Bathroom Monologue: Wrestler in Black

To listen to today's story you can click the triangle on the left to begin streaming or click this text to download the MP3.

"You see that man in the corner? Seems like the type to sit in corners, doesn’t he? Black singlet, black boots. I think that’s mascara around the eyes. You’d never think that last year he was the most colorful character in this locker room. Had lime green tassels on his armbands. Came out to Rush, high-fiving everybody.

"Hard worker. Was then, anyway. Got onto his first shows offering to set up and tear down the ring. Worked the merchandise tables for the privilege of wrestling for free. Never understand why marks want so bad to fall on their heads. You’ve got to pay my ass to get me here.

"I was there the afternoon he got lucky. Was some big Japanese star, come over to the States on an excursion. That’s Japanese for “easy money.” This guy, don’t want to name him, was showing off to the rookies. Showing them his most dangerous moves and holds. That sulking man over there? He laughed at the name, of Rear Naked Choke. It is kind of a silly name.

"So the Japanese star invites him to try escaping it. Kid says, 'Sure.'

"Japanese star stands behind the kid. Wraps an arm around his neck. Braces his wrist with the other. Legs circle the kid’s waist, drags him to the ground. Kid’s got no leverage. Thrashes around, throws meager elbows into the guy’s side. His hand went up like he forgot it was there. Faraway look in the eyes and all that. Thought he was doing a bad job selling it until we realized why he wasn’t moving. Even his ribs had stopped working.

"Crap show like that, the only medic on sight was on the other side of the building. Kid might have been dead three minutes before they brought him. Pounding on his chest on a canvas mat he’d rolled out earlier that day. It was a miracle when he started sputtering again.

"After getting flashlights in his eyes and saying the day of the week, he rolls out of the ring. Staggers behind the curtain with the same glassy eyes he’s got now. He didn’t make a stink. Nobody complained. Japanese star finished his excursion. Went home. Is on TV there, I hear.

"Kid went home. Came back the next weekend for the show, with that getup. Thought he was trying to play us at first. Says he doesn’t want entrance music. Comes out to awkward silence. Even the fans who like to chant nonsense felt it eventually. Where once he was flying around the ropes, now he moves all methodical.

"Nobody’s had a three-minute conversation with him all year. Works his match. Takes his money. Goes wherever his home is. Is he playing the character to you and me? Other wrestlers say so. But they sure look nervous when he wraps his arm around their necks on his finisher. And they aren’t that good at acting."

Bathroom Monologue: Try a Sugar Pill

Do you suffer from Dry Mouth? Restless Legs? Do you wander your kitchen at two in the morning, scrubbing the counter for what might be residue, even though you rationally know they’re just bumps in an old surface?

Try Sugar Pill. In clinical studies, Sugar Pill did not cause shortness of breath, rectal bleeding or severe ulcers. Sugar Pill has been proven to not cause drowsiness, anxiety or violent marital strife. In some cases Sugar Pill did not cause stroke or stroke-like symptoms. People with heart defects complained of no change in their dispositions.

Sugar Pill works using a revolutionary technique called “your digestive system.” It goes to the same place where all the food does, and stays there. Sometimes it makes friends. It never makes side effects that are way scarier than what it’s supposed to cure.

You can operate heavy machinery while using Sugar Pill. If you're diabetic or may become diabetic you should talk to your doctor before trying Sugar Pill. Ten out of ten doctors claimed sugar pill had no negative side effects. More than ten doctors were unavailable.

Bathroom Monologue: He Wasn't Ready

He banged on the bedroom door again, louder this time so maybe Grandpa's hearing aid would pick it up.

"For the second time, Mom wants you in the car. We’re late."

The door swung inward. There were a lot of surprises behind the door. Grandpa in only tighty-whities and a silver crucifix was one. The look of animal revulsion in his face was another - he'd looked a hundred kinds of pissed in his existence, but never this way. And then there was the gun, the ancient service revolver that Grandpa pushed into his grandson's breastbone.

"You know what happened when I wanted my mother? She died having my third sister. When I wanted food, the world gave us a Great Depression. When I wanted to stay out of it, the Japs bombed us and the draft was on. When I wanted to finish school on the G.I. Bill, she got pregnant."

"Grandpa, what the f--"

"You fucking swear at me in the house I bought? When my first boy was born and I had his room set up for sports-everything, then he came out with only half a foot. When we were supposed to take a second-first honeymoon to Niagara Falls, Sissy got the measles."

He didn't even try to interrupt now. He raised his palms, imitating a submitting bank robber. Maybe it would get the crazy old man to lower the gun.

It didn't.

"When I told your grandmother I didn't like smoking, she said she needed something to cut the stress. When I asked her to see Schmidt about that cough, she said next month.” He stamped his heel on the redwood planks. “When I got down on this floor and begged her to take the chemo, she said it wasn't dignified."

Grandpa shoved the muzzle into him like a steel finger, sending him far into the hall. The old man retracted his gun, rubbing it across is sagging chest.

"No. I will go to the funeral when I am fucking ready. I see you once a year, and the next time will either be Christmas or my God-damned funeral, so if I hurt your fucking feelings, go sulk in a corner." He actually pointed to one, with the empty hand. "You go there and you wait for me to be ready."

He withdrew the hand, catching the edge of the door and closing it behind himself. His grandson stood there. He heard the radio flick on inside the room. Tinny AM music belting around him, the grandson pulled out his phone. He leaned against the corner and texted Mom.

“gp needz 1 min”

Bathroom Monologue: "Life is not a support system for art. It's the other way around." -Stephen King, On Writing

“Because if life were a support system for art, then you could just go on life support. And with a support system for the support system for your art, you could paint forever. Film endlessly. Write boundlessly. And then there would be way too many paintings and movies and books on the market, and people wouldn’t want them as much. They’d only want the endless, boundless output of their favorites, and we’d clone choice authors. We’d have casks of Jonathan Swift and James Joyce. Can I interest you in a 2018 Rudyard Kipling? It was a very good year, and he even wrote his own label in the form of a clever poem. Yes, 2018 was a splendid venture, the year we cloned and life-supported so many of him that we had to take out one of Saturn’s moons to store the author-vineyard. Three years later, HarperCollins bought two planets for their two big gets, because Dorothy Parkers are from Venus, but David Sedari are from Mars. Entire planetary surfaces devoted to imitations of authors on uppers, tubes in those nostrils and electrodes in their ventricles. A million hairless apes chained to typewriters, fed nicotine, sugar and romantic disappointments. All for the art of it. All support from life.”

Bathroom Haiku: Uneven

symmetrical masks

shot at angles, from outside

we look uneven

High Book Prices Are Good For You

Last week Patrick Rothfuss and DAW Books released Wise Man’s Fear. The hardcover went for $29.95 in U.S. currency, though you can get it from Amazon for $17.47. Their Kindle edition is $14.99.

In two weeks John Scalzi and Tor Books will release Fuzzy Nation. The hardcover will run you about $24.99, though you can pre-order it from Amazon for $14.10 – or pre-order the Kindle edition for $11.99.

What bothers you about this pricing scheme?

A) Some major authors are demanding significantly more per e-book than smaller writers can. With the wealth of 99-cent titles, charging more than ten dollars for something they don’t even have to print looks greedy.

B) Price cutting by the likes of Amazon and Wal-Mart are moves smaller book stores cannot possibly match. It will contribute to an industry with fewer lit-devoted retailers and where many authors get paid even less per book than they used to. After its competition is broken down, nothing will prevent Amazon from hiking their royalty fees, thereby screwing over the authors that are self-publishing with them.

C) All those 99’s are deliberate lies. $11.99 is actually twelve bucks and we all know it.

I’m probably the only one who immediately jumps to C. It’s a deceptive mathematical practice invented by think-tanks to dupe you out of way more money than just a penny or dollar.

Many people stop at A. Zoe Winters earned an onslaught of complaints for “putting a price” on her readers when she dared suggest charging less than $3.99 cheated many writers. There is a frustrating hoarder-class of readers who only want things that cost a dollar or less. They are the extreme reaction to an inexpensive market.

I endorse Rothfuss and Scalzi charging so much for e-editions. Cheap shouldn’t be the standard for our industry. However unfair people may call the pricing schemes, Rothfuss hit #1 on the New York Times Bestseller’s List in that first week. What his class of author charges makes up the price ceiling for the industry. His $14.99 gets divided more ways than the profits of a typical 99-cent Smashwords release, but that’s not the salient point. This is the most that my work is allowed to cost.

That ceiling has multiple affects. It makes less expensive e-books look alternately like bargains or cheap trash. Of course, the glut of bad prose in the 99-cent region is just as responsible for the trash aura, and if you’re self-publishing at this price range, you’re doing it to capitalize on a low barrier for purchase. Whatever word-of-mouth and word-of-Twitter you can muster work better with impulse-buy pricing. The higher price of a Rothfuss or Scalzi book serves as a buffer, because none of us will compete well going dollar-for-dollar against the titans. Charging the same does not give you the same level of hype. Even if you’re better than they are, they bring a fandom with wild expectations and exaggerated reactions. You, as the breakout writer who only charged $2.99, aren’t held to the same unfair standard, and have a better chance of winning audiences over. It's the loss leader strategy that looks better the higher top authors charge.

Smart authors play with their pricing. If two hundred copies move at five bucks a pop, how many might move at four? Or three? But you can only charge that in this publishing world. If Stephen King’s next 1,000-page Kindle edition lands at $2.99, good luck charging more for your 300-page novel. Now James Patterson, Stephanie Meyer and the inevitable next Harry Potter book are impulse buys.

It’s only in our publishing world, where known authors can charge $15 on every Nook and Kindle, that you can safely float up to $4.99. At $4.99 your novel grosses five times the profit of the 99-cent bargain, while only costing about one third of your most powerful literary competition. That looks more reasonable to a reader in this marketplace. And you’re free to descend further and perhaps take off at 99-cents. We have the millionaire success stories, and I have nothing against selling at that price, or dipping there for a temporary sale to spark more interest. But for many writers it will be two hundred sales at one buck or five, and two hundred copies at five bucks a pop adds up to a doctor’s visit for your daughter.

The reader demand for cheap e-books is more interesting when contrasted to other reader actions. Contrast our debate with a recent Rutgers University controversy. The university paid Reality TV star Snooki $32,000 to speak, while paying famous author Toni Morrison $30,000. There was massive outrage that the writer wasn’t getting more money. If you were angered that someone from Jersey Shore got more than a hardworking author, then ask yourself: do you only buy books that are priced low and thereby send less money to the author?

Again, I chose C. My objection was that both were going to make more off of one talk than most authors will from book sales this year. You might be surprised how few writers, even bestsellers, make $30,000 in a good year.

Since January I have been working on one novel. I’ve pushed myself so hard that I’ve become physically sick from it at least three times. It will be two more months before the rough draft is complete, at which point I’ll have to edit strenuously to get it into first draft state. Then I’ll beg the smartest people I know to give me a few rounds of criticism, and I’ll tabulate the results for several rounds of revision and polish. If I’m lucky, the fourth draft will be the final, complete sometime around winter. I want you to know that I am earnestly racking myself to make this book worth your time. When I edit the day’s words, I’m thinking about the time you’ll have reading them. Whether you’ll pay five bucks, or one, or take out of a library – that’s not on my mind. That’s honestly why it disturbs me when I come up from my writing hole and read derision for authors who manage to make a good living.

If you sincerely believe the fruits of my labors will only ever be worth reading for $0.99, then I question what our relationship is. Maybe this novel will be self-published. In November, my market strategy may show that 99-cents is an optimal price (God willing, I’ll have the integrity to charge an honest $1.00). But if I get a big break with the Big Six, I’ll be relieved that everyone involved can make a profit from our pricing. And if I don’t get that break, I’ll still be glad that the market has room for a story that costs five bucks. That niche can only exist because there is a high standard of value from the market leaders.

Bathroom Monologue: Methinks, OR, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." -William Shakespeare, Hamlet

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

The Lady Winchester touched her stately bosom. "Did he just accuse me of the murder, or say I’m complaining too much about the way his insane family’s behaving? "

Her butler answered with trepidation, "Would one offend you less, madame?"

"Well one has some grounding rational fact. I was nowhere near his ruddy father when he was stabbed."

“I believe he was poisoned.”

“More’s the reason I didn’t do it. I didn’t even know the royal limp-dick had died. I’d know how if I knew it at all. Now is his brat saying I killed him, or complaining I bitch too much?”

“The Prince is disturbed, madame. I don't even think he was referring to your ladyship.”

“I’ll disturb him more. Sue for defamation.” Her plucked brow wriggled. “See how he does without his inheritance.”

“Which would the lady prefer he had suggested?”

“Now, I think the murder. Slander could bring us in… well, how much did the whelp inherit?”

“Mostly grief. I think Claudius got the rest, including his mother.”

“He wanted his own mother?”

“I think he wants his father.”

She swatted him across the face. “That’s incestuous, homosexual and maligns the dead.”

“Pardons, madame.”

“You don’t say that sort of thing out loud. He could sue.”

Bathroom Monologue: Easter Basket Vs. Exercise

"No, Jacob. I know you want your Reese’s, but they’ll spoil your appetite. And I know you want your Reese’s more than dinner. Honestly, they taste better than what Mommy’s making – but that’s because they’re evil. What you need are raw vegetables, dark green lettuce and fresh radishes. Now, I know they taste like dirt. They came from dirt. But they’ll give you more energy and build muscle mass so you can run two miles and do half an hour per day on the elliptical like me. Don’t you want to be big and strong and perpetually sore from exercise, just like Daddy? Many nights you’ll be left too tired to do more than watch Idol, but imagine how good you’ll look, and it will add years to your life. Seven, ten, maybe thirteen years. Thirteen more years of eating meals you hate, exercising until you ache all the time, and mild condescension towards those who sag more than you do. That’s much better for you than eating Easter candy before dinner. Now give Daddy those Reese’s."

Letters to Nevertorial: Chicken Big

Your paper commits a cardinal offence all too common in our society with the claim, “Homeowners scurry like chickens fearing that the sky is about to give way.” (“A Third Mortgage Crisis,” April 18th). Your article made passing reference to the popular story of “Chicken Little” as though it were as erroneous as natural selection or Siddhartha sitting beneath a tree. Isn’t it suspicious that the story of the sky falling is so widespread? Positively everyone knows of it. My family does in particular, for in 1963 two of my great aunts were slain by falling bits of sky. The family lost most of the farm and is still awaiting the promised government funds to rebuild. The wait is its own indignity. Your paper’s pretending we were never struck, or that only chickens bore the weight of this tragedy, is egregious.

"The Sun Belt" at Flash Fiction Online

Today's story is at Flash Fiction Online. It's "The Sun Belt," about our sun's intentions in making our little spherical home.

This is my second pro-rate sale. I'm very excited and am grateful to any readers or commenters over on FFO. You can read the story by clicking here.

Bathroom Monologue: Pitching In Without Fingers

One guy, Gilee, was very interested in their little prison reformation movement. He was enthusiastic about their tolerance of tolerable religions and philosophies, and quite happy to take nightwatches. Beside the positivity, he had one quirk: he never took his hands out of his overalls. This raised suspicion since Gilee claimed to have been a masseur before being imprisoned. He’d offer anyone a massage after a hard day, but no one took him up on it. Not until Berren, who having been jailed for politics, was all about comfort.

At least a dozen people watched it through the crack in the door, like a curious totem pole, trying to see what was up with Gilee’s hands. That’s when they found out that he didn’t have hands. The wardens had cut off his fingers, you see, leaving him only with palms. He was eager to do his part, though, and Berren was glowing when he emerged from the makeshift parlor.

“Could have used his thumbs more,” he commented, “but it was great. Felt like tiny feet running laps on my back.”

He just about threw up when he turned and the masseur waved to him, but afterwards Gilee got a lot more business. Word-of-mouth travels farther than vomit-of-mouth. It's a wonder.

Bathroom Monologue: Men in Reflective Houses

 This story was written from the above photo prompt,
provided and taken by Icy Sedgwick.

 

Tidwell and Aloysius liked to people-watch in-between meetings. By streamlining charts and skimming facts in their 10:10 meeting, they were granted a brief reprieve for this hobby before their customary 10:25 consultations. They would share one third of a packet of whole wheat saltines and ogle the aging joggers and purposefully striding suits on Main.

It was 10:17 as the man crossed before the Brightsides Building, dragging rolling luggage behind him. The Brightsides was unique for its many reflective windows, casting a near-perfect image of the brick establishment across the road. Tidwell and Aloysius’s brick establishment. The only thing that prevented it from looking real was the crisscrosses of molding between the Brightsides’s panes.

The man stopped before one pane. A breeze took his blue tie in a direction, and he declined with one hand. He walked toward the pane, shading his eyes as though focused on something behind the glass.

"Probably had a bender last night,” proffered Tidwell. “You think he's looking at himself for the first time this morning?"

"Must be. Those trousers haven't been ironed in weeks."

Tidwell couldn’t make out whether or not they’d be ironed lately.

The man walked a few panes down, to where the Brightsides reflected the image of a window from the other side of the street. He craned his neck, seeming to peer inside the window-within-a- window.

“You see that?”

"Probably just trying to see if his wife's working inside."

"Maybe she's sleeping with somebody in there and he's spying."

"Disheveled for a spy."

The man pulled a wallet from the luggage and shuffled through it for something.

"Is he counting cash?"

"Maybe he's going to buy the Brightsides."

"Hope he stocks up on glass cleanser."

The man nodded at his cash. He walked down past the doors of the Brightsides, to where their brick establishment's doors were reflected. There he stopped, turned and reached. Tidwell lurched, thinking he was about to see a nutter punch through the glass. Glare flew up from the Brightsides and both men shielded their eyes.

Just as he brought his hands down, Tidwell thought he saw a door swinging shut. He blinked his vision back to 20/20 and saw that no, it was only the image of a door. That door was still trembling as though having just shut, though.

Tidwell turned to face their brick establishment, to see if a man had entered there. But no – the secretaries were standing in that door, sharing a smoke.

Aloysius followed his eyes. He asked, "Did he just walk through that window over there?"

Tidwell scratched his balding head. He scratched harder when he saw that man with his luggage passing behind the windows - the windows of the reflected brick building. The two businessmen rose from their bench and waddled down the sidewalk, eying both the man within the reflection of the Brightsides, and their own establishment’s windows. There was no frumpy-trousered man in the latter. Only some secretaries, who shot them derisive looks.

Tidwell asked, "What was all that about?"

"I don't know. But I hope he doesn't intend throw stones."

Tidwell punched his friend in the shoulder, then crossed the street.

Bathroom Monologue: “Your scene is not a scene if….” –The Intern

-Your scene is not a scene if it has wheels and flies.

-Your scene is not a scene if it's tough enough for a man but designed for a woman.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s redeemable for ten cents in Michigan.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s the participle form of "to see."

-Your scene is not a scene if it's a condescending blog post.

-Your scene is not a scene if it’s supportive, reclines into the reader behind you, and can be used in a flotation device in the occurrence of a plot device.

-Your scene is not a scene if both P is true and ~P is true.

-Your scene is not a scene if Microsoft Word doesn’t underline anything in green.

-Your scene is not a scene if it's only a vehicle for conflicts designed to attract cheap readers.

Bathroom Monologue: On Polyamory and Gluttony

I would probably respect polyamory if it did more than merely triple the times people cry at me about their love-lives. Being single but obese, I liken it to food. The polyamorist is like a man who lost his meal.

If Tadd loses his dinner, I'll go, "That's terrible. You'll starve. Let’s got hunt you down a nice girlsteak with eyes only for your A-1 sauce."

But if Werner loses his dinner, I go, "Shut up. You have two other dinners living in your studio apartment."

"But they're not the one I lost!" Werner sobs with all the heartbreak of Tadd McOnedinner. And being unfortunately not heartless, I console the poor Werner all the other polyamorous schmucks.

Unfortunately five weeks later, I console Werner again when he breaks up with his second dinner. Let's call her a Pot Roast. You see ever since he broke up with the Taco Kit Bitch, Pot Roast has been less emotionally available. And when he started hanging out more with the Cinnamon Bun Twins, Pot Roast almost seemed to be jealous, and then they had less sex, and now he's crying again while I'm trying to calculate just how many women he's still eating.

Fucking. I mean “how many women he's still fucking."

Three Bindle Stiffs Audio Recording

This was originally posted a few weeks ago. It followed a challenge to use one hundred unusual words in one story. After several requests, I've stayed up past midnight trying to record a coherent audio version of it. You better damned well enjoy it.

To listen to the audio version that you damned well better enjoy either click the triangle to the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

There were three bindle stiffs at the docks - let us call them Jackanapes, Factotum and Callipygian, for that is what they were. A homeless threesome, gathered by the loquacious Jackanapes, a louche scofflaw, supercilious about himself and curmudgeon to all other matters.  Factotum was his manservant, as a factotum must be to someone, an aimless ragamuffin with nothing beyond size to his credit. More interesting than this oaf (and more interesting to the oaf) was the bodacious Callipygian, one lady concupiscent and rivaling Factotum as a flibbertigibbet.

Now Jackanapes proposed some minor skullduggery as pertained to the Captain’s Quarters, a local tavern. Within was an ill-gotten goblet, periwinkle festooned with opals and inscriptions of ancient Australian gobbledygook. It simply begged liberation. Liberation into Jackanapes’s possession, of course.

The Beerkeep, once a bold and raffish scalawag, was now pusillanimous and lackadaisical, scarcely lifting his head from the countertop. His wife, let us call her Harridan, was less easily hoodwinked. A cantankerous termagant, heart tainted by broken promises, face tainted by carbuncles of particular effluvium, and given her abstemious nature, not too pleased about living in a bar. The Beerkeep was broken, for if he complained she was no longer a nubile sylph? Well he didn’t have the washboard belly of the swashbuckler she’d married, either.

So our mendacious tatterdemalions infiltrated on Discount Ale Night. Callipygian strutted across the bar and whispered obsequious debauchery into Beerkeep’s good ear. Into the left, she osculated. Broken men are so easily finagled.

Meanwhile Factotum elbowed through the crowd like a willy-nilly whirligig, knocking the pint and the hat from a haberdasher. The haberdasher caterwauled, and Factotum responded with brazen fisticuffs. Our ignoramus spun him widdershins, spilling the gallimaufry from his cup. Gawkers flocked with hullabaloo. The ribaldry instigated such a kerfuffle that even Harridan peered its way. So was the plan: to obfuscate by infidelity or ruckus.

Harridan shrieked for her poltroon husband and barged in to squelch the catawampus, only to be struck by a flailing hat-seller. She was knocked to the floor while the Beerkeep was drooping to the bar top.

Amidst the folderol, Jackanapes slithered behind the bar. He paused an instant to bask in the resplendent chalice – then skedaddled. For you see, his hornswaggle was on four people, not two.

The conspirators didn’t remark Jackanapes’s absquatulating immediately. The Beerkeep was looking for tongue before Callipygian came wise. Poor Callipygian and Factotum looked at each other flabbergasted; neither had prognosticated his exit, nor their own exit strategies. Beerkeep roused and squawked that his spiffy cup was gone, and the crowd doubled in size with accusations of subterfuge. Imbroglio flummoxed our lummox, while Callipygian babbled defensive rigmarole.

Perspicacious Harridan recognized that while they might be in cahoots, it was cockamamie balderdash that they’d carried off the cup. They looked as lugubrious as Harridan on her wedding night, and neither had any goblets bulging underneath his or her corset. Pushing through the ballyhoo she took each by an ear, twisting and demanding explanation. She’d forgive their peccadillo in return for their mastermind. They responded with mumbling and borborygmus.

Malarkey, she accused. Hadn’t they served hortatory to these shenanigans? To play Jackanapes’s factotum for so long and left clueless?

Factotum let out a paroxysm of obloquy. Their original hideout. The docks! With boats to abscond, or as Callipygian hypothesized, merchants to entice. Sooner than Harridan could summon a steed, rambunctious Factotum tossed both ladies over his shoulders and bolted for the seaboard.

Now Jackanapes possessed a foible of confidence. At safe distance, he gallivanted and lollygagged, whistling orotund tunes and regarding the foofraw of his ill-gotten doohickey. What fortunes flagitious life afforded.

So taken was he by his own hijinks that he was tackled higgledy-piggledy from behind. Two ladies and one ex-factotum began beating him about the head and shoulders. They were at loggerheads immediately, and at the fusty hoosegow ten minutes later, one man incarcerated on two counts of “jiggery-pokery and maleficence,” and a farrago of lesser charges. He was left with no cups or opals, only a two-bit pettifogger to hear his hokum. So was his comeuppance.

Harridan’s comeuppance came up at auction for the stupid cup. Proceeds went to her own copacetic hodgepodge of a juice bar and a dance parlor. Her star dancer took in a wealth of tips, and they were both generous to the hulking (if dull) bouncer. She hired her own husband two months later as Juicekeep, after her competition put him out of business. There may be a word for that sort of thing, but I don’t know it.

Bathroom Monologue: Nessy Gets Voted Out

Ugopogo, Kraken and the giant squid brigade all voted Ye.

None voted Ne.

"Then it's agreed," said Champ. "The Loch Ness Monster is henceforth no longer recognized as real."

Bathroom Monologue: Fantasy of Disablism

“Some days I just think giants are racist against dwarfs.”

“What? Some of my best friends are dwarfs.”

“That's what you always say.”

“But you're one of them. We hung out all weekend. I let you swim in my gin until you got drunk.”

“That was demeaning.”

“It was your idea! Are you reading that crazy blog again?”

“You won't even let us drink out of the same water fountains.”

“You are reading that shit again! Dude, you’re physically unable to drink from our fountains. I'm bigger than your house.”

“Perhaps I could afford a bigger house if I was paid the same wages. A giant dwarf house with plenty of water fountains.”

“The city commissioned ones that were height-appropriate.”

“A step-ladder! A simple step-ladder and I'd be able to use the ‘normal’ water fountain like the rest of the giants.”

“It'd take a staircase.”

“Do you know how many staircases in this city were built by dwarfs? We make up seventy percent of the engineering workforce and spend all our time on projects we’re never allowed to use.”

“That’s because your thing takes less time to build. It’s smaller.”

“Why do we have to have different things? Why can’t we drink from the same thing?”

“You'd fall in and drown.”

“Two dwarfs did drown in giant water fountains just last week. If we were valued as equal citizens, that wouldn't be possible.”

“Nobody thought dwarfs would be dumb enough to climb all the way up there.”

“So you do think we're of diminutive intelligence. Why don't you go ahead and call me less of a person?”

“Diminutive in height. In height! It's a technical term.”

“For the lesser race.”

“Stop talking like that. It makes me feel…”

“Small?”

“Stop that.”

“Admit it. You're biased against non-gigantic peoples.”

“I'm certainly heading in that direction now.”

“Have you ever tried drinking from our water fountains?”

“No, because I’m too large. And I have bad knees.”

“Don’t pretend you’re the oppressed one here.”

“You think I don’t want to drink from all the water fountains? The lines move quicker on yours. Giants take forever. You dwarfs look so much happier. Sometimes I wonder if it tastes different.”

“You’re shirking the issue!”

“I lie awake nights thinking if only I was non-gigantic enough to taste that water. To chatter with those chipper little girls. There’s no talking in the line for the giant water fountain.”

“You’re calling us a jolly wee folk? Why don’t you compliment our pointy hats next? You bigot.”

“Giants don’t get to wear hats. There isn’t enough material. You ever think about that? You ever been unable to wear a hat because that much cotton could outfit sails for three dwarf tall ships?”

“Hey, listen here…”

“No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to go get a drink.”

Bathroom Monologue: The Writing Fight

"We’re not having this fight. Was I paying attention? No. I wasn’t. I’m sorry your day sucked, but this novel isn’t going to finish itself. It wouldn’t be mine if it did. Is it more important than you? Of fucking course not. You are more important in the long term. That’s why it’s going to be finished by July, while you and I are death-do-us-part. It is more important in the tonight-term. Is your job more important than me? Probably not, but you still spent nine hours at it today instead of with me. And I’m sorry your manager is a bitch suffering from permanent hot flashes. But the novel is my job. My second job, with zany hours. So sometimes I will stare through you and into space when you’re telling me about your day. Much like you’re staring through me now. Just realize that if you make me sleep on the couch tonight, it’ll be with the pad and pen!"

Trending: Worldwide

1. Christ

2. Fuck

3. #skiesonfire

4. NASA says “angels”

5. fuckingfuckfuck

6. NYC

7. oceans boiling

8. Paris

9. Revelations was

10. Rebecca Black

Writing Prompt: Death of the Horrible

This is somewhere between a writing prompt and a challenge. I'm not sure how many people will try it for #fridayflash - but if you do, please tell me and link back to this post. If we get a few, I'll link them all together in a nexus post and we can see what directions everyone took it. It was the genesis for Possible Origins for Him. 12.

Make me regret the death of a horrible person based on some relationship he/she had to a living character.

Bathroom Monologue: Working Grandpa

“We damn sure can't show Grandpa any of our work. What would we show? He thinks TV is the Devil. My brother is a stand-up comedian who can't go three sentences without being offensive. What the fuck can we share?”

“Well, there's your sister.”

“She's unemployed. She's the last one who wants to talk about anything. All she does is search ads and call people who say 'No.' Grandpa does not need to hear about the economy shoving her soul in a trash compactor.”

“Okay. Conundrum.”

“And I'm thinking, what job could I get that he'd like?”

“You're going to get a second job to impress him? He's only going to be here for, like, a week.”

“I’m going damn sure make one up. If I can write a teleplay, I fucking sure can make up talk about a fictional job.”

“This is how ulcers happen.”

“What’s a good job? What could work? Flipping burgers? Work on cars? He’d look down on it.”

“Should have become an astronaut. You wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid.”

“He thinks the moonlanding was fake anyway.”

“A fireman? You wanted to be a fireman when you were six.”

“He’ll want to go to the firehouse to meet my buddies.”

“Say you’re busy. Too women on fire. It’s an excuse to never come home.”

“Dude.”

“You could get a cat out of a tree in front of him.”

“At which point he’d complain that I was wasting my time.”

“Police officer?”

“He’d get nervous that I was going to be shot. Same with the military.”

“Not all military jobs get you shot at.”

“I know it. He hated my dad just going into the army as a mechanic.”

“But—”

“That’s the degree of difficuly we have here.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

“Wait.”

“For?”

“No, no. You’re a spy. Don’t say another word. You’re totally safe so long as not another word is spoken.”

“But—”

“Unless he wants to get you killed, he’ll just watch TV.”

“Huh.”

“It’s flawless.”

“Except, what’s my cover?”

“I never thought I’d actually be happy that my grandparents were dead.”

Bea Arthur: A Novel, Audio Redux

This monologue first ran in 2006. Max Cantor recently sent me his audio reading of it, which I simply had to share. Since most current readers haven't seen Bea Arthur: A Novel, I'm presenting both the original text and Max's reading today.

To listen to Max Cantor's reading of "Bea Arthur: A Novel" either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.



Don't you want to slap authors who add " : A Novel" after their titles?

Hearts: A Novel.

Orchard: A Novel.

Who are you helping here? The guy who restocks the shelves? It's sitting next to six hundred other novels. It's not my fault your horribly unoriginal cover doesn't convey what kind of book it is (it's probably a picture of a building, a road, an empty beach or a photo of you, isn't it?). It's a book in the Fiction section! Picking the thing up and flipping through it, which I'll have to do anyway if I'm going to buy it, will tell me if it's an anthology or a picaresque.

If you shaped the book, say, like the Himalayas, disguising the pages as 1,000 meter-tall sheets of ice and rock, then, then I might need you to label it " : A Novel." I'd be quite surprised. I'd probably buy two, for stocking stuffers. But not your 250-page paperback of My Doves: A Novel in the middle of the Fiction section.

It doesn't even say, "Checkpoint: A Good Novel," or, "Company: A Novel That Has Some Shortcomings, But There's a Really Clever Ending." Even culinary anti-artists like candy companies put more on their bags than, "Oreos: A Cookie." Given, they do have a more compelling product than most literary authors, but still. It's the principle of the thing, and novels are about the principle of the thing. How am I supposed to trust you with the English language for hundreds of pages when you're wasting words right on the cover? Strunk and White frown, madame.

You know what I'd like to do someday? Drive past one of those capital offenders' houses and huck a stone with a note on it through her window. The note would read " : A Rock. "

Bathroom Haiku: Digital Laughter

PCs flying free.

No sound in space, yet there is

digital laughter.

Bathroom Monologue: This Country, Spring 2011

Squabbles over a few billion dollars halt trillions in a budget that nobody has. The government shuts down and no one thinks about the nation it represents.

A Mormon is leading a former Baptist minister as the top candidate to challenge the black president.

Meanwhile, Feminists despise the most famous female candidate.

As Hillary Clinton winds down her career, a young nephew asks, “Can boys be Secretary of State?”

People are more afraid of radioactive milk than unions being busted.

Ayn Rand’s secular propaganda prepares to become a Summer blockbuster, guaranteed to draw enthusiastic Christian audiences.

This nation is bad Science Fiction, and I love B-movies.

Bathroom Monologue: Possible Origins for Him. 12.

To listen to today's story either click the triangle on the left to begin streaming audio or click this text to download the MP3.

He started when there were still a few gaslights on the streets. Probably took inspiration from Prohibition, and he's fought snuff, glue, cocaine, venom, all the way to whatever kids do to themselves today. Nobody asks how he's survived at least seventy years of stab wounds, gun shots, druggings and falls from skyscrapers. You figure, he pals around with aliens and amazons. He's probably picked up STDs stronger than the average human, so of course he's timeless. Many think he's immortal. Many are cowardly and superstitious.

They all ask how I made it this long. Wondering why some do-gooder hasn't snapped my neck. Wondering how, with all the times I've gotten it wrong, or lost control of a dirigible, or just didn't care about malfunctioning detonator - how I lasted these decades.

This one I can answer: I'm not the first of me.

There's been at least three. Me, The Boss, and Grandpa. No telling who preceded Grandpa J. He was good, though. A bit of an anarchist firebug.

“Where's the judge? Is he in this room?”

No, it's a bomb. Kaboom.

“Where's my wife? I hear something in the closet. Janine, is it you?”

No, it's a bomb. Kaboom.

“Where's the bomb? I hear this locker ticking. Let me open and snip the wires.”

No, that's a clock. The actual bomb is under the floorboards. Kaboom.

That sort of humor. One day it blew up in his face. As best we can tell, the only thing that made Grandpa J frown was his inability to blow up The Bat. Tried and failed, tried and failed. Somehow that caped freak kept coming back unsinged. So on this last time he hid the bombs in his own coat and held on. By the range of the blast, he also wired himself up to the surrounding nine buildings. No way to escape that intimate a detonation, you see?

Grandpa J was the one who walked away. Depending on when The Boss was telling it, he lost somewhere in the range of a foot, an arm or two, half or two thirds of his face, either half or all of the flesh on his person, and his entire wardrobe save a pair of boxers with hearts on them. Whatever his state, it was gruesome. And Grandpa J made it seven city blocks out of the smoke, avoiding or murdering police until he came to The Boss's little den.

I wasn't even working for him back then. He was operating in a boarded up row house, giving out free meth and beds, and lacing every fifth dose with his newest concoctions. If everybody's high, nobody cares when one guy freaks out and starts eating the insulation.

Somehow, Grandpa J broke in. He shambled straight into the lab. Made eye contact with The Boss. Shuddered from the strain. Gave one gasp that sounded like a laugh, and took his last pratfall. Thud. Dead.

Mmm. The professionalism.

The Boss saw an opportunity. No more Mr. Third-rate Drug Dealer. No mere mad scientist. All those mind-altering gases he'd worked on? Now fashion them so the kids laugh theirselves to death, or see nightmare clowns, or whatever. A little facepaint, a book of one-liners, and suddenly The Boss had a topflight gimmick. Live-action fan-fiction that the crowd thinks is genuine.

If you go back through the headlines, you'll find that period when The Joker began wearing more black and carrying more conventional guns. Mainstream bullshit. See, he got carried away on the power trip. All that buzz Grandpa J had built up around the brand. The thrill of a single phone call convulsing entire police departments. Superheroes who once upon a time wouldn't even visit the scene of his crimes now racing to head him off.

Simply put, he sucked. He couldn't fight. He couldn't plan more than one twist at a time. He had to hire every goon in the city to cover his ass, to get into fisticuffs for him. Twice I tied up the damned Bat over vats of acid I knew he'd never actually fall into. Some weeks I was in clown costumes. Other weeks, bad imitations of movie stars. I spent half a summer as a chauffeur Buster Keaton, powdering myself into monochrome before speeding the boss away from his latest bank heist.

Bank heists. Grandpa J never would have lowered himself to knocking over banks.

The night with the shark tank was it for me. I guess it looks like they’re smiling if you tilt your head like so and huff paint. The Boss stole that one from Grandpa J – and did it worse. The Bat got loose, like always, and got onto our boat. The Boss fell into the motor. Lost an arm. I was gathering the bits in a net when I saw the Bat throttling him. Hit the freak from behind and dumped him overboard.

He lived. I’m sure he had something in his belt for sharks.

The Boss lived – because of me. I had to beat the Bat just to keep him alive. I was so angry that I slapped him with his own dismembered hand. He didn’t laugh. How dare he not laugh at that? That’s hilarious, right?

He lacked class. I explained this as I jammed his wrist down his throat. I didn’t want his hand, or his coat, or his machine gun. Only took the book of one-liners.

If you go back, there’s this period when the Joker goes neon. Bigger smiles. More musical. More explosions, like Grandpa J would have wanted.

Knew where he was buried. I dug up his skull. Put a honking red nose in the socket and left him on my mantle. Talk to him when I’m lonely. He doesn’t talk back – I’m not crazy. I’m just respectful of my elders.

Bathroom Monologue: R.R. Crossing

Looking through a windshield and a hundred windows rushing by, moving too rapidly to make out any faces. You look for a girl who isn’t looking for you anymore, and catch a glance at someone with her hair color staring at something in her hands. Her phone? Then the train carries her to her Full Ride. Red lights cease flashing and the bars come up. You are now safe to cross the railroad and drive to a permanently quieter house.

Maybe she was on her phone. Maybe she’ll have left a message. Maybe she’s calling you right now while she travels several hundred miles an hour towards dorm rooms, late nights and the lies of boys becoming men.

You check your cell just in case. No message, no hum of the vibration setting.

You press the gas pedal and roll across the tracks. Time to go put the things she missed in boxes. Time enough to catch the news. It would be nice for Lester Holt to announce, “Bright young woman’s train arrives safely. World welcomes her. Promises to retain virginity until Nobel is won.”

What twit said you couldn’t go home again? Didn’t he have a mother who had to? You wonder if he went to university.

Bathroom Monologue: Multi-Function Books

Physical books are unfavorable items. Chapters lack ringtones, you have to turn all those pages, and Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse comes with no free flashlight app. Telling a story, developing new characters and plot devices, commentary on society and the world – "Meh," says the market. "These are single-function devices. I don't want a book that’s only always Shakespeare."

Hark, I beg you. It may only be The Norton Shakespeare, restricted to the same words on the same pages no matter how many times you scroll over them with your fingers. But observe. It can be placed in front of a door to keep the thing open. Somebody annoyed about the door always being open? With its convenient heft, The Norton Shakespeare makes a convenient bludgeon to resolve most any argument. You may even pick up a few insults from the book’s “single-function” as you discover its new functions. Should you be ousted from the apartment complex for unruly behavior, your can tear up the book and line your clothing with its crumpled pages. As you shudder in the evening chill, you can peek at whatever pages emerge from the fraying ends of your jacket. They are often inspirational, or at least so vacuous you can infer whatever you want into them, making certain whatever you read is uncannily germane to your circumstances. You can’t line your coat with iPhones. Those are the really restrictive devices.

Bathroom Monologues: Ism

Like all religions, Humanism struggled to appeal to new generations. The next generation just so happened to be killer robots.

Reading While Writing

By Mendhak [민다ᄏ] [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)],
via Wikimedia Commons

I read capriciously. Some times I want Horror, others long Fantasy, or I’ll binge on history or pop science or anything that makes me laugh. I’m a terrible consumer of books, perpetually borrowing and purchasing more than I’ll read. I had copies of Good Omens and Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency for eight years before actually finishing them. Upon recent reflection, I realized nothing’s gotten in the way of my reading more than writing.

Reading consistently is nigh impossible when I’m working at high volumes, plugging into a novel daily or spurting out short stories every week. I have anecdotal confirmation from other writers in multiple fields that it’s the same for them. You spend so much time producing and criticizing words that your enthusiasm or energy is spent. I write “or energy” because there are times when I hanker for that new Stephen King. Then I pick it up and even his mastery of voice can’t get me through two pages. My mind won’t go. It’s irksome to realize that you are still able to watch a movie, play videogames or have a night with your significant other. More irksome when your significant other finds out you think that's bad.

I ran into a new complication while composing my next novel. When I did read, I was reading less useful things. Yes, Cobra II was an important report – but shouldn’t I be catching up on fiction? Fiction in my genres? Or all those classics that I bought and swore I’d go through? Laurence Sterne can’t read himself. He’s dead.

Triage of reading while in heavy-production periods was too difficult. I could take in a superhero trade paperback, but not Walter Isaacson's Einstein. Simply to get through my pile, I had to cave and let myself read whatever my mind could grab onto. A grown writer was excusing himself, “At least he’s reading.”

If I couldn’t curate individual reading order, I had to triage what was available. My old formula had been to read:

1. One contemporary Speculative Fiction book (since Horror and Fantasy are my primary wheelhouses).

2. One important Speculative Fiction book over ten years old.

3. One piece of classic fiction literature.

4. One book of non-fiction of any stripe I pleased.

5. One trade comic book or miscellaneous publication over one hundred pages.

All in about that order. The first two covered my primary industry, then I plugged into my passions for older books, the style of which always left me ready for thoughtful non-fiction, before closing with comics. Comics are the easiest thing to read – I’ve had English teachers who said they weren’t reading at all. My whole scheme worked so well before I began working so well.

I examined the formula for my new habit. Now I’d only borrow or purchase books like this:

1. Does it have three or more recommendations from friends, peers and/or critics you trust? Should you trust them – have they steered you incorrectly before?

2. Is it popular? Is it selling fast? You need to know more about the marketplace. Remember how embarrassing it was when you thought Toni Morrison was a guy?

3. Is it important Speculative Fiction? You can always know more about the history there.

4. Is it a classic? Is it at least really old? How cheap can we get this thing for? If it’s not in the library or very inexpensive, come back in three months and ask me again.

5. Non-fiction, you say? Is it that fascinating? Wait six months, then ask me again.

6. Is it in the twenty-five cent bin? Okay, you can have it.

That last is why I read four Greek tragedies in a row. Thanks, thrift stores.

The new checklist of priorities made sure I only had specific books available. If I am going to read capriciously, it’ll be from a thoughtful selection. It’s akin to shopping when you’re full, so the wiser choices will be in your cupboard. Sometimes that leaves me scanning the shelves for literary Oreos, but you can only eat what you've got.

If you regard my Goodreads scroll for the last two months, you’ll see that those literary Oreos have still popped in. Comics are allowed in, in moderation. Even the Persepolis and Bone-type comics are easier reading, I respect them as an art-form, and hey. “At least he’s reading.”

Bathroom Monologue: The President is a Foreigner

To listen to the president's address either click the triangle on the left or click this text.

Some of my fellow Americans are concerned that my birth certificate brings my citizenship into question. They fear that a foreigner has usurped the laws and will of our great nation to subvert its government. I can promise to you that I was indeed born on American soil, but I will also confess that the birth certificate you’ve seen is fraudulent.

You see, I was born in Kenya and when I come from, they do not issue birth certificates anymore. Some Americans may be concerned that Kenya is not a state in the present union. To those I say: it will never be. It’s a commonwealth. It was admitted to our great union in twenty-two-eighty-three when we finally gave up that “protectorate” nonsense. That was the same year that Puerto Rico, Turkey and Venus joined the U.S.

I was born three years later at Abraham Lincoln Memorial Hospital in Mombasa, which was firm U.S. soil. In a field trip to the second Dark Ages I fell in love with this rustic, primitive way of life and decided to remain. Manipulating politics with decades of foresight just seemed like the thing to do. This way I could quash burgeoning time traveling projects and prevent any further competition from my own future, leaving this present my own pseudo-democratic playground. Evil? Possibly. But I have done it all as a citizen of the United States of America.