White Collar

I've really been wanting to put out a science fiction graphic novel, but I've got too much on my plate already. As a compromise, I'm going to start publishing infrequent workplace comic strips.

Space Force

Donald Spacewalker maneuvered his space fighter alongside the massive capital ship USS Trump, the fastest, strongest, hugest ship in the entire US Space Force. Donald was part of an elite group of space fighter pilots tasked with protecting the space realm from attack from the Dems, an evil band of space losers headed by the whacko nut job Nan-si Pulossi. The pirates were a constant headache to the Space Force, harassing the mission of the fifth branch with annoying, yet ultimately impotent attacks.

But the true enemy of the Space Force was the Klinton Intergalactic Initiative, a deep state conglomerate that wanted nothing more than to bring down the Axis of Freedom that Donald had personally assembled from the greatest powers on the planet. He chuckled to himself as he thought about his diplomatic prowess. Not only was he the greatest space fighter pilot in the history of the Space Force, but he was also the most accomplished diplomat the world had ever known. Thanks to Donald, the US had joined forces with North Korea and Russia, put some sick burns on the failing European Union, and created a lasting peace that benefited the entire solar system.

"Donald!" came a frantic voice over his space communicator, breaking his nostalgic revelry. "Donald, come in! It's an emergency that only you can solve with your great brain and amazing skills!"

"I'm here," Donald replied. "What's up?"

"We've just intercepted some Klinton emails," the voice said over the space communicator.

"Emails?" Donald spat. "Looks like she's up to it again. Won't that nasty woman ever learn her lesson?"

"I've space-tweeted everything at you," the voice told him. "Godspeed you Donald Spacewalker!"

Tweets flashed across Donald's space console. It was worse than he thought. Those damnable Klintons! He looked at his console where he had taped up a holographic space photo of the beautiful Princess Ivanka. "This one's for you, you smoking hot piece of ass," he said, winking at the photo.

Without another thought, he punched the throttle and his space fighter zipped around the USS Trump, twirling in a beautiful display of ultimate spacemanship. As he came around the big part of the ship where there were a lot of guns and stuff, he saw them: a small band of weak and pathetic Klinton space fighters. Donald shot straight into the cluster of fighters with the sort of bravado and skill that no other human being could ever hope to match. The other space fighters scattered as he fired his space guns - PEW PEW PEW -- PEW PEW PEW!

The Klinton space fighters exploded all around Donald, but they fought desperately to take him down. His space fighter moved like a lion, or like a space tiger or something, cutting through the weak, sad Klinton space fighters. After a few punishing moments, the Klinton space fighters gave up and started to run, but Donald wasn't going to let them off that easy. He gave chase, easily catching them because his space fighter was the fastest and most best space fighter ever. He shot them down, one after the other, PEW PEW PEW -- PEW PEW PEW -- PEW PEW PEW!

"Don't mess with the Space Force!" Donald crowed triumphantly.

Based on a true story.

Tsujigiri

Ryūzō sat with his legs folded under his body looking at the sword in the waning light. It was beautiful - more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. He narrowed his gaze as the last of the Sun's rays washed over the striking-edge of the blade, dousing the room in a flash of light, as if the sword's spirit were filling the room.

Beside him, Genpachi gasped. "Amazing..." he whispered under his breath.

Ryūzō nodded silently. Amazing was just the word. The old bladesmith, the man that had served Ryūzō's family for generations, had achieved perfection with this sword. It was no wonder that he had died so suddenly after the blade had been forged. There was nothing left in this life for him to do, now, no greater feat for him to achieve.

"What will you do now?" Genpachi asked softly.

Ryūzō reached out and took the sword in his hands, but said nothing. Even in the deepening darkness, the blade glowed like it was made of pale fire. He ran his thumb along the broad side of the blade. It felt alive under the tip of his finger as if it were touching him back.

"You have to test it," Genpachi said, breaking the silence.

Ryūzō turned to look at his friend. "Yeah," he said. "You're right. But it's dark already. We can go out tomorrow and test it in the fields."

"Why wait?" Genpachi asked. "Darkness is the perfect time to test a new sword. It's at night that all the ogres, demons, and foxes come out, disguised as humans. You can try the sword against some of them. It would be silly to use it on bamboo and melons! A sword like this should be put to use killing ogres, not cutting plants."

"Hmmm," Ryūzō said, eyeing the blade. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am," Genpachi said confidently. "I've seen my uncle do it when he has a new sword."

"Alright," Ryūzō said. "Let's go."

Ryūzō sheathed the sword and the two boys went out into the night. The moon hung low in the sky, a silver sliver casting a faint glow on the empty streets. They walked toward the center of the town, to where Genpachi was sure there would be more kami than on the outskirts where they had come from. After cutting up and down a few allies, the finally came across what appeared to be a young woman in a colorful yukata.

"There," Genpachi hissed. "There's one!"

"That's a woman," Ryūzō said, squinting in the darkness.

"Why would there be a woman out at night, alone, with nobody to watch over her?" Genpachi asked. "That's not a woman, it's probably a fox out looking for someone to trick."

"Ah," Ryūzō said. "I see your point."

He strode toward the fox and called out: "Fox! Stop where you are."

The woman turned around, a surprised look on her face.

"I am Ogasawara Ryūzō!" he said, puffing out his chest. "I have a new sword that I need to test, and  since I see that you are up to no good, I have decided to test it on you!"

The woman looked at the boy, a confused look on her face, but before she could reply, Ryūzō drew the sword and, with a flash like a bolt of lightning, made a single, fluid cut. She stared at the boy in horror for a brief moment before her head toppled from her neck and landed with a thud at Ryūzō's feet. A fountain of blood sprayed into the air and then her body crumbled to the ground. Ryūzō stifled a satisfied grin and re-sheathed the sword.

"Wow!" Gepnachi whooped, running up behind his friend. "I've never seen such a cut before!"

"It was like the sword had a life of its own," Ryūzō said. "It went through the fox like nothing, like it was moving through the air."

"You have to try another one, something more difficult," Genpachi told him. "The body, this time. Let's find an ogre. Killing foxes is easy. Let's find an ogre next!"

The boys ran down the alley and turned at the first intersection they came to. As the rounded the corner, they crashed into a large, roughly dressed man.

"Out of my way!" the man spat, swatting at the boys.

"An orgre!" Genpachi squeeled.

"What did you call me?" the man growled.

"Ogre!" Ryūzō announced. "I am Ogasawara Ryūzō! I have a new sword that I need to test, and since I see that you are up to no good, I have decided to test it on you!"

The man screwed up his face, staring at the boy in confusion, but before he could do anything else, Ryūzō drew his sword and, with one fluid movement, brought it across the ogre's large belly. The ogre stumbled back for a couple steps, his mouth chewing silent words before his torso separated from his lower body and fell to the ground with a loud, wet thud. The ogre's massive hands grabbed at where the lower half of his body should have been, tangling themselves in his own stinking intestines, as his eyes darted about wildly. After a moment, he gave a violent shiver, and then seemed to die suddenly.

"Incredible!" Genpachi said, running over to look at the dead ogre.

Ryūzō held the blade out in front of him, examining it closely. "It went through the ogre like it was nothing," he said. "It was even easier than with the fox. It was like the blade was being drawn through him, like it wanted to kill the ogre itself!"

"So cool!" Genpachi said, staring at the sword. "A sword like this needs a name! What will you name it?"

Ryūzō looked at the glade, glimmering scarlet in the night. This wasn't just any sword, he realized. It must have its own soul. It must be alive. "Onikiri," he said at last.

"Onikiri," Genpachi repeated.

The two boys looked at each other, then nodded somberly, feeling that they had just entered into a silent pact with the sword.

"No more testing," Genpachi told Ryūzō after a moment. "It's time we put Onikiri into service."

"I agree," Ryūzō told his friend. "Let's rid this town of ogres and foxes. I don't care if it takes all night!"

Ryūzō sheathed Onikiri and the boys took off together, running as fast as they could.

Zero Tolerance

"Please!" she cried. "Please, no! Please don't!"

"M'am, if you don't let go of the child, we'll have to take her by force," the officer told her, taking a step toward the mother and her wailing toddler.

"Please!" she cried, clutching her daughter to her breasts. "You can't take her from me! You don't know what we've been through! Please don't!" She fell to her knees, her arms around her child, tears streaming down her face. "Please let us stay together, please don't take my baby."

"Hold her down, Armando," the officer told his partner.

The two men descended on the woman. They were large men with strong arms and rough hands. One of them applied pressure to the woman's wrist, easily breaking her grip, then twisted her arm behind her back. The woman shrieked in terror as pain shot up through her arm and shoulder.

"NO!" she screamed in desperation. "DON'T TAKE MY BABY!"

The other officer dug his boot into the woman's thigh as he jerked the crying child from her free arm.

"POR EL AMOR DE DIOS!" the woman screeched, "NO!"

The officer holding the woman down wrenched her other arm behind her back and then handcuffed her. She tried to get to her feet, but the officer yanked her down so that she fell flat on her face.

"No, no, no..." she sobbed into the dirt. "Please... no..."

"Armando, you keep an eye on her," the officer told his partner over the sounds of the child crying. "I'm going to put the kid in the truck."

"Alright," Armando said, putting a boot between the woman's shoulders to hold her down.

The woman listened in defeat as the sound of her crying daughter faded into the distance. Her body shuddered as she cried, the pain in her heart overwhelming like a black fire burning deep inside her chest. The sounds of her daughter's cries became softer and softer. After a few moments, she couldn't hear her child at all. She held her breath, straining desperately for any sound of her baby, but all she could hear was the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. She felt a wave of panic wash over her.

"Armando, please," she whispered in Spanish. "Please don't let them take my baby."

"What did you think would happen?" the officer snapped in English. "You broke the law. You came into this country and broke the law, and you were stupid enough to bring your kid with you."

"I had no choice," the woman choked, "I had to come, and I couldn't leave my baby. Please, Armando, please let us go. I will take her back to Mexico, and I will never try to cross again, I promise! I swear on my own life, on the life of my daughter, we will never come back! But please, please don't take her from me."

"That ain't gonna happy, lady," Armando said flatly. "We've got laws in this country, and it's our job to enforce them."

"Please," the woman cried, desperation and panic coloring her voice. "Please, Mr. Armando, please just let us go and we will never come back. Please don't take her from me. I can't bear it. I can't be without my baby." She paused for a moment, fighting the feeling that she was going to collapse in on herself. "We are just a mother and her child," the woman said after a moment. "How could you take a child from its mother? How could this be a law? How could you do something so terrible as this?"

"We're just following orders," the officer said.

House Flippers

The two perennial complaints about California real estate are that it's both too expensive and in short supply. This objective, observable reality fits neatly into the established dogma of economics; as supply dwindles, prices inevitably rise. Likewise, the expense and supply narrative fits neatly into the polarized ideology of American politics, with each end of the spectrum shaping an emotional, sometimes compelling argument from a very narrow set of "facts". But economists, politicians, and talking heads, in general, all fail to understand both the broader picture and the ugly details of the housing situation in California. The powers that be seem incapable of wrapping their heads around the systemic inequity of profit-oriented cash buyers over families financing a home to live in, and the solutions that politicians propose completely miss the mark. In other words, house flippers are fucking up the housing market in California and everyone trying to "fix" the problem is only making it worse.

There are two big schools of thought, aligning more or less with political religiosity, on how to address housing costs in California. The reaction on the left is to build "affordable" housing. Democrats, and others that have a vested interest in pandering to the working poor, like to push the idea that California is inherently too expensive for anyone to live in without giving any reason for the high prices save for some vague dog whistling about one-percenters. And this makes sense because making promises to subsidize the largest item in most familys' budgets is a winning strategy. But in effect, low-income housing institutionalizes poverty, creating ghettos where poorer people are shoved into and forgotten. Low-income housing doesn't address the root cause of why housing is so expensive in the first place, and it necessarily segregates society into groups of haves and have-nots - a move with far-reaching implications that affect a person from birth to death (public schooling, criminal and police activity, food scarcity, job opportunities, infrastructure, mental and standard healthcare, etc).

On the other hand, the reaction on the right is to slash regulations so that, or so the argument goes, housing can be built quicker and more economically. Republicans and others with a vested interest in the financing of massive real estate developments (commercial and residential) like to pretend that there are literally zero properties for sale and that the only solution is a mad building spree on every square inch of land in the entire state - especially lands with some environmental significance. As with the Democrats, this is a move that panders to a specific voting block and does nothing to address the root cause of high housing costs. First and foremost, there is always housing on the market. There exists NO large city with exactly ZERO houses, condos, townhomes, or multiplexes on the market. Secondly, ignoring environmental and zoning regulations is a short-sighted move with long-term costs likely to outweigh any short-term economic gains. Examples that come to mind include building developments on floodplains, in regions prone to drought and fire, or entire cities below sea level.

The problem isn't that there aren't enough homes on the market, nor is the problem that the real value of homes is out of reach of the average Californian. The problem in California real estate is speculation and house flipping. The problem in California real estate is that cash buyers with no intention of living in the homes they purchase are taking homes from families, doing a nominal amount of superficial work on the home, and then putting the homes back on the market at super-inflated prices. The market should be able to correct for this, right? Prices are too high, a surplus exists, so that should drive prices down. The reason that the market is failing to stop this sort of behavior is that there is a critical mass of flippers that are doing this; they're over-paying for properties and then over-pricing them when they put them back on the market. In essence, flippers have created a sort of monopolistic hive of assholes that, while not necessarily colluding together, are still fucking everything up for the rest of us.

I'll give my own anecdotal experience as an example. I spent nearly two years looking for a home for my family. It was incredible to watch the market heat up, with prices rising literally by the week, far outpacing our own income growth - because who the fuck has an income that grows with each passing day? I would lose every bid that I made, sometimes by bidders that would come in at over $100k over asking. It was insane. But the most unbelievable part came when, one to six months later, I would see the same houses back on the market, freshly painted and with a price tag $50k to $150k over what the home had been bought for only a few months before. In some cases, houses would literally sell for twice the price they had gone for less than six months before.

The reason I had so much trouble buying a house wasn't that inventories were low, in fact, as I've already said, there are always homes for sale. Nor was the reason that I don't make enough money. Our household income is far above average, even in California. I have few expenses and a healthy amount of savings. I could easily afford a home that was reasonably priced. The reason I had so much trouble buying a house was that flippers, with tons of cash, would swoop in and pick up properties, give them a paint job and a granite countertop, and then dump them back on the market at an astronomical price that I couldn't afford... but that another cash buyer would gladly pay to repeat the flipping process again on the same property. The home buying process is set up to favor people with cash, people that will over-pay, and people that are well connected in the industry - in other words, the market is set up to reward speculation and disadvantage real home buyers.

At one point, I was talking to a real estate agent at a house showing and I started to complain to him about cash buyers scooping up reasonably priced homes and flipping them for insane prices. His advice to me was something along the lines of "you can be angry at the market and never get a home, or you can go with the market and make some good money by buying and selling properties". He was completely missing the point. I'm not a house flipper. I didn't want to flip a fucking house. I wanted a place to live in, where my kids could run around in the yard and develop fond memories of their childhood. I wanted a home, not an investment. But in this country, in this state, in this market, it seems that everyone has been hard-wired to look for a get-rich-quick scheme. Everyone is hustling to cash in, and those that are cashing in are ruining it for the rest of us by exploiting weaknesses in the bidding process and driving up prices.

In our current system, we have a perverted dichotomy of both unrestricted capitalism and heavy-handed, ineffective government intervention which ends up simply institutionalizing poverty and not addressing the root causes of the problem. Liberals want to shove all the poor people into projects while conservatives want to milk every last penny from this state's natural bounty and fuck the consequences. Meanwhile, economists are sitting back, twiddling their thumbs, assuring everyone that the market will find an equilibrium, ignoring the human factor that's running the train straight off a cliff.

If we want to fix the cost of housing in California, or anywhere else, then we need to end the practice of house flipping. Homes should be bought by families that intend to live in them, not by assholes that are only looking to turn a profit.

Banana Bikes

"Jesus Christ, Willy, who'd have thought that it would all end up like this," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "All I wanted to do was make a difference. All I wanted to do was make the world a better place." He reached his hand out and stroked Willy's cool yellow frame. In the distance, he could hear the sound of sirens shrieking, ripping through the midday heat like a dull knife.

"Hey, Chuck, are you ready?" someone called from down the hall. "They're here for you."

"Ah," Chuck sighed, looking down at his bike. "Yeah, I guess so." He patted the bike's seat one last time. "See ya, Willy," he said, then left the room.

The hallway to the main lobby was longer than he remembered. It seemed to stretch on forever. When his startup, Banana Bikes, had received its first injection of capital, he'd moved the company from his grandma's garage into this beautiful building right in the heart of Downtown. He'd loved everything about this building, especially this long hallway that led from the lobby to his office, overlooking the bay on one side and the city on the other. The hallway was lined with glass so that he could look out and see the city buzzing with bright yellow Banana Bikes. He used to spend hours peering out these windows. Seeing all those Banana Bikes zipping down the streets had filled him with a sense of pride. The company he had started was changing the world - getting cars off the streets and getting people exercising. Who could have imagined things would turn out the way they did.

When he finally emerged from the tunnel into the bright yellow lobby, he was hit with a wall of light and sound. Reporters lobbed questions, hecklers lobbed insults, and hundreds of cameras flashed epileptically from every direction. The mob pressed in around him, the smell of their fear hot and pungent. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was able to get to the small stage that had been set up near the elevators at the back of the lobby.

Once he was on the stage, the room fell suddenly silent. The silence was thick and heavy. He felt like his legs were going to buckle under the weight of it.

"Ah," he stammered, pulling the mic toward his face. "I'm... I'm Chuck Kowalczyk... I'm the CEO of Banana Bikes." He looked out over the sea of faces, not sure what to say next.

"Are you taking responsibility for the outbreak?" a voice called out.

"Make him pay for what he's done!" another shrieked.

"Ah..." Chuck stuttered, "well, the thing is... yes, I know it's bad..." He tugged nervously at his shirt collar. "Bad" was an understatement. It was a full-blown pandemic out there, and it was all because of his company, it was all because of his dream; it was all because of him.

"You did this!" someone barked. Chuck looked out into the crowd where a large photograph of a young man with a thick black beard was being waved about wildly. "Look at him!" the voice continued. "This is my son! You killed him, you bastard!"

"Ah... No, it's not like that," Chuck pleaded. "We didn't know it would happen like this." He had been warned, but nobody had taken those warnings seriously. How could a bike-sharing program spread disease so effectively? Nobody could have seen this coming, not on the scale that it had happened.

"What about Bert Aron?" someone demanded. "Hadn't he warned the Banana Bikes Board of the dangers?"

"Ah..." Chuck grimaced. "Well, it wasn't like that." A bead of sweat trickled down Chuck's forehead and dripped into his eye. He wiped it away, but it wouldn't stop stinging. That sonofabitch Bert had warned them, but they had thought he was a crackpot. Who could have imagined a new strain of hepatitis would take up a symbiotic relationship with his harmless yellow bikes and spread so rapidly among the burgeoning hipster population of the city.

"Aron was on record!" another voice called out.

"You did this!" someone screamed.

"You're responsible!" another voice bellowed.

"The blood is on your hands!"

The cries echoed in Chuck's brain. All he had wanted to do was make the world a better place. All he had wanted to do was spread a little joy. He looked out over the crowd. Order had broken down completely. They were pushing forward, inch by inch, pressing against the stage. Chuck looked down at the writhing mass of angry people. There were no police. No security. Those sectors had been hit particularly hard by HepX. There was nobody to hold back the crowd.

Chuck looked back over his shoulder and saw, leaning up against the elevator, one of his bright yellow Banana Bikes. If he could just get to that bike, maybe he could make a break for it, maybe he could outrun the crowd. He turned to run toward the bike, but before he could take a step, an iron grip locked around his ankle and he fell flat on his face. He rolled over to kick at whoever was holding him, but it was no use. The angry crowd dragged him off the stage and ripped him apart.

Best Review of All Time

As a not-so-well-known writer, I feel like I'm always begging for reviews. But after today, I think I can hang up my hat because I have received the single best review of all time.

You can still get Crump for FREE on Kindle through 5/4. Go get a copy, be offended, and write me an amazing review.

420 Day

"Babe, it's almost 4:20, get your phone ready!"

"Yeah Babe, I know, I know," he said, fumbling to take his phone from his pocket. "I've got it all set up and shit."

"This is going to be the best Four-Twenty Day snap of all time," she giggled. "Four-Twenty at 4:20." She held her phone up so that she could look at her own reflection. "I'm so cute," she said. "Look at me, Babe, I'm so kawaii."

"Yeah Babe," he said absentmindedly, taking a drag from a thumb-sized joint. "So cute, seriously,"

His shallow praise washed over her without registering. She was too busy stretching her top to show maximum cleavage and adjusting her bangs to hide a rash of acne on her temple. Once she was satisfied with how she looked, she snapped a few selfies so that she could post them to Instagram later on.

"I'm ready, Babe," she said.

"Yeah Babe," he said, holding up his phone.

"I want it to post right at 4:20, you got that Babe?" she asked.

"Yeah Babe," he said.

"I'm ready, take it now!"

"Yeah Babe," he said, pressing the big red "record" icon on his phone. "Rolling..." he whispered.

She winked at the camera, then put a cock-sized joint to her ruby-red lips. She fumbled with her lighter for a moment before getting a light, then took a long drag. She held it in for a moment, her eyes fluttering like butterfly wings, then blew thick blue smoke rings toward the camera.

"Yeah Babe," he said. "That was good."

"Post it!" she said. "Best Four-twenty post ever!"

Just then there was a knock on her bedroom door.

"Dinner will be ready soon," her mom called in through the door.

"Ugh, Mom!" she snapped. "You almost messed up my Four-Twenty snap!"

"Sorry Sweety," her mom said remorsefully.

"Go away!" she barked. "Don't do it again!"

"Sorry Sweety," her mom said again.

"God she's stupid," she sighed, flopping down on her bed. "I'm twenty years old for God's sake. I don't need her to come tell me when dinner is ready. I can go down there myself."

"Yeah Babe," he said.

Freebies

Now through 4/18/2018, you can get my science fiction novel Psalms of the Apocalypse for free on Kindle. 

This novel wraps up the series of novelettes that I started publishing in 2017 (Lumiuxx, Daddy, Paige, and Aurelie - all of which are no longer available to buy).

If you're looking for a good read, or you just want to help me out, then download my book and give it a nice fat 5-star rating!

Friday

"Ughh, today is dragging," Pete sighed. "I'm done. Seriously, I just want to go home." He put his head down on his desk and groaned loudly. It was 2:48 in the afternoon. He still had over an hour before he could leave his desk and start his weekend. An hour that felt like an eternity.

He kept his head on his for a few moments, wallowing in his own self-pity, then got up and walked to the break room to fill his mug with water. He didn't really need any water. In fact, he wasn't thirsty at all, and his mug was already full of water from the last time he had walked to the breakroom five minutes earlier; but going to the break room to fill his mug with water was an excuse to get up from his godforsaken desk and stretch his legs.

After filling his mug with water, he left the mug at his desk and went to use the restroom. He didn't really need to use the restroom. In fact, he didn't need to use the restroom at all. He had been to the restroom less than ten minutes ago. But walking to the restroom was an excuse to get up from his godforsaken desk and stretch his legs.

The small, two-stall single-urinal restroom was empty. Pete sauntered up to the urinal and stood there, staring at the white tiles on the wall. He stood there, dreading going back to his godforsaken desk until someone else came into the restroom. Pete pretended to finish pissing, then went and washed his hands for an inordinate amount of time.

After leaving the restroom, Pete took a long walk back to his desk. Instead of walking directly down the hall, past the elevators, Pete went the opposite direction, toward the building exit. He turned right, cutting through another department, then right again past an auxiliary copy room, and then right again, through another department that was empty for the day. Pete looped back around past the elevators, then walked toward the conference rooms on the south side of the building. He walked slowly, not quite dragging his feet, but moving at a snail's pace nonetheless.

At last, Pete came back to his own office. He stood at the door, dreading going back to his godforsaken desk until someone else came out the door and he had no choice but to go in and avoid an awkward conversation.

"Ughh, today is dragging," Pete sighed as he sat down at his desk. "I'm done. Seriously, I just want to go home." He put his head down on his desk and groaned loudly. It was 2:53 in the afternoon. He still had over an hour before he could leave his desk and start his weekend. An hour that felt like an eternity.

Delete Facebook Now

Mark's finger hovered over the trackpad on his laptop, like some invisible force was holding him back from making the final click. His tongue flicked out, dragging dryly across his chapped lips. He blinked his bloodshot eyes shut as a fat bead of perspiration ran down his oily face.

"I can't do it," he whispered to himself. "I just... I can't do it."

At that moment the door to his bedroom creaked open. A flood of light poured into the room as Mark shifted his body awkwardly to cover the screen of his laptop.

"What are you doing in here," his wife asked him.

"Uh... ah, nothing!" Mark croaked. "I'm just, nothing."

"That doesn't sound suspicious at all," she said, taking a step into the room.

"No, don't!" Mark squeaked. "I'm looking at porn!"

"Don't be stupid," she laughed. "Let me see what you're doing."

"No!" Mark shrieked, leaping off the bed with his laptop. He made a quick line for the door, but she cut him off, catching him by his elbow. He tried desperately to wriggle from her iron grasp, but she was just too strong. As he struggled, Mark felt a decade's worth of angst and frustration suddenly burst within him and he dropped to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Aww, don't be sad," she said, running her thick fingers through his knotted crimson hair. "I didn't mean to bully you."

"It's just... it's just not fair," Mark whined. "I want them to like me. Why don't they like me?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I like you. That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"But... but..." Mark stuttered. "But, I was... I was cool, right? I mean, they weren't just using me, I was genuinely cool, right?"

She kissed him on the forehead to hide her own contempt. "Yes, you were cool," she lied.

Mark felt his anxiety slowly ebb as she held him. At last, he sat up and looked into her dark eyes.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I just wasn't ready. But now I am."

"Ready for what?" she asked.

He grabbed his laptop from the floor and turned it so that she could see the screen. "This," he said stoically.

"Oh, so that's what this was all about," she said as she looked at the screen.

"Yes," he told her. "I'm going to do it."

He put the computer on the floor between the two of them and then put his hand out so that his finger hovered just above the trackpad.

"Do it," she told him. "I know you can."

"I... I don't know," he managed to say through clenched teeth.

"You can do it, Mark," she told him. "You're the last person in the entire world that's still on it. There's no reason to keep it."

"I... I..." Mark muttered. A salty drop of sweat dripped in his eye as he struggled to press his finger down on the trackpad. He scrunched his eyes together, his hand quivering over the trackpad.

"Do it," she told him again. "Do it, Mark! Delete your Facebook account. Delete it. Delete Facebook. Delete Facebook now!"

Psalms of the Apocalypse

My novel Psalms of the Apocalypse is now up for pre-order on Kindle! The paperback edition will be available soon. THE PAPERBACK EDITION IS AVAILABLE NOW. If you like fucked up dystopian urban science fiction, graphic violence, intense sex, psychological thrillers, government conspiracies, drug-fueled killing sprees, or just want to help me pay my bills, you should definitely go pre-order a copy NOW.

In case you're wondering, this novel wraps up the series of novelettes that have been coming out sporadically since March 2017 and includes the final two books that have never been published. This book is full of subtle and not-so-subtle plot changes from the original novelettes, so even if you've already read the other stories, I recommend just starting on page one with Psalms of the Apocalypse. Enjoy!

Updates

Just a quick post to let everyone know that YES, the final Psalms of the Apocalypse book will be out soon. I've been swamped with a variety of projects and life-happenings, but rest assured that everything has already been written and is currently working its way through the publishing machine.

That said, the final book will NOT be released as a stand-alone edition but rather all five books will be combined into a re-worked, re-edited collection titled simply Psalms of the Apocalypse. If everything goes to plan, this book should be out in early May 2018. Make sure to follow me on Twitter, Facebook, Amazon, etc for chances to win early-release signed copies and other cool schwag.

Additionally, YES, the second book in the Prisoners of War series is in the works and should be released sometime in the relatively near future.

Finally, the first book (or should I start calling them parts?) of Psalms of the Apocalypse is available for FREE on Kindle from now through Friday, March 9. If you haven't had a chance to read any of the Psalms of the Apocalypse books, consider this a sneak peak for the full novel that'll be out in May. When the full collection is released there will be some considerable plot changes, so it might be fun just to read things through and see how the story and characters have changed.

Thanks for following, reading, commenting, rating, and everything else! New books are on the way ✌

Reviews

I'm not a best-selling author, but I do have consistent sales across a variety of genres. But even though a growing number of people have paid money to get their hands on my books, I find that drumming up reviews is like pulling teeth. So when I do get a review, I'm super excited. I love getting feedback from readers. Getting a review on Amazon or Goodreads makes it feel less like I'm tossing my books out into the void and more like I'm making some sort of meaningful contribution to the zeitgeist.

So just to recap: Reviews are awesome. Please review my books. Be brutally honest. I can take it.

That said, would it kill people to sprinkle their reviews with a dash of intelligence? It's grating to get a review along the lines of... 

"This book was great, but it's part of a series and I hate series book. One star."

"Super engaging and fun to read, but I hate science-fiction. One star."

"I laughed, I cried, I shit my pants. But I don't like words with vowels in them. One star."

Why do people write reviews like this? Granted, only two of these examples are based on actual reviews, but the point's the same. People that knock a product because they didn't like some innate aspect of that product (such as its genre or number of pages) should have their reviewing rights revoked. How the fuck can you like something and then give it a shitty rating because of something that is a feature and not a bug?

Anyway, there's my Friday rant.

And again, I love reviews. I want them. Please write them. Just don't be an idiot about it.

Fire and Fury

This new book from Michael Wolff, Fire and Fury, is pretty funny. It's especially funny because it seems that the book has confirmed a lot of the most ridiculous satirical shit out of Crump. At the risk of sounding like a narcissistic douche, I'm enjoying watching life imitate art.