I'll come up with something in a minute.

We need it!

You know hat the world needs? Silly question. I know you want to know, that’s the only reasons you ever bother coming to the internet, to find out what I think would improve things.

The world needs a hard core gansta rap version of the Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious song. And I mean hard core gansta, with re-written lyrics to include bitches, bling, bullets and the takin’ down of suckas.

Admit it, you’d love to live in my world for just five minutes. Just five minutes would see you through for the rest of your life. Just knowing that the sort of ideas that bounce around my head exist would keep you going no matter what happened to you. Oh sure, it would be scary as hell, but it would be scary like a roller coaster because you know you’re only going to have to hang on for a couple of minutes.

February 12, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

1… 1,2

Just testing…

February 12, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

You know what?

If it were me, I’d put the poisoned pellet in the dragon cup, because people who depend on poetry and alliteration for life saving advice deserve what they get.

If it were me, I’d put the poisoned pellet in anything but the dragon cup, because people who depend on poetry and alliteration for life saving advice deserve what they get.

Edit: FUCK! Got it reversed. The pellet with the poison’s in the flagon with the dragon. The vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true. So I’ll fix it.

February 12, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

You’ve Gotta Say It (Part Two)

Um, guys? VD is Saturday. You might want to do something about that or you’re liable to face a lot of resentment if your girl is into it and you forget. I know, she doesn’t say anything about it, I’ve already had a word with the women about that. I know, it’s a stupid holiday made up by chocolate companies to enforce the idiotic notion of pair off two-by-two and making anyone single feel like they’re a failure at life. I know, I understand. Whatever feelings you have to these stupid holidays and moronic ritual is dwarfed by my own thoughts and ideas on the subject.

HOWEVER! If you don’t do something for the holiday and you get a pissed off girlfriend/wife/mistress then you’ve only got yourself to blame.


Do no go telling me “Well she should know I love her and how I feel.” because clearly she don’t. She ain’t gonna unless you tell her, you dumb shit. When was the last time you told her? You tell her everyday? You do little things to remind her? No? Then she just feels unappreciated and unloved and you are just another insensitiveasshole who is going to get dumped/talk about to her friends. How many times have I heard “Why can’t that insensitiveasshole stop being an insensitiveasshole for five minutes? Why can’t he show me? Why doesn’t he know how important it is? It’s like he doesn’t even care!” in my life? Well, enough times I can quote it, so quite a few.

They’re women, they’re like insecure cats. You’ve got to pet them and stroke them and remind them you love them every 45 seconds or they start to feel like you don’t care anymore. You’ve also got to give them cat nip and dangle bits of string in front of them and rub their bellies and not mind when they take over 95% of the bed leaving you with 19 inches of space right up against the edge of the mattress. It’s not this one day, this one day just punctuates the constant insensitiveassholeness that represents your daily life. You’ve spent a lot of time taking things for granted and it’s nice to remind her that you know you would curl up and die without her. Also, while I’m on the subject, put the fucking toilet seat down. It’s disgusting. We’re not in high school anymore. And put your clothes in the damn hamper instead of just leaving them on the floor. Seriously.

Ask your girl if the day is important to her, make sure that it matters. Don’t just tell yourself you know if it’s important or not, because chances are you don’t. You remember your anniversary? Let me rephrase that, you remember what happened when you FORGOT your anniversary? Yeah, that’ll likely happen again. Tell her you love her, buy her some chocolates, do something to remind her you still appreciate the fact that she puts up with your dumb ass.

Either that or tell her flat out that you reject the holiday as a meaningless ritual and that you’re not some damned automaton who needs input A from some damn chocolate company to perform task B towards your loved one. That’s a bit harder though, because it requires you to tell her all the time and not forget to put the toilet seat down and make dinner and do your own laundry and… look, just buy the fucking chocolate okay? The economy needs the stimulus.

February 12, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

You’ve gotta say it (Part One)

Women, I know that VD is just around the corner, and you’re going to get upset because your man isn’t going to remember. Well, help him. Say it! Say “I want to celebrate VD and if you want to avoid resentment you’ll remember it’s the 14th of February and do something about it.”

If you don’t say that, you’ve only got yourself to blame.


Do not go telling me “Well, he should know.” because he don’t and he ain’t gonna. Clearly he don’t know it’s coming or that it means something to you or we wouldn’t be having this conversation for the Nine Hundredth fucking time. Quit thinking that getting mad and acting like a psychobitch after he’s forgotten is going to change things. It won’t. It will just make him annoyed at you for not telling him. Fuming and giving him the nasty eye every time he says “What?” is only going to get your ass dumped and/or talked about to his friends. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard “The psychobitch is being a psychobitch again! I don’t know what the fuck her problem is and when I ask all I get is ‘Oh you know what you did/didn’t do’ for my troubles. Why can’t she just fucking tell me what the problem is?” in my life. Well, so many times I can quote the phrase used.

Seriously, they’re men, they’re like very stupid dogs. You’ve got to remind him of EVERYTHING! Go look at the toilet neck time he uses it, did he leave the seat up? Does he leave the seat up every fucking time? Do you tell him about the seat every fucking time? Then why the hell would you think he can manage something that comes around once a year when he can’t manage something you complain about every single day?

Seriously, if buy a diamond or die alone day means that much to you then you have to tell him, in small words, that it means that much. Tell him it’s like a Superbowl or the new Star Trek Movie or something like that. Put it in terms his tiny man brain can understand. If you don’t do these things, if you don’t let him know, if you expect him to just know what it means without any prompting then you have no one to blame but yourself and I have no sympathy for you.

February 12, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Wonderland (Part Seven)


A Jack Collier Mystery

By Brett N. Lashuay

Look here for last week’s entry!

Part Seven: The Hotel


            I got Peter to put all his clothes in one of the garbage bags and gave him the soap and shampoo. I told him where and how to scrub the hardest, I didn’t want all my work to be spoiled because of his finger nails after all. While he was doing that, Cary and I put his clothes, including his shoes, into a round metal garbage can. She had gotten a can of gasoline for me and we poured it over the clothes, leaving the shoes on top. Because it was her hospitality I was abusing, I let her light the clothes on fire. The flame leapt up a good six feet when she lit it, and danced nearly three feet above the lip of the can for most the burn time.


            “You realize we’ve just destroyed evidence, don’t you?” I asked.


            “Do you have any idea how dull it is to work at a hotel on a Tuesday morning?” she asked.


            “Are you saying risking jail for several years is better than sitting at that desk?”


            “I am indeed. Can you tell me about it?”


            “I think someone is trying to frame him for a slaughter.”


            “Is this that thing in Detroit?” she asked.


            “So they found it?” I asked.


            “Yeah,” she nodded. “It was on the news a little while ago, they interrupted Regis and Kelly for it.”


            “Well they would, wouldn’t they?” I asked, feeling disgust rolling back in. “I mean six dead bodies, how could they resist?”


            “There weren’t six,” she said. “Only five.”


            “Really?” I asked.


            “Yeah,” she nodded, “Why did you think there were six?”


            “There were six people at the house when we were there,” I told her, realized I was telling too much and tried to adjust a little. “And he said they had six heads in a bag with them.”


            I am truly brilliant by the way. I decided not to give her too many details by not telling her about Jabber’s head on the post, and then I went right ahead and gave her too much anyway. That’s the kind of brilliant detective I am, the sort who gives away crucial details to anyone who happens to be walking by. This is why I avoid a life of crime, because I’m too dumb to remember a decent cover story.


            “Really?” She asked.


            “Well, sort of,” I said trying to shrug. “I mean it’s not really the sort of thing I should be discussing with you is it?”


            “I guess not.” She said and then looked at the fire for a while. “Should I wash all this stuff out or what?”


            “We just need to destroy the… ah, biological material,” I said shaking my head.


            “Biological material,” she said, starting to sound serious for the first time. “This isn’t just some extended joke, is it? You’re not rehearsing for a play or making some kind of movie or anything?”


            “No,” I said. “You want us out?”


            “Nah,” She shook her head. “I’m cool.”


            “Where do you want to go to dinner?” I asked.


            “Someplace nice,” she said. “Bahama Breeze or something like that.”


            “Okay,” I said nodding.


            My phone rang and buzzed in my pocket. I reached in and grabbed the phone, looking at it long enough to confirm that it was Debbie at the office. I pressed the talk button and walked away from Cary, holding up a finger.




            “Hi,” she said. “Are you able to come to the office?”


            “Should I be?” There were two ways for her to answer this specially coded question. If she said one thing I was to come like normal, and if she answered another way I was to come like gangbusters.


            “Yeah, you’ve got a visitor,” she said, which wasn’t either of the coded messages.


            “Okay, what does that mean?”


            “It means come to the office.” She said.


            “Don’t you remember the codes?” I asked.


            “Are we still doing that?” she asked.


            “Well…” I stammered for a moment.


            “Can you just hurry up?” she said. “She’s already waiting in your office.”


            “You put a person in my office?” I asked.


            “Yes,” she said, sounding petulant. “She’s got a badge and is better looking than me. I could take either one of those on their own, but together I couldn’t stand to look at her.”


            “Is this the sort of woman who doesn’t know that she’s doing that?” I asked.


            “Yes,” she growled flatly, which is quite a trick.


            “Well at least I know where she is,” I commented.




            “Nothing,” I said. “I’ll be there in a little while, I’m kind of far.”


            “Okay,” she said. “She just got here.”


            “Okay,” I said reflexively. “See you later, bye bye.”


            I hung up the phone and stuck it back in my pocket. I then looked at Cary, who smiled up at me as I walked back to her. I couldn’t help but feel that I was abusing her, despite the fact that I was going to buy her dinner and never actually got around to sending her an invoice for the work I’d done for her.


            “You’ve got to go back to work?” she asked.


            “Someone is at my office,” I said raising my eyebrows at her. “Can you sort of watch over him?”


            “Sure,” she smiled in a way that I didn’t like at all. “I can keep him entertained.”


            “Don’t entertain him!” I demanded. “Just make sure he stays in there, get him food and stuff if he gets hungry and he’s here that long.”


            “Why shouldn’t I entertain him?” she said sticking her lower lip out.


            “Because I said so,” I told her. “I’ve got enough problems today without worrying about you getting whatever he’s no doubt got.”


            “They have things to prevent that kind of cross-contamination.” she smiled that smile I didn’t like again. What bothered me was probably the fact that she never smiled at me like that. “We have a coin operated machine that’s full of them.”

            I really didn’t like the way her eyebrows went up on the word full.


            “I am forbidding it.” I raised a finger at her.


            “I had no idea you were interesting in saving me for yourself,” she said, and there actually was a hint of that smile.


            “You want to call and tell me when you’re free for dinner?” I asked.


            “Monday through Friday, anytime after five,” she said putting her hands on her hips. “All next week.”


            “Okay,” I said smiling at her. “I’ll call you when I’ve got all this sorted out.”


            “This dinner had better be worth it,” she said to my back as I walked away. “I mean to give up someone with that kind of experience.”


            “It’s all careful editing,” I said over my shoulder. “Careful editing and flattering lighting. You should put that fire out.”


            “That’s why I want to be entertaining,” she called as I went around the corner.


            I walked around the front of the building and up the stairs to the room where Peter should be done with his shower. When I opened the door I was glad I left Cary to put out the flaming garbage can. Peter was standing naked in the middle of the room and looked completely unphased by my walking in on him. For the record, yes it is quite large, but not frighteningly so. I picked up a towel and threw it at him.


            “Put something on for crying out loud,” I said.


            “Oh, right,” he said looking down at his naked body and putting the towel over himself.


            “I’ve got to go to my office,” I said looking in his eyes. “I need you to stay here and not go out for anything.”


            “Why not?”


            “I don’t think right now is a very good time to be you,” I said, trying to be as delicate with the matter as I could. “If the police find you, the only thing that can help you is a really good lawyer, and even then only maybe. If someone sees you, then they might tell the cops where you are.”


            “Oh,” He said nodding sagely, like he understood the danger the police presented to him.


“Worse yet,” I said deciding on the big guns. “If someone tells Mister Cat and his little helper where you are, they might decide you talked.”


That worked, though I wish I didn’t have to go that far. The blood drained from his face and he sat down heavily on the bed, which probably had been used by many a couple that had met at bowling alleys. He looked really scared, which unfortunately was where I needed him to be. I don’t like scaring people on purpose, but sometimes you have to.


I left him agreeing that he needed to stay put for a while and left for the office. The entire trip left me feeling extremely paranoid. I watched every car and truck on the road, making sure that they weren’t following me. I managed to get to my office without shooting some asshole in an old Lincoln that didn’t seem to understand that tailgating is not the correct way to drive, particularly not behind someone with a gun and a bad case of paranoia. I was very proud of myself for that.


This is part seven of twelve, come back next week for part eight and every Thursday until we’re done to see what happens next. If you get lost, one of the tags here should help you. The Wonderland tag will take you to the story while the Jack Tag will take you to Part One of every story we post here.

February 12, 2009 Posted by | Fiction, Jack | | Leave a comment