard of. Collie parks the car on the curb and we crawl out and head toward this small gathering of blondes who are wearing bunny ears and smoking cigs and cussing and one girl has a beer bottle in her hand and they all have really glossy eyes and lips and I feel sick.

“What’s up?” one of the girls asks, and I’m not sure which one, because they all look the same.

“Just hanging out and shit,” Collie says, and it seems we end every sentence with “and shit.”

What you doin’?

Hangin’ at the mall and shit.

Goin’ to the movies and shit.

Just doing shit and shit.

And shit.

James is talking to me but I can’t hear him and this car with a loud muffler rattles by and I hear screaming and these sophomores stick their heads out the car and flip everyone off and smoke cigs and scream “SUCK IT!” and we all force dead laughter and James says something again, something about milf chicks, but I’m not sure, because I’m on lots of Demerol and Lexapro and it seems like everyone I know is on Lexapro, and Lexapro makes it so you can’t get it up, and I haven’t had an orgasm for three months now and I really don’t care.

One of the blonde chicks is talking to me and I take a drag off a cig and I pretend to listen.

“I’m thinking about getting a tattoo on my lower back. I’m like addicted to tattoos. It’s like crack for me I just want to get more and more and I love it when people notice them and compliment them and”

blah blah blah fucking blah

“Um...yeah...sure...whatever,” I say.

Collie is with some other blonde chick and they’re talking and he leaves with her and James is off somewhere else, in the dark, smoking pot with some junkie most likely and I’m just standing here with this plastic girl wearing bunny ears, thinking she’s the goddamn Playboy bunny or some shit. She even has a Playboy bunny tattoo on her neck.

God, I want to kill her.

Her eyes are glossy and stuck in this permanent dumb ass stare and she just keeps talking about tattoos and I look around, bored out of my fucking mind and shit.

She tells me she has a tattoo on her cunt. “Do you wanna fuck?” she asks, and I just shrug, and say, “Um...yeah...sure...whatever.” I’m in her car and I’m fiddling with my fingers and listening to Dashboard Confessional and heavy-metal and rap on the stereo. A song plays “we’re losing our souls” and tears run down my face and I wipe them away and the blonde cunt asks me what’s wrong and I say, “Nothing. Just drive. Keep your goddamn eyes on the road.”

She drives out to the middle of nowhere, in some field, and I look at her pasty face in the dark, smeared in gallons of cheap make-up. She reeks of perfume and hand lotion. She starts taking off her shirt and asks me to rip off her pants and I tell her to take off her own goddamn clothes and just continue taking drags off my cigarette. She has ugly flap-jack boobs.

Eventually we’re in the backseat and I can’t get it up and I’m getting pissed off and the next thing I know I’m putting cigarettes out in her eyeballs and she’s screaming and I punch her until she stops moving and breathing.

I remember the time I set my “friend” up with a girl who I knew was infected with herpes.

I remember the time I poked holes into my “friend’s” condoms.

I remember the time I rolled cyanide into a “friend’s” joint.

I remember the time I hung a stupid blonde in my shower and ate her out while she choked to death.

I’m sitting in some random restaurant with “the guys” and all we talk about is perverted sex and cars and girls and drugs and I stifle a yawn. The waiter is slow. I’m bored. I want to kill myself. James is talking about a girl he fucked tonight. He’s saying she was easy pussy or something and I tell them I killed a girl tonight and there’s this long awkward silence and then I force a smile and the whole table eases into nervous laughter.

My food is cold and I’m not hungry.

James talks about a new way of getting high. Collie talks about this girl he fucked with huge tits, but her cunt smelled like rotten tuna. Someone, I don’t know who, talks about his parole officer and detention and how teachers are stupid and cops are stupid and parents are stupid and how authority is stupid and I’m just staring blank eyed at whichever longhair prick is spewing this dribble and I am so fucking sick. I have a slight feeling of déjà vu and realize its just history repeating itself.

Just another night on the town.

Collie says he once fucked a religious chick and made her cry out Jesus’ name in bed and then someone, from somewhere, says, “We’re all going to hell.”

“Yeah, but we’ll party!” Collie laughs.

My stomach is twisting up in knots. “Who fucking cares.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who fucking cares,” I say. “You go wherever...and...that’s life. And shit.”

“Yeah.”

I take a sip of a soda, but my taste buds are so dull I can’t tell what it is.

My cell rings and I pick it up and listen to some girl I don’t know drone on the other end about how we never hang out anymore and that she’s mad because I’m hanging out with James and she doesn’t like James and I ask why and she doesn’t tell me and I say, “Um...yeah...sure...whatever” and hang up on her and then I go into the bathroom and smash a toilet seat.

Next thing I know it’s nearly three in the fucking morning and I’m at some party with a bunch of people I could care less about and I’m sipping spiked punch and these blonde girls are talking to me and they’re wearing bunny ears.

“Did you know that Lilly is going out with Drake?”

I feel myself twitching and I say so very numbly I don’t think anyone hears me, “Who cares.”

I remember the time I got drunk at a party and I started screaming at everyone: “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU ALL! I FUCKING HATE ALL OF YOU! YOU ALL THINK YOU’RE SO GODDAMN COOL! BUT YOU’RE FUCKING NOT!!! I WILL KILL YOU ALL! YOU WORTHLESS PIECES OF SHIT!!! YOU FUCKING GAY ASSHOLES!!!”

Everyone laughed. They said I was a fun drunk.

I listen to this guy talk about all the people he wants to kill. He wants to kill people who don’t drink or smoke. He wants to kill people who believe in God. He wants to kill anyone who’s a virgin. He wants to kill people who go to church. He wants to kill people who get good grades in school.

I tell him he’s a fucking piece of shit.

He lunges at me but some blonde holds him back and I tell him I’m just fucking with him and I go grab him a glass of punch. I drop a cyanide tablet in it.

I’m trying to fingerbang some girl but her pussy is too tight and I can’t get my fingers in. And I’m thinking I’ll probably tell some longhair in study hall that she smells bad down there. And this makes me even more depressed and homicidal.

A blonde girl shares a poem she wrote with me:

I see your eyes bleeding

I see your heart beating

I see everything that’s wrong with you

and more

I see that you’re a whore

I tell her it sucks and to shoot herself.

Someone asks me who I’m going out with and I actually say “your mom.”

I look at the other guys at the party and they all have long hair and they’re all laughing like junkies and I’m just sitting in a corner, trying to be ignored, and I keep drinking punch, and I feel woozy.

I get bored of the stupid repetitive sex jokes and the drama shit and guys kicking around soda cans for amusement and....

I leave and go to another party, in the next room, but I can’t tell the difference.

James comes up to me, and I think I already know what he’s going to say. He’s going to ask me if I know someone. Most conversations here start with “Do you know (insert name)?” And then it’s followed by a less amusing story about said person or perhaps some stupid rumor or some drama shit that I really don’t give a fuck about.

Two blondes are bitching about who slept with a certain guy and I am not feeling good.

“Hey, do you know that one Miller girl?” James asks.

“There’s a million fucking Millers.”

“Uh...she’s the blonde one.”

“Who cares.”

“Yeah. Who cares.”

Long silence.

“Who fucking cares,” I say again.

“Uh...yeah...I don’t know.”

“Uh...yeah...I dunno,” I mock.

Blah blah blah and shit.

There’s a long silence, and then James says, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with my life, man.” And since the topic of conversation isn’t perverted sex or girls or cars or drugs, I have no idea what to say, and I get nervous, and start fidgeting, lighting a cigarette, and and and and....

“Uh...yeah...sure...whatever,” I say, walking off into the crowd.

Just another night on the town. And shit.

Suicide Town

In an attempt to do something heartfelt and worthy with my writing abilities, I decided to travel to Pierre, South Dakota to investigate teenage suicide. It's a sad fact that 30,000+ teenagers commit suicide every year, the third leading cause of death for U.S. citizens ages 15 - 25. Pierre, South Dakota has seen its share of these suicides. In fact, there have been so many suicides, Pierre is becoming known as "Suicide Town."
I talked to Lacey Harwood, a student at Pierre High about the problem.

Me: You know who you remind me of?
Lacey: Oh, I always get this. Celine Dion, right?
Me: Uh . . . no.
Lacey: Well . . . sometimes people confuse me with that one girl. Aw fudgesicles . . . what's her name again?
Me: Hillary Duff?
Lacey: No . . . that girl that's in all those pornos.
Me: Um . . . I don’t know.
Lacey: I saw one of her videos in the backseat of your car. What was it again? Something about a runt? Runt on runt action?
Me: Uh . . . yeah. That's right. A documentary on pig fights. Not a porno. Anyway, I'm here today to talk to you about suicide.
Lacey: Oh . . . that's depressing.
Me: Well, yeah. But it's what I'm reporting on. So . . . we need to talk about it.
Lacey: Why does the news always have to be sad? Why can't journalists talk about happy things? Like . . . like about that man on Main Street who gives candy to the little kids and gives them free rides in his car.
Me: . . . actually, I think I did write about that last week.
Lacey: Awww, that's sweet.
Me: Yeah, not really. But anyway, let's talk about this suicide problem.
Lacey: Okay, fine.
Me: Okay . . . so uh . . . Pierre has become known as Suicide Town.
Lacey: I don't get why people are so depressed all the time. I don't get why people commit suicide. I think it's because they’re stupid.
Me: . . . Yeah . . . that's probably it.
Lacey: If you were smart you'd enjoy life. I mean . . . there's so much to do and experience. Why on earth would you kill yourself?
Me: Well . . . the most common reasons for suicide amongst adolescents are divorce of parents, physical or sexual abuse in the home, low grades in school, feeling worthless, rejection by peers, substance abuse, death of a close friend or relative, or the suicide of a friend.
Lacey: Sexual abuse? What are you talking about?
Me: Lacey, do you know anything about the outside world?
Lacey: I love cruising on my daddy's yacht and going to the mall in my BMW and buying twenty suuuper cute outfits at Abercrombie & Fitch. Oh God, life is just so amazing. Why give it up?
Me: You're rich.
Lacey: . . . no. Living reasonably.
Me: Lacey, not everyone has it as good as you. A lot of these kids who committed suicide had pretty awful lives. They probably suffered from clinical depression.
Lacey: Well, if they can't live decent lives, they don't deserve to live anyway.
Me: Lacey . . . that's horrible.
Lacey: Not as horrible as it could be.
Me: . . . what?
Lacey: Things can always be worse. At least we don't live in Russia and work in sulfur mines.
Me: What the fuck are you talking about?
At this point I was tapped on the shoulder by my publicist and he told me to not swear while performing an interview because it made me look unprofessional.
I told him to fuck off and get me a Coke.
Me: Lacey, some kids are abused in their homes and molested. Some kids go to school every day and get the shit beaten out of them.
Lacey: Molested? Oh, that's just baloney!
Me: Baloney?
Lacey: Those damn girls complain every time their daddies touch them. My dad touches me all the time. I don't mind at all when he tickles my fannywagon or my choochoo or my mellons. Daddy says those are my tickly parts.
Me: . . .
After that interview I needed a breath of fresh air, so I cruised around in my SUV and checked the town out. It was just your typical friendly small town. Children playing in the park, teenagers sitting in driveways drinking Coke, Grandma setting apple pie on the windowsill, white trash cookin’ meth in the trunk of their cars.
I got bored. I went to a nearby brothel and picked up Pierre's finest hooker and got a room at the Slee-Z Bag Inn and banged her brains out for about an hour, which was rather difficult since I had been masturbating the whole night before, but eventually, I had a weak orgasm and then sat on the edge of the bed crying. The harlot didn't care, so I put a gun to my head and contemplated pulling the trigger, but then I decided to kill the hooker instead and I put her head on a pail of ice from the machine down the hall.
Feeling dirty yet satisfied, I headed into the heart of Pierre once again and approached a group of guys sitting on their front lawn, all drinking Cokes. When they saw me they all quickly hid their Coke cans. Not sure why.

Me: Who are you guys supposed to be? The fucking Backstreet Boys?
Justin (dude with shades): Fux yizzle, my nizzle!
Me: Okay, Justin . . . what do you think about suicide?
Justin: I'm totally down wid it dawg!
Me: Um . . . okay. Who are your other friends?
Justin: They ma possie.
Me: Do they talk?
Justin: No, dawg! I seiz they ma possie! They only talk when I seiz they cans. I'm reprasentin'!
I'm glad I had already disposed of my violent/homicidal desires.
Me: Okay . . . uh . . . why are you down with suicide?
Justin: Peeps can do whatever they wants. If ya wanna pop yourself one in da head, fine . . . do it! Ya know what I'm sayin'?
Me: I smell gin.
They all looked at each other, still holding the Coke cans behind their backs.
Justin: Don't play wit me, dawg.
Me: Do you think drugs can cause suicide?
Justin: Fux no! Drugs make ya happy.
Me: But what about when you come off your high?
Justin: Then ya do some more!
Me: Until you eventually die.
Justin: Ya!
Me: Which is suicide in itself.
Justin: Whoa . . . I'm lost. Wait . . . what was that question about boobies?
Me: . . . uh . . . there was no question about . . . boobies.
Justin: Oh . . . you wanna hear us rap?
I quickly left.
I cruised around Pierre some more, stopped at a gas station, poured myself a glass of steaming coffee, held it between my legs as I drove, spilled it all over my groin, took our sweet Lord Jesus' name in vain numerous times, and then stopped at Pierre High for one last interview.
This is where I met Mrs. Takenalive.

Me: Uh . . . you . . . look . . . lovely, today.
Takenalive: What did you SAY??!
Me: So . . . how long have you been teaching here, MRS. TAKENALIVE?
Takenalive: What?!!
Me: HOW LONG HAVE YOU TEACHED?!
Takenalive: I taught Moses his ABCs. Ungrateful bastard went off into the wilderness and came back with these stone tablets and hung em up in the school. Thought he could tell me what to do!? Fucking bastard. I wouldn't have minded those rules if I wasn't fucking every Dick and Jerry in my classroom. I'm still trying to get those fucking things taken down.
Me: SO THERE'S BEEN A LOT OF SUICIDES HERE?
Takenalive: It's those damn violent video games and TV shows. That's the problem! It all started in the 20s when they introduced those damn moving pictures! That's when it all started. Those damn Flappers showing off their goods.
Me: WHAT'S A FLAPPER?
Takenalive: A girl who shows too much skin, asshole!
Me: HOW ARE VIOLENT VIDEO GAMES AND TV RESPONSIBLE FOR SUICIDE?
Takenalive: They make kids violent. And they end up killing themselves. And they're on all those . . . damn medications. And they're listening to those damn earmuff phones all day. And they're constantly reading Harry Potter. And they're all eating candy and sugar all the time and McDonald's. It all leads to suicide!
Me: MAKES SENSE!
After that shouting match, I again drove around Pierre in my SUV, and was slowly becoming aware that I myself wanted to blow my fucking brains out. I steered my wheel to the off ramp, to get the hell out of there, leave and never come back . . . but something dark and sinister touched my hand and I found myself driving aimlessly through Pierre, thinking of ways to off myself.
I sat down at a nearby park bench, watching a prepubescent girl buy weed from some shady looking hippie. I watched some mother yell obscenities at her children. I watched an androgynous-lookin’ guy get beat up by his “friends” . . . but I felt too numb to do anything about it. An older fellow joined me on the bench and I decided to interview him.
Me: So . . . they call this "Suicide Town?"
Guy: Yeah. I find it very degrading. This is a good town. A nice little town. I don't like the fact that people judge our town like this just because so many kids here have killed themselves. It's a nice town. A very nice town. With nice people. Good churches. Friendly people. Sure we have our problems . . . but it's a nice town. With nice people . . . who fear God.
Me: Oh God! I'm so fucking bored.
I put a .38 to my temple and pulled the trigger.
Guy: I mean . . . it's . . . uh . . . a . . . very nice . . . town.
He stole my wallet off my “dead body.”
In case you were wondering, I really wasn't dead. It turns out I had stuffed grape jelly in my .38 last night for some unknown reason. So I went back to my hotel room and watched porn.
No one had a good answer.
As I watched the blonde whores devour rivulets of cum from each others’ cunts, I thought that there were no simple answers.
Video games, industrialism, capitalism, abuse, divorce, the church, the government…I don’t know. All these answers felt myopic.
The whores on screen tangled in one another’s flesh, to the point I couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. All I saw was the vacant look of lust in their eyes.
I contemplated those lost. Thirty some thousand a year . . .
. . . and then I started sobbing, but at the same time, attempted to maintain an erection, numb the pain . . . but I couldn’t come . . .
. . . I thought about how I never felt my parents loved me. How they never loved each other. How I never learned to love . . . only hold my dick in my cold hands while watching whores violate each other in their naked, ceaseless dance . . .
. . . that’s when I realized . . .
. . . the world is a black empty hole . . .
. . . with nothing to fill it

The John and Kyle Chronicles: The Scrawny, The Bald, and the Ugly

This is how I greet my friend Kyle in an email. I suppose a "Dearest Kyle" would have sufficed:

Well, well, Kyle Joseph Hopkins. They told me you was back in town. Didn't believe 'em, so I had to see fo' myself. You really are a tough sonuvabitch ain't ye? Or just plain crazy bananas. I told ye to get yer ass on outta here, but here ye are, back fo' more.
You sure have a big pair o' mellons on ya, don't ye boy? Ye come swaggerin' back in this town like goddamn John Wayne after ye stole our money, slept with all our finest whores, gave them HPV, and poisoned our water wells.
Well, ye see here, boy. I don't take kindly to that kinda behavyar.
When I put my .350 Magnum in yo face and told ye to scadaddle, I thought ye got the message. But here ye are, your tongue in my gilly's twat, one hand on yer six-shooter, the other on yer cock. Well fuck me sideways. I can't believe it.
Now ye got two choices, boy. Ye can attempt to draw that six-shooter and shoot me in the neck, but I reckon you'll shoot yer slimy load on my whore's face before ye even git that gun halfway out yer holster.
They dun call me Johnny Fast Hands fer nothin'.
Yer second choice. Put that there gun in yer mouth and pull the trigger. It'll be more merciful that way. Because me...well, I'll take ye out piece by piece, boy. Shoot off yer pecker, then yer balls, then yer fingers, then yer toes, then yer asshole, then finally, give ya two lead eyes where yer soft-squishies used ta be.
What ya gonna do boy? It's yer funeral.

Love You Forever

I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong
I am not here to entertain you
I am here to kill you
Blood on the mind
Knife in hand
Coming up behind you in the night
Burying the blade into your pale skin
Blood froths in the oceans
Black seagulls scream
Their eyes brimming red with madness
Oh god oh god oh god
They fill the Martian sky like black bats
Swirling in tight circles overhead
Singing the song of death
God, you looked so beautiful when you died
Master of the universe
Knower of all things
Blood draining from your immaculate form
Onto the sandy beach
Crabs moved their stalks over your face
Pinched at your eyeballs
Oh glory glory!
Hallejuliah!
Teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget
You goddam whore
Sitting in the beach house
Drinking wine
Thinking I’d never notice the stains on your dress
What a lavish life we live
Near the sea
Near nothing at all
Out here alone
On the sands of time
Now all I have is death and murder on my mind
Nothing to do but sit and contemplate
Think about how you died
Eyes roll over white
Looking at nothing but angry-red sky
And the goddam seagulls
Oh how they flapped their little wings
And cried out to the heavens
“why oh why oh why?”
He didn’t love you
Not like I did
But it doesn’t matter now
I wonder if he’ll ever find you
Lying on the beach
In your bikini
Draped in blood
The crabs on your face
The sand in your crevasses
The moonlight in your blonde flowing hair
Used to smell like roses
Used to be so soft
After you came out of the shower
And lay down on the bed
Filling the bedroom with your warmth
But now you’re so pale and cold
And rotting rotting away
No I guess I could not keep you entertained long enough
Even though I am a poet
Such a goddam shame it had to be like this
Me alive, sipping warm milk
And you on the sands
The tide pulling you in
To black ceaseless waters
Oh well then
Farewell my love
See you in hell I shall
See you in bloody hell
The perfect place for you and me
I a murderer
You a liar
A whore
When we meet in hell
Well my dear
We can finally be together forever

The Girl in White (excerpt from Hell: A Novel)

THE GIRL IN WHITE

I’ve been sitting in Taylor’s tiny house on Sunset since five o’clock and it’s nearly five in the morning now, and I can’t believe I’ve just sat here for twelve hours doing absolutely nothing. All I remember is fucking Daniel in the master bedroom. Well, not exactly fucking: he was eating me out and I was sucking on his tiny cock (which he actually thinks is huge) and then he left to get some beers but he hasn’t been back since he left at around four-thirty and I know he wasn’t going to get beers, and I know what he was really doing, yet…I can’t seem to care.

Taylor is watching Seinfeld and we’re both fucked up on pot and hash oil and meth (which my brother says is composed of battery acid, bleach, and cold pills, and I was like: “I gotta try that shit!”) and a couple of times the TV has floated at me and my heart started hammering but then I just figured it was the mixed pills and I tried to grip onto reality…but all I did was grip onto the chair and tear a hole in the arm and my teeth hurt from me gnashing them all the time.

I don’t know if I’ve fucked Taylor before or not.

He keeps turning to smile at me, and then turns back to the TV and simply stares into it with glazed eyes. My head is pounding as I try to remember…anything. I remember…Alexis and Clover were over. Alexis is Taylor’s fuck buddy, and Clover is Alexis’s fuck buddy, but I don’t think Taylor knows this, and Clover is also fucking Jillian, and Jillian is fucking this hot guy named Dillon, and Dillon is fucking this chick named Sammy, and Sammy is fucking Leonard, and Leonard is fucking everybody.

I wonder who else Daniel is fucking.

I close my eyes and reopen them…but the room keeps blurring in my vision, and I can barely concentrate on Seinfeld. All the words are slurred and Elaine’s face is floating in front of me and I think we’re married…and Jerry is there…and so is George and he’s talking smooth…and…I can’t understand what he’s saying but I think he’s coming on to me…but George’s father interrupts us and then Doug and Carrie Heffernan show up somewhere and I’m really fucked up on hash right now.

I remember one time when we did ecstasy and I was worried we were going to get in trouble.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Taylor said. “That’s what makes it even more of a thrill.”

It’s a Saturday morning and the night before we went over to Anywhere and we were hanging out at The Post and some band called Bloody Cunts was playing and they sprayed red syrup all over everybody and I was feeling really sick and fucked up on heroin and the whole time Clover was hitting on me and I think she was drunk and she said she wanted to eat me out. I told her to go away and somewhere during the night I stumbled out in front of a car and almost got hit and someone yelled at me. And then…I was in a car…and we were driving…and everything was blurry…my eyes were watering…and I was moaning…because someone was touching my leg…but I don’t know who. I remember going over the bridge into Hell and sitting in Pizza Ranch for awhile and we ordered two pizzas and Daniel was telling me to drink this giant Pepsi because he thought it would sober me up.

And then we came back here…and uh…that was…wait…then we couldn’t have gotten back at 5pm. It must have been around one in the morning or maybe even two…but it feels like I’ve been sitting here forever, in front of this TV, but maybe…I don’t know. Maybe Daniel’s only been gone for five minutes and I’m just really fucked up. Maybe nothing happened. I don’t know.

Our weekends have become even more repetitive and dull than the school days. Taylor’s dropping out, Clover’s going to possibly end up in a group home for drinking, Daniel is doing ok, Jillian is too busy eating out other girls (and we all hate her for it), but I don’t know how I’m doing; all I know is that I hate that school and I hate the teachers and I don’t want to go back after Christmas break is over.

And then, I realize…Christmas break was over a long time ago.

I’m staring at the TV, and it slowly comes into focus, and it’s that episode where Elaine tells Jerry that she faked in bed with him.

Taylor slowly turns onto his side and winces at me. “Is it true…do girls fake sometimes?”

I nod my head, try and force sound out of my lungs. “Yeeeeah.”

“Why do you have to fake? I mean…sex feels good no matter what, doesn’t it? I’m just saying, when I’m up to my balls in pussy…you know…it feels good.”

Vomit rises in the back of my throat. “It’s different for girls. Uh…you have to hit…certain spots.”

“Like where?”

“Like the clit. You have to rub the clit. That’s where…it feels…the best—est.”

“What’s a clit?” Taylor says. My eyes are sitting dull and numb inside my head, and I’m hoping I misheard him.

“What?”

“What’s a clit?”

“You…don’t know…what a clit is?”

Taylor stares at me. “Yeah…but uh…what is it?”

“It’s the…thing girls piss out of, dumbass.”

“What?”

“You know…that…bump…between the lips…it’s like a really tiny penis.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you ever look at girls when you fuck them?”

“No.”

“What it is actually…is a…undeveloped penis.”

Taylor has this really sick look on his face and it makes me want to burst out laughing. He’s so gullible.

“Girls have tiny cocks inside their pussies?”

I laugh and nod my head. “Yes, Taylor. They do.”

“Oh my God, that’s disgusting. Are you serious? Are you fucking with me?”

“No…I’m serious.”

“Show me.”

“I’m not gonna show you ya sicko!”

We sit there in silence and Taylor is shaking his head, staring at the TV, and the whole room is spinning again and I feel horrible. Something is throbbing behind my eye and the hot pain fills my entire head. I feel like I’m going to die.

“God…I have a headache.”

“You know what can cure a headache?”

“What?” I ask.

“An orgasm.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I mutter, placing a hand over my eye.

I peek through my fingers and there’s some kid in a giant coat walking up the front steps of the house and my heart starts hammering, but then I realize it’s just the paper boy. He puts the paper in the Tribune box and then just walks off.

“Who is that kid?” I ask.

Taylor gets up off the floor and peeks out the front window. “Uh…I don’t…yeah…I think he’s in one of my classes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jack…Prince something.”

“Delivering papers…out in the snow…must suck.”

“He’s…a quiet kid. I don’t know. He’s weird. Did you know that fifty percent of shy kids grow up to be serial killers?” Taylor lies down on the floor in front of the TV again, turns and smiles at me, and I just stare at him, not sure what to say.

“Where…did you hear that?”

“The internet.”

“You think…he’s a serial killer?”

“I think anyone’s capable of killing someone. It’s the people who say they’d never kill anyone that end up doing it. They…something invisible drives them…and…it’s like…they don’t even know what happened…life changes from moment to moment…and sometimes changes are so sudden…and you have a dead body in front of you…and there’s blood on your hands…and you get a taste for it.”

I shake my head, putting a hand through my hair. “He’d never kill anybody. I think…I’ve seen him before. He wears these…Christian shirts sometimes. I think he’s a Christian.”

“If you’re a shy Christian that means you’re seventy-five percent more likely to become a serial killer.”

“Where do you get this bullshit?”

“The internet.”

I’m staring out the window, watching the snow fly by, and I’m feeling very cold, yet my chest is pounding with heat, as is my head. Throbbing.

“I wonder what he’s doing right now?” I ask myself.

“Delivering more papers.”

“What do you think he’ll…do after that?”

“I don’t know…go to bed…read his Bible.” Taylor starts laughing.

There’s commercials on the TV, yet Taylor is still staring into it. My eyes are sore and I have to close them. I can feel the room spinning inside my head. Or maybe it’s my brain.

“People don’t come over to Hell,” I say.

“No…they don’t,” Taylor says.

“We go over to Anywhere all the time…but people…don’t come over to Hell.”

“That’s because this is a shitty town.”

“The mayor tried to close down that porn shop…did you hear about that?” I ask, not really caring. I’m bored out of my mind. I’m just talking…because I can…and I don’t want to listen to the TV.

“I got Dillon a plastic vagina from there once. It was ribbed and shit. I don’t think he ever used it.”

“A lawyer came from New York to try and keep it open,” I mumble. “Why would a lawyer from New York come to North Dakota to try and keep a porn shop open?”

“I…don’t…know,” Taylor says?

“The mayor’s family…was…uh…getting…” I don’t remember what I was talking about.

“The mayor died, didn’t he?”

“They found his body cut up into five different pieces and thrown into the sewer.”

“Hell’s been floating on toxic waste for thirty years. Can you believe that shit?” Taylor says.

“No,” I say. “I guess I can’t.”

We sit there in silence and continue to watch Seinfeld and I yawn and my eyes droop shut. I am so dead inside. So fucking empty. When Seinfeld is over, Taylor sits up and clicks the TV off.

Silence. There’s this maddening silence that just overwhelms the room. It drives me crazy. I don’t know why. I start shaking, squeezing my hand into a fist, hoping Taylor will say something, anything…but he doesn’t. I feel so sick inside and my head is pounding….

I think silence makes you realize you’re alive. So many of us live without actually realizing we exist.

In the silence, I can hear blood pulsating through my veins, I can see the dirt-caked pores on Taylor’s face, I can feel the fabric of the chair, the coldness of the room, the breath moving in and out of my lungs…everything is so vibrant…and it’s driving me insane. I need the noise to cover up the fact that I’m alive, that I’m living in a fucked up world.

If I could shut off my thoughts, then I guess I’d realize…how very alive I am. I could pick up a gun, feel every tendon in my hand twitch, fluctuate, every blood vessel pumping, my heart beating, my brain processing information, sending nerve signals to muscle, muscle reacting to muscle, nerve to nerve…and then the gun at my head, the clicking of the trigger, the loud explosion, the gun powder, how it reacts, the stench, the blood spraying everywhere, the death of existence, everything shutting down….

“I drove past the school once,” I say.

“What?” Taylor asks, sitting up on the floor, lighting another joint.

“I drove…past the school once…into that neighborhood.”

“Why?”

“I was curious…what was out there.”

“What was out there?”

“It was like a maze…of houses. And…I became trapped…and I didn’t know where I was going, and I was panicking…and I thought that maybe…maybe this maze of houses went on forever…and maybe there was something beyond Hell, maybe some magical city of gold…out there…somewhere…once you reached the end of the maze…but then…I just followed this one street…and I saw the school again…and I was still in Hell…and I uh…I started crying.”

Taylor stares at me with wide black eyes. He puts a hand through his long hair and then gets up on his knees and tries to hand me the joint. I shake my head.

“That’s…really weird. Uh…you’re really deep. I think the uh…pot is making us…you know…more observant and smarter and shit.”

“You think so?” I ask.

“Uh…yeah. I mean, uh…yeah. Pot makes you smart. It…increases your…senses. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You’re…hot.”

“Uh, thanks.”

Taylor smiles. “Yep. No problem.” He sucks in on the joint.

“Taylor…why do we have freshmen in our school? And how come Anywhere doesn’t?”

“I…don’t know. I hate them. They’re very…pathetic…you know? They’re all…so very…desperate…to have a boyfriend or girlfriend.”

I nod my head. “Yeah. They are.”

“I mean…what’s the point? Why can’t people just…fuck whoever they want? You know what I’m saying? Everyone’s so…fucking uptight. I mean…if you see someone you think is…hot…you should just be able to go up to them and ask them if you can fuck them. And they shouldn’t be offended by it…I’d take it as a compliment. I mean…for Christ’s sake! Someone wants to fuck you! And if they don’t want to, then you just don’t. And…it’s as easy as that.”

I stare into Taylor’s dark eyes. The room is spinning. “Yeah…but…fucking…has become so dull for me. It…really doesn’t…have any meaning.”

“Fucking is the best thing God ever created,” Taylor says. “It’s…uh…a beautiful thing. I’ve fucked ugly girls before. You know…someone needs to fuck them. I have no problem with it. I mean…I had to get pretty drunk to enjoy it….” He bursts out laughing, snorting. I just stare at him. “Everyone needs lovin’.”

“We are really…we talk about…stuff when we’re high, Taylor. We can never talk like this…when we’re not high.”

“See what I mean?” he says.

“When you see a hot girl, what’s the first thing you think?”

“I want to fuck her.”

I cringe, try and readjust myself in the recliner. “What’s uh…the second thing you think?”

“I want to fuck her.”

I just sit there, and it’s silent again.

“When you…uh…first did it with Daniel…did you actually…go all the way? He said you…sucked his dick.”

“I sucked his dick,” I say. My head is pounding and my hands are flinching and I’m bored out of my mind and I’m sick of talking about this shit and I feel completely empty.

“Oh…kay. Why?”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“How many…people have you fucked?”

“I…don’t know,” I say.

“Do you like Daniel?”

“No.”

“Do you…care about him?”

“No.”

“Do you care about me?”

“Not really.”

Taylor just sits there, and there’s a sound from outside, and I’m thinking Daniel has come home, but then I realize it’s just a cat. It quickly runs off and I’m watching it run away, scamper off into the snow, and for some reason I wish I was that cat.

“Why do you…hint around about things so much, Taylor?”

“What?”

“Why can’t you just say what you want to say? Why do you always have to hint around?”

“It…uh…makes things…easier?”

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?”

Taylor nods his head.

“Do you want to fuck me now?”

“Yeah,” Taylor smiles, and he’s actually salivating, like a fucking dog.

“How ‘bout I suck your dick?”

“That’d…be good.”

I slowly get up from the chair and stumble toward the master bedroom. Taylor already has his pants down, and I kneel down in front of him, put his cock in my mouth and suck, moving my tongue along the shaft, and he’s breathing hard, but he’s not moaning.

“Suck harder,” he says.

I suck on it hard, bobbing my head, running my tongue under the head, even playing with his balls, and then Taylor starts moaning.

“OH! Oh! Oh…hey…what’s your name?” he asks.

I stop sucking.

“I uh…always call you ‘the girl in the white shirt’.”

My mouth is sour with pre-cum, my face and chest are burning, and all I know is that one moment I have Taylor’s dick in my mouth, and the next, I bite down hard and there is this crunching sound and hot blood sprays into my mouth and Taylor’s on the floor, screaming, crying, and I actually have his dead, lifeless penis in my hand, and it’s shriveling up, growing cold, and I sit on top of Taylor and I shove the cock into his mouth and grab his sack and squeeze his balls and tell him to “FUCKING EAT IT!!!”

I bite into his testicles and they burst open with a loud popping sound and red jelly-like shit splatters my face and then white gunk comes spraying out near his rectum and I think I’ve ruptured his prostate and Taylor’s screaming: “MY ANUS HURTS!”

And I’m thinking about that band we heard play last night: Anal Blast.

I take his torn up testicles and shove them down his throat and I make him eat them. There’s blood and shit and semen and piss all over the floor and I’m sitting above him, my white shirt stained red, and I lean down into his face, and I whisper into his ear: “My name’s actually Sylvia.”

READ THE WHOLE NOVEL.

Hell Review from Graham Worthington, author of Wake of the Raven and Zorn

In the town of Hell, North Dakota, seven teenagers lose their souls in a cesspool of drugs, sex, and violence.
These are the best years of your life: Football games. Dances. Romances. Drugs. Parties. Sex. Hate. Murder.

In the town of Hell, North Dakota, seven teenagers lose their souls. After a cruel prank causes a girl to commit suicide, their lives spiral out of control. At the junior prom, none of them may survive, when a gun-wielding maniac seeks revenge for the girl's death.

Now available from Amazon.com and Kindle!
http://www.amazon.com/Hell-John-R-Lindensmith/dp/1463613385/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1310274975&sr=1-1
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B005BT6E3M
Also, purchase the novel for Nook, Kobo, Sony Reader, and other ebook formats here: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/71307

Barnes&Nobles: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hell-john-r-lindensmith/1104086414

Here's a review for this crazy adventure, from Graham Worthington, author of Wake of the Raven and Zorn:

"Hell the town's called, and a hellish picture Lindensmith paints of its high school. It's not long since this young author was himself incarcerated in one of these Halls of Learning, and grim places they must be, if they at all resemble his fictional, small-town school, where all the cruelty and confusion of youth comes together in a satanic dance that culminates in nihilistic slaughter.

The outer hell of high school is mirrored by the fiery pits of anger and emptiness within each of Lindensmith's characters. Shallow, pointless sex, often between people who loath each other, the confusion of recreational drugs and quick-fix psychiatric medication, the jealousies of possession and lust, the rigidity of pseudo-macho ideals. Sometimes love is found in this cesspit, and then as swiftly lost, to be replaced by unceasing sorrow.

Incessant bullying stokes these inner fires, and is usually performed by characters who writhe with self-doubt, themselves the victims of bullying or humiliation, while a mocking, ignorant teaching establishment ignores the rising hatred and terror. Nor is this climate of grief relieved by the "Christians" also boiling in this stew; hypocrites, who drone out trite formulas lacking the force of any kind of depth, values, understanding or commitment.

All the foulness that can happen populates the pages of Lindensmith's Hell, a hideous compression of small town evil, and Lindensmith's writing deals in no half measures. But how much does the novel reflect real life, and how realistically describe the hell that would exist if our worst desires were always made true?

Exaggerated? Unlikely? So you or I might say. But the realities of such massacres as Columbine High School say otherwise, with a far louder and far clearer voice.

As an avid reader and writer, I'v followed the progress of this emerging writer since his publication of Mystery Man and was eager to read and review this new novel, which I now have. And I tell you in all seriousness, I now need to go find a peaceful, dark place, and lie down for a while."

End of the Road

Got no one to impress

No one to undress

So I reckon I’ll have another drink, my friend

You’ve seen the weather?

I’ve seen better

There’s a storm a comin’

Gonna wash the dirt away

Reckon I’ll wash it down with another gin, my friend

Hmmm…what’s that? Why’s the Miller boy cryin’?

Hmmm…well, I reckon it’s his dog Scraps

Died last night

Hit by a tow truck that never stopped

Reckon the Miller boy just realizin’

that everythang’s tempo’rary

And it ain’t easy bein’ six

‘scoverin pain for the first time

Realizin’ the equations is cold

And I reckon you should pour me two shots, Joe

Two shots to forget the too much I know

And didja hear? That Ol Henry died last night?

Syringe in his eye

Too many horses in the blood

Lost his wife and job last year

A goddamn shame

Hmmm…you know what?

I’ll have one more for the road

And where it goes

Oh my dearest friend,

I needn’t be told

I already know

I’ve seen where it goes

I’ve seen where it goes

I’ve seen where it ends