Saturday, January 7, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
A Mason resident called to report receiving subliminal messages he detected while watching a pornographic movie purchased in Jackson.
The complainant replayed the portion of the DVD in slow motion for the officer, who did note four words he could read and a series of other words that passed so quickly they could not be read.
The complainant stated he reported the incident only because he had read where Al Qaeda was inserting messages into pornographic movies...
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Al Bruno III
Warren learned that the woman with a monster's face had a grip like iron.
Mr. Sauno's face was less horrible than Ms. Ginnmett's, only the skin around his neck was torn but it was peeling away from his chin like the rind from an overripe fruit.
Once the door had been locked and Warren had been forced into a chair at the dining room table the questions began. First Mr. Sauno asked where he could find Isobel.
Staring with dull eyed horror at the bodies of his best friends and the two detectives Warren had said, quite honestly, that he didn’t understand the question.
And Mr. Sauno responded by grabbing hold of Warren's right hand and twisting the pinky back until it snapped off.
That was where Ms. Ginnmett's strong grip came in, she stifled the screams with a well-placed hand over Warren's mouth.
Warren watched the blood burble from the ragged stump, it stained his clothes and splattered on the linoleum floor.
“Now...” Mr. Sauno began. “Ms. Ginnmett is going to take her hand off of your mouth. I do not want to hear any screams. We are going to have a calm discussion.”
But the moment her hand was off his mouth Warren started shrieking, screaming for help, screaming for them to let him be, just screaming and babbling like he had gone mad.
And Mr. Sauno broke Warren's ring finger and pulled it off with a single sickening twist.
Then Warren wasn't screaming anymore because he had passed out again. He dreamed briefly but dream was tinged with red; he saw himself in a sandstorm choking on dust.
A splash of cold water woke him up again, he sobbed but he forced those sobs to be quiet choking sounds.
“Let's begin again,” Mr. Sauno said. “Do you know where your sister is?”
“No.” Warren's voice was a whisper, “I really don’t.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“You knew that?” Warren felt the room spin, “Then why did you-”
“Why to get your attention of course.” Ms. Ginnmett whispered in his ear.
Mr. Sauno silenced her with a look, “But you can still help us. Where would your sister go if she had to hide? Where would she feel safe?”
Warren tried to think of something, anything, “I don't know maybe her boyfriend-”
Ms. Ginnmett said, “Dead already.”
“Oh Jesus... oh Christ...”
“Anything else?” The man asked, “Anything at all?”
“She has a friend...”
“Does she now? A name Warren, I need a name.
What was it? What was her name?
“Cheryl Something?” Mr. Sauno ripped the middle finger off Warren's right hand, “Cheryl what?”
“Please please!” Warren started to scream and then caught himself, “Please don't hurt me anymore. I won't tell anyone...”
“No surprises there.” The woman said, “You haven't told anyone anything yet.”
“Helen.” Mr. Sauno said, “That was crass.”
“Please.” Warren begged, “Please.”
Mr. Sauno said, “This friend, this Cheryl, I need her last name,”
“Uh, I think, I think it's McGlade.”
“It is! It is!” Warren screamed.
Mr. Sauno frowned, “Didn't I say no shouting?”
From the site...
Joe Masucci is a freelance photographer in the capital region of New York. He has been behind the lens since he was fifteen years old. His cinematic style of shooting will bring your photographs to life in a unique and unforgettable way.
The man does good work, if you need a photographer look him up...
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
THE COLD INSIDE
By AL BRUNO III
Tuesday November 8, 1994
By remembering to keep low to the ground and follow the familiar landmarks he found his way to Monique Lermenos’s house easily. Back in the good old days his sister and her boyfriend had taken them out on double dates; mostly to movies and school functions but once they had made a day trip to Riverside amusement park.
Tristam smiled, those had been good times, some of the best.
The Leromenos family wasn’t anywhere near as rich as the Kasparys but the house they lived in was about twice the size of the homes on either side of it. Monique’s father celebrated his promotions by adding sections onto his house and he seemed to get promoted an awful lot. If he got promoted again the zoning board was most likely going to get involved.
Drifting over the threshold Tristam coasted through the foyer. He paused at the main stairway that led to the bedrooms of Monique and her four brothers.
That was the other thing about Mr. Leromenos. If he wasn’t making additions to his house he was making additions to his family, five kids and a sixth on the way. Thankfully the zoning board didn’t give a damn about that. Tristam always wondered what it was like to come from a home where the Dad had stayed, to come from a home where the father and the mother could still stand to be in the same county. If anything Monique and her brothers had seemed no more or less screwed up than any of the other kids at Blessed Heart.
There was a kind of comfort in that.
The first floor was dark save for the flickering of the wide screen TV that just barely fit in the parlor. One of her brothers, fifteen year old Alex, was watching a movie. His arm was around the shoulder of a bored looking freshman girl, Tristam took a moment to marvel at them
A date on a Tuesday night? Monique was right, her Dad does let the boys get away with Hell.
Mr. Leromenos had kept his daughter on such a tight leash that Tristam had been surprised he let her out of the house at all. Tristam remembered the way the man had stared him down whenever he came by to see her, silently critiquing him. Mr. Leromenos had never approved of Tristam Bloom dating his daughter. Maybe that was why Monique had pursued him with such ferocity, maybe he was her rebellion.
On the other hand, Tristam thought as he slid up through the first floor, maybe she loved me. Maybe she still does.
He found her in her room but she wasn’t asleep yet. Monique was lounging on the bed, wearing only a T-shirt and panties, reading one of those romance novels she couldn’t get enough of. Tristam watched her. His gaze traced the curves of her body, her slim muscular legs, her rich, full lips and her graceful features. The beauty of her pale skin offset by the dark red blotch that marked the place where her shoulder ended and her neck began.
Is that a hickey?
He drew closer, close enough to see every pore, every hair on the nape of her neck.
Jesus Christ it is a hickey! Jesus Christ!
His hand drew back involuntarily. If he could have struck her at that moment he would have but all he could do was howl voicelessly and launch himself through the roof of the Leromenos house and back into the night.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Forget Kenya. Never mind the secret madrassas. The sinister, shocking truth about Barack Obama’s past lies not in east Africa, but in outer space. As a young man in the early 1980s, Obama was part of a secret CIA project to explore Mars. The future president teleported there, along with the future head of Darpa.
That’s the assertion, at least, of a pair of self-proclaimed time-traveling, universe-exploring government agents. Andrew D. Basiago and William Stillings insist that they once served as “chrononauts” at Darpa’s behest, traversing the boundaries of time and space. They swear: A youthful Barack Obama was one of them.
Perhaps this all sounds fantastical, absurd, and more than a little nuts. We couldn’t agree more. That’s one of the reasons we love conspiracy theories — the more awesomely insane, the better. Each week during 2012, when the Mayans tell us to expect the apocalypse, Danger Room will peel back a new layer of crazy to expose those oh-so-cleverly hidden machinations powering this doomed plane of existence. Welcome — back — to Tinfoil Tuesday.
According to Basiago and Stillings, Obama isn’t just lying about his identity. He’s lying about his military service record, too. While his political opponents in 2008 attacked him for never serving, in truth, he was concealing his participation in a hidden CIA intergalactic program hosted at a California community college in 1980...
The trailer for UPSIDE DOWN promises us romance with Kirsten Dunst in a world where the girls are always on top...
...well not really but I can't resist a good double entendre...
Monday, January 2, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Price Breaks and Heartaches
A journal of retail and failed romance
The Creep On The Borderlands
Without Tallulah time seemed to slow to a crawl and the next few months were agony. I spent New Year’s Eve at home. A new President was sworn in but I barely noticed. School and my writing were all I had now and while my grade point average was slowly increasing so was my pile of rejection slips. I asked a few girls out over the winter break but had no success whatsoever.
I spent some time commiserating with Kevin K. Hanson and Marv. Coincidentally we had all been dumped by our girlfriends around the same time so we spent our Saturday nights talking about what we wanted from love and life. When that was done we would all pile into my car and take turns driving by each of our exes houses so we could shout obscenities and speed away.
Then in the spring I fell off the wagon.
We were proud of this year’s edition of the college literary journal. We weren’t proud of the job the printer did though, formatting errors led to several pieces being omitted from the table of contents. We printed correction sheets on bright yellow paper but that meant someone had to slip one of those pieces of paper into each of the five hundred copies of Rhythms magazine. That task fell to Will and myself.
There we were on a Friday night in a cramped little room doing our duty for art.
“How many have you done?” I asked.
Will ran his hands through his hair, “One hundred I think. I’ve lost count.”
“Thank god we’ve got music to help us pass the time.” I frowned, I hadn’t done half as many as him.
“Yeah about those mix tapes of yours.”
“I can make you copies”
“Actually,” Will said; “I was going to ask if you could just play the radio for a while. I mean I appreciate them, if not for you I would never have known there was a 12 minute dance remix of Don’t Pay the Ferryman but I just would like to hear some classic rock for a while.”
“There’s classic rock on these.”
“Hawkwind is not the kind of classic rock I’m talking about.”
I stopped the tape and fired up the radio, and tuned it to the local rock station, a Van Halen song was just wrapping up. Will gave me an appraising look, “Are you all right?”
“You still upset about Tallulah?”
“Nah. It’s just as well really, a stallion’s gotta roam free,” I grabbed another handful of bright yellow correction sheets and received another paper cut. Truly I was suffering for the literary world.
“Are you upset we didn’t put any of your stories in the journal is it?”
“No.” I said, “Not at all. I mean you’re idiots for not doing so but it takes a while for great genius to be appreciated.”
“You wrote a story about living asphalt.”
“It was a metaphor.”
“And another story was about a killer penis.”
I smiled, “A wry commentary upon the battle of the sexes in this modern age.”
Will placed another stack of magazines aside and got to work on the next set, “And the one about the kid that uses out of body experiences to get revenge on his enemies?”
“Ah yes, Tristam’s Horrifying High School Hi-jinks. I think that might be my definitive work. You guys really passed up a great short story there.”
“It was four hundred pages long. There is no such thing as a four hundred page short story.”
“Tell that to Stephen King.” I said smugly.
Will paused thoughtfully, “You should try to sell it as a novel but you’ve got to change that title. Maybe you should call it The Cold Inside.”
“Ugh. That is the worst title I’ve ever heard. No one would ever want to buy anything called The Cold Inside.”
The commercial faded from the radio and Just What I Needed by the Cars started to play. I had to sit down, that had been one of our songs.
Will shouted a warning, “You’re sitting on the books!”
The loose pile of poetry and stories collapsed sending me to the floor. Unfortunately my fall had mixed the corrected editions with the uncorrected, so it was back to square one. “Another thing,” Will said, “every story you submitted had a red haired girl being killed in a grisly fashion.”
“Really?” I couldn’t look him in the eye. “I didn’t notice.”
“You need to blow off some steam, this thing is eating you up.”
When the song ended I breathed a sigh of relief, “I appreciate your concern but I am working through it.”
The worst part of losing Tallulah was not understanding what I had done wrong. Was it the fact I still lived with my parents? Was it my comic book collection? Was it my unwillingness to make love outdoors? Sure we tried it the one time and everything was going fine until a mosquito decided to sting me on the scrotum. That had really thrown me off my stride.
Of course being allergic meant that the swelling the next day had been pretty damn impressive.
“You used to play D&D didn’t you?” Will asked.
I smiled a little, “Dungeons and Dragons, Call of Cthulhu, Champions, and Chill. I did it all in high school.”
“I’m in a D&D game. You should join us.”
“I don’t know.” I inhaled deeply, the air in the room smelled like sweat, farts and cheap ink. It kind of reminded me of a game store. “It’s been a while.”
“Oh come on, you can meet some new friends with similar interests.” Will said, “I’ll bet you’ll have a great time.
Role playing games… again… at 22? Why not? I thought to myself, There's nothing wrong with just one game is there?
“OK sure.” I grinned, “Just so long as there are no weirdoes.”