Fiction by Me: Locusts

Curious to see people’s opinions about my own contributions to The Midnight Collection, I’m going to post them here, one at a time.  My posts are just going to have the start of the story with a link to where you can finish reading it on The Midnight Collection’s website.  If you love or hate my story, or love expressing your opinion even when that is “meh,” leave a comment either here or there.  My stories are quite different from each other, so if you hate this one, maybe the previous or the next will be more to your liking.  This one is a horror scifi poem…

 

LOCUSTS

Bébé Mélange

Content Warnings:  Classism, Capitalism, Loss of Body Autonomy,
Disordered Eating, Feces, Harm to People and Animals, Crowds

At the mouth of the bay,
A whole shipyard bent all of its powers
To accommodate one job—the last of its kind.
A megayacht of ungodly proportions—a floating city to raze,
Or rather, dismantle with environmental consciousness.
Gone were the times of conspicuous consumption
And of monuments to individual avarice,
And so the megayacht would die.

The grandfather brought his whole family—
Son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren as well.
He brought them to bear witness to the end of an era
But they laughed in his face, laughed at his emotion.
Bitter tears flowed until his eyes ran dry,
And a time later, they flowed again.

The yacht had a flexible hull in three parts.
It was to flex with the waves of an ocean in full fury.
Those hull sections would be the last part dismantled,
Until that time, holding up the savages that crawled inside
So many termites taking apart a thing of true beauty.
This was the end of opulence, of nobility,
But the noble family could not see.

The grandfather sought their hearts one by one.
“Father,” said his son, “You still have your mansions on land.”
“Why do you need one at sea?” asked his daughter-in-law.
“You just don’t get it,” he cried and tried again.
At last, he came to be understood.
His grandson felt his sorrow.

They watched and wept.
The termites did their work, taking it all apart—
Furnishings first, then electronics and hardware.
Walls and decks came out at the same time as pipes and wires.
The fuel was drained with the greatest care of all.
As the hulls were at last carved apart,
They held hands and moaned.

That grandson understood the beauty lost.
As he grew into a man, he came to understand why.
Society had nearly been destroyed by endless consumption.
The world still burned from the aftermath of those fires.
Months of the year were spent indoors and cooled,
And the people blamed his class.
They blamed billionaires.

But it needn’t have been so!
The technology existed that such opulence
Would not need to run on fossil fuels and waste.
If they’d just stayed their revolution a few more years,
Solar and wind and nuclear castles could have
Been raised to honor the aristocracy,
And the world would still live.
What was needed was need.

The grandson knew that the engine of capital was need—
Not the natural needs of humanity, though hunger did help.
It was the needs that capitalists created by advertising.
That’s why advertising was strictly regulated
In the wake of their filthy revolution.
But the grandson did not need it.

He plied scientists with his wealth,
Schemed to stimulate need through other means.
All that was required was a subtle push—so slight a thing.
Make people feel reckless greed, reawaken their true nature.
Insects provided the model—socially communicating hunger.
They would find what made the locusts swarm,
They would instill just a drop in humanity,
And opulence could be reborn.

Amador was a repairist in the city.
People like him kept the electronics running.
When they did their job well, they didn’t have much work to do
And as the indoor season approached, Amador was done.
He was ready to fold up shop and relax in the cool.
Gold screens coated every window around him,
Protecting from the spring sun, gleaming.

But it was spring, and love called.
Amador’s affections fell on a barista—
A young man named David—but could the love be returned?
Did David prefer women? Or simply avoid customers?
Either would leave Amador cold, even as
The heat of the world began to boil.

One day, he saw David’s keychain—
A rainbow flag in resin and cheap metal.
Amador had put in the work to get familiar,
At least as much as was appropriate for a customer.
All that held him back at that point was the pain of rejection.
It was not an inconsiderable thing—but it would be brief.
Get it over with, like taking a shot in the arm.
But still… maybe tomorrow.

High above the coffee shop
The scientists had labored for years.
Their works were astonishing, unnatural:
A monkey that could eat its weight in minutes,
Mice that could leap over a desk if unrestrained.

The mammals subjected to these treatments had
Some qualities of the insects that infused them—
Yellow flesh and red eyes—for so long
As the effects did linger.

That was key—the effects should be subtle.
The final delivery to the people below must go unnoticed—
Something invisible in the air and the people go a little mad,
To want more than they need—and to need what they want.
They could make the effects fierce and short lived
Or subtle and longer lasting, but not perfectly,
And not predictably.

The grandson was convinced, though.
It was time, whatever over-cautious scientists felt.
The delivery mechanism was built into the HVAC system.
His engineers had been deceived about the purpose.
The substance would be dispersed from one room—
An untraceable concentration, so very low.
His ambition would be achieved.

“Release the chemical, Dr. Mercado.”
“I cannot. This could be a disaster beyond imagining.”
“Release the fucking chemical.” He tried threat and reward.
Dr. Mercado gave in, and the grandson’s excitement grew.
They sealed the room and activated the release remotely.
The concentration within the room would be deadly,
But if all worked as designed, no one would die.
The people of the city would be the first
Of a new world of consumers.

The grandson and Dr. Mercado felt it.
A vibration began in their limbs, their hearts raced.
They looked down at twitching fingers turning yellow.
A few stray molecules of the substance must have escaped,
But the chemical was triggered by proximity to others.
They scrambled away from each other and
The grandson locked his office door.

A high power venting system roared to life.
The release room evacuated its atmosphere through vents.
The substance blew across the city unseen.

READ THE REST HERE,

 

Or purchase the whole Midnight Collection e-book through Ko-fi or Amazon.  A physical copy in paperback is available through Lulu.  You may be able to purchase it through other sites soon, but it’s nice to not give Bezuggs a cut, and purchase on Lulu gives more money to the cause.  And lastly, you can just read the collection for free at the Collection’s website.

Remember This? Or Am I Losing It?

I seem to have constructed a memory from whole cloth.  The internet is not backing me up on this, so it has to have been my imagination.  But it’s so specific.  This isn’t something like KinderTrauma, where it’s an old TV show I dimly remember being exposed to at the age of five.  This is something that should show up on atheist sites, and their opposition.  Something in our domain.

I remembered creationists editing Archaeopteryx into an edition of the bible.  Like there was a list of birds, there was one with an uncertain modern translation, and they just slipped it in there next to hoopoes and thrushes or something.  I even remember having seen one of these bibles, dimly.  But I can’t find jack shit about this on the internet.

Am I losing it?  Discuss my inadequacies in the comments.
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Fiction by Me: Four

When posting about The Midnight Collection, I’ve been hoping to see people’s opinions about the collection as a whole.  But I can understand, slow times on FtB, not a lot of people ready to read a rando dark fiction collection at the drop of a hat.  Well then, at the very least, curious to see people’s opinions about my own contributions.  I’m going to post them here, one at a time.  My posts are just going to have the start of the story with a link to where you can finish reading it on The Midnight Collection’s website.  If you love or hate my story, or love expressing your opinion even when that is “meh,” leave a comment either here or there.  My stories are quite different from each other, so if you hate this one, maybe the next will be more to your liking…

FOUR

Christopher Scott Shelton

Content Warnings:  War, Mutilation, Death, Vomit, Disease, Gun Violence, etc.

The valley was cold, but the soldiers had fire.

They had battled all spring and summer.  The spring rain, then the summer melt of mountain ice, had by turns rendered the plain into stinking mire, and the contribution of blood and rotting men was not insignificant.

Late summer dried the earth, late fall firmed it, and the fighting had at last thinned to nothing.

The valley was cold, but the men welcomed the firmness of the earth, the way it did not invade every inch of their clothing, bearing leeches, fleas, and maggots.

The valley was cold because the hot blood of men was no longer spilled upon it.  So great had been the summer slaughter that the barricades and trenches were fortified with bone and dried flesh as much as earth.

And yet soldiers still lived there, with fire to warm them, hiding in a pit, feeding on rats and wild birds.  The war had forgotten them, and they loved it.  They missed bread but would not dare to give voice to complaint, lest they be heard by heralds and scouts and generals, sent to where flesh was still split for territory and ideology, for monarchy and for its enemies.

They quietly ate their rats and birds and contented themselves, until the day when a hussar appeared on a shining white horse with filthy black and grey hooves, his lance low and swinging as if to spear any dogs or beggars that he should chance upon.

The hussar wore a hat like the iron-plated prow of a warship, tall and narrow.  His livery was drab green with faded silver buttons and braids layered thick as chain armor, his high boots a strange ivory suede besotted with the same grime as his steed’s hooves.  They had both walked earth more pliant than the frozen pack of the soldiers’ shelter, of their wasted battlefield.  He sneered through an orange moustache and rode by the men.  They cringed away from that lance.

“Cowards, traitors, hiding in holes.”  Was he Prussian?  Belgian?  None recognized his accent or uniform, but all sensed his authority.

“Nonesuch,” said the sergeant.   “We were ordered to hold this field, and that is what we are doing.”

The hussar pivoted his mount expertly, and it pranced past the men again.  “I suppose the war here is won, and the prize of that struggle is the peace you now enjoy?  Yet elsewhere, men still try their valor.  Elsewhere, men still suffer and die for what is right.”

“We answer to an officer of greater station within our army.  Send one to us, if it pleases you.”

At the end, the horse stamped, turning in place but not walking their line again.  Her master was stone in his saddle, unmoving despite her agitation, demonically resolute.

“Far be it from me to question their command.  If you are to hold this field, then hold it.”

The hussar spurred his steed into a jump, traversing the trench in one motion.  As he passed over the men, he split a saddle bag and something terrible splashed loose.  They quailed away, and the foul substance splattered at their feet.

He rode away, and they beheld his strange offering.  The bag had been filled with bilious vomit.  What bizarre sort of man would have such a thing?  The soldiers quickly buried it in whatever soil they could dislodge from the frozen firmament.

They had quickly buried it, yet the miasma somehow escaped that soil, tendrils creeping into men’s bodies in the night and day that followed.  None were spared.  Each in turn became vomitously ill, a few nigh unto death.

Throughout the ordeal, thoughts that had been carefully secreted away in their survivor reverie were at last given voice.  Should they try to go home?  Find another place to hide?  To truly desert, where heretofore they had merely allowed themselves to be deserted?

The sergeant saw that the first men to fall ill were soon to recover, and with bitter scorn for the mad hussar, dismissed the idea he’d pose any further risk to them.  He ordered the infantrymen to stay with him in the trench.

In truth, none were so hale as to seek an unnecessary march at that time, and they were relieved to have the decision of apathy made for them.

Anon, the hussar returned with a yet wealthier cavalier—a dragoon in deeply black wool with white silk appointments, riding a brilliantly red stallion.  The high iron pot of his helmet was lacquered black, gleaming like a river under a crescent moon, topped with an outlandish silver crest.  He was so heavily laden with swords that it would no doubt be more hindrance than help in combat—blades of every size and description—but his chief weapon was a long, heavy, and intricately carved cannon.

This dragoon spoke with a yet different foreign accent—was he Aragonese?  Alsatian?  “My brother spoke true.  There are worms here, where once warriors drew arms.  Sickening.”  He was olive skinned with oiled black moustache and blood-red lips.

The hussar replied, “I would have said no such thing.  The appearance of knavery is merely an appearance.  Their sergeant spoke of a purpose in their repose.”

“Ah yes,” said the dragoon.  “To hold the field.  Can you hold this field, sergeant?”

In his anger, the sergeant gained some courage, but not so much as to stand up, expose his body to attack.  His furious head peered from the trench like a badger backed into its burrow.

“I’ll not waste time in parlay with vagabonds in shiny suits.  To precisely which army do you belong?”

A ball tore his head apart, having passed through the shoulder of another soldier on the way to its mark.  Scraps of his face flapped in the air momentarily like a discarded orange peel, then his body slipped away.  The dragoon had fired with perfect accuracy, despite taking no effort whatsoever in aiming.  It had been truly fired from the hip.

The officer’s men all scrambled to load their fallow rifles, and end this terror before it could take them.  But the dragoon stopped them with a single hand clapped on his own great cannon.  They understood his meaning.  The weapon had two barrels, and at least one of the soldiers would die in the effort.

Fear and fatigue broke their courage, and they let their arms rest.  Nobody dared to speak—to take the place of their leader.  The soldier with the wounded shoulder frantically tried to dress it, with no aid.

The dragoon calmly reloaded his spent barrel and still the soldiers did not try the same.  “Good, good.  That is discipline.  It takes more courage to follow orders than it does to resist.  For in resistance you risk some pain, a quick death, and in following your leaders, that pain need be endured a thousandfold.”

As he spoke, the hussar removed a saber from one of the many scabbards on the dragoon’s horse, and ran the blade through the stale vomit in his slashed saddlebag.  He tossed the sword down where the soldiers could reach it, then drew another and did the same.

“I’d like each of you to take up one of my swords.  They are all quite strong and sharp, I assure you.”  They still hesitated.  “Take them up.”

He slapped his gun and the soldiers complied, each taking up a poisoned blade as soon as the hussar laid it down.

They were all so armed, emptying the dragoon’s supply.  The trench was wide enough for two men to stand abreast, and as they looked at each other, they had a good idea of what was coming next.

“Without that mouthy sergeant, you count off a nice, even number.  Face your nearest fellow and raise your guard…”

READ THE REST HERE,

Or purchase the whole Midnight Collection e-book through Ko-fi or Amazon.  A physical copy in paperback is available through Lulu.  You may be able to purchase it through other sites soon, but it’s nice to not give Bezuggs a cut, and purchase on Lulu gives more money to the cause.  And lastly, you can just read the collection for free at the Collection’s website.

Becoming Aware of One’s Nudity

Content Warning:  Sleazy Energy, Dreamposting

I’ve been waking up with the sun around eight and then having to try to go back to sleep, or just resting an hour til my alarm goes off and hoping that counts for something.  This morning though, I was able to return to sleep.  I used the time-honored method of having a quick wank, pardon my French.  This was, I think, a mistake.  With the limited time I had left to dream, my mind went to unsavory places.

Dreams about being naked or in one’s underwear probably come from noticing, in your sleep, that you are underdressed – and then incorporating that into the plot.  Much like nightmares about your teeth falling out seem connected to noticing that you have teeth, and your dream generatin’ brain piece thinking of the most obvious thing to do with that information.  So I became aware, in my dream, that I was only wearing underwear, and I set off in search of my clothes.  At some point, I was petting or snuggling with a piglet.  # Just Dream Things.

Along the way, people seemed to either mildly rib me, or sleaze on me – saying suggestive things, or assuming I was a rent boy or something.  One of the sleazers looked like either J. Allen Brack or Aron Ra.  He wasn’t trying to get with me, but he was explaining to me how his hedonistic posse would have parties where they watch somebody playing Elden Ring on a big screen.  His favorite part was (something not actually in the game) where a three-headed monster lady with pale flesh was dying and blood pooled up between her legs in the shape of pubic hair.  I quickly moved along.

At some point I was obligated to lay down.  I may have been talking with somebody, or trying to keep my head low to avoid being seen in my underoos.  The piglet from before rolled up on me from the side.  I wasn’t initially looking its way and it started snuffling at my face.  This may have been caused by my cat IRL.

The piglet started speaking to me in a manly voice, on a grade to Werner Herzog.  It seemed to think our prior snuggling was a sexual experience, and was giving me the business about it.  “Did you enjoy it when we made love, or did it feel awkward?”  I glanced over and saw that the piglet was wearing girly lingerie, and it kept badgering me.  It was repeating the question “Did you enjoy it when we made love?” but altering the second part of the sentence, like a poem.  I suspect this part of the dream was inspired by the Nine Inch Nails cover of Queen’s Get Down Make Love, which opens with a sample from the 1962 version of The Cabinet of Caligari.

The alarm clock woke me brutally and I had to race through my morning routine as usual, then get to work.  I’m surprised I remember any of it at all.  But should I be glad?

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Music Questions and Groovy Ghouls

I hope this video plays on other sites and in most countries. If you can, take in this visual and auditory information, then consult with me when you have finished your assignment.

OK, to be honest, I have nothing profound to say about this. I pick up this and that, trivial info, from random curiosities and wikipedia, but the answers are often lacking. You can never really know what it was like to be there. So I’m still left with a few questions.

The lead singer of the Mary Jane Girls was a protégé & / or collaborator with Rick James, and I think the only actual MJ Girl on the recorded track. The other girls were stand-ins for tours, promotion, image. I expect on tour they’d just lip synch at most concerts, so they didn’t even need singing skills. Probably they were dancers first. But did they sing? I know sometimes singers would try to do the whole package as performers, sometimes with tragic results (I’m thinking of a breathless sweaty Paula Abdul performance on MTV Music Awards from long ago). How singin’ were the non-recorded Mary Jane Girls?

The lead MJG was a singer first and a dancer / performer second, right? I think it’s funny to imagine she just danced how she felt and the dancing girls had to try to coordinate to that. Try to keep up girls. Probably not, but who knows?

Other random thought, why is the white girl in a skeleton costume? I do think the combination of light eyes, blonde hair, and heavy makeup evokes the doll-look possession in the first Evil Dead movie, so she’s kinda ghoulish. I know cocaine was huge in this scene, which creates a strong association between the color white and death, but surely that’s my own projection. It’s just weird that one of them had a ghoul outfit and the rest didn’t. The song does have a spoopy vibe, anyway.

Still from Evil Dead (1979)

I rather like eighties funk, though I’m no expert on it. I feel like it lost something in the transition from the seventies, like feeling and soul, and then replaced that with this cold alien drug vibe that has a different and perverse kind of appeal. What do you think?

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The Midnight Collection Lives!

My man Joseph Kelly has finally published the first volume of The Midnight Collection, a compilation of dark fiction I’ve previously mentioned. He was originally intent on it being sold at zero profit, but in order to get an ISBN there was a minimum price that results in some amount of profit. Fear not, Mr. Kelly will surely not even make minimum wage on the effort it took to make this happen. You have a few options on how to read it – and one is completely gratis. I’ll explain that later.

The Midnight Collection is aiming to go quarterly – the next volume already in progress – and this first installment is themed “Feast & Famine.” I’m pimping this because I’m a contributor, and I’d love to hear what you think of my stories. Although I am really curious what reviewers, casual or serious, will think of all the stories. I have a personal opinion about which story is the best, and wonder how well that lines up with the consensus view.

This is a truly unusual collection. Despite the uniting theme, it’s as diverse as the members of our secret cabal of writers. There’s poetry, comedy, LGBT+ representation, and dark fiction ranging from traditional ’80s style horror to fantasy and sci-fi. Some of the writers are more conventional, some quite avant garde or ferocious. A little tour of the table of contents:

PEOPLE POT PIES – Brett Elijah Shelton
This short horror poem was written by my brother a very long time ago. Should it have been published? Is the world ready? You decide.

SATURNALIA – Lydia Moody
The first proper story in the book is a murder mystery featuring a nonbinary protagonist, in a style the author aptly dubbed “cozy splatterpunk.”

A GRIMM MARKET – Kirsten Aucoin
A modern take on Hansel and Gretel, of course, and as a child of poverty, I found something to relate to in the motives and experiences of these H&Gs.

BUTTERCREAM – Joseph Kelly
Like People Pot Pies to my brother, this is an older story by my lovin’ man, published here for the first time. A young character has been rousted into service at a child’s birthday party. Naturally the festivities take an ill turn. I find it very artistic. This might be the closest entry in the book to the genre of Literary Fiction.

ORTOLAN – Sascha Masoch
Another poem, this one penned specifically for the collection, and it couldn’t be more different from my brother’s opening act. The title refers to the ortolan bunting, a songbird most famed for being subject to very French cruelty.

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN BILE – Athena Victoria
The book’s dark fantasy tale. A fancy queen is harried by a demonic figure. This story brings the color – especially the red.

LOCUSTS – Bébé Mélange
My first entry, under my main nom de plume! I tried my hand at sci-fi poetry. I wonder what FtB’s own T.D. Walker would think. This is not my area of expertise as a writer, but I like to think the concept carries it – mad science used to resurrect capitalism in a world that had somehow killed it and moved on.

SAPSUCKER – Joseph Kelly
Another by my boyfriend, this one in a genre and style that compares well to Clive Barker – while still being its own gay thing. An artist has rented a cabin to get some paintings done, but a very sticky horror calls to him from the woods.

SUPPLY CHAIN BANDITOS – Bébé Mélange
It’s me again! Don’t worry. We have more contributors lined up for volume two, so it’ll have less of me. Here I try my hand at a kind of gentle dark comedy. A post-apocalypse scenario is gradually revealed, with roots in our present day lives.

EZEKIEL DRIFT – Damian Golfinopolous
Snowy weather for your late summer / early fall, Damian is a multi-talented artist from New Zealand, bringing post-apocalyptic sci-fi to the collection. Or is it supernatural? What’s really going on here?

FOUR – Christopher Scott Shelton
You might recognize this author’s name from the corners of these artworks. Possibly the most pretentious work in the collection, this one is a vaguely Napoleonic period piece about the horrors of war.

FRESSEN – Caesar Train Magenta
You might recognize this author’s name from here, or an early version of this short essay from here. The volume is brought to a close in a Rod Serling style monologue.

“Partie de Plaisirs” (detail) – Pierre Etienne Moitte (after Nicolas Lancret)

HOW DO I READ THE MIDNIGHT COLLECTION?

The way that results in the most direct support for future volumes is through Ko-fi. For a minimum three dollar donation, you can download the e-book in formats that work with most e-readers. The best way to view the interior illustrations, and have a nice artifact for your bookshelf, is by purchasing the paperback through Lulu. You may be able to purchase it through other sites soon, but it’s nice to not give Bezuggs a cut, and purchase on Lulu gives more money to the cause. And lastly, as promised, you can just read it for free at the Collection’s website.

There are a few original works by authors (nice!) but most of the illustrations are lovingly curated from public domain resources, like the picture to the right here – one of my faves. Some version of some of the illustrations are available on the website, more in the e-book, but yes, the best way to appreciate them is a hard copy.

I’d love to see reviews, either of the whole package or individual stories. For lowest effort you can drop some general thoughts in the comments below this article. You can also leave comments on the individual stories at the Midnight Collection’s site. And of course, you can review it wherever it is available for purchase. Thanks!

EDIT TO ADD:  Somebody international couldn’t use a card to purchase it through ko-fi so begrudgingly there is now an e-book on Amazon as well. Purchase your e-book there if you must, but know that if you do it on ko-fi, the format should work on any modern kindle as well.

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PS: I mentioned before I’m going to release my first novel soon, keep your eyes open for that as well…

Imminent Business

I have some medical stuff going on this Friday, and have been very preoccupied with that and crash editing my novel.  Will probably have some kind of announcement within a few weeks about the novel coming out, not much until then.  So, like, bis später, meine Leute.  Hasta luego, all that kind of thing.  Peace.

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Songs I’m Liking

Some days I get horrible mashups of bad songs in my head, most recently from watching Todd in the Shadows‘ “One Hit Wonderland” series on yewchoob.  Today I’m doing OK.  Did you know that the milieu of Tenacious D’s demons and broadswords universe was once a real place, inhabited by people like Ronny James Dio and Judas Priest?  Anyway, Judas Priest’s The Sentinel features a demonic revenant doing a throwing knife massacre.  I love it.

Also on my mind is Prince’s Kiss.  Neil Cicieraga did a remix of it which seems inspired by pure loathing, or perhaps misunderstanding that the funny aspects of the song were originally meant to be funny, and it comes off like he didn’t get the joke – a rare thing for Neil, who is a sharp musical wit.  Or it might be that any recognition of Prince’s appeal was soured by his estate’s litigiousness, a trait which may be the reason I can no longer find a link for that.

This morning I was listening to The Sound’s album Jeopardy.  I only got as far as the end of “Missiles” before I needed to tend some chore.  The lead off track “I can’t Escape Myself” is the best bad self esteemin’ song ever, sad and terrible, but beautiful rock and roll.  “Hour of Need” is a great companion to it.  Every time I hear those songs I think of the sad goths in my life with affection.  “Missiles” doesn’t have the most clever lyrics in the universe, but the late lead singin’ man’s voice elevates it to a passionate expression of frustration we all feel being in a world of nukes and war – shit regular people are nigh powerless to stop.

Sing it, baby.

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Are You Bored Again?

FtB hasn’t been very hoppin’ lately, so you may be seeking something to read.  Last time I noted this, I came up with a list of good articles I’d written that received little attention at the time I posted them.  You could revisit that, if you didn’t avail yourself the first time.  Something else that could be fun to read: My short-lived RP by Comment.  Cartomancer was the last man standing in that exercise in collaborative writing*, and he brought it to a very meta and amusing conclusion.  Thanks, Cartomancer.

When I was a young man*, Pepsi ran a slogan “Be young, Have fun, Drink Pepsi.”  You Could win a prize by collecting cans that were printed in the bottom with each word of the creepy demand.  But the print inside the can was only 2-3 letters, which worked out to BE YNG HAV FUN DRK PEP.  As you survive another season of fire, invoke this ancient spell to summon Pepsiman to protect you.

BE YNG HAV FUN DRK PEP.  Now gimme the prize.

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*some would say “egg” but it felt appropriate enough at that time so i let this kind of thing stand.

Y’all Don’t Even Know

Some Great American Satan writing will be coming to book form soon!  There’s a compilation in which I have a few submissions, soon to be published, and if I pull off this wild last-minute dash thing I’m working on, my first novel may also come available within a week of that!  Here’s the back cover of that collection.  I’m the Bébé Mélange and none of the described scenes are from my submissions…

The collection is going to be sold at zero profit, but my novel – The Septagram – will involve at least some reward for me other than thronging fans.  I’ll get into that in more depth sometime within the next few weeks here.

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