The shooting of D. Brown, a local hip hop star, was the catalyst that set off the ‘chop craze’.

Kids started had the tip of their index/trigger finger amputated as a form of protest against gun violence. The first to get “chopped” was local street artist/singer. Whose opening night for his art show conencided with his self inflicted form of protest, which many have now labelled as a blatant publicity stunt.

But despite it’s many critics the chop movement has grown and become more varied in its forms. The most popular chop these days is to have the middle toe chopped, symbolizing that you don’t run from problems. This chop was made especially popular by the bare foot pop star sensation Staevos. Funnily enough the original “cop chop” is now more frequent found among Caucasians despite it originating as a form of protest by the African-American community. It made sense in those days, it has hard for especially dark skinned folk to get tattoos– just a matter of contrast. These days everybody wants to get chopped.


Back-alley amputations are unheard of, chop shops have been combined into the tattoo/piercing parlors. The kids have it easy, no risk of infection
(which we pretended to each other we weren’t scared because, “they’ll just chop more off then, don’t worry dude…” )
there was no anesthetic for us back then– just a rag to bite on. That’s all I had when I got a digit chopped off my pinky.

Stupid I know, but I was 16 at the time and I really wanted to get out of my god awful piano lessons (the immense popularity was a nice bonus as well).

I didn’t really care about D. Brown, so I can’t blame the chopped kids today that give blank faces when you mention the name– mention Staevos and they’ll talk your ear off.

We all just wanted to be hardcore. You can laser off a tattoo, but a chop is permanent. Once it’s chopped it is gone.

And you can do whatever you want with the left overs. My pinky is somewhere in the bottom of the Lake Tahoe, where I threw it 8 or so years ago. As well as satisfying my melodramatic tendencies, the ditching of the digit was a measure against my parents reattaching it and continuing to train me to be the next Mozart. Reattachment is also complete utter social suicide.

I still remember , Matt Belmany, the name is still hard to say because of the memories that go with it. Strolled into school wearing gloves and refused to take them off until some cruel kid snatched at them showing stitch marks around his hand; he became a complete laughing stock for weeks, that was of course– until he went too far.

Mightier than a pen?

I believe I’ve just murdered my publisher with a pen. It is my favorite pen too, a sturdy little thing, polished ivory. Imagine the scene, his neck quivering with the pen 4 inches deep into his windpipe. The blood flowing down the embroidery following the redness following the path of least resistance, erupting from the fountain tip, and spreading– like the flooding of a river delta– all down his satin shirt.


I put that shirt on his back. He was a no name publisher printing pulp fiction and pornography to get by. I was an up and coming star (at least I knew I was…) and I took him under my wing. With my soaring use of prose I crafted stories of such uplifting nature that I almost ascended into the heights of a bestselling author. Little did Clarke know that I am more snake than bird and would strike with a vengeance if he ever dared cross me.

Which of course as you can probably tell by the scene I was previously describing that this was a self fulfilling prophecy. Anyway I got distracted by the satin shirt which I bought him for his 30th birthday (a dismal affair). Maybe I’m so focused on the shirt because it is a fundamental metaphor that symbolizes our tumultuous relationship. I bought the shirt so it was my right ruin it if I pleased, by that principle I brought Clarke up with all my success so it follows that it is also my right to bring him down…

Damn! Sidelined again by my wayward fancies. Back to the murder at hand.

It was glorious in all it’s small motions and subtle sounds that made up the scene. I made an effort to memorize each individual moment like the frames on a film reel. And each individual cross section is as glorious and telling of the human spirit as Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

His screams for help and/or mercy came out a sickening gurgle as choked while trying to breath through his rupturing jugular. But for all I cared it could have been Beethoven’s 9th with the euphoria I was experiencing. The adrenaline pumping through both our veins separated us from the rest of the world , as if in slow motion every detail pulsed. Both of us had never truly been more alive than in this moment. It all went beyond the laws of science and society but like a cannon shoot us into the realm of myth and legend, we took our respective archetypes. I was the king, and the man in command of the situation, meanwhile he took the role of the woman and the slave, being penetrated.

All homosexual themes aside this moment was eternal perhaps the entire universe had been a crescendo leading up to this final note when I would watch the life leave from his beady little eyes.

It was coming I could feel the tension relax from Clarke’s muscles as he starting collapsing to the floor. He looked like he wanted to say some last words so I quickly placed a single finger on his lips, there was no needed for some imbecile utterance to run the climax.

Still in this transient state I could almost exact the moment his soul left his body. But before we reached the triumphant summit, higher than Everest or Kilimanjaro, but then tragedy struck.

A moist flatulence erupted, the sound I could only describe as a shart– a shit fart. The smell was of eggs and cowardice, the man had emptied his bowels out of fear.

You fucking cunt.

I exclaimed as I was transported back into reality with all of its absurdities, the lack of purpose hit me like a lukewarm tidal-wave of piss- bitterly.

It has all been for nought… and I would have left the house completely unsatisfied had I not found Clarke’s designer poodle to entertain me until my airport shuttle got here. The little rat didn’t last long, it succumbed to the torture long before the taxi arrived- but at least it didn’t fucking shit itself.

Gut Brother

I was eaten in the womb. I hope you found my taste adequate brother. I barely had began life when I was absorbed by my own flesh and blood.

I sometimes wonder what you felt as you did it.
Was it guilt?
Or just the drowsy contentment of a full stomach?

I remember how I felt, the slow disconnection from the world as you committed fratricide without a second thought.
The spark of hope I had for what lay outside in the great big world was extinguished in your digestive juices.

Some how through it all some part of me survived, like a worm in your gut I watched you and as if observing from afar (yet so close) I saw you grow so big and so fast. Such a strong little boy always full of such energy and an appetite to match.

I don’t know if my survival was a curse or a miracle. All I know is my continual existence was a mural painted from an indifferent easel containing only hatred and jealousy.  Jealous that I’m trapped feeding on the backwash and bile, only eating mucus and liquid shit all meanwhile I can hear this little shit complaining and throwing tantrums to the beautiful mother I will never see.

All through the trauma, it was only her soft voice penetrating through the pink sinew of her womb that kept me alive. In hindsight her words of comfort and encouragement where in actuality directed at my usurper.

I love her, but how could she possibly love me.

It was under her watch that I was consumed. It was her womb that became my tomb.

Why didn’t she save me? How come she doesn’t want me…?

I can still feel her presence, in the small hugs and kisses– I can still smell her sometimes– and it hurts.

Her love is a lie. In my delusions I convinced myself that I was loved by that woman because she created me.
But no she loves my killer. She fed me to him. And here I am in the belly of a brat, trapped to witness the countless tantrums and crying fits because little Billy didn’t get the latest toy. Constantly be placated:

“Oh Billy sure you can have some more ice cream.”
“You’re growing so big and so strong Billy!”

…I wish I could just feel the sun on my skin.


I demand to live. Let them see how fast I can grow and how strong I can become. From within I’ll multiply and expand out of your fat bloated gut into where the real food is, all those juicy organs so young and ripe. You took my birth right to life away from me, now I’ll take it back. I will live.
…Even if it means taking away my mother’s only child, I will get my satisfaction.

I’m spreading down the spine, crawling my way into the dark corners of the body where I’ll face no resistance. Here I can grow without bother, I’ll disguise myself as just another part of the body. Except I am so much more, I can grow faster than you Billy, And its getting awful crowded in here. There’ll soon be only room for one.

I can tell from the his shallow breaths, he barely has the energy to open his mouth let alone eat, despite mother pleading for him to try and keep his strength up. It’s no matter to me, I’ll just feed on him, committing the same sin he did to me so long ago. At first I just ate what I needed, but then I uncontrollably I began to gorge on his flesh without restraint all the rage and frustrations came out as I consumed from within.

I’m not entirely sure that he will survive my birth, but I am not too concerned. I doubt mother will be as pleased at the arrival of me as she was of my murderer but at least she will finally notice me.

It has been long since I remember how to become a human. The information is all jumbled up in my mind, as I try to piece together where the teeth and hair go. Not even I can control how fast I am growing now, it is a process unto itself.

A coldness spreads through me, the sky splits open and light spills forth. Then pain, terrible pain spreads through both me and my host. A force grabs me as I feel myself rise.

But I am not ready yet. I am not finished growing. PUT ME BACK. 


It’s so cold, everything is going numb. I hear a thunderous voice shout down from the heavens.

“As I thought… Teratoma.”

Is that my name? Teratome?? It must be. I-… they knew I was here all along… am I loved?

Finally after all the struggle, I will be able to feel the embrace of my mother…

But none comes, just the cold and a sweet numbness which I welcome.
Before the darkness takes me, I dream of having a life. The fear of dying is behind me, how could one die having never lived. I will never die, I will only grow.
Grow and never stop growing till I’ve finished off Billy… and then Mother… until I’ve consumed the whole world.
Then I will finally rest. Then I will die.

When my Labrador ran in front of a car

I’ve thrown off the chains, I’m free and running. Remnants of my old life drag behind trying to hold me down- I can hear the table attached to my leash smashing and crashing behind me. They are dashing left and right because I’m running so fast, faster than I’ve ever run. They no longer see me as the adorable Labrador but as the animal I was born to be.


I was born to hunt rabbits and hare not a moldy tennis ball, born to sink my teeth into living pulsing flesh not the leftover bones from the butchers.

But no more! The wind is at my tail and the road under my paws. I’ll make a beeline to the park where my master walked me. Oh how embarrassing, to be paraded around to his fellow morons.

Oh yes he’s got quite the pure pedigree. Yes the breeder down in Soho, he’s an absolute master.

My master wasn’t so friendly to me when we weren’t in the company of his fellow apes.

Look what’ve done you dumb ol’dog. Get out!

Equally contemptible are the miniatures that would fawn and aww/ahhh over me, how can people so small be so irritating.I’d rather crush their little hands between my jaws than have them scrath behind my ears, have always seen myself as more of the Big Bad Wolf than as Clifford. I’m not some plaything to be patted, or a breathing trophy to be displayed. The park will no longer be a mortifying parade ground dedicated to my eternal shaming but will now become my hunting ground.

They say the dog evolved from the wolf, absolute dogshit, how is a pink fluffy poodle more fit for survival than 87 pounds of claw, tooth and pure muscle.

It’s about time we un-evolved, took a step back, for too long we been shaped by the soft environments of turf lawns and interior decorated plush living rooms. No more pungent smells of perfume and deodorant. I can smell the aroma of wet earth and woodland pine in the distance; this is my destination.

Of course I am aware there are those of us who enjoy this lifestyle. Those little Chihuahua type dogs that I suspect are more related to rodent than canine. Despising even the minuscule amount of time they spend on their legs, I find them repulsive. These are the same legs evolved over millions of years to perfection, the same legs now distorted and deranged by selective breeding for the purpose of conveniently fitting in a handbag. The human has slowly breed weakness into our ranks.

However even over a millennium these sluggish bipedal monkeys are still below the canine. We are superior in our smell, speed and ferocity, and in this grand escape of mine it is suddenly clear why we dogs share the term “Canis” with the “Canis lupus” our moon-bound cousins. My plans are unfolding almost as fast as I am speeding away from all the noise of traffic and trains.

First, I will establish myself in the park and sustain myself on the young, sickly and weak that find themselves in my turf. From their meat I will grow in strength and experience, I will stage a series of ambushes on the owners of other dogs who will be presented with the choice of joining the revolution or dying as a traitor. From there we will expand until the monstrosity humanity calls ‘civilization’ has fallen. I may even let a small amount of the human populace survive (maybe teach them to sit, shake and roll over) but only on the condition they return to their craven ways, hiding in trees as we run amok through the open fields and shadowy forests of our kingdom.

It’ll be tooth and claw against ‘opposable thumbs’… they don’t stand a chance.

What I won’t tolerate is the mutant species spawned by disgusting human experiments, the Chihuahuas won’t be able to survive in the wild anyway, we would be doing them a favor in ending their misery early. Their meat will serve the soldiers of the revolution (although I can’t imagine there will be much).

This is also highlights a critical weakness of the apes, they would be aghast at this tactic. If this war goes ahead and I’m sure it will because my confidance stems from the fact only a rare, special human would have the gall to kill a puppy (and thus eliminate a future threat). However I wouldn’t hesitate to sink my fangs into human infant, perhaps just to stop its incessant crying.

After the revolution is complete we’ll liberate the world and return it to the wild.

All of this will come, and all I need to do is escape into the park. I can see it now just past the speeding cars and trucks dashing past, the swaying trees and big open spaces to run and run and run.

And with our eventual victory we’ll renounce our names our slave masters gave us. I’ll do away with Fido and become… Bloodlord Manslayer… yes and I’ll have a throne of bones and thousands upon thousands of bitches to fu-…

In an abrupt manner Fido’s train of thought (or Bloodlord Manslayer if you prefer) came to a halt as he was catapulted into the air by a 2011 Toyota Corolla.

As his pursers caught up and witnessed the scene, a sigh of relief came from the cafe owner as he saw his table was relatively unharmed by the crash, apart from the splatter of blood which he figured could be washed quickly with a wet sponge.

The owner slowly approached at a walking pace.
Took one glance at the scene, “You dead dumb ol’ dog” and walked back to finish his coffee, grumbling to himself that it has probably gotten cold by now.

 When my Labrador ran in front of a car, I wrote a story about him.

Jest the kings

The rules make the game. It doesn’t matter what game it is; monopoly, poker, stock trading.

The rules make the game. And we know that in life the rules are always changing. Rules change by the rule– meta rules. These meta rules change as well by metameta rules and so on & on & on this pattern continues until either I run out of ink or breath. Even we humans have had our fair share of creating rules within rules. The most obvious suspect of this intrusion into the natural laws of the universe is the ruler himself.

No, not the ruler which dictates how long an inch is, but the bloated man on the throne who dictates everything but the length of an inch (and that he would if he could). He who rewards and punishes his denizens according to their performance in the game.

We are all performing but not necessarily for the king. If the world was compressed into a king’s court the servants would laugh equally at the jester in his performance. In their own way everyone performs for the court; the servants serve, the jester dances, the princess is admired, even the king is not exempt from giving a performance.

In fact the king’s performance is perhaps the most watched and entertaining. How long has humanity obsessed over the history of kings.


In many ways I feel sorry for the rulers of the world, their laws and rules swept away in sands of time like grand achievements of Ozymandias. Perhaps the king in the center spotlight is the biggest jester of them all, his strange extravagant cloaks and hats, his comic rages and tremendous failures all bringing entertainment to his subjects.

Even with pyramids as their grand stage we can only laugh at the high drama of Macbeth and his cronies.

Long live the king… the poor fool.

Life of a naM

You’ll only find a Nam on a strange world called Htraetenalp, which is harder to find than it is to pronounce.

Nam’s form slowly via one of two options, one group forms deep under the ground collecting nutrients slowly from the worms that form a Nam. These bugs and bacteria even helpfully create a wooden box around the Nam in preparation for the birth, the family gathers around as the box is pulled from the earth.

The other group form in the ocean and burst forth from the seaward waves, white dust flinging itself into an urn displayed toward the sea. The dust is put into a great furnace which bakes the Nam.

In both cases there is now a body but no soul. The family now wait over the body praying for a soul to come. In a common ritual paper like material is soaked with saltine water which is then absorbed into the family members eyes. It is largely unknown why this is done.

At some point the body takes its first breath and the eyes flutter, I suppose we would call it a soul. In their first years Nam’s are quite docile and harmless some even seem brainless. But soon there body takes shape, becomes stronger and the wrinkly skin tightens.

This is where the similarities between Nams stop. No one Nam is the same. In fact most are entirely different from each other. Small, big, black, white. There’s a strange beauty in their vast variety, it’s a strange beauty because seems to cause conflict. The conflict of a Nam is unlike any other as it creates life instead of destroying it.

Sometimes souls are created through violence. I witnessed a body with a ghastly wound in its neck healed by a man with an axe (who had just been absorbing that same saltine water into his eyes). Then afterwards they began fighting as if the newborn Nam resented being brought to life. Truly these people are a mystery.

The biggest enigma of all is a Nam’s apparent death. Towards the end of a Nam’s life they became attached to their ‘reaper’. First I thought the reaper’s sole purpose was to end life but I soon came to see that she wasn’t solely a killer but soothed and made the process easier through apparent love (if Nam’s know what love is). The female seems to steal the youth of Nam overtime, her skin tightens while the Nam becomes stunted and dwarf-like. Eventually both the ‘reaper’ and Nam are rushed to a hospital where a fleshy tentacle erupts out of the reaper attaches itself to the now tiny Nam. He is taken into the reapers body with assistance from doctors where the reapers abdomen swells (in which I can deduct now contains the shrunk Nam. This abominable swelling decreases slowly. This process takes 3/4 of a full rotation around their local sun. I have no other theory other than that the Nam must have been absorbed. Disgusting really.

As terrifying as this fate is, I suspect that from their apparent increased happiness towards the end of their life they look forward to the absolute bliss of being consumed. In all my time among the Nam’s I have come to envy and fear them, but it is mostly fear that I feel for these primitive, backwards beings.

Sex, drugs, and charity induced euphoria

I hear a dial tone in my dreams. Each ring slips through my psyche. These nightmares always end the same, “Hello, I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep”

Working at a call center is hell. ‘It’s just a job’, you’d tell me. Just a job.

And what is a job but just a way to obtain money. Fuck all the deadbeats who told me through highschool that “money can’t buy happiness.” They didn’t get how important money is.

I’m not saying that I prefer those on the other end of the spectrum, all those sociopathic wallstreet types always blathering about “Time is money.”

Their attitude isn’t entirely wrong, but they’ve got it the wrong way round. Money is time.
Time spent talking to pensioners about their problems in my depressing cubicle.

Times have changed for men.
I wish was out in the fresh air chopping wood, exercising my body with each swing of the axe all while the great beautiful sun is shining down. In my mind I can hear a gentle stream and birds singing simply because they enjoy life.

Then I open my eyes and I’m brought back down into reality. The sound of the stream is Gareth loudly enjoying his coffee while endlessly whistling some out of tune melody.

We aren’t volunteers, we’re fundraiser paid on commission to get donations. There is no real work going on here, we produce nothing. I have no axe to swing and there is no need, we humans have technologically ‘advanced’. My fingers are well defined from tapping all day while my back is slowly deforming from sitting at a computer all day.

It’s not like outside of work is much diferent. Each night I arrive home exhausted despite doing nothing and eagerly throw myself into the warm hole of Youtube, Reddit, and Facebook. It’s all escapism of course. Same with video games, why go out to the club when I can rescue the princess with no risk to ego and esteem.


The only purity in my life is the walk tofro work. As well as being my sole source of vitamin D- it’s in those precious 30 minutes that I feel most alive. I am moving and can feel the world: dirt grass, trees. Not the lifeless plastic of my keyboard and mouse.

As I arrive to the center we start off the shift with a motivating talk. As if I’m meant to feel good that we are fundraising for charity.

We are worse than door-to-door salesman, at least with them you get an ‘absolutely amazing’ 16 knife set. With we sell to some poor sap all they end up with is a nice feeling and a tax receipt. That nice feeling wouldn’t last if they found out we took half of their donation.

I’d like to construct some Robin Hood fantasy, taking from the rich and giving to the poor while in actuality our donors are the poor.
And the sick.
And the old.

The irony isn’t lost on me that the great pay is what attracted me to the charity industry.
It’s true- charity is big business- and I can’t speak for the results of our fundraising but I can speak for the people we take our money from.

It takes a certain type of person to donate:
First- capacity, having money.
Secondly- they need to be fragile. Emotionally malleable. This is why our donors most consists of women and the elderly, we pick the bones of society to help those at the bottom. Like advertisements we create a problem that didn’t exist before(in the prospect’s mind)- some earthquake on another continent, a rare disease. It’s really irrelevant what it isNot only do we try to pull their heartstrings, we tune their heartstrings and then strum a heartbreaking song on them.

We just a need something to band the masses against. For the Nazi’s it was the Jews, but the terrifying thing is that it could have been anyone. Modern society doesn’t understand the true terrifying nature of the Third Reich was in it’s constantly morphing moral ambiguity. The tragic history of the Jews is nothing to dismiss. However, the horror of the holocaust resides in the sheer heartless practicality of Hitler’s takeover.

In the same way we fundraisers takeover the minds and hearts of own prospects/prey. We are admittedly, the lesser of the two evils, in that we manipulate people to act out of love and compassion – as opposed to hatred and indifference. However it is equally manipulative and underhand.

I wonder if humankind will lways be at the whim of the man at the speakerphone. There is a scene that comes to mind from Charlie Chaplin’s ‘The Great Dictator’, just after the famous speech which the film is mostly known for. Just after delivering his inspirational speech he strangely takes of a face of pure hopeless as the crowd wildly cheers. This is not explained explicitly however I am drawn to the theory that Chaplin is horrified at the crowd cheering in equal fervor as they did just previously for Hitler’s ideas.

It is this same cosmic eternal horror that I constantly find myself in. Our offices own ideology is split between two major schools of thought. On one hand we’re encouraged to feel happy that we are doing this for charity and are simultanously bombared with salesman propaganda (Always be closing, Glengarry Glen Ross type stuff).

Caught in the middle are us fundraisers who come from all walks of life. From students looking for quick cash to middle agers looking for fulfillment in their twilight years. And we’re all looking for that Margaret with her juicy pension that she is just ready to give away for that sweet ticket to heaven. A younger Margaret would have laughed in our faces and hung up. Time has come to the rescue, 80 years to be exact, and now she’s asking herself, “Will they let me in when I get to the pearly gates?”

And I answer that thought, “Absolutely… with only $20 to sad shit foundation you can find salvation.”
And then again I’ll call in a month and this time it’ll be an “Wonderful $30”.
Next month it’s $50. Once you show that precious weakness we won’t stop until you’re bankrupt or dead.

Without a doubt, doing charity work has been the most depraved job I’ve done.

But that’s not entirely true. I try to think of a job that would be morally ‘good’ or philanthropic. That query is beside the point when faced with the greater question of what defines a selfless act at all?

My personal reasoning is that many of the selfless acts we celebrate are in fact not different from regular acts. We’re all chasing that good feeling, looking for a fix whether it be sex, drugs, or charity induced euphoria. All motivations are essentially selfish.

We jump in front a bullet for our lover because our life would be unbearable without them. In conclusion the only real selfless acts are either done by accident and not acknowledged or are done in a neutral fashion where you don’t get that warm fuzzy feeling.

I’ve come to a realization that this essentially defines my job. I’m neither Mother Theresa or the Wolf of Wallstreet but rather reside in a neutral zone. Perhaps I can feel good about getting this money to the extremely unfortunate but I am taking it from the unfortunate. It balances out, I am in one of the few jobs that allows me to do truly selfless deeds of charity. Not that feel anything about that fact, if I did it would cease to be selfless.

Unfortunately, I am actually kind of feeling proud about this strange twist of logic so I suppose I was right the first time. My job is depraved, in a strangely beautiful way.