Sunday, July 31, 2016

Came in Like a Creepy Van

Last night a group of people claiming to be my friends forced me to drink heavily and partake of other substances until I could barely walk in what I can only assume was an effort to scramble my brains.

It started off well enough.  It was a tribute for a young man who died way before it was his time.  His whole family was there, plus a few good bands, and I knew most of the people in the bar.  I started off conservatively with a white russian because when you're in a bowling alley, what else should one drink?

But then they started refilling my glass over and over again.  I kept trying to empty it and they kept filling it.  But I was smart and figured if I consumed all of the vodka the bar carried, they wouldn't be able to give me more white russians.

I lost count after six.

And then they started forcing me to do Jagerbombs.

I was good up until the seventh one.  After that, things became a bit hazy.  So, I went outside to get some air with friends, but they had other ideas.  

But before that, I saw somebody I just had to get to know better.  Ever have that happen?  It did for me.  I just had to get to know her.  So, I used my Sith powers to compel a friend to introduce us, and it all went downhill after that.  

She and I hit it off well, which in Van-speak means she didn't pepper spray me in the face and call the cops.  And while I normally wouldn't have anything to do with a woman who had standards so low as to want to spend time talking to a guy like me, things went well.  

She joined us outside, too.  

And the group of us talked.  

After that, I'm not sure what happened.  I remember this beautiful but evil woman forcing me to drink shots with her.  I think at one point she even told me her name.  I was in the deep end of the pool and not doing well.  

But not wanting to be rude, I drink the shots.  All of them.  

And there were some beers afterwards, I believe.  

The rest is hazy.  I remember being in a van that wasn't mine.  I remember coming home.  

But I've learned my lessons.  These despicable people will only get me into further trouble.  And this woman?  This beautiful woman who got my attention the very second I saw her?   I'm going to have to spend more time with her.  I'm assuming she's going to entrap me in some complex situation that will ultimately end with her trying to kill me.  That's understandable and natural.  But I'm curious how she intends to do all of that.  

And this is one cat curiosity ain't gonna kill.  

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Namby-Pamby, Wimpy Horror Writers

I've become increasingly disappointed in my fellow horror writers.

In the recent weeks we've seen mass killings, people killed by cops, protests that have turned violent, an election where nobody wants anything to do with the candidates, and terrorist attacks overseas with huge body counts.

Each time, I see fellow horror writers post sad, depressing things on Facebook about how they just wish we could all get along and how we need peace.


I say, we need more violence.  We need more bloodshed and more innocent lives ruined and destroyed.  We need more dictators violently putting down revolts and even crazier religions with zealots so insane everyone cringes at the mere mention of them.

It's time for the streets to run with the blood of infidels.  Or in this case, everybody.

Am I the only one cheering for chaos and war?  Am I the only one who wants to see the world destroy itself in a global self-destructive last gasp?

I say, we need more guns.  Guns everywhere!  And good guns, too.  Not those shitty Tech 9 spray guns where you might get lucky enough to hit somebody while you waste ammo.  Nope!  Assault rifles should be affordable and given to every citizen upon learning how to read.  It would be the best graduation ceremony ever.

I say, we dedicate one year to a planet-wide purge.  Just like in the movies, only for an entire year, and on the entire planet.  Total combat for everybody.  Kill, maim, rape, torture, and fillet as much as you'd like.  Burn it all.

I say, we stop pretending we're more than six and a half billion miserable assholes hurling through the cold of space all alone and removed from any other living being.  Nobody cares about us.  Nobody is going to save us.

What disappoints me the most is how so many horror writers would whine, cry, sob, and pretty much express all the sensitive outrage they could muster regarding these news stories.

Really?  You write about murder, death, torture, and all manner of monsters but when you hear about some idiot getting killed by another idiot your heart breaks?  You're outraged because somebody said some mean words to another person?  Fuck you!  

Those who follow The Way of the Van know this but it bears repeating:  I don't write to scare people, I write my fantasies, and if I could find a way to make the monsters a reality, I would do so without hesitation.


Horror writers are supposed to look into the darkness of the human soul.  It's where we live.  And to see so many get upset when they get a glimpse of it in real life disappoints me.

Did you guys fall asleep in history class?  What exactly do you think humanity has been up to for the past 10,000 years?

We kill.  A lot.  And we're really good at it, too.  You write about it.  Some of you even make money by writing about it.  So stop with the whinging and consternation.  Let humanity be humanity because it'll help some of you who happen to lack imagination.  It'll give you those plot bunnies you keep complaining about.

Life is a meat grinder.  Once you accept this, all the horrible things that happen around us don't seem nearly as bad, and we learn to really enjoy the smallest of things.  Like the moment a person you deeply care about reciprocates just for a few moments, or when you find a dollar bill in your coat pocket in August, or when you make some ice cream and it turns out perfect.

Those tiny, fleeting moments of good seem like radiant lights of heaven.  The little moments mean so much more when you're knee-deep in blood.  That's when you appreciate a hug from a woman you adore and know will never love you back.  That's when you do things for her just to see her smile.

Stop whinging and enjoy the violence.  Take delight in all the carnage around you.  One of these days, some idiot will come up with a way to make it all stop, and we'll be left with the most boring existence imaginable.  It'll be like those 1950's sitcoms where the worst that happens is somebody rides their bicycle over some flowers, or the pie doesn't come out right.  Do you want that?

Nobody wants that.  That, to me, is the true horror we face.  A mundane, vanilla existence where nobody does anything but help each other.  We all wear button-up sweaters and have the same short haircut.  The food is heavy, greasy, and loaded with salt.  And nobody would dare read a horror story because it's just too extreme for them.  The scariest stories they ever read are The Hardy Boys.

So screw your moral bullshit.  Piss on your outrage at death and destruction.  Embrace the violent, chaotic reality, and stop trying to make everybody a namby-pamby, wimpy, marshmallow of a human being like yourself.