A Tale of Terror Part VIII: Never Hold a Grudge

[... in case you need to catch up: Part VII: Night of the Living Phantasmagoria]

The orbs hit my face with a greasy splat, before they split open, spilling chicken sandwiches all over the floor. The little hooded midgets immediately start pushing each other fighting for the pieces on the floor. Those who were quick enough to grab a piece, noisily slopped it into their greedy mouths.

“Eat mor chikin!” screamed the crazy delusional completely out of touch old kook of a man.

“Dan Cathy, I wouldn’t eat your piece of Shit-Fil-A sandwich if it were the last thing on this planet,” I said with disgust as I wiped a pickle off my cheek. This pisses off the little hooded midgets and they begin to claw and scratch at my legs. I kick two of them down and as they hit the ground their hoods fall off, revealing the overly pageanted faces of Sarah Palin. “Freaky ass clones that you can control with your shitty food?! It all makes perfect sense now! But aren’t their robes the wrong color? Were you all outta bleach?”

“Families! Families! Each mor chikin!” he screamed again, this time at the freaky Palin clones. At which point I had just about enough, so I strode over and punched the idiot square in the face. Now, being a lady, I’m not one for violence, but when you get chicken grease on a bitches face, you had best bet there are going to be repercussions, and besides, the guy is just a dick. After I cold cocked him, I turned and was out the door before he hit the floor.

I thought about going back to Joseph’s place, but by that point in the evening, I was just knackered. So I went home to my downtown apartment, figuring that I would just give him a call in the morning and apologize with some story about how I couldn't find cigarettes and that I need to go home to get my nicotine patches. Then of course I would have to get some damned nicotine patches, the lengths I go to keep my story straight.

After a long shower, I crawled into bed with a nice warm bowl of split pea soup and a copy of Morrissey’s latest zine, “You just haven’t Zined it yet, Baby.” It’s really funny stuff, especially when he goes off on the Queen or China, but mostly he just draws silly pictures of Johnny Marr pooping in public places. Anywho, so I was reading when there was a tap tap tapping at my window. So I got up and see that fucking Carl followed me home like a total fuckin’ creeper. Oh, and I live on the fifth floor, and he was the undead.

“Beat it, Carl,” I say through the glass.

“Let me in,” he says meekly.

“You ain’t the right one!” I say as I close the blinds. I turn to go back to bed when he crashes through the window. “What the hell?! You can’t do that, I didn’t invite you in!” I yell.

“I’m not a vampire, dummy! Get your damned plot points straight,” he growls.

“Get out, the power of Christ compels you!” I scream, throwing the bowl of split pea soup in his face.

“I’m melting!” he begins to wail as he falls to the floor. “I’m allergic to gluten!”

“There’s gluten in split pea soup?” I wonder out loud.

“Bitch, there's gluten in everything…” he trails off as he melts into a blob on the floor that sorta resembled Kevin Dillon. I would have totally laughed at the irony of it all if it weren’t so disgusting. I grabbed the mop and bucket from the hall and started to up the mess when the phone on the nightstand rang. 

“… ha ha bitch, you still have a landline... !” the Carl-Blob said sarcastically.

“Shut it,” I say, pouring that last little bits of split pea soup into the middle of Carl-Blob, who let out, what I could only hope was, a death rattle. “Yello?” I say, picking up the phone.

Then a chill runs down my spine when the caller whispers, “Seven Days…”

[onto Part IX: The Final Dream Warrior Child Master]

---

I scanned the cover of the October issue of Morrissey's Zine, for those of you who are looking for it. I think there is a link if you wanted to find the whole issue.

A Tale of Terror Part VII: Night of the Living Phantasmagoria

[... last time: A Tale of Terror Part VI: Revenge of the Darksided... ]

As Kris Jenner pushes the button on the box, my heart stops in my chest when the creepy old guy reveals the “1,000,000” written in gold glitter on the inside of the box.That bitch don’t need the money--I need the money!

“What the fuck? That’s some backwards ass ‘Twilight Zone’ bullshit right there,” I protest as Kris Jenner fans the money in my direction. “Whatever, let’s go Carl,” I say as I turn and trip over his recently deceased body. Well at least one good thing came out of this, that fucking kid was working my last nerve, it’s about time somebody killed him. I was about to leave his corpse there with Kris, but that bitch had already wandered off. I started to feel bad, well not really bad per say, more like suspect numero uno. So I had to do something with the body, and fast.

Luckily I spied a hand painted sign across the street that read “Pet Sematary." Really, what is wrong with these kids today? Goddamn kids just can’t spell for a damn. I blame Facebook… and Twitter… and the Republicans. And another thing, is it too much to ask to know the difference between "their," "there," and "they're," come on youth of America, get yo shit together. Anywho, I muster all of my strength and drag Carl’s body across the street to the sema—er… cemetery. Fucker was heavier than he looks, like he ate a bunch of stuff right before he died, and not marshmallow fluff stuff, like led shavings stuff, you know, the stuff that comes from China. I swear, even in death this brat was annoying the crap out of me.

As I enter the pet sema—fuck… cemetery, I spied the mausoleum and crematorium at the far end of the grounds. The lights were on at the crematorium, and some funky green smoke was coming out of the chimney, so I had to be stealthy so not to get caught. Then Fortuna’s Wheel began to spin in my favor as I spied an open plot just a couple of feet away. I chucked Carl's lifeless little corpse in the grave, and after a little cramming and stomping, I finally got him to fit. Then I added a thin layer of dirt to hide the body. It’s amazing what you can learn by watching Dexter.

“Welp, looks like yer gonna have some company in the afterlife, Winston Churchill,” I say out loud, reading the name from the headstone.  Man, what a stupid name for a cat, I think to myself, but then apologize out loud, as if the dead cat could read my thoughts. Stupid cats.

After taking exhaling a deep sigh of relief, the sky opened up and started to pour rain down on me. I don’t know what the funk was in that smoke coming from the crematorium, but it starts mixing with the rain, making my baby soft skin itch. I bolted toward the nearest shelter to take refuge, which of course was the damned mausoleum--not that it was literally a mausoleum for the damned, but damned in the frustrated sense of the word, like you know, the closest thing could have been a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, but no, it was a damned mausoleum--again, not for the damned.

The inside was dimly lit and the air was buzzing with an odd low frequency hum. Bored, I slumped down against the wall and watched the rain. While I waited for the rain to stop, a naked punk chick danced across the cemetery; I think it might have been Siouxsie Sioux. After a few minutes, the low frequency hum sorta became a little soothing, like a white noise with people quietly whispering me to sleep. Just as I was about to drift off to Nap-Nap Land, I spied from the corner of my eye, a gaggle of midgets… dwarves? Munchkins? Fuck, I dunno, whatever… little people dressed in brown hooded robes, running straight for me. “Well I’ll be damned; it was a mausoleum for the damned after all!” I thought to myself.

To make matters worse, just as I stood up [to get my tits out of grabbing range, after all, there's nothing creepier than fat midget fingers on my tits. Whatever, judge it you want... some people don't like clowns... some people don't like creepy ass robed midgets in a mausoleum... but anyway], a miserable looking old man rounded the corner, followed by flying orbs that zipped straight toward my face…

[... on to Part VIII: Never Hold A Grudge]

A Tale of Terror Part VI: Revenge of the Darksided

[Previously on... you know, if you missed "The Next Chapter Beginning"
but if you read it already, then good on you... here is the rest... ] 

“Be afraid, be very afraid.”

“Be afraid of what?” I ask.

“You’ll want to light a match before going in there,” Kris Jenner warned as she exited the pod. “I had Mexican last night,” she added with a deep and low belch. “So, Joey, are we gonna do this or what?”

“Look, Kris, I told you, I’m not making a sex tape with any of your daughters.” Joseph said.

“Yeah, bitch, now step off! He don’t care if your shows ratings are taking a dive,” I added just because.

“Okay, fine,” she said, scowling at me as she put on her purple zebra print hat. “You should probably call a plumber,” she added, pointing toward the pod with her pimp cane as she made her exit. Joseph started feverishly opening windows as the smell of Kris Jenner’s butt abortions started to seep into the room.

“I’m going to, uhm, step out for a quick smoke,” I say, pinching my nose. As I opened the front door I was greeted by some little kid wearing one of those small town sheriff hats.

“Hi, I’m Carl,” the kid said as he cheerily introduced himself. I was already annoyed by him.

“Hey kid, nice to meet you,” I say, “but if you’ll excuse me, I need to go buy some cigarettes to pretend to smoke.”

“My Mom told me to stay at the house.”

“Uhm, okay. So then you should probably be at ‘the house…’” I trail off giving him the universal “Duh, now get out of my way” look.

“I went to the barn even though they told me not to, and that I was supposed to stay at the house.”

“So naturally, you left,” I say, wondering if he isn’t a little touched in the head. “So, why don't you show me where the nearest liquor store is?”

We’re half way to the liquor store when a strange looking man creeps out of the shadows, clutching a plain black box that has a single red button on the top.

“If you push this button,” he says, holding the box out to me, “I’ll give you a million dollars, but--” he started, but I had already pushed the button.

“You owe me one million clams, sucka!” I squeal. “WHAT WHAT!? Suck on that Carl!”

“You have to let me finish what I was saying first, then, you can decide to push the button,” the man said.

“Fine, get on with it,” I say, waving my hand at him while thinking of all of the jet packs that I’m totally going to buy with a million dollars.

“If you push this button, I’ll give you a million dollars, but” he said, holding hand over the button before I could push it again. Which I was totally going to do, “somebody you don’t know, somewhere, is going to die.”

“Whatevs!” I say, pushing the button. “Now make with the million bucks.” The man then opens the side of the box to reveal a large “0” written in gold glitter on the inside.

“Aw, too bad, you shoulda called the Banker,” he says with an evil cackle. I begin to protest when he turns to Kris Jenner, who had been following us down the street trying desperately to get us to look at her, and offers her the same deal. She smiles at me maliciously, well, I assume it was malice, it could have been her shitty plastic surgery, and just as she pushes the button, I feel my heart stop… 

[Continue to Part VII: Night of the Living Phantasmagoria]

A Tale of Terror Part V: The Next Chapter Beginning

So I was skimming the back of the LA Weekly, looking at the missed connections [man those always crack me up, like the one that read "saw you masturbating in the bushes at Griffith Park, some people say I look like John Travolta, I'm totally not, swears, hit me up"] when I saw an ad for an open audition for a new film starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt. It was on Friday the 13^th, which was also Halloween day [oh, incidentally, never buy a calendar from the 99 Cent Store] and I didn't have any plans, so I figure I’d give it a whirl.

I show up, looking fly, as usual, only to find a slew of two bit whores waiting to audition. I take a seat next to Jennifer Jason Leigh, her hair is cropped short and for some reason has brought a puppy with her. I casually flip through a magazine that was sitting on the end table, but I'm only able to pretend to be interested the Highlights Maze for so long before I put the magazine down.

“Do you need a roommate?” Jennifer asks after I accidentally make eye contact.

“Er, no… I’m fine,” I say, noting that she is suddenly sporting a long blonde wig. I get up and check with the receptionist to see how much longer I have to wait. When I turn back, I see the puppy in Jennifer’s lap is dead. “What the fuck, Jennifer?” I yell.

“What? It was Bridget Fonda,” she protests. I glace over and Bridget, who is quietly sipping coffee making the universal “cray cray” sign by drawing invisible circles on the side of her head.

They finally call me in and Joseph is there, and I tell them about myself and he seems really pleased with me. When I ask what the part is, he tells me that he is actually looking for a girlfriend. I’m about to turn and walk out thinkin’ this is some whacky Tom Cruise Scientology bullshit, but then I stop think I could be totally down to Katie Holmes this guy for a couple of years and walk away with a cash prize. So I tell him sure.

We meet the next day and took a drive up the coast. We stopped at a place called “Last Chance Gas Station” and had some super yummy barbecue  That shit was so good that even when I found a hair in my pulled pork, I couldn't stop eating it, no lie. I mean, damn that was some good BBQ!

After we eat, I forget how it came up, I may have asked him how much cash am I going to get out of this when all is said and done, he tells me that he isn't a Scientologist, and that he just has a hard time meeting nice girls. I giggle, because I am a nice girl. So then he asks me if I want to go back to his place, and of course I’m down, because there ain’t no such thing as a nice girl.

So we head back to his place, which is one of those cool warehouse loft thingys. The first thing I notice when I walk in is a massive hideous painting hanging above the fireplace.  Well, that was the first thing I noticed after the two huge metal pod looking things in the middle of the room. I was about to ask him what was with the fucked up painting of Bruce Willis when one of the pods flashed and began to smoke. The door slid open with a mechanical whir and a grotesquely disfigured woman emerged from one of the pods saying, in a garbled voice, “Be afraid, be very afraid.”

Continue to Part VI: Revenge of the Darksided

Perfect Sample of the Droste Effect

The Droste effect — known as mise en abyme in heraldry — is the effect of a picture appearing within itself, in a place where a similar picture would realistically be expected to appear. The appearance is recursive: the smaller version contains an even smaller version of the picture, and so on. Only in theory could this go on forever; practically, it continues only as long as the resolution of the picture allows, which is relatively short, since each iteration geometrically reduces the picture's size. It is a visual example of a strange loop, a self-referential system of instancing which is the cornerstone of fractal geometry.

Don't get it twisted... I didn't write that shit... that's a cut and paste from Wikipedia.

My Two Cents: Annie Lennox

In light of the quote unquote "news" of Anderson Coopers coming out yesterday [I say quote unquote just to emphasize my sarcasm on the obvious that is in fact, not news, I prolly didn't need to say the quote unquote and just left it as "news" but I really wanted to drive that point home]... so yeah, in light of the "news" yesterday, I think it's high time that Annie Lennox, of Annie Lennox fame, finally comes out of the proverbial closet.

Now I'm not saying she is a lez or anything. I'm speaking of a different closet. It's time that the real Annie Lennox reveled herself as the proud Black Woman that she really is! I don't know who this White bitch they've been serving up for years is, but the jig is up! I'm on a crusade to wake the world up and show that she has been "Reverse Milli Vanilling" us for YEARS!  

  

My evidence is simple. If you have ever heard Annie Lennox sing, you know there is no way that voice is coming out of some White Bitch. I mean, listen to this shit [I chose this video to prove my point that any White Bitch could have been used... incidentally, why didn't Janeway and Chakotay ever sex each other up?]... : Walking on Broken Glass

There is too much soul there, ain't no way that girl is white.  Still doubt me, then give this one a listen: Ghost in My Machine

I rest my case. There is no way that Annie Lennox is a White Girl. I've got no ill will to that adorable little scamp that they've been carting out to us all these years. I mean that’s some dedication, she's kept that illusion up since those early gingery "Sweet Dreams" days... but come on Annie, it's time to drop the charade... !

Orange you glad... ?

I was stopped at a red light as I pulled off the 405, when I saw a gaggle of kids [eight of 'em to be specific] selling oranges on the side of the off-ramp. Usually I'm not one who is prone to purchasing my citrus from unlicensed off-ramp vendors, but I was feelin' a bit scurvyey [it's a word, look it up, PS, if you take the time to look it up, to can take the time to piss off while yer at it--sorry I didn't mean it, whenever I feel scurvyey I get a little irritable...].

"Hey kid, how much for a bag of oranges?"

"Five bucks," one of them says. I call her Mahalo, she looks like a Mahalo to me.

"So hey, where are your parents?" I ask, not to be creepy, but because I have no doubt that I can haggle these little twonks down to a buck fifty per bag.

"Our mom is over there," Maholo2 says, pointing at a crazy looking woman across the street. It didn't take a fool to recognize, by the severe haircut and sassy stare that'll cut a diamond, that is was none other than Kate Gosselin. But if you were a fool, you could tell by the sign she was holding that begged "I'm Kate Gosselin, Put Me On Television!"

Now I'm not one to play Child Protective Services, but, like I said, I was feelin' a bit irritable, so I pull over to the curb across the street in front of Kate. She sneers at me as I alight from my vehicle.

"You're blocking my view." She says with a growl.

"What'cha doin'?" I ask, but she just stares at me with her dead eyes. So I pop my iPhone out of my purse and start recording her with the camera. Her whole demeanor changed instantly as she lit up with a smile. A camera is like heroin for those affected by media whore syndrome, commonly known as Kuntrashian Disease.

"I'm just trying to pitch a new reality show, staring me, Kate Gosselin. After all, I need to maintain the lifestyle that I have grown accustomed to," she says. I look around and spy a homeless man using a twig wrapped in a candy wrapper trying to lure Mahalo4 [or was it Mahalo6?] into the bushes.

"Bitch, then get a job like the rest of us," I say, putting my phone away.

"My fans want me back on television!" she cries as the harsh reality of realness settles back in with the absence of seeing her reflection in the camera lens. I sigh as I get back in my car and drive back around to the kids. All seven kids pile in and we drive off down the street, leaving Kate staring blankly at a passing cloud.

"So where is your dad?" I ask.

"He's living in a van down by the river," Mahalo8 says.

"Lordy Lou," I sigh as I pull to the side of the road. "Out, get out, all of you! Yer all better off selling oranges by the side of the road." I shout, as they pile out of the car. I sit for a minute in the idling car as I watch them all slowly walking down the street. Something inside me breaks and I pull up to them again. "Gimme a bag of oranges," I say, handing them a five dollar bill. I didn't even try to haggle the down.