The Definitive History of Ronald K. Drumpf’s Presidency: The First 14 Days

White House Waiting Room – 9:30PM Eastern Standard Time

“They’re ready for you, Mr. President,” the Chief of Staff said.

“Did you hear something?” President Drumpf asked his Secretary of Defense as they stood in the waiting room going over the president’s speech.

“I don’t think so, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Ralphie Thaddeus Cruise said, hoping that it was the right answer. Wrong answers had caused the previous Secretary of Defense to be fired three days into the new administration.

“Mr. President?” Don Kaylic said again. “It’s time for your speech.”

“There it is again,” President Drumpf said, looking around the waiting room. He spotted an almost invisible man near the door. “Oh, it’s you Don,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s pretty hard to remember you even exist sometimes.”

“Yes, Sir,” his Chief of Staff replied, blending back into the wallpaper.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” Drumpf grunted.

The 45th President of the United States of America and Greatest Nation On Planet Earth and Maybe the Galaxy led the Secretary of Defense from the waiting room into the hallway. They walked for almost a minute in silence until President Drumpf put his hand on Cruise’s arm, bringing the man to a stop.

“I’m supposed to thank you, Ralphie,” Drumpf said in his most presidential voice. “But we all know it was me who solved this important problem. I mean, you did help a little bit, but not as much as I did. So it really should be you thanking me.”

The longing desire in the SecDef’s eyes made the president’s smile widen into a feral grin.

“You know how to thank me, Ralphie,” President Drumpf said, pushing down on the Defense Secretary’s shoulder until the man was on his knees. Continue reading

“The Big Bhang” published!

Right. “The Big Bhang” is now live at and all countries where Amazon has a presence. Amazon gets exclusivity for 90 days, but then it will go live at iTunes / Barnes & Noble / Google Play / Kobo / elsewhere.

“The Big Bhang” – Amazon store link
375 pages
Marijuana themes / Profanity / Stuff You Shouldn’t Be Reading

"The Big Bhang" - Science Fiction + Stoner Fiction

“The Big Bhang” – Science Fiction + Stoner Fiction

Henchman: Ordering A Superweapon Online

I sneaked past Kellie’s desk while she was on the phone. Dr. Carbon’s door was open, so I stepped in. He was seated at his desk, and looked up when he heard (or sensed, I still wasn’t exactly sure what Dr. Carbon’s full capabilities were) me enter.

“Ah, Mike, thanks for coming so quickly,” he said.

I froze almost in mid-step. I’d interacted with Dr. Carbon quite often in my time with him, but I was sure I was just another faceless hireling to him, a name on a check or a jail roster whom the attorney had to bail out. If he knew my name, he probably had it in a file that he’d been reading just so he could address me properly before firing me. I had no idea what I’d done wrong, but to be called into a Vil’s office out of the blue… It wasn’t usually a pleasant experience from what I’d heard.

“Please, Mr. Williams, sit down,” Dr. Carbon said, pointing casually to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

I sat, wary of the chair being a trap, my mind visualizing webs or straps locking me in so he could tell me why he was about to toss me into a volcano. I have no idea why I was so paranoid, but the mind control incident had happened only a few days ago, and the Supes and Vils pretty much share the same information grapevine.

“Mike, the reason I know your name is because you’re a good worker.”

I froze again, this time in surprise that he might be able to read minds.

“The reason I’m an A-lister, Mike, is because I pay attention to details.”

I nodded, letting him know I respected him and enjoyed working for him because he paid attention to details enough to be an A-lister. At least I hoped that’s what my nod conveyed.

“A big part of the details,” he continued, “are the people working for me. I know most citizens and Supers only see you and your fellow associates as faceless goons, and too many of my own associates, the C-listers and below, make the same mistake. You’ve always done great work for me, and HR knows that any time your name comes up on the rotation, they are to do whatever it takes to get you back with us for another six months.

“And as an employee who is one of two on the HR list to get such special treatment, it means whenever I have a tough job, one that I dare not trust to anyone but someone I consider fully capable of successfully completing it, you and Washington are at the top of my list.”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t too surprised to hear Washington’s name. The guy scared the hell out of me, scared the hell out of most people, including the Vils he worked for. I tried to imagine what kind of scheme Dr. Carbon had cooked up that he had to call me in and praise me.
Continue reading

Gaming the System (short story)

(Probably rough, hasn’t really been edited yet, just sort of banged this out tonight! I could probably expand this to a novella if not more. Maybe a serial?)


I listened as I stood in the darkness, but the only sound I heard was the thumping of my heart and my own breathing. With my back against the wall, I inched forward as quietly as possible. The killer was somewhere ahead of me, armed with a chrome or stainless automatic. I wondered where the fuck Tillman was. My partner and I had split on at the entrance, with me taking the stairs while he went around back.

It was stupid, and we were going to catch hell for it. Sergeant Hines would be just the first in a chain of superiors taking a piece of our ass for chasing an armed gunman into a nearly-finished office tower without waiting for backup. The they didn’t watch this guy execute two men less than twenty feet from us either. They didn’t see the look in his eyes as he stared at us while putting a bullet in the second victim’s skull. The perp was insane, or he was the hardest of the hard-nosed killers that organizations like the Russian mob used to take care of problems.

Then there’s the fact that Tillman and I had each burned through an entire twelve round magazine from no less than fifteen feet away, and this asshole only started laughing as he turned and ran across 5th Street and into a construction site. Neither of us spotted a blood trail, which means we wasted twenty-four bullets at almost point-blank range and came up empty. Last time Tillman and I hit the range, we were thirty out of thirty at thirty feet, and twenty-six out of thirty at twelve. Twelve feet and a moving target that randomly swiveled to present an inch of surface area to hit.

I heard the soft scraping of feet ahead of me. I counted to three then hit my flashlight, hoping to blind him. I barely thumbed the switch on the flashlight when my vision whited out from the continuous fire that belched from his weapon.

“Fuck you!” I screamed after diving to the floor and behind a pile of drywall sheets. “Emerson P.D.! Drop your weapon!” I prayed Tillman heard the shots and was running his ass off to get to me. Continue reading

It’s Harder This Way – Chapter One

And finally tonight, many, many, MANY readers have been waiting for some sign of life concerning a sequel to “It’s Better This Way.” Well… “It’s Harder This Way” is getting dusted off and is in the queue. Here’s a sample. Keep in mind, it hasn’t been heavily edited (or even lightly edited). Enjoy! I’ll update as more gets written ;).

1. Onward and Forward

“Mr. Greggs, sir?” Spider asked, skidding to a halt in front of me.

“Spider,” I said, trying not to laugh at his name, “just call me Evan.”

“Evan, sir,” he said, fumbling the words. I could tell that it was hard for him to keep the Mister title from slipping out. “There’s an army scout coming up the road.” He looked back, as if the scout had been stalking him, then back at me. I nodded for him to go on. “He’s coming to you and Mist… Tony.”

“Okay,” I said, glancing over at Tony Galliardi. He shrugged. “Make sure he finds his way to us, and make sure no one says anything. Go.”

We watched him run back down the road, an all-out sprint at first, then after a sheepish look back at us, he smoothed out into a jog. I picked up my pack, shouldered it, waited for Tony to do the same, then began walking south again along the Willamette Highway.

“Who do you think taught him manners like that?” Tony asked as we put one foot in front of the other.

“No clue,” I said with a chuckle. “Is he a Farm kid, or from one of the outer reaches?”

“He’s one of the Davies’ kids. From up on the northeast edge.”

“Huh,” I said, trying to place the family to the location. “I don’t remember them. Seems like a good kid, though.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t fall on his knife while trying to slice into an apple.”

I laughed, imagining the gangly teenager tripping over his own two feet, especially around council members. We stopped when we came to the small bridge over Big Marsh Creek. Tony gave the halt signal to the… soldiers behind us. I didn’t want to call them soldiers, as they definitely weren’t that. They passed the signal back down the line, where it would eventually reach the rear, almost a mile behind us. Continue reading

Chronvalescent (a story in the “Departure” universe)

If you’ve never read “Departure,” then this story might not make as much sense. Then again, it might not make much sense mostly because I wrote it…

NOTES: Not edited, so there will be mistakes/errors. I am around 85% finished with the story, which has sort of come on strong over the last few days out of nowhere. I AM planning on a sequel to “Departure” (and in effect, this story as well), which will be titled “Arrival.” This story together with “Departure” will give a more complete backstory to “Arrival.”


“We have to go, Drea,” Melly said, tugging my arm.

“I don’t want to,” I said. She heard the sulking, near-whining in my voice. “Well, I don’t. I want to stay here with you.”

“You can’t,” she said, her voice heavy with emotion. “You know you can’t. We’ve talked about this for years.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Bullshit. You DO care. You’ve seen what happens when you miss your departure.”

“I don’t care,” I said again, feeling every bit the petulant child that I sounded.

“Then you lied all these years,” she said with sudden anger as she let go and pushed me away. “Because if you cared, you wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t make me watch it.”

“It’s not fair, goddammit!” I nearly screamed. I only kept my voice down because the Hackers were everywhere in this part of the Bower.

“I know, baby,” she said, her face immediately back to the crushing defeat she’d tried to hide from me for the last few months. Hell, the last year or more, but it really began on my 39th birthday. She stroked my cheek, trying to wipe away my single tear without allowing herself to shed any. The heartbreak in her face made me want to fall to the floor and just give up. I would just lie on the floor and cry until I missed my departure. The memory of what happened to the unlucky (or stupid) ones who missed their departures was ingrained in us from childhood. Even without the instructional holos we were forced to watch at various intervals in school, there would be one or two who drove the message home every month when they refused to depart.

“Come on,” Melly said. “We have a ways to go just to get topside.”

When I refused to budge, she cupped my cheeks and pulled me in close. I stared into her eyes for an eternity while she nearly brought me to orgasm with an intensely passionate yet soft, loving, slow kiss. My mind whirled as her tongue gently flitted against mine. Time became nothing. My departure became a worry for someone else. I was no one and nothing, my only thought on Mellisandra and how much I loved her. Continue reading

Paradoxis (working title)

Sort of just blew up with this the other day… might be worth exploring further?


I banged my palms on the steering wheel in time to the music, waiting for the light to change. Twenty more minutes and I’d be home for the weekend. My mind wandered to Marla, the woman I had met a few weeks back on an internet dating site. We’d spent two nights together in those three weeks, and my brain hoped that it was only because of my work schedule that we hadn’t been able to hook up more often. I felt my heart race at the thought of the skin-tight dress she’d worn the previous Saturday when we’d driven up to Boise for—

The blare of at least three horns shattered my concentration and brought me back to reality. I felt my face turn red as I wondered how long I had made the cars behind me wait to turn left onto Borah Ave. A glance in my rearview mirror once my foot hit the gas pedal made me turn even more red, the multiple rude gestures and mouthed insults the proper payment for any dumbass who couldn’t get off their cell phone or stop picking their nose long enough to notice the light had turned green.

I crossed over the first two lanes, my light still a bright green arrow, when a blur caught my peripheral vision. I felt my nerves tingle all at once as I realized a blue Honda wasn’t going to stop at its red light. I couldn’t decide whether to jam my foot on the gas or the brake, but the Honda was moving so fast that I never got to make the decision. A loud bang preceded the crunch of metal and glass by a quarter of a second, the airbags in my Chevy Cavalier filling instantly and whiting out my world.

I braced as hard as I could with my arms and legs, sure that it was the worst thing I could do but unable to control my muscles thanks to the fear flooding my body with adrenaline. The impact spun my car around at least four times, another crunch bringing it to a stop against what I guessed was a utility pole. The worry that I might have suffered whiplash, a broken bone, or a broken nose thanks to the airbag was partially lessened by being able to see the world around me as the airbag deflated.

I blinked a couple of times, unsure of what I was seeing. The Honda was in the middle of the street, its front end completely pulverized, yet the driver had somehow extricated himself through the rear window and was walking toward me. Holding what looked like a huge, silver pistol. As if me making eye contact had enacted a program execution, the man raised the pistol and began firing at me. Continue reading

Letters From the Adult Orphanage #1

To: Inmate #AZ932-09004
Dear Potential New Mom,

Some seriously scary people on the internet told me you needed an adult child to love and care for. I’m a big boy and I can wipe myself, but I’m still wearing training pants. Not because I have a weird fetish (Mr. Davies, the boss of the orphanage, tried to explain what “fetish” means but I could only picture eating spaghetti with peanut butter and broccoli sauce). I need training pants cuz I forget to remember to… You know.

I like dogs and chickens and bears and fishes and ceramic trinkets and piranha and chrome and Big Wheels and paper and crayons and stuff.

I don’t like mean ladies who say nice things while frowning and pinching my cheek (I also don’t like lady aunts who have Lando Calrissian mustaches even though they tickle but then I feel awkward for laughing) and I don’t like cereal or toy robots or punctuation or socks but I love toe socks haha weird right? but I also don’t like genetics or dumb rocks because rocks are dumb and don’t dance or play Xbox.

Anyway, prison pen pals are okay but my friend Dooly says I have to be careful because prison types like you are sometimes mean and say nice things while being mean and I don’t like mean cuz it makes me feel mean and I don’t like mean. I hope you get out of prison and didn’t really do all those bad things to the adults on that tour bus because it wasn’t nice. OK bye!

Please write back,
Jerry Winkleton
(but my friends call me “Jezzy” or sometimes “Destro” but that’s cuz Destro is this guy who works for Cobra Commander though more like a mercenary but the good guys won’t hire Destro cuz he does work for Cobra Commander but I like Destro’s girlfriend. She has cool pants that are shiny and really tight. She sometimes wears funny underwear. But OK for reals bye now!)

PS don’t stab no one in the chow line cuz it’s mean and that lady might be a mom too and then her kids would be like me and live in an orphanage. But then I would have new friends so maybe if that lady mouths off then you can go ahead and shank her. Billy Tibbets says shanking is like sex but he’s 14 and I don’t understand adult stuff yet and he made fun of me and explained it was like punching someone while holding a homemade knife.

Bears Are Not Your Friends Either…

Bears Are Not Your Friends Either…

I had just purchased my first DSLR camera and was wandering through Yellowstone, doing my thing, taking pictures, being a “nature guy” in a sense, when two pretty big bears wandered out of the tree line and began to approach me. You can imagine I was both fascinated and yet terrified that a couple of 800+ pound carnivorous animals were within twenty feet of me. I froze up for a second, trying to remember any advice I might have read on the internet or watched in a YouTube video, when one of the bears spoke up.

“Hey,” the larger one said. “That’s a pretty nice camera!”

As I stared at him, an old memory kicked in about how to smile with a lot of teeth and make direct eye contact.

“I don’t think he understands English,” the other bear said and did what I am very sure was the bear version of a shrug.

“We should eat him, then,” the first bear said with, and again, I’m not making this up, a wink. The fucking bear WINKED at his buddy.

“Uh,” I said aloud, not exactly sure what was going on.

Had I accidentally walked through some magic mushrooms and inhaled some spores? I mean, I’m pretty familiar with mushrooms (don’t ask, it was a long time ago in my party days), and I’m pretty sure they don’t release spores that make you hallucinate… but then again, I saw some crazy X-Files episodes so, you know… anyway…

“Please don’t eat me,” I said loud enough for them to hear me, as well as hopefully any park rangers or possibly even Ted Nugent to hear.

The two bears laughed. “We’re not going to eat you,” the second one said. “It’s just a test to see if you’re an American.”

Now, why a bear would give a shit that I was an American or not is beyond me, but again, I’m standing there nearly shaking myself right out of my hiking boots.

“Well, what do you want, then?” I asked, hoping they wouldn’t notice I was about to cut and run (even knowing they’d catch me in an instant, but the human mind does weird things during times of extreme stress).

“Hey,” the first one said as if he’d had the greatest idea ever. “Let us take a picture of you. You can email it to us.”

By now my mind was kind of short-circuiting that I’m standing in a meadow at Yellowstone having a conversation with two giant bears. But it DID seem reasonable. I mean, they didn’t rear up and roar at me or anything. They actually seemed pretty chill, which was my first mistake, and why you should always remember that any advice given on the internet is absolute shit.

I handed the smaller one the camera and stepped back a few paces. The larger one looked at the LCD screen on the camera then to me and waved me back another ten feet or so to get more of the background in the shot. Without warning, they high-fived each other and ran off into the trees.

What the fuck? I thought in surprise. They just stole my fucking camera!

This is the point where I should have just left well enough alone and gone home, eating the cost of buying a new camera and lenses and such. But I had talked to a friend on Facebook before taking my trip. This friend, we’ll call him “Billy,” is one of those hunter types who is also an ex-combat veteran. When I told him I was going to Yellowstone to take pics with my new camera, he warned me to take a high-powered hunting rifle with me. Keep in mind that “Billy” is the type of guy who wants to be buried with his arsenal of assault rifles, knives, a thousand rounds of ammo for the afterlife, and all that.

“Oh HA HA!” I yelled at them with much sarcasm. “Very fucking funny! I’m gonna get my rifle and then we’ll see who’s fucking laughing!”

I think I was screaming with spittle spraying from my lips at that point. I took a deep breath to get myself under control. I ran back to my truck, popped the locks on the gun case, and pulled out a .50cal Barrett, the kind of sniper rifle that can blow holes through 6″ of solid concrete to kill a terrorist/evil dictator on the other side.

“Billy” assured me that if a bear showed up, this particular gun would blow its furry head clean off. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for shooting animals with a camera, but I’m not a hunter. I am familiar with weapons, but just enough to not blow my own foot off and bleed to death sixteen miles from the nearest access road in the middle of a national forest.

“Fuck these stupid bears,” I growled as I checked the chamber to make sure the gun was loaded.

After a kick of my truck’s door to slam it shut, I ran back to the meadow and into the tree line. I did my best to be as quiet as possible, and soon enough I heard the bears laughing and cracking jokes (along with the click of my camera’s shutter’s repeated activation). I found a big tree to hide behind and quietly aimed my rifle at them so I could see what they were up to through the scope.

These fucking bears… they were in a small clearing taking selfies, posing in weird bear-human poses, and after a couple of minutes of what I am quite sure was them taking pics of their genitals and using my camera’s WiFi to post them to Twitter or Instagram, they wedged the camera between two lower branches and then began to have… let’s just say “intimate bear relations.”

That’s when I decided that even as an animal lover and friend to the environment, I was going to ventilate some goddamn bears and get my camera back. If they had simply stolen my camera and ran off, that would be one thing. I normally wasn’t the type who thought it was a good idea to track deadly animals twenty miles into a wilderness area to just to get $600 worth of shit back, but watching them act the way they did… no fucking way.

Well, bears have pretty good hearing and even better sense of smell, and they got wind of me before I could get any closer. The gap between trees wasn’t enough to get a clear shot, and besides, they started laughing maniacally and snatched the camera from where it was wedged and ran off deeper into the forest. But not before the big one turned and flipped me the bird with his claws. I almost fired off a shot right then, but I kept control of my growing rage.

It took me another two hours to track them down. This time they were under a rocky overhang in a small canyon. Again, since I’m not a hunter, I must have come in wrong as my smell preceded me. The bears began sniffing at the air while growling and looking in my direction. They must have caught a glint of sunlight from the rifle as they got worried looks and hid behind some rocks.

“Hey, man,” the larger one growled at me, “it was just a joke! Sheesh!”

“Yeah, jokes on you!” I yelled, my trigger finger so itchy that I could barely contain my need to waste these garbage bags with fangs.

“Calm down, bro,” the other one yelled back. “We were just having some fun.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not that funny now, is it?” I shouted from behind my cover. I could just barely see the top of the second one’s skull poking above his rocky barrier.

“Come on, man,” the bigger one said, and I’ll be damned if he wasn’t chuckling. CHUCKLING! AT ME! I’m holding a giant goddamn sniper rifle and this fucking bear is giggling at me! “Put the gun down and come hang out with us. We’re pretty fun bears.”

“You can have your camera back, it’s cool,” the second bear said. I almost blew his stupid bear brains all over the rock wall behind him. “We’ll even share some of our bear milk with you.”

That stopped me cold. I know I’ve read a lot of words and watched a lot of documentaries in my years, but I don’t remember anything about “bear milk” other than on some weird website that might or might not have been a parody article. Or one written by a complete fucking moron. Either way, I suddenly had the urge to try this exotic liquid.

“Bear milk?” I asked hesitantly.

“Duh!” they said in stereo and began to bear-laugh, which is a really weird noise that sort of sounds like they are snacking on a bloody carcass and sneezing at the same time.

“This is a trick!” I yelled. “You just want me to ditch my gun so you can eviscerate me and suck the marrow from my bones!”

“You’re too skinny,” the smaller one said. “Barely a snack for our little ones.”

“And you kind of stink,” the big one added. “No offense.”

“Like you assholes smell as if you just took a rosewater bath!” I screamed, angry at their mocking, insulting words.

“Hey, we can’t help it if shit literally gets stuck in our fur,” the small one said. “I mean, we’re bears! It’s what we do!”

“You guys flipped me off! Don’t pretend you can’t make complex shapes with your paws and manipulate objects. My niece is six and can barely figure out how to turn that camera on.”

“Your niece sounds tasty,” the big one said with a laugh that I didn’t really appreciate much at all. “Right. Bad joke. My name is Ted, and this is Larry. Now we’re not strangers. Come on, I’ll get the milk.”

I’d never heard of a talking, thieving, tick-infested bear named Ted or Larry, and even though it seemed like a dirty trick that bears might pull, the thought of tasting the sweet liquid overpowered my good judgment. My recollection of “bear advice” had been wrong all the way up to this point, but I decided to give it one last chance. Talking bears couldn’t truly be that bad, could they?

Anyway, I thumbed the safety on the gun and wandered down to their little clearing. As I rounded a large rock, I saw the cave. It was a pretty big cave, as caves go, but I’m not a cave expert so it might have been a tiny one, I don’t know. It looked big to me, and it was large enough that both bears could walk through the entrance with room to spare.

The smaller bear gestured to me and I sat down on a rock and waited for the big one to exit the cave. I was wary, and was definitely ready for any bear trickery, but I wasn’t ready for the big one (I refuse to this day to call either of them by their “name”) to saunter back out of the cave with a tray and three frosty glasses of milk. The bear passed out the drinks and sat next to his partner. I had to hold in my own laughter at the stupid milk mustaches the two idiot bears had grown after a few sips.

“It’s good,” the smaller bear assured me with a wink. That wink shit was beginning to get on my nerves.

I sniffed the milk, and to be honest, it smelled like I’d fallen into a bed of heavenly flowers made of honey and sunlight and kisses. A part of my brain screamed at me to not drink it, as there had been news reports of dude-bros (and probably bear-bros) who were nasty types that liked to “spike” drinks and then do weird sexual things to the victims. But, I mean… they’re bears, right? I guess I didn’t connect the dots that explained since they could speak English and use their paws as if they had opposable thumbs, it was likely that they would have somehow hooked up with a GHB dealer.

The milk… it was incredible. It was goddamn magical. I can’t even describe the taste of it. I can, however, describe the drowsy feeling which soon overcame my alert paranoia that I was making a big mistake. The last thing I remember is grinning while they told me a story of some dumbass hiker they ate two summers ago who fell for the very same trick they were playing on me.

When I woke up, the bears were gone, as was my underwear. They left my pants for some reason, but I shivered at the fact my underwear was missing and my pants were still on but down around my knees. I panicked and stood up, checking myself everywhere, especially my “back end” to make sure I was still intact. I couldn’t find any scratches or bites or missing flesh, but I when I lifted up my shirt, there was a giant hickey on my left breast. I freaked out and screamed at the top of my lungs for almost a minute straight, then got a hold of myself.

“Okay, Travis. Don’t panic,” I said to myself. I was most assuredly in a SERIOUS FUCKING PANIC.

I searched the area and found nothing except bear tracks leading deeper into the canyon. Which meant I didn’t find my camera and more worrying, my rifle. I went into the cave, but after about ten feet it was too dark to see. Then my foot hit something solid and metal, which seemed awfully strange. I fumbled around and found the Zippo lighter I always carried in my pocket. After lighting it, I stood staring at the refrigerator for at least two minutes. When I opened the door, there was a small pint bottle of milk and a note.

“Dear stupid human,” the note began, though I had to step back to the cave entrance to read it as bears aren’t all that great at writing and their penmanship is utterly atrocious. “Thanks for the camera. Nikons are pretty good, but you should buy a Canon next time. Also, that gun is awesome! Where did you get it? Larry almost blew himself away messing with it haha. Anyway, eat shit!”

I screamed in rage again and started to crumple the paper up when I noticed it had writing on the back side as well.

“PS: Larry kept your underwear, and will always cherish the time you two had together. Also, don’t pursue us or we’ll post all the pictures we took of two you doing weird (and possibly illegal in some states) stuff together all over Facebook and Twitter.”

I felt defeated. Beyond defeated. I’d lost my brand new camera, a horribly expensive .50cal military rifle, and I’m pretty sure my bear virginity. I felt dirty. Used. Taken advantage of. I’m still in therapy because of it.

I left the cave area and wandered for two days until some hikers found me, mostly delirious and talking to myself. They helped me get back to my truck, and I eventually made it home. As the trauma wore off, I began hunting these bears down on the internet. Sure enough, they were on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, posting silly pictures and videos about whatever animals in the wilderness do. Like Bear Poker Night and How Bears Smoke Weed. When I checked the exif tags on the photos, sure enough, they came from my Nikon D3300.

You’d think this is the end of the story, but it’s not. Somehow they figured out I was following them on social media and now I’m being harassed by them almost daily. It’s somehow worse than what happened at Yellowstone.

So… here’s my advice: never trust a bear. For any reason. Ever. They are not your friends.

Oh, and NEVER believe anything you read on the internet.


Some flash fiction…

Found some old flash fiction stuff from years ago just now…

“In this dream, I was a bird,” she said softly as they lay together.
“What kind of bird?” he asked as he took another drag off his cigarette.
“I don’t know, a fast one I guess. I had really sharp talons and a really sharp nose.”
He laughed softly, chiding her, “Birds don’t have noses. They have beaks.”
“Beaks, noses, whatever, it was sharp!” she said, at the same time digging a finger into his side to tickle him in retaliation for correcting her.


There was something about the way the woman kept looking at him that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t necessarily a bad sort of creepy, but it was creepy nonetheless.
Why does she keep staring at me?
he thought.
He reached up and behind him to grab the stop-line, unable to take his eyes off her. He’d walk the extra nine blocks in the dark just to get off the bus and away from the weirdo.


“My bologna used to have a first name, it was H-E-A-V-Y-M-E-A-T,” Ryan sang as Eric drove them down the old logging road like a bat out of hell.
“That ain’t how it goes, ya stupid jackass!” Eric shouted above the heavy metal blaring on the stereo.
How he heard Ryan singing a stupid song in the first place was a miracle.