Five Reasons Why I Don't Feel Comfortable Introducing Myself Using Gender Pronouns

Table of Contents

1. Introduction
2. Reason #1: I Am an Individual, Not a Gender Identity
3. Reason #2: I Don't Care What People Call Me
4. Reason #3: Focusing on Gender Pronouns Sexualizes People and Triggers Me
5. Reason #4: I Do Not Care About Being Misgendered
6. Reason #5: I Do Not Want to Be Referred To
7. Conclusion

 

 

 

Content

 

 

 

1. Introduction

      A pronoun is a word or phrase used to refer to someone or something. Gender pronouns (or gender-based pronouns) are used to refer to a person by their gender, as shorthand, in place of their name.

     Over the last several years, it has become more and more common - especially in socially liberal or left-leaning circles - to provide one's gender-based pronouns, while introducing oneself to a new group of people.

     I have encountered this phenomenon twice so far in my life; once in a union meeting, and again for a meeting of environmentalists.

     I have written this article in order to explain why I do not feel comfortable introducing myself using gender pronouns.

2. Reason #1: I Am an Individual, Not a Gender Identity

     For one, my gender identity is not an integral part of my identity. I do not primarily identify as a man, a woman, male, nor female, nor anything else "in between" nor "other". What I primarily identify as, is an individual.

     If someone wishes to refer to me, then I would hope that they would refer to me as "Joe" (my first name), or as "Joseph", "Joey", or "Joe Kopsick" (or my full name "Joseph William Kopsick").

     Notice that I said "hope". I hope that people refer to me by my chosen name. If someone wants to call me "Steve", "Billy", "Josephine", "Princess", or "X AE A-12", that is their choice. Attempting to refer to me by that name would be completely unproductive, and would only confuse people about to whom they're referring. But it would not offend or insult me.

3. Reason #2: I Don't Care What People Call Me

     There is no point in getting "offended" or "insulted" when someone refers to you by the wrong name. If they're doing it on purpose, then I would understand feeling offended. But even if a person is trying to offend or insult you, nobody can actually make you feel one way or another. Your feelings are under your control.

     If you suspect that someone is trying to hurt your feelings by calling you by the incorrect name, then you have every right to confront the person about that. As long as you remember that feeling insulted, or saying "I'm offended", doesn't give you any extra rights.

     All you can do is inform people of the name, or pronouns, with which you would like to be referred, and hope that they respond in-kind. You cannot make someone refer to you by any name, because they are in control of their mouths and voice boxes; not you.

 

     I have no preferences regarding what I would like people to call me. As I explained, if they don't call me "Joe", then I may suspect that they are talking about somebody else. But I am not about to start ordering people to call me by any particular name, nor by any particular set of pronouns.

     That's because I am not a grammar Nazi, nor a control freak. I do not care what people call me.

4. Reason #3: Focusing on Gender Pronouns Sexualizes People and Triggers Me

     Another reason why I don't care whether people call me by he/him pronouns, she/her pronouns, or anything else, is because I consider the use of gender-based pronouns to be sexualizing.

     If I were introducing myself with as much attention to gender as the rest of the group would wish, then I would be allowing them to refer to me with a reference to my sex or gender, instead of with a reference to my individuality (the easiest way to do so being to use my first name).

     As I explained, I primarily consider myself to be an individual human being, rather than as a member of the male biological sex, or the masculine gender, or the female biological sex, or the feminine gender, or anything else.

     I am not primarily a member of any group; I identify as myself.

     Even though (as far as I know) I have XY sex chromosomes, that fact does not dictate my identity as much as some people might assume it does. If socially tolerant people are correct - and gender is fluid, and biological sex does not dictate who you're attracted to, nor whom you love, nor whether you are more masculine or feminine - then telling you that I identify as male should not tell you jack shit about who I am as a person.

     In my opinion, treating my sex or gender as an integral part of who I am, is just submission to the false assumption (ironically shared by socially "tolerant" people) that telling you my gender identity will tell you everything (or anything) that you need to know about me. It does not.

     I could allow you to refer to me by "he/him" pronouns, but that would be denying that I have a feminine side. I could allow you to refer to me by "she/her" pronouns - as a way of recognizing my feminine side - but that would only be a distraction from the fact that I have XY sex chromosomes and the external genital appearances characteristic of a biological male (i.e., a penis and testicles).

     I was molested as a child.

     When I tried to grow my hair long in high school, I was treated as if I were a girl; as if having long hair alone, made me a girl or a woman. I knew then that that was not so, and I still know it today.

     When I introduce myself to a new group of people, I want them to know what my first name is. That is the way that we all grew up introducing ourselves, and there is no need for that to change. I do not say this out of lack of tolerance for transgender individuals; I say it because there is no need to overload people with information about me aside from my name.

     Also, I do not want people to be thinking about my dick and balls just because I am meeting them for the first time.

     Parents in the Millennial generation (my generation) have spoken up recently about the fact that babies are routinely dressed in gender-specific ways; blue for boys, and pink for girls. It used to be the other way around, actually; blood-red used to stand for males (many of whom became soldiers) while sky-blue stood for the peaceful nurturing nature associated with females.

     Several years ago, a "gender-reveal party" caused a wildfire that burned down twenty-two thousand acres of California wilderness. Millennial parents were quick to point out that that wildfire was an indication that people's obsession with their children's genders has gotten out of hand.
     You can read about that fire at the following link:
     http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Dorado_Fire

     People do not need to be thinking about your child's genitals when you inform them that you have given birth to a baby. Similarly, people do not need to know that I have a penis and testicles in order to know that I like to be called Joe.

     Do you need to know that I have a dick, or XY sex chromosomes - or know that I have no plans to take hormones or get surgery - in order to call me by my preferred name of Joe? No, you don't.

     Groups that ask people to introduce themselves with their name and gender pronouns, should think about the fact that many people have sexual trauma in their past.

     Having to decide whether I am more masculine or feminine, in front of a group of strangers, is triggering for me; it traumatizes me and causes me to think about the complicated past I have in terms of trying to figure out what my gender identity is or is not.

     When I am told "Please introduce yourself and tell us your pronouns", I am no longer looking forward to the meeting; now I am anxiously worrying about how to deal with referencing my sexual or gender identity. I am worrying about how to avoid being objectified sexually, or sexualized, when all I should be doing is waiting to tell people what my name is.

     After I introduce myself, people should be thinking about the fact that my name is Joe. They should not be thinking about whether I have a penis, whether I am attracted to men, nor whether I am taking hormones or seeking gender confirmation surgery.

     The person who molested me as a child, was obsessed with my appearance and sexuality and my sex. I grew up fixated on my appearance, and having to worry about whether I seemed masculine-looking enough, while retaining my right to have a nurturing and feminine side.

     I don't need to go through the rest of my life worrying that complete strangers are going to treat me the same way as my child molester.

     My name is Joe. Some biological women are named Joe (or Jo) too. The fact that my name is Joe, has absolutely nothing to do with my external genital appearance, nor with whether I am more masculine or feminine.

     Stop sexualizing me. And stop sexualizing your infants.

5. Reason #4: I Do Not Care About Being Misgendered

     If you feel it necessary to use pronouns when referring to me, then I would not be offended, hurt, insulted, nor shocked, if you guessed. Not even if you guessed incorrectly. I would be confused, but not offended.
     I do not care about being misgendered (that is, identified as a member of "the wrong gender"). I would rather be misgendered, than order people to use - or not to use - certain words, when referring to me.



6. Reason #5: I Do Not Want to Be Referred To

     When I introduce myself to a group, I assume that - if someone wishes to speak to me - they will address me directly, calling me by my name.

     I do not assume that they will chiefly reference me by referring to me in the third person while speaking to other people in the group.

     If you need to mention me to someone else in the group, then my first name "Joe" will suffice perfectly, in place of whatever pronouns you may wish that I had indicated that I prefer.

 

     As I explained, I do not wish to "force" nor "make" people call me by any particular name(s) or gender pronoun(s), and I cannot force anybody to say anything because I don't control their mouth.

     But what I suggest, is that, if someone wishes to refer to me, to another person in the group, then there is no reason whatsoever why they need to refer to me as "him" or "he".

     Instead of "him" or "her", say "Joe". Instead of "he" or "she", say "Joe".

     Now, it may feel awkward to you to say "Joe" every five seconds instead of using "he" as shorthand, but imagine how awkward I might feel having my gender referred to every few seconds, or (even worse) being prompted to focus on my gender as if it were an integral (or the second-most important) part of my identity.

     There is no reason why you can't say to someone, "How do you think Joe feels about that" instead of "How do you think he feels about that". There is no reason why you can't say, "Let's invite Joe to the event later this week" instead of "Let's invite him to the event later this week."

     If you think that all of this is a bit too much for me to tell you about myself, then imagine how I must feel when you ask me to talk about my sexual or gender identity the very same moment that I meet you for the first time!

 

     In fact, if your question is "How do you think Joe feels about that", then why don't you ask me how I feel about it, instead of asking someone else!?

     If we referred to each other by their names when speaking to each other - and never gossiped about each other behind one another's backs - then there would be almost zero need for third-person pronouns (let alone gender pronouns).

     The American-Israeli philosopher Dr. Martin Buber explained, in his book I and Thou, referring to someone as "it" or "he" has a very different character from calling that person "you". Dr. Buber (not "he", but Dr. Buber) explains that referring to someone in the third person, separates that person from oneself (I). When you engage directly with a person, and speak directly to them, you remove that separation, and enter into a real, direct relationship with that person.

     Buber even went so far as to assert that this implies that there is no such thing as "they" (a plural form of the third-person pronouns "it", "he", and "she"). Referring to a group of people as "they" not only separates them from yourself and the person to whom you are speaking, it "others" them. Here, I use "other" as a verb, meaning that calling people "they" implies that they are so different from you and the person to whom you are speaking, that it is almost as if they are not worthy of being spoken to directly.

     I would prefer that people not gossip about me behind my back. I would prefer that people refer to me as "Joe". But just because I might prefer that, that does not mean that it gives me any right to do anything about it.

     Stop talking about me, and start talking to me.

 


7. Conclusion

     I care more about other people's freedom to use whichever words they please, than I am worried about being misgendered. I care more about helping people not to feel excluded or "othered" than I do about labeling them.

     This is why my preferred pronouns are "Shut the fuck up", "Joe-self" and "Go-fuck-your-self".

Written on September 8th, 2021

Published on September 8th, 2021

Waking Dream (A Novella)

      The following is a novella which I helped write in 2010. The story was begun by my friends Jorge Wolfhouse and Matthew Johnson, with myself doing the typing. The first three-quarters of the story were written by Jorge Wolfhouse and Matthew Johnson. The last quarter was written by myself, Joe Kopsick.

     Included at the beginning are the authors' preferences as to whom should direct and star in the film version of this story, should it ever be turned into a screenplay.

     I would apologize for the gratuitous use of racial slurs, and insensitive sexual jokes, which are found in this story, but they are there for a reason. This story is, in part, a satire of films such as Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs, which have come to be known for including such controversial and provocative elements.

     Enjoy!

WAKING DREAM

Directed by

Quentin Tarantino (fight scenes),

David Fincher (fan scenes),

and

Robert Rodriguez (all other scenes)

Cast of Characters

Tom, the Fan Salesman (the narrator)................................................................Christopher Walken

Bill, the Drunk Homeless Veteran....................................................................................Nick Nolte

Calico, the Whore......................................................................................................Christina Ricci

Scarla, the Waitress........................................................................................................Julia Roberts

Liquor Store Employee.......................................................................Quentin Tarantino (in a dress)

Black Bartender at the Dirty Pillows..........................................................Tom Waits (in blackface)

Teen Wigger Drug Dealer......................................................................Katt Williams (in whiteface)

Henry the Cat........…........................................................................Danny Trejo (in a cat costume)

The Cop...........................................................................................................................Tom Arnold

The Russian............................Samuel L. Jackson (no makeup, and not even attempting an accent)

The Gook...........................................................................................Christopher Walken (no lines)

Mr. Albert Dreyfuss (age 80).....................................................................................Steve Buscemi

Slavic Vaclav / Vinny, the Butcher.....................................................................Sacha Baron Cohen

Part 1: Tom’s Story

Time: Who the Fuck Knows?

“The fuck is this!? These fuckin’ eggs suck! Who cooked this bullshit?”

I poked at one of the yolks cautiously with a fork. It popped, oozing its yellow… goo and its white… reminded me of a sore I once squeezed the pus out of. “Looked like somebody came in this goddamn bullshit!”

Ah, life and breakfast. All in a day's work, I guess you could say.

Who came first; the chicken or the egg? We ask ourselves every day. It's the eternal question, really, if you think about it. Also, if you don't.

But the question bears repeating: Who came first? Who came first!?

“The chef, ya fuckin’ moron!”

As she stared into my eyes, something was amiss…

Her tag flashed the name Scarla, if that really was her name.

I could sense the hostility in the air was thickening and I knew directly that this savage woman was about to take off her apron, her shirt, and her blouse, and beat me with what was left of her fifty-two-year-old breasts, so I sought better in the situation than to coax her into something more of a calmness. “Do you have any kids?”

“Why?”

“The tip I’m gonna leave you is only a buck a kid, and one of your kids just died in my eyes.”

The badge-wearing woman named Scarla, who gave me these shitty eggs, could not help but have a look of complacency in her eyes as she suddenly switched her tune to something more airy from one that suggested she wanted to gouge out my eyes with a hairbrush she’d fucked herself with that morning. “What do you do for a living?”

“Why?”

“You tell me how to do my job, I want to tell you how to do yours.”

I hesitated. “I’m a door-to-door salesman.”

“What do you sell?”

“Fans.”

“What kind of fans?”

“The good kind…” I sipped my coffee. “The kind that’d chop your finger clean off.”

“The kind that… blows you at night?”

“That’s our special model.”

At this point, the eggs were growing cold, and sterile. But that was all right, because so was my appetite. I decided it was time to hit the bar. This woman couldn’t understand me, even though I was speaking perfect English. The scene was getting ugly and I was the only one in the damn place.

Down the aisle, I could see the little folded napkins. Quickly, I said, “Do you need help with those?” Then she turned her head to the side, and gave me a condescending look as she turned back.

“Are you telling me how to do my job again?”

“Check, please!”

I paid with credit, and I left no tip that day. Food costed me nine damn dollars, which I never ate a single bite of. I could have bought a liter of vodka with that. But instead, I chose to order these overcooked, overlooked, over-easy ovaries from that overly-dilapidated woman.

This lack of sleep is really starting to freak me out.

Shit, I need a drink.

Time: 1:30 A.M.

The main drag was poppin’. Prostitutes on the corner were howling at me, but I’d wasted enough money on these whores. It was time to get down to business. It’s almost 2 A.M., and I have to get to the liquor store. Somewhere there’s a bottle of Fleischmann’s with my name on it.

I don’t think I’ve slept in about two days… but who’s really keeping track? Not me.

The bum on the corner shook his cup at me. He smelled of scraped uteri and decaying fruit, like a rotten mixed-berry cocktail salad made in the back of an abortion clinic.

But he had friendly eyes, the kind of eyes that told me he was good, upstanding. So I throw in two bucks for him, and I thought… maybe this guy could use a shower.

I think I’ve found myself a drinking partner for the night.

The man was visibly shocked. Said his name was Bill and he was a Gulf War vet. He served at… well, he served, anyway… and he’d just been released. I figured, why not? The man deserves a medal. God knows I’m too lazy to get out there and defend this country.

So what the hell? Might as well throw a guy a bone once in a while.

Bill took his prosthetic leg out of his guitar case, put it on, and picked up his traveling pack.

I could tell this fuckin’ bum’d had a hard life. A bathe and a shave shouldn’t do him any harm. I think I got some leftover clothes he could put on. I’m definitely throwing out his laundry, though.

So Bill asked me, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a door-to-door fan salesman.”

He looked around the room at my inventory. “Are these fans any good?”

“I wouldn’t stick my dick in one… But we have had a few occasions… when that’s happened… So few in fact, they even made us put stickers on the things that say, ‘Do not place any appendages of corporeal extremities into the fan’… Didn’t stop anybody… Kind of guy who’d think even once about stickin’ somethin’ in there wouldn’t stop to read the damn thing, much less look up half the words on it… But at least we can’t get held responsible anymore.”

Bill turns to me with an incredulous look in his eyes, and then he smirks at me. I think he thought I was joking. I go, “Seriously… don’t stick your dick in the fans.”

I twist my head to the side. “How ‘bout a drink and a shower?... I’m not a faggot or anything, I’m just too lazy to defend this country…” I paused as I realized Bill probably had no idea what I was talking about. “What do you say we get shitfaced?”

Time: 2:00 A.M.

The woman in the liquor store was looking at Bill like he was a shoplifter. This is good for me, because she wasn’t paying any attention to my well-dressed ass. I was gonna pay for something, but the bottle of vodka in my pocket screamed at me to get out of the store. I slapped the bottle at my side to try to shut it up.

It was time for me to blow this joint. My pretentiousness had reached its peak. The woman never took her eyes off Bill; I even laughed as I walked out of the liquor store.

Bill met me at the corner and asked me why I didn’t buy anything. I told him I didn’t have to. He was still so filthy that the woman never took her eyes off of him.

I had six grand in my bank account and I was shoplifting for the hell of it.

Time: 2:30 A.M.

The apartment was bare and empty. I can’t remember the last time I was able to stomach food. I think the only thing I’ve paid for lately was booze and cat food. Bill complained about the smell of Henry’s pee. I don’t think I’d changed the litter box in a month.

I tell him to sit down, to take off his boots and relax for a moment. Then I looked through my closet for some clean clothes and a towel; something that would fit his malnourished ass.

He looked around my apartment, checking out what kind of life I live. But in the corner of my eye, I could see that he was pondering why I had nothing in my apartment but one mattress, three chairs, ten fans, and a pile of vodka bottles reaching to the top corner of the apartment ceiling.

I found the clothes and towel easily enough. While he was showering, I took five pulls off the Fleischmann’s bottle, thinking of how I was going to explain to him why I’m out at 3 in the morning looking for a homeless guy to drink with.

He probably thinks I’m a fag… or a wingnut.

But the simple matter of the truth is, I’m a whimsical kind of fellow and I do these things on the fly.

Bill was quick in the shower. Took him no more than ten minutes to finish. I believed he’d been going through some kind of withdrawal; it looked like he needed a drink. I offered him a mixer of orange juice and vodka, what most people would call a Screwdriver. I just call it a Screwed in the Head. He accepted graciously and offered me a bowl of weed. I hadn’t smoked in years but it seemed like a good enough opportunity.

Old habits die hard.

The thickness of the smoke enveloped my throat. I could feel the harsh, acidic taste rising from the bowels of my stomach. I had obviously been drinking too fast and too hard.

I put one finger up, telling Bill to hold on for a moment.

Stumbling aside, once, twice, I fell to the floor, embraced the toilet, and suddenly there was a gorgeous, violent explosion.

I set my head on top of the porcelain goddess for a moment. I counted to three, then to ten. Then I said, “Fuck it. It’s time to go.” Putting both my arms down on the ground, I pushed myself up, straightened up, returned to the living room, and proceeded to drink the vodka straight.

As soon as I sat back down in the chair, Bill looked at me quizzically. He asked if everything was alright. “Couldn’t be better.” I poured myself a half-and-half drink of orange juice and vodka. This orange juice was giving me mad heartburn.

I asked Bill if he had any more of that green stuff he was smoking. He said, “A bit.” I looked him up and down for a second, figuring out how to propose what I was about to propose.

“Tell you what, guy. I’ll let you keep a fourth of that vodka for yourself if you give me what’s left of that weed… and find me someone who can get me some heavier shit.”

Bill took a whole three seconds to silently say yes.

Then we toasted.

Time: 4:00 A.M.

Bill said he knew a porch monkey who had some good cocaine, but we had to go back down to the strip to see this monkey and participate in his monkey business.

We went down to the main drag. Hardly anybody was out. The only people out at this time were wingnuts and freaks.

The Dirty Pillows was a sleazy joint, but the strippers had nice tits. Just don’t look into their faces; you might see someone you know from high school who’ll sling pussy for five bucks a hit.

I approached the bar with Bill to drown ourselves in some liquid courage. Need to find an ATM. Crack is expensive, might need to find a whole 8-ball.

“Scotch on the rocks, no ice.”

The huge ape behind the counter said, “What the fuck… Are you fucking with me or are you serious?”

“Totally fuckin’ serious… Hey, I need to pay cash for this piss-water. Is there an ATM in this shit-hole?”

The gigantic simian’s glazed eyes shifted over to the side of him, looking down the aisle past the dancer’s ass. “Other side of the stage, asshole.”

I thanked the gargantuan anthropoid with a nod of my head. I approached the ATM machine and punched in my PIN number. Two of the dancers’ asses were riding my sides. This piece of machinery was obviously strategically placed for getting money into panties. So I asked the lady to my right, and she looked down on me, and she said, “What do you want, sugar?”

“I want this fuckin’ ATM to work.” Fumbling with my card, I slyly glanced at her as I asked her, “So how do you like it? Like…” I inserted the card forcefully, then gently, then forcefully, then… well, you get the picture… “…this?”

“Wet and yellow.”

I paused. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means…you can piss on me and fuck me in the ass for fifty bucks.”

The thought of pissing in her hair was appealing. “Do you accept crack?”

She smiled and nodded, and I told her to meet me in the alley in a half hour, and I would gladly oblige her.

Time: 4:45 A.M.

As she shook me off in the alley, I said to Calico, “There’s nothing more glorious than taking a nice piss after busting a nut… Want to come home, bitch?”

Bill approached me from behind while my cock was still out. I half-thought he was going to run off with my money. It was a good thing he showed up, because this whore was expecting payment.

Unfortunately, I had no pipe, but Bill was prepared with a car antenna he’d ripped off a Cadillac.

This was some good fuckin’ coke. I don’t think I’ve tweeked this hard for a while. But it was getting late. It was time to go back to the liquor store for a bottle of Calico Jack. I found it humorous… Calico did not.

Once again, the lady behind the counter was following Bill with her eyes, and paying no attention to me.

Stealing felt good. Made me feel like I was stepping out of the empty box that was my life.

Time: 5:30 A.M.

The crack whore had made herself right at home. She’d even emptied the litter box.

The Calico Jack and the cocaine were kicking my ass.

The crack whore took it upon herself to give Bill a patriotic blowjob. He seemed grateful. Bill gave Calico a twenty-one-cum salute, and she used one of my dirty socks to wipe it off her face. The flagpole in my pants was speaking to me, screaming for an orgy something along the lines of Ye Olde Faithful.

I asked Calico if she’d ever been gangbanged. She was compliant, if not more than willing. She blew me while Bill fucked her in the ass.

Unlike Bill, I’m a firm believer that it melts in your mouth, not in your hand, so I shot my wad as deep down her throat as possible. After it was all said and done, my Calico Jack was gone, and so was my will to live.

I needed to get fucked up again.

Bill was obviously tweeking his ass off. The fan had become an enticement by this point. I shouldn’t have tempted him. I shook my head ‘no,’ but said nothing as Bill stuck his finger within reach of the fan blades.

Bill did not scream or cry, in fact, he smiled and said to me, “This is one quality piece of machinery… We should probably hit the liquor store… and then the hospital… I lost the finger, I don’t think they’ll be able to reattach it… Well, you win some, you lose some… and I guess the fan won this time.”

As the blood sprayed onto Calico’s face, I said, “It was a pointless battle, but a fantastic idea. That was the coolest shit I’ve seen in a while. Told you that fan’d lop your finger off… We should probably go to the hospital first.”

“Nah, liquor first,” said Bill, as I pulled a rubber band around his bleeding finger. He shook it at me and said, “Priorities! Goddammit, man, priorities!”

A brief silence passed. “Hey Bill... let me show you something.”

I led him into a room in my apartment that he'd never seen before. In it sat a giant fan, the size of an entire wall. On the floor, nothing but a few blooming ashtrays, falling apart slowly in a whirling dervish of smog and death.

Bill said, “Uh... I don't get it.”

I struggled for a whole five minutes to light my cigarette, seeing as the huge goddamn fan was putting out my Bic lighter every chance I took.

The cigarette caught. I exhaled. “...This is my biggest fan.”

Time: 5:46 A.M.

As me and Bill entered the liquor store, the bitch behind the counter was still watching Bill with her eyes. Needless to say, I had no problem simply stuffin’ a vodka bottle in my pocket and walking out the door. By this time I was running low on cash again, and needed to find another ATM.

So we swung by the main drag again, and past Dirty Pillows, between the fruit cocktail place and the abortion clinic or whatever, there was another ATM. I made the transaction quickly. It gave me a receipt showing my remaining balance. What convenience!

A street peddler approached us. “’Choo need, mah niggas?”

“I need a raging erection,” I said through clenched teeth.

“You want some Molly?”

“I don’t give a fuck what her name is, what she looks like, I’ll take anybody at this point.”

At this, the peddler hoarsely croaked a cheap imitation of laughter. “I got your shit right here.” He looks back and forth, then looked straight into my eyes, tipped his head back, opened his mouth, and said “ah.” He asked for eighty.

I gave him sixty, but he never counted the money.

As we walked to the apartment, I began to flip my fucking balls off.

This shit was definitely the real deal. Bill nudged me in the side and said, “We should probably get back. Granted, you got nothin' to steal, but she is a crack whore, there’s no telling what she might pocket… Goddamn impatient bitches.”

Time: 6:30 A.M.

The sun was peeking through my blinds and the walls were breathing deeply, seemingly breathing at me, even. I suspected the Molly was spiked. This was some seriously heavy shit. I could feel my brain glazing over.

The cat was a comfort. His fur felt like silk strands between my fingers. Calico and Bill were in the corner, handling their business. I decided it was a good time to go out and get some air.

What the fuck do you do at 6 A.M. in the morning? What is there to see?

I dropped by the diner. Scarla was standing outside after her shift had ended. She looked beat. The bags under her eyes did not look polite to her. Didn’t flatter her features, to say the least. I could tell she could use a friend.

“Wanna go get some coffee, bitch?”

“It’s gonna take more than a cup of coffee to get in my pants.”

“Why the fuck would I get into your pants?”

“If the shoe fits, wear it… but in this case, it’d be the condom in my back pocket.”

“How ‘bout fuck the coffee and let’s hit the bar instead?” She smiled and agreed.

Time: 7:00 A.M.

The bar was practically deserted.

The bartender was an asshole… but I like it that way. Service with a smile is phony. At least if you’re dealing with a dick, you know you’re dealing with a dick and not a dick with a smile. Call it simplicity, I call it natural.

I asked the bartender where the bathroom was. He pointed to a door that led to the alley.

The side of the dumpster was a suitable-enough urinal.

Scarla came from around the corner to offer me a helping hand, to hold my cock while I piss. There’s something satisfying in this. My prick was already getting hard as the last few drops leaked out.

I lifted up her apron and skirt and fucked her from behind by the dumpster. It was quick business, no complaints, no noise. She left directly afterwards.

When I re-entered the bar, I saw that her drink was gone. I needed to find a pick-me-up before I crashed. Crashed and burned, that is.

I decided it was time to stop pussying around, get down to the brass tacks, and get seriously fucked up.

The meth whore on the corner directed me to her dealer.

My lack of sleep was making me delusional. I needed to get to the liquor store and pick up another bottle. I’d probably pay for it this once, what without Bill with me to serve as a decoy. A half-gallon of Southern Comfort sounded perfect at this time.

I decided to walk back to my place, where obviously, Bill and Calico were passed the fuck out. Those fuckers’ve got it easy.

As for me, I didn’t have time for sleep. I have shit to do. At all hours of the night.

As I walked in the door, I noticed the smell right away. Bill had passed out and pissed himself. So much for the clean clothes I’d given him.

I kicked at his feet, trying to wake him up. He was non-responsive, but Calico stirred and gave me the finger. I mentioned the crank in my pocket and she perked right up.

“Why didn’t you come back earlier?”, she asked, rubbing the cum out of her eyes.

As I cracked the bottle of Southern Comfort, Bill hoisted himself up and removed his

piss-stained clothing. I laughed as I asked Bill if he was going to stick his dick in one of the fans next. He flashed me the chopped middle finger and said, “Don’t tempt me.”

He hobbled up onto his fake leg and went to the kitchen for a few glasses, some ice, and a meth pipe.

Calico sat behind in the easy chair to the left of me. “You know some very bad people are after me at the moment, don’t you?”

I rubbed my head, feeling the creases in my skull. I never felt older in a while after being told that. “Okay… I take it you have some nigger who has a chain on you, huh?”

Tilting her head back, Calico considered me with a serious look that I’d not seen since I first met her. “So the fuck you gonna do about it? You gonna kick me out?... Perfectly understandable… Either way, some time within today or tomorrow, a Mr. Albert Dreyfuss will come by here with a very large, angry Russian.”

“Russian? Like some kind of Rocky bullshit?”

“Yeah, something like that. The guy would piss on his own grandma’s grave.”

At this I smiled. “Well, if this scary motherfucker does come by, we’ll see what happens. He might just go away for some money.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Who says I’m doing it for you?”

That’s when our eyes met. Something was dead in both sets. In that moment, we understood each other’s innate greed. She turned away and I grinned.

Bill lurched into the room with glasses and ice in his hand and a twat-eating grin on his face. He tossed me the pipe as he said, “Hey, I just thought of something really fucked up. I think you’re going to like this, man… So I stayed at my parents’ place for a week, and after a while I noticed my dad begin to rub off on me… so I said ‘get that thing out of my face’ and called child protective services!’”

Calico stood up and said, “That’s not funny, I was molested as a child.” I told her, “You were molested two hours ago… Looks like you didn’t learn a goddamn thing, now, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck off, freak… I gotta go take a piss. When I get back, we better find something to do or my victimized ass is out the door.”

The bathroom door slammed as I put my lighter to the pipe. “Fuckin’ cunt can’t take a joke.”

“Yeah, but she sure can take a dick.” We both laughed.

“Touché.”

Calico came out of the bathroom, visibly pissed. Her bottom lip twisted downwards into a sort of sneer as she looked at Bill and me.

Bill looked at her directly in the eyes, and, with a big grin on his face, said, “Hey, Calico… so how many girls have you slept with?”

She walked towards me, and, ignoring Bill’s question, with a quick, light jab to my gut with her fourth finger and middle finger, grabbed the pipe out of my hand.

She looked into the bowl of the pipe, flicked the lighter, said through clenched teeth.

“Fuck of a lot more than you have,” and took a giant blast.

CRACK!

“Get on the fucking ground, you faggots!” The gun told me I should probably listen to this giant fucking asshole, so I lied on the ground.

Bill did not.

“Who the fuck are you!?,” said Bill. I had a pretty good guess of who it was.

We should have seen this coming.

In a situation like this, it’s best not to care about what’s going to happen next. That’s

how you panic and get your ass killed. No, best not to think about it.

“Bill, shut the fuck up.” Bill sneered and spit in the face of the fucking huge gook in front of us.

“Naw, piss on that zipperhead! Bustin’ into my good friend’s apartment, acting like

we were fucking niggers… I don’t think so!”

The gook wipes the spit off his fishy-headed mug, steps forward, and, pushing his right leg out, another CRACK!, followed by a third. Bill wobbles to the right, hissing and spitting, screeching, “Fucking chink motherfucker, you’re dead!”

I sighed, wondering when Calico was going to say something. Then I realized that she isn’t gonna say shit, ‘cause she was gone to the bathroom as soon as the first crack happened on the door, the meth pipe with her, the selfish bitch.

I looked to the door, and there was the gook and her… What the fuck? Asshole has to be over eighty!... Goddamn, man, some guys just don’t know when they’re too useless to the point where they’ve become fixtures in this shit-hole world.

“Get my bitch out here now!” His voice, acidic and putrid, the kind of voice that, when you first hear it, it reminds you there are some people in this world you’d just rather either get away from, or else go after first. Either instance, you need to remain calm, collected, and tell yourself that when this evil fuck turns his back, you can’t let down your guard, because that’s what they want. They want you to trust them, so then you’re easier to extort, swindle, and control.

Bottom line, it’s easier for them to stick their knife in when you turn your back. Fucking bitch would have been useless. She’d freak, get pissed, or comply, and reason dictates to me that she wasn’t gonna have any of that shit.

Good girl.

“How ‘bout you take your bitch off my guy, and I’ll explain that your actions will either A, end ugly, B, end ugly with someone hurt, or C, it’ll be fucking peaches and candy canes for all of us. So you can get the fuck out of my apartment, and I can continue to fuck your bitch, who I want to buy permanently.

“Every man needs a hole to fuck… Circle-‘a-life shit.”

I opted my hand into the air, signaling that everything was fine and dandy, even though that was far from the truth at this moment. But, at a time like this, I wasn’t going to take chances with formalities.

In what seemed to be three quick strides, the gook was beside me with his foot raised back. The pain in my ribs was instantaneous and blinding.

The kick was hard enough to throw me onto my side… but out of the corner of my eye, I saw the most badass shit I ever witnessed in my whole life.

In a matter of seconds, Bill was across the room, knife in hand. The gook must have seen me look, but, as he turned around, Bill shoved his knife directly through his elbow, snatched the gun out of his hand, and blew his fucking brains out. Unfortunately for all of us, there was a fan directly behind him.

Needless to say, my apartment was fucked.

Leaning on his cane, the evil old fuck slowly placed his hand into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, wiped off his forehead, and looked around the room. “I think we can come to some sort of agreement… perhaps we should sit down for this.” The pimp gave himself the pleasure of finding his own chair, which he sat down on cross-legged, and gestured to us to take our seats.

Bill remained standing with the gun still in his hand. Bill’s face showed fifty kinds of pissed-off. He was obviously not the one to fuck with right now, so I ignored him for the time being. I thought he could use some space.

I slowly stood up, walked towards the couch, and carefully sat down. The ancient asshole looks at me calmly, contemplating what kind of character I am. Without blinking or giving any sign of emotion, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Five hundred.”

In a toneless voice, he replied, “That won’t even replace my fucking slant-eyed freak-of-

nature you just shot dead… Good help is hard to come by these days. Chinamen aren’t cheap. You must understand this, right?”

“My landlord’s gonna shit backwards when she sees the door to my fucking apartment… not to mention the dead chink and the red wall I’ve got to deal with in my living room. It seems we both have our messes… I’ll give you a grand and you can leave my apartment with your face still attached.”

The wicked bastard nodded slightly, saying “Done.”

I looked to where Bill was standing. “Bill, if this asshole moves, blow his fucking face off. Don’t take your eyes away from this guy. If he moves one fucking step, shoot him right there.”

In my room, there’s a slight amount of cash that I’ve stashed away. Not for any particular reason other than having it handy. I counted out ten Bens from a stack in my shoebox and neatly placed the box back on the shelf in my closet.

Tossing the money on the table, I said, “Now get out.”

Rolling the money in his hands, he places it in his pocket, stands up, and walks to the door without a sound. Looking at Bill, I said, “Hey…” Bill lowered the gun. “We need to get this fuck out of here. And lock the goddamn door for fuck’s sake.”

Time: 11:00 A.M.

As I rummaged through my closet, I realized that I had nothing but my suits left. That was fine by me because it seemed like appropriate attire for the situation.

I put the suit on in front of my full-length mirror.

“Oh, shit… when was the last time I fed the cat?” I whispered to myself.

I walked into the living room, my hands down to my cufflinks. These damn things will never click right. That’s when I heard a faint licking sound.

It took me a second to realize what it was after putting two and two together.

There was Henry, stoically lapping up brain matter from the gaping canyon in fatass’s face.

“Huh… I guess there’s some things in life that just take care of themselves.”

Calico emerged from the bathroom with a look of disgust on her face. She steps back and then giggles. “You guys are sweethearts. I don’t know how many ass-whoopin’s I took from this guy.”

“Good. You won’t have any problem shoving him into the trunk of my car then, will you?”

“No problem. It would be a pleasure. So… where’s the plastic bags and some bedsheets?”

Time: 1:00 P.M.

The methamphetamine had given me Superman-strength. Pushing the relatively empty dumpster to underneath my window was a breeze. I said softly to myself, “I could spin this shit on my penis,” and gave Bill the thumbs-up and a big smile.

The Asian’s already cavernous face collided with the corner of the dumpster, creating a large thump, a crack, and a splat. It was kind of like dropping a melon off a parking garage.

Bill grinned energetically as he gave me the thumbs-up back. I have him the thumbs back down.

His aim was way off.

Getting the Asian’s body out of the trash was not an easy task, seeing as Calico was doing all the heavy lifting. I mean, I’m not about to ruin a perfectly good suit over this bullshit.

Thankfully, I live in the type of neighborhood where people mind their own fucking business. Everybody knows snitches get stitches.

After Calico rolled the body out of the dumpster, I helped her carry it to the trunk.

Pushing that dumpster was easier than lifting this fat piece of shit.

Concerning the bullshit involving the gross, sticky mess in the living room, considering the circumstances, I’m gonna let the cat take care of it.

I slammed the trunk shut as I began to toy with the idea of getting a motel.

“So…” plodded Calico, her eyes darting back and forth from my face, to the trunk, to the thin trail of slope-blood leading from the dumpster to my car, “where are we gonna dump this chink-headed fuck?”

I paused and looked into her eyes. “Who said anything about dumping him?”

Time: 1:15 P.M.

Calico and I went back up to my room. I shoved my key in the lock and the door swung open. I forgot it was broken.

“Jesus Christ, this place looks like someone made a fruit cocktail salad in the back of an abortion clinic and forgot to put the lid on the blender.”

Bill sat against the wall between the pile of vodka bottles and the boxes of fans, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. He pet Henry, who was nonchalantly lapping up pieces of gray matter. “Yeah… well… so you guys get the body into the trunk all right?”

“Yeah,” I said as I lit up the meth pipe. “We got to go do something, though.” I exhaled. “We’ll just be back in a few minutes… just chill here for a while, make yourself at home… And for God’s sakes, put a fucking chair against the door or something. Jesus.”

I tossed him the pipe. “Sure thing, man.”

“Come on, Calico, blast that fucker and let’s get out of here… This’ll only take a second.”

Time: 1:30 P.M.

I started up the car. Calico sat in the back.

The lazy cunt.

I drove a couple blocks away and parked the car. Get it out of sight, in case anybody recognized it.

After parking, some errant bastard almost hit me with his piece of shit Chevette. “Hey, I'm Walken here!”

We headed back to the apartment on foot. I picked up a bottle of water at a gas station while Calico stood outside and smoked.

Time: 1:40 P.M.

Calico finished her cigarette as she leaned against the dumpster in the parking lot of my

complex. I stood over the trail of blood and poured the bottle of water over it.

Just then, a black-and-white rolled up. “What’cha doin’ there, sir?”

“Shit!”, I thought. “We’re sure fucked now!”

As Calico walked towards me and faced the pig, she put on the shifty eyes and an embarrassed look. “Uh… I’m on my period, officer… M-my boyfriend here was just cleaning it up.”

The hammer arched his eyebrow and looked at me and Calico quizzically.

Thinking quickly, Calico squinched up her cunt muscles and shot a bright red tampon at the asphalt underneath her from up inside her skirt.

The cop’s eyes bugged out as if the sight of the tampon on the ground gave him a flashback to decades of beating coons to a bloody pulp in alleys all over the city.

“All, right, folks, you have a nice day, now.” He sped off.

I could barely contain my laughter as I waited for the donut-munchin’ motherfucker to get out of earshot. I belted out heartily.

“Shut up,” she snipped.

“I didn’t know you were on your period!”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, so I’m your boyfriend now?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You didn’t tell me you weren’t wearing any panties!”

“Jesus Christ, let’s just go inside, okay?”

“No, I want to know what else you’re hiding from me, Calico!”

“God, you’re so immature.”

“Did you fuck that dead gook while I bought that water?” I chucked the empty water bottle into the bloody dumpster as Calico punched me in the shoulder. I laughed. “Hold on a second, I gotta move this dumpster back where it was real quick…”

Time: 1:50 P.M.

“I bet you’re achin’ to get into that bathroom,” I said to Calico as we stood at the door to my apartment.

“You’re such an asshole.”

I stood there silently and looked at her. “Drip… drip… drip…”

“Open the fucking door already!”

I unlocked the door and pushed it.

THUNK!

“Oh, yeah… BILL!... Bill, get this goddamn chair out of the way, post-haste! We got a bleeder out here!” Calico sighed and rolled her eyes.

A rustling of wood and carpet, then a creaking sound. “What’s up?” Calico shoved her way past him and into the bathroom. Bill’s eyes widened. He regained his composure as I chuckled silently to myself. “What?”, he asked.

“Nothing.” I sat down on the couch and lit up the crank again. The faucet came on in the bathroom as I noticed Henry, bloody as all hell, continuing to do what he does best.

I passed the pipe to Bill as Calico walked in with her hands on her hips. She looked around at the mess and sighed.

“Yeah,” I said as Bill handed the pipe back, “I know how you feel. Can’t earn your keep…” I lit and inhaled. “The bloody pussy’s handling the clean-up… He’s sure givin’ your bloody pussy a run for its bloody money.” I laughed a cloud of meth smoke at Calico’s face.

She snatched the pipe from my hand and sparked it up casually.

“Quite the feisty one today, aren’t we?”

“I told you, I’m on my period.”

“Told, my ass!”

Calico tossed the pipe underhand towards the wall over Bill’s head. As he fumbled to catch it without burning himself, Calico exhaled and said, “You still haven’t told me what we’re gonna do with the body.”

“Yeah, what gives?”, Bill said.

I held up my hand. “Hey, hey, chill… all right?” I let the room settle, to let them know everything was under control.

“In about three hours, we’re gonna pay a visit to a friend of mine downtown, and he’s gonna take care of it… So don’t you two worry about a thing.”

Calico paused and leaned in. “What… what are we gonna do ‘til then?”

I heaved a sigh of “I don’t fuckin’ know” as I stood up. I walked into the kitchen, opened the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of red wine, uncorked it, and went to the window.

Bill looked eager. “Hey, what year is that?”

I leaned out the window and chucked the bottle into the dumpster. It shattered loudly.

When covering your tracks, it’s most diligent to do so nonchalantly, gradually, and through the use of subterfuge.

I pulled another bottle out of the cabinet. “Fuck if I know, but this one’s a sixty-nine.”

As Bill opened his mouth, Calico elbowed him in the gut, snatching the pipe and lighter out of his hands. Bill let out an agonized groan, instead of whatever stupid fucking innuendo he was about to use to demean Calico. “Good girl,” I said.

She tossed me the pipe. “Bill, do you think you can get us some acid this time of day?” I flicked the lighter.

Bill grimaced as he held his stomach, his face and chest lurched forward, and expelled a groan of, “Uh, I can make some calls.” He coughed heavily.

“You do that, buddy… you do that.” I tossed the still-hot pipe at the floor by his feet as he collapsed on top of it. Bill belted out an agitated scream as Calico leapt up, gave his fat backside a rolling shove, and reached for the pipe as he coughed and rolled back over the spot onto Henry’s tail.

Henry let out a disturbed wail and went back to gobbling up tiny bits of flesh from off the wall. I went to the toolbox to look for a Phillips-head.

Turning one of the fans into a high-powered fuck robot seemed like a perfect way to pass the time while Bill tried to find us some doses.

Time: 2:45 P.M.

I yanked a length of duct tape as Calico held the dildo perpendicular to the center of the fan.

I glanced at Bill, talking to his connection over my phone. In my mind, I heard him say, “More like perpen-dick-ular.”

I chuckled. “What?”, Bill asked.

“Nothing… Hey, so we need to figure out a way to cut the blades off of this thing. That shit’ll chop your pussy clean off, y’know.”

“I know, you’ve told me like a hundred times.”

“You do… Oh, perfect… Uh, hold on a sec, I’ll check. Hey, how much did you guys want?”

“For fuck’s sake, Bill, we’re bus-… Oh, you found some… Cool… Uh… I don’t know… Ten-strip oughta do it, I guess.”

“Ten… yeah.” I instructed Calico to hold the dick more firmly.

Ah, memories.

“Is fifty bucks cool?”

I was absorbed in trying to tape the dildo down more sturdy. “Uh, yeah, sure, man… whatever.”

“Yeah… Okay, I’ll be around soon… Thanks, man… Later.” He hung up the phone. “Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding!”

Calico and I held onto the dildo and looked at each other. “Jackass,” I was certain we both were thinking.

“Hey, Bill, why don’t ya make yourself useful, and go over by the toolbox and bring me some more duct tape, will ya?”

Time: 4:30 P.M.

Calico sat up and down onto the oily, spinning cock mounted to the center of one of my biggest fans. I sat in the chair, leaning against the door, watching her, and beating my meat.

A rapid pounding two inches behind my head made my body jerk forward, causing the chair to fall onto all fours as I shot my load onto my face and chest. Calico nearly killed herself throwing her bloody pussy off the whirring dick.

I stood up, moved the chair out of the way, and opened the door for Bill. “What the fuck took you so long?”

Bill looked at me with wide-open eyes, and slowly said, “I don’t know, maaan… why are you covered in cum?”

“Ah, ol’ twat-face over here was fuckin’ herself and I nutted everywhere… Are you trippin’ already? You motherfucker.”

“It’s okay, man, I only took three.” He plopped down on the couch and held out the bag of doses as I wiped off. Bill glanced around the room with a child-like look of wonder and over-stimulation as I put my pants on.

Calico panted heavily as her quivering pussy straddled the greased-up tornado of cock.

I looked at my watch. 4:35 P.M..

“Fuck!”

Calico fell, her whore ass hitting the edge of the grill of the fan. “Goddammit!... Don’t fucking do that again!”

“Sorry, bitch… Hey, we need to get out of here. It’s time to pay a visit to my Russian friend across town.”

“Can I come?”, Calico asked.

“Well, judging by your record over the last hour and a half…”

“Bill, shut the fuck up,” Calico and I said in unison.

“Sure, Calico. Powder up, and… get your twat on straight, or whatever… we gotta get there at 5:00 on the dot.”

“More like 5:00 on the period.”

Time: 4:55 P.M.

Calico and I began to balls as I parked in the lot of Slavic Vaclav’s Pan-Eurasian Ethnic Specialty Meatery. Bill was peaking.

The last customer of the day was exiting with a fresh pack of dried cured echidna pussies as Vaclav locked up for the night.

I rapped at the window of the door. Vaclav looked up. “Tom!” He quickly unlocked the door and ushered the three of us inside.

He locked the door behind us. “Has been ages, good friend!” He greeted me excitedly with a friendly kiss on each cheek.

“And here I thought you weren’t a fag,” said Bill.

“Jeez, Tom, why didn’t you tell me you were bisexual?”

Vaclav looked at Calico sternly for a brief moment, and smacked her right across the face. She looked at him timidly as tears began to well up in her eyes.

Vaclav stared back at her. He glanced at me. I sighed nervously. “Wha’s matter, you no like getting slept in face?” Without missing a beat, Vaclav grabbed a few items off the shelf. “Is okay. No cry, pretty whore girl. Is begin of sexy time!” Calico began to calm down as he shoved the items at her tits and said, “Here sausage and olive oil. We go into meat freezer, you put oil on sausage… You fuck esshole with sausage, eh!?” He slapped her across the face again, only much harder this time.

Calico perked right back up, her face beaming. She snarled a deviant, brazen smile that was rife with signs of the kind of sexual repression that only half an hour away from the spinning cock-fan robot could possibly instill in a human being. “Can I… can I have some scissors to cut the edge off the plastic wrap?”

“Oh, no… no, silly whore girl…” he waved his finger in her face. “You fuck through pain, eh? Is good!” She squeezed him tightly, putting the sausage and the bottle of olive oil around his back. He put his hand on her shoulder blade as he winked at me. I winked back.

Women are put off by only a certain level of degradation. Knowing exactly how much abuse turns them back on again is a subtle art. An art of which Vaclav was the Picasso.

“Come, come! We go to meat freezer! Is party!”

Time: 5:05 P.M.

Bill sat on a crate in the freezer while he moved the oiled-up sausage in and out of Calico’s ass. Vaclav and I stood and chatted, our breath hanging in the air.

“So, Vinny, the reason why I came here today is because I’ve got some of that,” I leaned in, “rare Vietnamese monkey meat…,” I stood erect and arched my eyebrows, “that you’re always looking for?”

Vaclav paused. “Ah, yes, my friend. Always looking for… rare Vietnamese monkey meat… Hey, why you use code? Nobody here get suspicious. War man and pussy girl know what’s go on, is good?”

“Oh, yeah…” I scratched my head. “Shit, Vinny, I guess I’m being a bit too cautious.”

Bill used both hands to spin the sausage around inside Calico’s ass as she moaned and adjusted to feeling of the cold, wet floor against her knees, toes, and forearms. “Hey, why’d you call him Vinny? The sign outside says ‘Slavic Vaclav’.”

“Ah, yes, war man… Is come from Vaclav, I change name to Wenceslas, Tom here shorten ‘Wenceslas’ to Vinny. Is good?”

Bill continued to thrust the meat as he threw Vaclav the kind of empty, bewildered stare you could only get from a guy peaking on some classic sunshine acid. “Yeah… I remember this one time… ‘s fuckin’ this Russian girl?… in this alley once, and it was like… oh, man… I’m all, ‘take it, bitch!’, and she’s all, ‘Oh, yeah, I don’t even know what the fuck you’re sayin’ to me, ‘cause I talk all, like, Cyrillic and whatever?... and I’m like, ‘yeah, you like that dick, don’t ya, whore?’, and she’s all, ‘hammer my sickle’ and junk…” Bill chuckled. “It was awesome.”

Vinny and I looked at each other, feeling robbed of the last thirty seconds of our lives. “Your friend butcher story… in Soviet Russia, story butchers you.”

I laughed. “In-deed.”

Written by Jorge Wolfhouse, Matthew Johnson, and Joe Kopsick

Written in Summer 2010, edited between 2010 and October 2015

Finalized for publication on January 22^nd, 2021

Cover added on February 10th, 2021