Friday, December 16, 2011

At An Angle

Been sleeping really fucked up hours. Hit bed at 11 tonight, slept around 4 hours, woke back up... read /x/ and rolled to write creepypasta OC. First two I didn't like despite other people really enjoying one of them ut this one... this one was fun.  Its my own little insomniac crap attempt at an homage to Fritz Lieber's story of a family's curse.

Dad was always tinkering in the basement when I was growing up.  I'd be in the basement family room playing some nintendo game and he'd walk through with his toolbox.  He'd stop, maybe sit with me and ask why Mario was squashing those turtles.  I'd respond like the kid I was, chattering away about the pixels on the screen.  He'd listen like a dutiful father, then with a sigh he'd stand up.
"Back to work," his tone was always so odd. Sad, almost.  He'd go into the laundry room, the door would close, and I'd hear the radio turn on.

WLS, or a Cubs game, would fill the room, and under Steve Stone's insightful commentary, I'd hear a metal on stone sound. Scraping.  Harry Carry's drunken jovialness would blend with a metallic hammering.  Steve and Gary would war with wet splashing sounds I could never really figure out.

Sometimes hours would pass, and I'd invariably press my ear against the locked door, desperate to figure out what he was doing in there, but I never could.  I'd hear power tools, hand tools, voices that must have been bleedover from other radio stations.

Finally he'd open the door again, give me a playful shove with his foot, and go upstairs.  I'd always go into the laundry room after, and I never saw anything change.

It turned into one of those odd childhood events that others would have found strange but to me was just part of life in my household.  My mom made stir-fry every sunday, and my dad went into the laundry room twice a week.  Life went on.

I was 15 when dad finally shot himself.  I was chatting on IRC with some friends (One of whom I'd eventually move across the country to live with for a time) and there was dad.  He was weaving a little... drunk again.  Its funny that what you ignore as a kid, you see as an alcoholic father when you grow older.  He came up behind me, and patted me on the shoulder.

"Remember, hit at an angle." The fuck? I just sort of half nodded. The asshole was in my space.  He walked into the laundry room, the door closed, and there was a sound like a firecracker going off inside a melon.  A sharp "bang" with a bursting sound and splatter.  I hit the door, finally unlocked, and fell immediately as my heel hit a patch of dadbrain.  That's how I thought of it, and still do... its funny what your brain makes light of. Dadbrain, sounds like a cartoon character.  I landed with my head next to what was left of his... mostly just a lower jaw, teeth, a flopping tongue that hadn't stopped.  I remember thinking it looked like a beached carp.  Then I remember throwing up and blacking out.  Well, I don't remember blacking out, but I did.

Fuck it, you get the point.

When I came to, I was still covered in vomit, but Dad, and the Dadbrain, was all gone. The blood, the body, and in its place was dad's red toolbox, a couple PB+J sandwiches, and a note in my mom's handwriting.

"You'll be good at this.  Stirfry when you're done, baby. <3 Mom."

I could see it now.  The concrete floor wasn't smooth anymore... it was etched with words I never could have read until now.  Spiraling patterns that defied comprehension underlayed the words, and inbetween the designs danced a creature I couldn't describe correctly if I wanted to.  Tentacled, feathered... worms. Fanged things, like live at the bottom of the sea, only worse, more alien... because I in them I saw... Dad. Uncle Alan. Uncle John.  Grandpa. I felt... kinship.  And now I could feel more... leathery, feathery things sliding across my skin, under my clothes, brushing my face... and the same feeling inside, trying to claw its way out... the only way to keep it down, to keep -them- where only I could see them clear.

I splashed the paint in the right places, I marked the designs, and I made sure to hit it at an angle.  The spiral would continue until I couldn't fight it anymore, and I'd pass it to my own sons.  I'd play the radio, I'd lock the door, and I'd be sure stir-fry was always on Sunday.

Monday, August 29, 2011

All's Fair in Love and Genocide

This one got strange.  Love, loss, massacre, and bin Laden.

          I've been thinking a lot about love, lust, and need recently due to an abortive and confusing little tango with an ex-girlfriend. I'm not talking the sort of thinking that makes me cry into my beer and wonder what went wrong or that makes me want to stand outside her window like John Cusack with a boombox playing “Closer”. The sort of thinking about what I want and by extension what others want, no-emo. I swear.

"I want to fuck you like an animal!"

          She wanted something slow, I wanted to hit her over the head and drag her off to my castle. This is a flaw I run into a great deal, where most people want to have something normal and decent that their parents and God would approve of, and me wishing it was still acceptable to claim a girl and nail her on the bar just so everyone knows whats what. Was that ever acceptable? Fuck it, lets pretend it was. I grew up in a Jewish suburb so the thought of a life more violent and full of blood and bare breasts is attractive to my somewhat screwed up brain, like a Heavy Metal magazine found by a fourteen year old.

The most simple of thoughts.

There is something unnatural about plastic ketchup bottles.

Monday, August 15, 2011

Found on my HD

Just some free-floating hostility penned on my recent trip to KY. It reads how you'd expect me to read after being on the road for I think 7 hours at that point.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Mechanisms of God: A start

Okay, so here's the deal. All I have here are first drafts, to get me over my fear of showing my writing, but I believe I've grabbed that brass ring now.  My next step is going to be to revise. There will still be new posts, such as this, but alongside will be the hopefully improved versions of my deformed first draft children.  I had intended to leave the Brothers alone after my short story, but something inspired me. Jean in Order of the Holy Mechanism is now Brother Joachim d'Anjou, twin brother to the knight Jean d'Anjou.  Why the change? Because it felt right. Jean said it was okay.  This is still an emerging idea, but hey. I pledged to post EVERYTHING I write.

Just a blurb about someone who needs not be named.

"She wrote like a raging toddler plays the piano.  Angry, vicious, without style or practice, and unable to see the world around her because she is too busy slamming her face into the keys."

Monday, August 8, 2011

Essay Rough Draft

 The house is empty, rooms cleaned out and cluttered only with the open spaces where things used to sit.  Not bare, the furniature still remaining, various orthless knick-knacks standing in rows on shelves, standing silent vigil.  I look around the remains of my living room in a bit of a daze as I try to comprehend the scene.  It looks stripped as though some apocalypse had quietly happened and raiders had come to take anything of vale.

Dear Valued Customer: Part Four


I have attempted to be patient in regards to your account, but even with the flexible and generous payment plan our Delivery Representative said you agreed to I find myself in quite a bind. Your third order is also generous, and I will send said order through but it will be accompanied by a member of our Accounts Department. He will have full authorization to negotiate a better payment schedual for you, but I am afraid until we have seen a larger payment than simply Good Faith payments I cannot release further orders to you. Additionally any further communication will be via our accounts department as I would never wish to imply I personally do not trust you or that I value your money over your work. That being said we must cover our costs as I'm sure you understand.

From the desk of,
Jeremiah Pendleton, Esq.

Update and apologies

I fell behind on things. Writing, school, work, lots of stuff all at once conspired first to deplay Valued Customer as well as any other posts. Or writing.

So accept my apologies, and I'm going to be posting hopefully a great deal in the next few days. We'll see.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Dear Valued Customer: Part Three

 Dear Professor Glindinberk,

This is another personal missive from Jeremiah Pendleton to you. I have authorized my men to deliver, free of delivery charges, the eight robotics kits and the accompanying steam engines, control boards, and other sundries that you have ordered despite your current state of being in the red, as it were, to our company. I have taken your last payment as a sign of good faith and therefore respond with our faith in you, the individual engineer. I have no doubt that your work will turn out to be fruitful to you and anything we can do to assist, and also assist you in settling accounds with us, is my and my company's pleasure.
I must ask that you please ensure your guard animals and human guards are aware of the delivery peoples' arrival as it was most difficult to get our delivery crews to return after being chased and fired at by “jackbooted goons in gasmasks”. I assure you that the employee responsible for this description was fired promptly for impuning the workforce of a valued customer.

Jeremiah Pendleton, Esq.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Dear Valued Customer: Part Two

Dear Professor Glindinberk,
          As the CEO of AS+S, I was made aware of the extraordinary nature of your first order with us and took it upon myself to tell you personally how much I appreciate your business and look forward to further work with you. This message should arrive to you a day or two before our deliverimen arrive with loaded lorries to deliver your spectacular order to your castle.

          May I take a moment to compliment the very obvious high aims of any man who inhabits a castle with a storied history like Castle Grunwald? I am astounded.

          As a sign of out appreciation I have waived your delivery costs and thus we only require the payment for the ten reflective mirriors, the sextant, the quarter mile of train track, the six giant sized Tesla Coil kits, and the assorted joints, bearings, and other construction equipment.

          You are already a star customer even now and I sincerely hope that when you accomplish whatever grand genius you are working on you will make certain to tell the world who assisted such a visionary.

          Jeremiah Pendleton, Esq.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Gift Post One: The Order of the Holy Mechanism

This one goes out to Jed, whose request for my 100th hit was "Medieval Cyberpunk"

          “Saint Augustine, Brother Marcel?” Jean's voice was soft and yet it still echoed in the bare tone hallways of the Monastery of St Illumine the Engineer. The sound bounced down the corridor, off angled stones and statues and carvings, all lovingly measured to give the most distance to even the softest word to the “Reference Desk” at the top of the stairs that lead directly to the Reference Niches. While he waited for his voice to carry and be returned, he spun the wheels next to him. “St”, “A”, “U”, “G” they read.

          “Oi, Brother. Anything relating to Just War.” In the background he could hear the voices of the knights, a pair of young knight errant wanting to ensure that their souls would be safe if they followed their desire for conquest. “Also, Saint Bernadine’s writings relating to the Templar if you please. They are donating quite a sum, we can go to the extra effort I thing.”

 Jean nodded as he pulled on the gloves, the chains and sticks that lead into the mechanism around him giving only faint resistance. As he pulled the helmet on he realized, as he did almost every time, that Marcel couldn't actually see his head.

           God above. Every time. “Of course, Brother. Please tell them to be patient, switching collections will take some time.” The metal helmet fit snugly over his head, the rubber rings tight to his eyes. Moving his foot out to kick the Enlightenment Pedal, he could feel the gears and pulleys and chains, a system beyond his comprehension, slide into place to grant him access to what he sought. Another would perhaps wonder what was going on, or would have curiosity as to how it all worked but Brother Jean was not a man to question like that. He took this as he did all acts of God, something to simply accept. His was not to understand the how of God's miracles, merely the why. St Illumine had been given the guidance for this from above, he had done God's will, and that was that. His was not to intemperate, merely to use to further His will.

          Light poured into the previously dark goggles and Jean blinked to clear the spots as the mirrors reflected the area around the Cherub to him. Tilting his head slowly down to see the metal framework of the Cherub's lower body, he did the standard checks. Moving his hands, his feet, the chains pulled and slid through unknowable distances in the edifice, and after a few seconds the hands and feet of the Cherub moved to match. A little slow, a Brother Engineer would need to look at that, but that was for another time. Looking around slowly to get his bearings, he quickly found his way, “walking” the Cherub like a great, far away puppet, a Punch and Judy doll writ large, through the sealed Libraries. This kept the knowledge in a central place, and allowed faster referencing, limiting the fingers touching the books.

          Finally coming to the row of codices that bore the words of St Augustine, Jean leaned forward in his chair, looking, looking.... there. The Cherub followed his reach and took the book in soft cloth-tipped fingers, placing it within the chest of itself. He always hated that, seeing the movements match his he somehow always expected to feel the book in his own heard, inside his chest. There was a hissing noise down the hall as the pressure system the Saint had long ago designed began its holy work, the capsule in the Cherub's chest hurtling through the tubes to end up, he knew, at the Reference desk. The muttered curses and amazed praises that reached his ears made him smile... let the Knights know of God's work and know that their bloody mindedness is nothing compared to Him. Disengaging the pedal, he spun the wheels again. Now for the rule of Saint Bernard.

Dear Valued Customer: Part One

What begins here is something I've wanted to write for some time. The idea has run around my brain for years but its finally, FINALLY seeing the light of day.  Given the nature of the story I'm going to post it, one letter at a time, once every day until its complete. I hope you guys enjoy this, its my way of entertaining while working on things to submit. Specifically one pulp lovecraftian horror story, and a horror sci-fi story that needs serious work.


Dear Valued Customer,
          Here at Altitude Science and Supply we strive to give only the best service and supplies to the small but growing engineering hobbyist community. As suppliers of hard to find parts and materials to such an enthusiastic niche market, we try to let every one of our new customers know just how much they mean to us. To that end, please find enclosed one AS&S catalog, as well as a soldering iron, screwdriver set, and goggles. We give these to all our new and already valued customers to show just how much we value and encourage further work and innovation by our legion of customers. We look forward to your business over the foreseeable future.

Altitude Science and Supply

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Apologies and a tiny touch of random fiction.

I owe people their requests as rewards for me hitting 200 views and I promise to get to them.  With Drs and school and Morrow Project its fallen behind.

Plus Dead Space. Lots and lots of Dead Space. Will be posting again soon.

They're here, behind the steel.  I hear them now, heard them from day one, heard them even on the trip up. Heard the skittering, the claws on metal, hissing voices speaking to each other and to me as if I could even understand, as if I wanted to.

I don't want to, didn't want to, now I do, and He's here now, It, He, She... don't know.

Yay for derivative crap! But its crap written, even if it was written at 1230 because I couldn't sleep. Its still something. So bite me.

EDIT: Rewriting this. I have a good start, a decent idea, but damn if this opening isn't a load of steaming crap.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Tamar and Raamiel

A mage, arrogant punk archmage kid, and his familiar/girlfriend.


“Why was there a post-it note saying we're banned from Reggie's on my chest when I woke up?”

“Because we're banned from Reggies, love. Duh.”
“Me? Banned from somewhere? Lies. Give me the phone, I want to buy it and have them all like. Fired. Or killed. Or sold to African slavers.”
“Honey they don't do that anymore and you deserved it.”

“Filth and lies compounded. Defend you words, whore, and bring me juice. I have a hangover. And by juice, I mean whiskey and lots of it.”

“You went biblical with the bartender.”
“I fucked her? On the bar? Shit, not again.”

“No. My love, around two in the morning you were drunk. So drunk that when the bartender cut you off you leapt up on the bar, tossed your jacket into the crowd, and called the bartender a “Cum-swallowing, ribstealing whore of Babylon. You then declared if she did not serve you another Manhattan you would summon a plague of locusts down upon the bar and its denizens like 'The God of old'. Then you fell over and passed out.”

“Well? Did I?”

“No. But the drinks all turned to blood after you passed out.”

“Shit. I was drunk. Good night, then?”

“Good night, though I think... can we drink at a mage bar next time? They take you more seriously there.”

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Lovely Quote

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

-Robert A. Heinlein

Thursday, June 23, 2011


Saw this picture, and wanted to see if I could do a "story" of two sentences about it.

Looking back, Alzheimer's seemed not so bad for poor Grandpa Whately.
Especially since the Rest Home won't let him back in.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Cog: Prologue

The following is the only part of Cog so far that I am remotely satisfied with. Its a short little intro, and I am fond of how is came out. Short, sharp, and with at least one character I intended to be faceless standing out and possibly being more of a factor than I had originally planned. The little intro line at the start is an attempt to seem archaic and interesting, but I'm afraid it may just make me seem like a pompous dick.


Introduction: In which we are introduced to a man of great importance to coming events, and bid him farewell at the hands of other Dramatis personæ

In other circumstances the Comptroller would have been proud, perhaps boastful, of the speed with which he moved his otherwise ponderous bulk down the access ramp leading out of the pumping station. In the same circumstances any bystanders would have been outright amazed. Granted he was moving down a ramp so momentum was garnered from his considerable mass, but even so one could not deny that he was approaching the personification of the Irresistible Force. His body shook with each jarring step, flesh heaving from his running, the thudding of custom made boots against the rusted metal ramp that moved alongside the aqueduct, an escort for men to match the critical resource that ran within the glazed clay trench.

The men behind him had no pride or amazement, only frustration as they chased their quarry through the darkness that had settled around the pumping station now that the industrial area it serviced had passed into a sleep cycle. Power cut to service other sectors left he area cold, quiet, and silent but for thudding feet and the labored breathing from the hunting party and their prey. He whipped his head about, vision blurring as his view swung crazily about, eyes wide, frantic, seeking some sort of shelter. The change of perspective finally ended his personal record-setting flight As he failed to notice A rusted bar at his feet that caught to tip of his boot and sent him sprawling across the ever-present rusted plate that served as a walkway in all but the richest areas of the city. His skull hit the ground and sent his glasses skittering away, the sound of the glass lost in the rattling crash his body threw up like a warning alarm to his death, which now approached with cheers of success. The prey was down, now came the kill.

Where are the drones? His mind screamed as he scrabbled away on all fours now, small droplets of blood welling from the metal shavings that poked his hand. The plant was down, but those creepy, soulless things should still be nearby, on standby mode. The should have picked up the anomalous sound, should have told CPU, should have...

The unmistakable stactto thunk-hiss of an automatic rifle filled the air, and he felt the pneumatically thrown dart rip past his ear... no, through it, as pain blossomed, blood arcing up and out after the projectile's passage like water from a child's mouth in the baths. He screamed, a half-mad sound, but tinged with success. CPU. The base of this aqueduct section was an outflow gate. The cameras! The cameras!

Comptroller Reflo (His full name, though eh always preferred just “Comptroller” to help convince himself he was somehow above the rest of the seething functionaries that shared that title) hated the drones, hated the cameras, had always fought to keep his spaces clear of oversight. Privacy was power, success, he always said. A man must have his solitude, he always said. The CPU was for lower people, the upper folk don't need it he always said.

Fucking cameras couldn't come up fast enough, he now said.

There would be cameras at the outflow area, to monitor that they were being opened and closed properly, since this was controlled by men and drones, not CPU directly, and that meant it would have its glass eye on it. CPU always watched places of interest. It had to know. Pushing off with his feet, he scrambled to the side of the aqueduct and grabbed the lip of the stained white retaining wall. His shoulder slammed into it with the speed he was moving, and stars again swam, the world blurring, only snapping back to focus when another dart tore into him. Shoulder blade splintering with a disgusting, meaty cracking sound, he cried out again, eyes watering.

Fight it, you have a head start. Fear, pain, all of it pushed his out of shape body to the limit, but he stumbled out into the open area around the gate, looking wildly around as the clattering of combat boots got closer. He spied a camera, never so happy to see the eye of the CPU, and stopped. Froze. Blood solid in his veins as he took in the ragged, boxy device, the polished eye, the... unlit light.



“Unlit,” he croaked out, throat suddenly dry and every muscle in his body alive,awake, and clamoring to tell him how much they hurt all at once, adrenaline flooding out. He'd never in his life even seen an unlit camera. Even when power went out to a sector, the CPU watched. The cameras glowed. He always knew where they'd be, where the computer's eye was, to be avoided and now...
Turning with a laborious exhalation of the last breath in h is burning lungs, Comptroller Reflo slumped back into the retaining wall, causing it to creak just slightly under the pressure. The hunters closed in around him, slowly moving forward with knives at the ready. Ammunition use would be a waste when they can simply render the man by blade.

Writers block.

Lets be honest, my novel has been stalled in a pathetic state for ages. I can blame a number of things, but even now when I sit with a clear head to write it, I can't. I look at where I left off, and just get lost rewriting passages long ago proofread, or struggling with where to go next while this sense of dissatisfaction tugs at me.

So fuck it, I'm going to start that shit ovcer.
Yeah I know. Its retarded. But fuck, if I can't get past a chapter because its now an addled mess of half assed rewrites over 2 years? And I can only do about 3 pages at a time at best because I constantly am reworking it? Yeah, there's an issue with it, and a serious one at that.

So. Going to scrub everything but the prologue. Cause fuck it.

Friday, June 17, 2011

My First Post, My First Arrest

I feel like I should have done some sort of "introduction" post here, but I think its better to just... post a real blog entry. Its more honest, less indulgent, and gives you a better sense of me.


I was fucking arrested earlier this week. Fucking. Arrested. Cuffs. Lights. A fucking cell.

I'm a Jew, we don't do well in jail, so this was somewhat agitating to me. I was going to write a nice, gentle, pithy post, but fuck it, profanity seems to fit the situation perfectly. Besides, I was on the inside. I came out a changed man, darker, edgier. I was going to shank the biggest guy I was incarcerated with to earn respect, but I was alone in my cell and I think it would have done little for my street cred to shank myself.

How was the illustrious author arrested, you ask? Was it because I finally snapped and hunted down some idiot on the internet who uses “u” and “y” instead of “you” and “why”, killing him by ramming his keyboard down his throat? Did I get arrested by pressing my bare rear end against the window of a Democratic Congressman? Did I get caught trying to induce a suicide cult for the lulz?
No, I say, none of those expected outcomes. Indeed, I was arrested due to the power of Red Tape.

I was driving. It was a nice day. I had music playing, and was passing a town I never had any interest in visiting. Suddenly, behind me I see lights. The fucking blue and red of “You gon' get legally raped” in the rear-view. This officer had been hovering behind and to my left for a mile, hence my pulling up to let him in. Officer of the law needing to merge, me being a good citizen, doing my civic... fuck. He's pulling me over. Fucking goddamn cops. Note the immediate change.

As an aside, I've found that one's respect and like of law enforcement officials suffers a dramatic change when one is being pulled over.



The officer helpfully informs me that I was 'too close to the person in front of me'. The fact that I did so because he was acting like he wanted to get in behind me went unremarked upon as he was too busy being more helpful in explaining how it was one of the “Fatal Five” or something.

I swear to fucking god, that’s what he called it. The Fatal Five, sounds like a fucking comic book villain team. “The Tailgater faces off with Spider-man! Next month! THE RETURN OF THE FATAL FIVE”. Jesus H fucking Christ on the handlebars of a tricycle peddled by Shiva.

So anyways, after telling me about the FATAL FIVE with the seriousness of explaining to me why I was being arrested for plowing through a pack of preschoolers, he asks me to step out of the car.

Then asks me if I have any “weapons”. I decided my snide wit was not a factor, but was now quite agitated. I knew, right now, I was going to be arrested for some reason or another. There was two officers now there, and even though he'd told me it was going to just be a “warning”, he was acting like I was going to get cuffed.

It was, to say the least, fucking surreal. I had apparently done nothing wrong, but I was being checked for weapons and my car was being searched. The fuck? Looking back, its clearer to me now, that I was likely going to be ticketed for something, they just hadn’t found a good reason yet.

I never really thought about it at the time, given the whole “Don't want to piss the cops off” thing, but fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Its feeling like they were fishing.

So, I sit down, he runs my license.

Its apparently suspended.

I was unaware of this. I tell him this. Indiana never told me of this, no one informed me, what the fuck?

This is also where he tells me when he pulled me, he smelled “marijuana”.

Ooh fucking BULLSHIT.







Oh well, Mr Officer replies.

And on go the cuffs.





For something he keeps telling me is “making him feel bad” and “I wish I didn't have to”, which I think may be BS because again, they were treating me like John fucking Dillinger from the start.

Now comes the most bizarre part of our sordid tale.

He starts discussing payment options. Not a bribe, obviously. He's talking about bail.

But this is what he goes immediately to. Not things I can do. Where I'm going. Where my car's going. No, how I can “pay”.

I'm being told they accept credit cards so I can purchase my freedom. I'm panicked right now. Its surreal. Its fucking wrong. I'm being cuffed for a bureaucratic oversight, I'm being arrested, and the cop wants to discuss my “payment options”.


This would be my mental state at this point.

So I'm brought into the County Jail (FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK) and there's two officers who obviously don't give a shit if I live or die. A few phone calls later, bail is set up, I'm going to get out...

And then I'm put in a cell til my “payment clears”.


So there I am in a tiny concrete room without a working sink, with a solid metal door without a window so I have absolutely no view of the outside, and two mattresses that smell like hot bum and sick, and they won't let me take my laptop or a book.

So its just me, two mattresses, and my clothing. Minus my belt or shoes since I may try to kill myself, being a criminal.

Criminals are like that. So basically in the eyes of the state troopers, I've gone from a cheerful, if surprised, college student being pulled for a minor infraction to a tough, nasty criminal type who may try to harm myself or others given access to shoelaces. A haze descends, I'm feeling it. The Man is oppressing me. Soon this becomes the only world I know, the outside is scary, I can never be out, I'm inside, I'll always be inside, I'll...

Oh shit, they're opening the door. Right as I start to pee.

Gee, thanks.


So without further ado, I am deposited outside, without even being told where my car is. The next 3 hours are spent wandering a town, getting a ride from a sweet little old lady, getting my car from impound from a dude with 3 teeth, and figuring out how the FUCK I'm getting home.

And that's the story of my first arrest.

P.P.S. In the interests of brevity I have left out a single thing that was a constant through this entire experience: The fact that in the back of the squad car there was a dog. Barking. Like fucking crazy.

The entire.



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