Intimate Psychotherapy

***INTIMATE PSYCHOTHERAPY***

I’d like to be able to stand on a mountaintop with my electrified staff raised high and yell, “I AM HOPE!” to all of my dearly beloveds. But in order for that to be taken seriously, I’d have to have some kind of god complex. Because I’m a writer who makes mistakes often and isn’t afraid to talk about them, I can’t afford to have a god complex. Part of the reason why I continue to fuck up from time to time (aside from being human) is because all of the romantic tropes from my favorite movies, books, and TV shows don’t work to my advantage the way that I thought they would. Manic Pixie Dream Girls? Gone. Changing other people through romance? Out. Damsels in Distress? Only if the trope is subverted somehow, which I guess could be said for any tired old trope.

But we’re not talking about those today, no, no, no, no. Today we’re talking about something even more controversial: Intimate Psychotherapy. You might know this better as the “sex cures everything” trope. Are you feeling depressed? Have some sex. Are you feeling anxious? Conquer your shyness and then have some great sex. Victim of sexual assault? Never fear, because the good sex will make you forget you’ve ever had bad sex. Well…to quote Theory of a Deadman, “All those flavors of the rainbow, too bad that shit don’t work, though.” I can’t confirm this due to my own virginity, but great sex releases an assload of endorphins in your brain. Masturbation does that too, something I have a little more direct experience with. But does this rush of endorphins cure everything? Hell no, not even a little bit. If you’re a victim of sexual assault, the “great” sex won’t erase your shitty experience. It’ll trigger you to where you can’t function anymore.

So where did I first hear about Intimate Psychotherapy? I do have a clear answer, but I don’t want anybody to misinterpret it as the sole reason why. Keep in mind that I don’t know the meaning of the term moderation. Every piece of creative fuel I absorb, I take to the extreme without questioning it. Not questioning creative fuel was my first mistake, especially since that fuel came from a movie called The Sessions. In this movie, a sex surrogate played by Helen Hunt is hired by a physically disabled poet to help build his romantic confidence via sex. Sex surrogacy is a legitimate practice, but when interpreting it as creative fuel, it shouldn’t be blown out of proportion. Yes, exposure therapy has benefits. Yes, being exposed to great sex can help awkward people overcome their fears. But is it a one-size-fits-all solution to everything? No!

If I, a socially-awkward schizophrenic, flew out to Reno, Nevada tomorrow morning (Corona Virus be damned) and visited a legal brothel to lose my virginity, I wouldn’t also lose my mental illness. It’s not like I could bust a nut and then suddenly flush my meds down the toilet. Remember, masturbation has the same benefits as far as endorphins go. If masturbation doesn’t cure mental illnesses, great sex won’t either. I’m sure there are prostitutes out there who have crippling depression. I’m sure there are strippers who have severe PTSD. I’m not saying every sex worker hates their own job, but what about the ones that do? You think they’re finding healing in what they do? What about victims of child trafficking? Now, we’ve gone too far down the rabbit hole, but hopefully everything is clear to you by now.

The Intimate Psychotherapy trope in its most extreme forms could be disproved over and over again and there would still be instances of books and movies carrying on the misinformation. I will admit that it makes for a tempting story, albeit a misleading one. Sex can be enjoyable. Masturbation can also be enjoyable. The prospect of sex on its own can be very alluring to any consumer of media. Yes, I know Intimate Psychotherapy doesn’t work in the real world. Yes, I know how offensive it comes across in fiction. But what if there was a way we could subvert a trope or otherwise make it fresh? Don’t say, “This doesn’t work.” Ask, “How can we fix this?”

What if you’re writing a fantasy story and the white mage of the party a.k.a. the healer used sex as part of the magic? What if there’s an alien race in a sci-fi story that has medicinal properties in their semen? What if prostitution was seen as a vital part of the healthcare industry and the prices of which were jacked up to phenomenal proportions? You know, just like in the healthcare system we have today? What if sex was used as a truth serum? What if condoms were laced with healing salve? The possibilities are as endless as your imagination. The trope can work as long as you don’t blow it out of proportion and as long as you put your own spin on it. By itself, it’s offensive as hell. But under the watch of a truly creative soul? Wow…

Isn’t that how we should be looking at old tropes to begin with? Don’t get rid of them altogether, just put your unique touch on them. Manic Pixie Dream Girls could be femme fatales in a heartbeat. Or there could be an opposite of a femme fatale, where the seducer brings the mark to greatness and healing instead of danger and death. What about Damsels in Distress? We’ve seen that trope hundreds of times, but what if the kidnapper was a female and the victim was a male? Or what if the damsel was a dead body with a restless soul? The key word in creative writing is creative. If you recycle the same shit over and over again, your audience is going to notice. But if you freshen things up with that old creative fuel, they’ll notice it even more and might even love you for it. If they love you enough, they can cure your Impostor Syndrome with Intimate Psychotherapy! Just kidding! Or am I? Hmm…

I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

Prior to writing this blog entry, I wrote chapter ten of Beautiful Monster and I didn’t have nearly as many problems doing so as I did chapter nine. The writing process went fairly smoothly. Maybe not so much in the beginning, but it didn’t take long at all to find my grove again. And by the end of the chapter, a slave-trader’s head was blown to bits and her brains were scattered all over a wooden stage. This message was brought to you by the Smoke Wagon XT, the same gun that was used to murder the slave-trader. Why does it have an XT at the end? Who knows? Who cares? Orphaned acronyms are a thing. But where does that leave chapter eleven? Well, after all the hoo-ha in Devon Bay dies down, Windham and Tarja finally get a room together. Shut up, that doesn’t mean what you think it means. Although sex is indeed a theme in this chapter, there’s nothing romantic or hot about it. It’s disturbing as fuck. It’s the reason why the story is called Beautiful Monster. Ugh…

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sometimes I feel I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away from the pain that you drive into the heart of me. The love we share seems to go nowhere. And I’ve lost my light, for I toss and turn, I can’t sleep at night. Now I know I’ve got to run away. I’ve got to get away. You don’t really want anymore from me. To make things right, you need someone to hold you tight. And you think love is to pray. Well, I’m sorry, I don’t pray that way. Once I ran to you. Now I’ll run from you. This tainted love you’ve given. I give you all a boy could give you. Take my tears and that’s not nearly all. Tainted love. Oh, tainted love. Don’t touch me, please. I cannot stand the way you tease. I love you, though you hurt me so. Now I’m going to pack my things and go. Tainted love. Touch me, baby, tainted love.”

-Soft Cell singing “Tainted Love”-

Butterscotch

The tear that burned Abby Cole’s purple and black eye was but a droplet in an ocean of sorrow and silence. Though she kept her head down as she walked hurriedly down the street, she was painfully aware of passersby staring at her wound. Whether it was in pity or disgust, she was too numb to figure out. Their stares made her feel like even more of an outcast than she already was. The difference between the gawking pedestrians and Daniel Park? Abby could easily forget the judgmental masses. After all, they weren’t the ones who threw the punch during school in the first place.

The more Daniel Park’s cold, demonic expression stained her mind, the more her colorful eye burned with pooling tears. His screams earlier that day were barely intelligible, but they were loud enough to leave her ears ringing. His fist was harder than a cinder block and almost put her into a permanent sleep. Getting rid of him would be an easy solution for the school administration, but it would imply that anybody cared. Judging from the cracked infrastructure and unwashed graffiti surrounding the school, the uncaring attitudes of those in charge were more obvious than the all-consuming wound across Abby’s face.

Abby couldn’t even think about anything else at that moment. If she tried to do math homework that evening, she would only be counting the pieces of her face she had to pick up. If she tried to do history homework, then she could justify putting so many violent wars in one textbook, hers chief among them. If she tried to write a poem, no words would come out, just like her current silence dictated. Forget A-pluses and scholarships. All she wanted to do was lie face down on her bed and drift into the darkness forever and ever.

She had passed a few neon signs in the street for barbecue joints and strip clubs and their obnoxious lights burned her eye as well. She couldn’t open it to full length no matter how hard she tried…until a little patch of fur came darting out of the alleyway. Nobody else was there to judge her and the tiny kitten. The cat stared up at Abby with pitiful eyes and let out a series of soft, high-pitched meows. His yellow and orange striped fur looked gentle enough to touch despite him being a street cat who no doubt had to fight for his food.

Abby’s smile was wide enough to burn her eye again, but this time she didn’t wince nor care. “Come on, little kitty!” she sweetly said while kneeling down on the ground and holding her hand out. “It’s okay, nobody’s going to hurt you. Are you lost? Do you need some snuggles and love?” The cat meowed at her some more before creeping up to her hand and jumping into her arms for a hug. He purred loudly in her ear while Abby stroked his velveteen fur. “I’m going to call you Butterscotch, because you’re sweet!”

Butterscotch licked Abby’s bruise with his rough tongue and caused some yellow leakage, but she didn’t mind as evidenced by her giggles and continued pettings. “You’re such a love bug!” she squealed to him. Forget laying in bed all night long. She could stay in these now empty streets for eternity if it meant loving and being loved by this tender creature. Butterscotch would never punch her in the face. He would never scream obscenities about pimping and prostitution. This kitty would never stare at Abby with evil eyes.

Daniel Park, on the other hand, didn’t mind doing those things at all. His familiar gruff voice could be heard clearing his throat and just like that, Butterscotch leapt out of Abby’s arms and hid behind a dustbin, leaving her with a mild scratch on her bare arm. Abby began to feel conscious about any other body part that could be easily revealed to Daniel. Her flannel skirt showed off her legs. Her high heeled shoes gave away free foot content. She pulled on her black T-shirt to keep it from looking too tight on her.

With his victim trembling before him unable to speak, the leather-jacket-wearing, face-tattooed Daniel lit up a cigarette and slowly approached her with a tightened fist. “So…have you thought about my offer from earlier? Are you ready to make me an ass-load of money? I want that ass, Abby. I got horny bastards that’ll pay good money for an ass like that. What do you say?” No answer, only trembles and tears. “Are you deaf?!” he roared before taking another drag of his cigarette and stomping it out.

“Uh…uh…uh…Daniel? I, uh…I can’t do that.” Abby had a hard time steadying her body, almost to where she was going to fall over.

Daniel grabbed a hold of Abby’s shirt and caused her to yelp. “Shut up, bitch!” he screamed as he raised his fist in the air. “I was asking rhetorical questions when I made you that offer. I’m not giving you a choice, bitch. You either come with me and sell some ass or I’ll leave you laying in the fucking street. It doesn’t matter to me either way. Bitches like you are a dime a dozen!” He lifted up her skirt and she could only tremble some more. “Since you won’t be able to use that mouth of yours for a while…I was wondering if…”

Butterscotch emerged from behind the dustbin and hissed at Daniel. He asked, “Who’s that little shit stain? Friend of yours, Abby? You wish your pussy was that small?”

“L…l…leave Butterscotch alone!” Abby flinched in anticipation for another punch.

“Butterscotch? Is that what you’re calling him? Shit, I don’t even have to beat your ass again. I’ll just wring this little fucker’s neck, how about that?”

Abby collapsed on the ground and sobbed as Daniel slowly approached Butterscotch, pounding his fists and earning hisses and growls for his intimidation tactics. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!” he said in a creepy voice. “Maybe I’ll take my phone out and play some Sarah McLaughlin music or some shit. That’d make a hell of an ASPCA commercial, don’t you think?”

“Leave him alone!”

“Fuck you, cunt!” Daniel raised his fist in the sky and poised for another beat down on Abby. She tightly closed her eyes and held her hands up in defeat, so she only got to hear the action when Butterscotch screamed and scratched Daniel hard enough that he let out a monstrous, “Ouch!”

The double-tracked yell plus the goopy noise emitting from Daniel’s wound caused Abby to open her eyes to see what was up. Green ooze leaked from his palm while his eyes glowed neon red. He stared down at her and said, “That’s right, bitch. I’m a motherfucking demon. We’re everywhere! Ever wonder why nobody gives a shit about your sorry ass? Demons don’t give a shit about anyone, so don’t feel too left out.”

Abby’s breathing intensified and her heart rate sped up to dizzying heights as it lodged in her throat. She was just going to lay there for her attacker while Butterscotch snuggled up against her chest. Demons ran this world whether she accepted it or not. Demons weren’t in the business of fixing schools or policing criminals. They were in the business of creating even deeper bruises on people more vulnerable than her. They were in the business of selling ass and literally raising hell.

Abby didn’t want to live in such a world anymore, but realized that if she gave up now, she wouldn’t be able to hold sweet kitties in her arms wherever the afterlife took her. A coffin was no place for a grieving cat. Her body was no place for a demon’s hands, which had developed wrinkles, hair, and claws as they reached down to grab her. Butterscotch swiped at Daniel again and opened his palm gash even wider, causing more green goop to spill.

“Goddamn it, you little bastard! I’m going to rip your tail off and shove it up Abby’s pussy!” Daniel wrapped his good hand around Butterscotch’s neck and was poised to make good on his threats.

Abby remembered that there were no sweet kitties in the afterlife. Butterscotch needed her here and now. If she wasn’t going to fight for herself, she had to fight for her new furry friend. She saw an opening…mainly the one in Daniel’s hideous hand. In one swift motion, she grabbed the demon’s wound with her manicured nails and opened it wider and wider with every slash. Tears poured down her face and blinded her from the green goop spilling everywhere. Her ears bled from the demon’s screaming in pain. Her ears also took a pounding from Butterscotch growling as he bit his attacker.

Soon enough, Abby ripped off an entire strip of demonic skin. And another. And another. Her heart rate could barely keep up with her tearful rage. “Die, you motherfucker! Just die already!” she screamed as she ripped more flesh from the gaping wound. She pulled out muscle fibers and organ pieces. She ripped a piece of bone out as well after some hard tugging. She had to stop her rage for a moment to wipe her eyes, but when they were clear, they widened at her handiwork.

Daniel’s red devil arm was stripped completely of skin and muscles. His green goopy blood sprayed all over the ground and leaked into the sewers. His screams grew silent and more pathetic as he crumpled to the ground dying. His string of obscenities remained unintelligible, but not because of traumatic blocking. He bled and broke until his monstrous, muscle-bound, leather-skinned body was just a heap of crap lying on the sidewalk, no different from one of Butterscotch’s constitutionals. To put it mildly, Daniel Park was dead.

Abby’s body still shook in a combination of shock and trauma. Her painful eye was still wide and achy. Her mouth kept trembling as she spoke. “I did it,” she said in amazement. “I killed that bastard. He’s gone…” She leaned down to extend her demonic-ooze-covered hand to Butterscotch and he licked the fluid off for her. “You saved my life, little guy. You’re just a baby. You shouldn’t have to save people like me. You should be cuddled and loved forever. Dad would never let me keep you.” That last sentence caused more tears to scorch her purple wound.

“Don’t worry, baby Butterscotch. I’ll find you a nice home. I’ll get you away from these demons…if there really are more out there. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if my good-for-nothing dad was one himself. He’d never believe me if I told him what Daniel did to me. He’d just be like, ‘Suck it up! Rah-rah-rah-rah-rah!’”

Butterscotch rubbed his head against Abby’s ankle and she rewarded him with scratches behind the ears. Only then did she notice that his claws were marked with weird-looking runic symbols. They were long, too. And jagged. Did this cat know what he was doing all along? That gave Abby an idea…

“Hey, Butterscotch…would you like to meet my daddy? Of course you would! Hehe!”

Incelbordination, Chapter 16

Oswald traced his fingers along the healing scars on his hands, careful not to pick at the scabs. Though they still made him wince a little, they were healing quite nicely. He might be back to punching a sand bag in no time at all, and no, he wasn’t talking about his English teacher. Any ill feelings he had toward her had disappeared now that he had the benefit of hindsight. A C- on a project was nothing compared to having another human being’s life in his hands.

Though his mind was the loudest it had ever been, the space between himself and Nikita Johnson remained tranquil and quiet. This kind of silence allowed the two of them to relax as they drove down the highway together. If it wasn’t for Oswald having a burning question, he could fall right back to sleep. “What’s your opinion on how to handle this?”

“What’s yours?”

“Well, it depends. What’s going on at school right now?”

Nikita sighed and shook her head. “Everybody’s in shock. The construction crew are going through all of the damaged buildings and roads. Nobody feels like going to their classes. Trauma therapists are everywhere. You should consider seeing one, Oswald. I know I will. From what I hear, the college is paying for their sessions.”

Resting his face on his hand, Oswald said, “I don’t know, Nikita. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing lately: opening myself up to people. But the more I open myself up, the more I get hurt. Talking about my problems never actually brought me healing. It just made shit worse. It made me relive the worst parts of my life.”

“Yeah, you definitely have some PTSD going on. You’re not going to find your healing just by isolating yourself and puffing away. You need to put yourself out there. Trust me, I know how lonely college life can be.”

Oswald cleared his throat and asked, “Speaking of puffing away, why did you agree to provide the cops with my prescription if you’re such a standup straightedge person?”

Nikita sighed. “I guess it was the only way I could pay you back for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve saved my life twice and all I’ve done for you is get you locked up. That hardly seems fair, and definitely not indicative of the straightedge way. I mean, I don’t agree with what you’re doing, but who am I to tell you otherwise?”

Nikita turned the radio on and fiddled with the knob until she found the new age station, which happened to be playing the piece of acoustic guitar heaven known as “Your Heart Can Sing” by Bruce BecVar. Oswald closed his eyes and was on the edge of dozing off several times. “This is beautiful,” he said.

“You should listen to this kind of music more often. Sometimes a heavy metal scream just won’t cut it. Everybody needs to take the edge off every now and then. Who knows? Maybe if you listened to new age music while smoking one of your joints…” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled in lieu of finishing her sentence.

“It’d be much easier to relax if I knew Antero was locked up.”

Nikita patted Oswald on the head. “You and me both, buddy. You and me both.”

The comforting pats turned into a gentle head scratch, which caused the dwarf to sink into his seat further and get even more comfy. He couldn’t get too comfy in case he got an involuntary hard-on. He crossed his stubby legs for added insurance. He also couldn’t understand how he deserved such a wonderful nail massage considering his hair was probably greasier than McDonald’s fries. Speaking of McDonald’s…

“I can’t believe she hung herself.”

“Who?”

Oswald’s eyes shot up as he unintentionally let the cat out of the bag. “She, uh…she was, uh….just a friend.”

Ending the massage and pointing her fingers, Nikita said, “That’s why you need to see a trauma therapist. You can’t even get your story straight.”

“That’s all well and good, but what can a therapist do for me that my marijuana isn’t already doing? I mean…nothing seems to work these days. No talking. No Mary-Jane. Not a damn thing. It’s like I’m destined to live with this shit for the rest of my life. I fucking hate it.”

Patting the dwarf’s shoulder, Nikita said, “That’s the nature of mental illnesses. They’re nothing like the scars on your hands or anywhere else on your body for that matter. These scars don’t heal overnight. This is something you have to work on and you can’t do it alone. Please, Oswald, see a therapist. If not for your own sake, then at least for mine. You remember what I told you back at that warehouse, right?”

“…I am loved…”

“Yes, and that’s the truth. I mean, do you really believe that the entire world is out to get you? Every single person walking this planet has an agenda to make your life miserable? Every last one of them? Not everyone is a bully, Oswald. It doesn’t really matter that you’re short. Is being short really worse than being evil? Or shallow? Or stupid? Or vain? Your dwarfism is just a body type. It doesn’t determine who you are as a human being. And yes, Oswald, you ARE a human being. Start treating yourself like one.”

The dwarf breathed a heavy sigh and wiped little droplets from his eyes. Maybe there was some truth in what Nikita told him. Maybe the depressive and anxious voices in his head were a bunch of lying thieves trying to rob him of his happiness and potential. But as it was, there was no mediator between Oswald’s heart and mind. He wanted to get better. He wanted to live a normal life. But every time he started to believe, something was raped and taken from him. He wiped more tears from his eyes while Nikita rubbed his shoulders some more.

“It’s okay to cry in front of me, Oswald. I won’t judge you. I just need to know one thing before I drop you off tonight. Who was the woman who hung herself?”

Trying to steady his trembling mouth, the dwarf said, “Not a woman. A girl. Fourteen years old. Her name was Jessica Bradley. She, uh…worked at McDonald’s. Not as a fry cook, but, uh…”

Nikita’s eyes widened. “Oswald, did you try to proposition her?”

“When she said she was fourteen, I took off running. I’d never do that to someone like her, Nikita, you have to believe me. Antero put me up to it.”

“If I find out you’re attracted to teenage girls, I’m going to…”

“I’m not, damn it!” Oswald belted, opening a rift of silence between them for a few long seconds. “I’m telling you, I didn’t have sex with her! I may have been desperate, but I’m not a monster! You said yourself that I should start treating myself like a human being! Well, that’s what I did when I ran away from Jessica and turned her down for sex!”

Before Nikita could formulate a potentially judgmental answer, she pulled up to Oswald’s dorm and said, “Here we are. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.” The dwarf couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, snorting mucous and wiping tears the entire way to his front door. “Oswald! Please…be careful. And don’t forget what I told you…you are loved…”

Nikita drove away while Oswald shook his head. “Why do I not believe her?” he asked himself. “Oh yeah, because I’m fucking anxious and depressed, that’s why. What was I thinking?”

He entered the unlocked dorm commons and saw that it was dark and nobody was home. “Where’s the goddamn light switch?” he muttered while fumbling around.

He didn’t have to fumble for long. The whole commons illuminated while a familiar voice in the background asked a question Oswald was used to hearing by now: “Need a light?”

“No…No…No! This isn’t possible!”

“Evidence in the old eyes, my friend. No magic tricks. No Matrix bullshit. Nothing up my sleeves. Just a nice hard swallow of some good old black pills. It’s me, Oswald. Antero fucking Magnus, Supreme Gentleman extraordinaire. How’s that knot on your forehead feeling? Or better yet…how’re your knuckles feeling after punching a glass door? That’s right, buddy. I caught you with your pants down this time! You’re dead!”

Staple Gun Gangster

The tremendous bangs against Marco Said’s door jarred him awake, making him believe for a moment his house was being raided by the police. He sat in bed wearing nothing but Nike shorts and cursing when he saw what time it was on his digital clock. Three in the morning. Who in the hell would want to wake up Marco at three in the morning? He slipped on a pair of socks and running shoes (not even bothering with his shirt) and grabbed his trusty staple gun from the nightstand.

As he advanced toward the front door, the pounds became louder and Marco’s annoyance turned to full-blown rage. “Wait a fucking minute!” he yelled. Still awakening from his peaceful slumber, the gangster rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled on his way to answer the door. He didn’t even bother turning the porch or living room lights on.

When Marco saw the slimy, slobbering green mess of a man before him, the black gangster didn’t look the least bit intimidated. In fact, Mr. Said had a scowl on his face that would shake marine drill instructors to their cores. With his staple gun raised in the air, he snapped, “You better have a damn good reason for coming over here at three in the fucking morning! Who the hell are you and what the fuck do you want, bitch?!”

The muck-covered visitor smiled and exposed his rotten brown teeth. He laughed in a monstrous growl of a voice and said, “I’m the Boogeyman! And I need a favor. I hear you can get me some serious cash in a big hurry.”

“At three in the morning? What the hell does your ass need at three in the morning? I ought to staple your ass right now for waking me up this fucking early!” threatened Marco, shooting a few staples in the air for a demonstration.

The Boogeyman put a hand to his chest and feigned terror when he said, “A staple gun? Ooooo!” The monster even wiggled his fingers in sarcasm. “I thought you original baby gangsters liked to use some serious hardware. I was expecting an AK-47 or something like that. But instead you’ve got a staple gun. A gun…for stapling!” He laughed like a bloodthirsty hyena while leaning backwards and slapping his thigh.

Not wanting to be screwed with any further than he has, Marco shook his head and fired a staple into The Boogeyman’s leg, causing the monster to splash goop all over the gangster’s shorts and clutch his wound with almost mock agony. “You see that shit?” said Marco. “Any bitch nigga can shoot off a machinegun or sell cocaine on the streets. Me? I handle my business up front. Now, either you tell me what you want money for or I’ll shoot your ass again!”

The Boogeyman breathed heavily and chuckled once again before standing up straight to meet Marco’s gaze with a sinister grin. “Alright, buddy. You win. You see, it’s been a while since I’ve had any…how shall I put this…action.”

“Well, no shit, dawg! Your ass looks like something from a Michael Jackson video! Why don’t you dance down the street doing your Thriller thing and I’ll get my ass back in bed!” said Marco as he prepared to close the door.

The only thing that stopped him was The Boogeyman holding his hands out and saying, “No, wait! You’re right. I’m not much to look at. But…if I had some of that cold hard cash, these little girls wouldn’t have a choice! Get my drift? Some people like to dine on sweeter things than that. Me? My favorite kind of food…is fetish-ccini!”

As the monster laughed at his own pun, Marco fired another staple, this time at the creature’s groin, causing him to double over in a modicum of pain. Marco barked, “My noodle is your momma’s favorite kind of pasta, motherfucker! Now get your ass out of here! Ain’t nobody messing with no kids on my watch!”

“Since when did you become the paragon of morality?” said the Boogeyman with the widest of grins, still hunched over. “You’re a loan shark, one who kills people who don’t pay their debts on time. You’re right, buddy: you are a real thug. Those staples hurt like hell, whereas a bullet would end someone’s life right away. You’re not a murderer. You’re a torturer. You’re like me except without the slimy body.”

“Alright, boy, I see your point. Let me get some cheddar real quick. Stay right here,” said Marco, who reached into his secret panel and pulled out a ten dollar bill. He waved it in front of the Boogeyman’s face and said, “With the kind of bitches you’re looking for, this is all you’re going to need.” The gangster then stapled the ten dollar bill to the creature’s forehead, eliciting a much louder howl of pain than before. “We’re done for the day. Now get your ass off my front porch or I’ll turn you into a Swiss cheese, bitch!”

Marco slammed the door shut and locked both deadbolts. He shook his head in disbelief and said, “What the hell was all that about?” as he stumbled back to his bedroom, not wanting to wait another moment to get some shuteye. He kicked off his sneakers and pulled off his socks before jumping back into bed. The sounds of the Boogeyman screaming in agony were drowned out by the thickness of the front door. If anything, they were like a lullaby to Marco Said’s ears. He drifted off into the dream world without further incident.

By the time the staple gun gangster woke up, he saw that it was noon on his digital clock. She shoved it off the nightstand and cursed under his breath. Marco sat on the edge of his bed rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and contemplating the events of last night. Who in the hell was that guy? Why was he covered in goop? Why did it even matter that he looked like a creature out of a sci-fi movie? He threw on his same shoes and socks as well as a basketball jersey that was laying on the floor in a pile of unfinished laundry. He also grabbed his staple gun and reloaded it before heading toward the front door to start his day.

He dropped the weapon and stared at the gigantic hole in his door with wide eyes and furrowed brows. The door was covered with acidic slime and the floor had green footprints leading elsewhere. His secret money panel had been broken into as well. “What the fuck?!” he yelled before picking his staple gun back up again and following the footprints ever so slowly.

The closer he got to the closed bathroom door, the louder the sounds of muffled child screams echoed throughout the hallway. Marco’s blood boiled and his trigger finger got itchy. His menacing business stare turned into teeth-clenching, white-knuckle rage. The muffled screams were deafening and the sounds of goop slurping about were even more obnoxious. He was somewhat afraid to touch the door handle since it too was covered in that disgusting green filth.

With his hand tucked in his jersey, Marco slowly opened the door to see the Boogeyman laughing it up while the muffled children’s screams were behind the closed shower curtain. The creature shouted, “It’s complete! My revenge is complete!”

Not caring if that made sense or not, the gangster stapled the Boogeyman’s forehead, chest, and groin repeatedly, splashing green blood against the vanity and shower curtain. The monster curled up next to the toilet in a pathetic ball of pain while Marco shouted, “I told you what was going to happen if you kept messing around with me, motherfucker! I ain’t playing no games with you! I’ve got staples for days, bitch! I’ll do this shit for as long as I want! Those Guantanamo motherfuckers are pussies compared to me! Your ass is in for a long ass night!”

After the initial wave of torture wore off, the Boogeyman laughed in rebellion as if he didn’t care about Marco’s wrath one bit. When asked what was so funny, the creature said, “Don’t you get it, buddy? I didn’t need those children for a good time. Nah, I needed them for a little bit of revenge.” When asked what he was talking about, the Boogeyman said, “Did you ever wonder why those kids turned to prostitution? To pay their bills of course. Their parents couldn’t do it because they were killed by a certain staple gun gangster, who by the way didn’t like late payments and collected with interest.”

Marco looked down at the monster with solemnity before shouting, “Bullshit! This is all just a game! Your ass is having a laugh!”

“Trust me, Mr. Said: there’s nothing funny about growing up in the hood with no parents and no other way to pay bills than having sex with strange men. If you need proof, just ask them yourself,” said the Boogeyman before slowly standing up and drawing back the shower curtain.

Marco’s eyes widened with horror for the first time in a long while. He was shakier than a woman’s sex toy at the sight of black teenaged girls covered in slime, just like the Boogeyman. They drooled, droned, and gurgled as they screamed for vengeance and hungered for blood. The Boogeyman placed a not-so-loving hand on Marco’s shoulder and said, “My name is Kip Kyle, but you’ll remember me as the father one of these children. Surely, the name Kip Kyle means something to you, right? Maybe the name of a former customer?”

The gangster’s heavy nervous breathing turned to cowardly whimpers as he curled up against the bathroom sink holding his staple gun with a quaking arm. Kip Kyle raised his goopy arm and brought it down with his finger pointed right at his murderer, signaling for the little slime balls to chomp, chew, and devour their way through Marco’s body.

The gangster would have screamed, but blood was in his throat after a girl gnawed on his neck. Soon enough, the staple gun gangster was nothing more than a pile of picked bones, bloody rivers, and slurped organs. The teenaged girls’ hungers for vengeance and human meat were both satisfied to the point of fat bellies and bright brown smiles. One of them even let out a loud burp to the others’ laughing delights.

Another one of the girls asked, “Can we go home, Daddy?” in a gargling voice.

“Yes,” said Kip. “We can all go home now. The last one to the sewers is a rotten egg!”