Fiction

A Fair Price by Scotch Rutherford

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"Naked City" by Scotch Rutherford

The King’s Court mobile home park was all the way out on Boulder Highway, where the outskirts of the Neon City became Henderson. Leon Diggs rounded out the park’s single digit tenant retention rate, since its greedy landlord had doubled the rent on the 200 some odd park-owned trailers.

Eddie needed to get high, real high. And Leon had the sweetest sugar shit he could afford. Eddie parked his truck next to a pristine 68 Lincoln Continental, with the suicide doors. Business must be boomin’, he thought as he got out, and rapped his knuckles hard on the side door of lot 142. Nothing.

“Leon, it’s Eddie. C’mon, man.”

Nothing. Eddie pushed on the door. It swung open, and sure as shit, he walked right into it. Blood was splattered everywhere. Cash, blow, and guns were scattered on the deck, between the bodies; everything ripe for the taking. Eddie spotted a jumbo Ziploc of powder on the floor. He snatched it, and slid two fingers inside. He touched his fingers to his nose, and took a hit. In a flash he had a powder burned red nose, and he knew it was good shit. That’s when he realized including Leon, there were four bodies; three dead, one barely breathing.

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Non-Fiction, Writer's Interviews

Kicking Charlie Munger In The Gonads! : Interview with Max Keiser!

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by Jason Michel

Stop what you are doing & listen to this. Right Now. Max Keiser is a film-maker, broadcaster (BBC, Al Jazeera, Press TV, Russia Today) and former broker and options trader & as far I’m concerned has the most subversive show on TV & the net – bar none. In these fragile economic times Max seems to be one of only a handful of people speaking the damn truth out there in media land about what the fuck is going on with the banks & how the financial system is shafting each & every one of us. He is the Jello Biafra of economics. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to ask him some very haphazard & fumbling questions on the subject of economics & survive. I’d originally thought to transcribe the interview but after listening to the video I found that it stands up by itself. I’ve decided to publish the raw deal here. Warts & all. 16/10/10

Max‘s website is here :  http://maxkeiser.com/

Tune in to The Keiser Report to keep updated on what the bastards are doing.

Non-Fiction

Supermarkets And Their Role In A New World Order by Matt Kent

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Supermarkets are held in contempt by many, with the charge-sheet against them being long and varied. To the aesthete they are ugly, uniform and bland. To the socially-conscious they are anti-local, anti-environment, anti-worker. To the individualist they represent the triumph of the many over the one, the mass-produced over the hand-crafted, the factory over the artisan.

These criticisms are obviously valid. And just as obviously futile. For the rise to dominance of the supermarket was and is unstoppable. Their popularity, their ubiquity, is a result of two of the most powerful currents in our society: the economic monopoly of multinational companies, coupled with the deepening passivity and helplessness of their customers. That is, supermarkets thrive not only because of economies of scale, town-planning and a craven political culture, but because they cater to that most depressing of modern desires: convenience, under Continue reading Supermarkets And Their Role In A New World Order by Matt Kent →

Art/Comics, Fiction

Landscape With Sententers by A.R.Yngve

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Chugir was forty years old, weary, and damaged by bad booze.

The booze problem he blamed on the Drinkards. For months, he had been stalking a Drinkard and extracting almost pure alcohol from its body.

“Almost” pure. People were saying it was Chugir’s own fault, that he pushed the Drinkard too hard, until the booze it produced came out polluted. “Bad metabolism,” they were saying. Chugir wasn’t greedy. Each day, he’d been sharing with others the clear drink which he pressed out through the Drinkard’s metal tubes.

But this particular morning, the booze made him sick and he threw up blood. The others carried him to a Fixard, the common type spotted on the grass plains, and shouted for help until one of the Fixards heard them.

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Fiction

Just Stupid by B.R. Stateham

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Frank brought Stevie Toomey into the windowless cubicle of the interrogation room, kicked a chair out from underneath a table and sat the kid’s ass down into the hard wooden chair rather unceremoniously.  The room was just four bare walls, a small table sat in the middle of the floor underneath a very bright light, with two chairs facing each other.  From the ceiling a single light hung down from a long black cord.  The light was powerful enough to look at the bottom of the Marianas Trench.  From San Francisco.

The kid—Stevie—weighed about one and thirty five pounds, thin as a bone and as pale as freshly mixed bread dough.  The harsh bright light shining down directly on the table made the kid blink his eyes and squint.  Sniffling, using the back of one handcuffed arm to rub across his dripping nose,  he continued squinting as he bent forward a little to focus and see me sitting across from him.

“Turner!  Frank!  Jesus, am I glad to see you.  Listen , I . . . I’m innocent!  I didn’t kill no one.  No one!  I was just stupid, that’s all.  Just stupid!”

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Fiction

Torrent by Chris Deal

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Hollow chest. Eyes of glass. His hands shook from the drink and his stomach churned a brew of acid and rye. The bar was a cacophony of attempted sex and with every sip the volume was turned down to a rolling hum. Two gladiators tried to maim and kill the other on most of the televisions lining the walls. The broadcasts on the others had been interrupted for updates on a bombing. No smoking allowed inside anymore. The itch of the craving moved behind his eyes. The tender stopped charging him hours ago. A body filled the empty space above the seat at his right, her form reflected in the mirror behind the bar and the bottles. Blonde hair with black roots and a toddler’s face. Inches of make up and a fake ID, her low top pouring out of her jacket and all but pressing against his arm. “Buy me a drink?” The impulse had been to ignore her until she lost interest. The shock of her words betrayed him. “What do you want?” Give her a drink and she’ll go away, he hoped. “A beer?” New to the game, she had to be. Stout would take her down. Go with the Continue reading Torrent by Chris Deal →

Art/Comics, Writer's Interviews

Introducing Henry Zeo Covert ~ A Showcase

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Q1: Hi Henry!
Who are you? (Or who do you think you are?)

This could take awhile. I think I’m Henry Zeo Covert ( http://strangeothers.blogspot.com ). I’m pretty sure anyway. I’m a writer (fiction, metafiction, comix and web comix, articles, essays, journalism, film and pop culture reviews and criticism), award-winning artist (comix and illustration), occasional musician, rabid collector, loving husband, and aspiring polymath. Continue reading Introducing Henry Zeo Covert ~ A Showcase →
Fiction

A Political Choice by Chris Pollard

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There was a knock at the front door, and Barry went to see who it was.  He looked through the peep-hole, and there on the doorstep was a youngish man in a suit, wearing a big red rosette.
Barry opened the door.

“Good morning!  Mr. Jenkins?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Hello, Mr. Jenkins, I’m Bob Wilkinson, your Labour candidate in this election, would you mind if I came in for a moment?”
“Dunno,” said Barry, looking up and down the deserted terraced street.  “When can I come round your ‘ouse for a cup of tea?”

Mr. Wilkinson looked a little taken aback, but before he could speak Barry continued, “Only joking, mate, course you can come in!”

They went into the little sitting room, and Barry indicated a threadbare grey sofa.  “’Ere, ‘ave a seat.  Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, that would be most kind of you.”

Barry went and put the kettle on, and came back a little later carrying a beaten old  tin tray with a steaming old teapot, a small jug of milk with no handle, a little plastic sugar bowl, a cracked china cup on a mismatched saucer and a glass of Continue reading A Political Choice by Chris Pollard →

Music

The Beatles perform ‘Some Other Guy’ – The Cavern, Liverpool

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by Nick Quantrill

Written by rock and roll legends, Leiber and Stoller, ‘Some Other Guy’ was the obscure Richard Barrett song which helped define the early 1960s Liverpool scene. Released by Atlantic Records, the original version was quickly rearranged from its R&B origins into an all out rocker by Liverpool bands, eager for new sounds. With its heavy beat, savage lead guitar line and rough and ready vocals, it was the perfect raw material from which The Beatles would create their sound. Acknowledged by John Lennon as the song he most wishes he’d written, few Merseybeat bands dared to Continue reading The Beatles perform ‘Some Other Guy’ – The Cavern, Liverpool →

Fiction

Fly by David Whelan

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But I had never been a writer.  That was something I could never be. I didn’t have it in me to create, I could only destroy.

I was Jack Torrace with a nagging little voice inside my head all the time. Telling me to hurt, telling me to run, telling me to fly. But, mostly, it would tell me to block out everyone else from my life.

Sometimes it got so bad that I found myself projecting my face onto everyone I knew and I hated myself for it. That sneering little rat. Grinning like a gawking child, whispering in my ear like a fowl little vermin. I had become so desperately alone.

The voice was like a small black crow that followed me everywhere, that slowly grew into a flock until I couldn’t ignore the batting of wings. A slight murmur behind my back, whispers in the wind that picked up slowly then quickly, gently and then viciously, wrapping around me until the words hammered into my head and I become deaf with rage, fear and depression, murmuring. Hitting me over and over and over and over and over: Fly.

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"Write What Thou Wilt"