This weekend I was weeding through a bunch of old (pre-DC) computer files when I found this:
I wrote song of great loss & woe
I crawled into a bottle & downed pills by the fist-full
When she left me – It crushed me
It’s the damnedest thing… I can’t even remember her face
Songs of such gravity about a stranger that I’ve all but forgotten
It’s amusing, or sad. I can’t decide
I listen to the mix tape I made for you back then
Those songs still bring back feelings of loss
But it’s an empty loss without any weight
Years later she still tries to keep in touch
I read her letters & throw them away without reply
There’s nothing I have to say, nothing I could write
Give it enough time & even a grudge dies
You can’t lose something you’ve thrown away
She’s a ghost to me now - And I’m the fool for giving her those songs
A string of worn clichés isn’t going to change that
This had to have been written sometime between '95 and '97, when I still was doing music and people were still writing letters. Reading over it, all I'm sure of is that I was loaded when I wrote it.
The thing that's killing me is that I can't even remember who I fucking wrote this about. Looking back, I did all of that shit every time a relationship went South - It could be about almost anybody I had dated up to that point. I can't figure it out for the life of me.
I suppose that's the ultimate punchline.
Showing posts with label Prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prose. Show all posts
Monday, February 12, 2007
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Plot Twist
Sorry I’ve been slacking on the blog lately. This time of year is just hard for me and I haven’t felt in a very chatty mood.
As many of you know, my grandfather killed himself back early in the morning of December 31st, 1999. They found him later that day with the upper part of his skull blown out by a 12-gauge double-aught buck shell. It was a fucking mess.
The crazy motherfucker did it slumped against his own headstone. The old man was always big on production, but short on foresight – Probably why the whole thing blew up into such a huge rigermarole.
You probably heard the story; an elderly grieving widow found him and succumbed to a heart attack right there and then. Some nice old lady from Skokie – Dead as disco.
Well, the whole sorted story got picked up by the national news media, and the cable news networks had a fucking field day with it. My grandfather’s estate was sued by the family of the dead woman. Hell, they sued everybody; our family, the cemetery, The City of Chicago, and even the State of Illinois.
In order to give you the full story, I have to backtrack a few decades here, sorry: My grandmother had died in a car accident back in the early ‘70s, and my grandfather was utterly heartbroken. He used up all of his money he had at his disposal to buy a dual burial plot at the nicest cemetery in Chicago. He sold his house and his Buick to pay for a huge 12-foot tall ornate engraved stone monument for my grandmother (and someday himself). Therein lies the rub – He was in his 60s at the time and never foresaw living another twenty-odd years. Below his name read: 1907 – 19(blank-blank).
According to his suicide note, he killed himself because didn’t want to ruin the damned monument by having to sand-down and re-carve his part of the headstone. It wouldn't match. It would throw-off the whole aesthetic.
Fuck, he was 92 and had recently been diagnosed with cancer, so he only had a year left anyway... Two years tops.
According to the note, he figured that he’d had a good run, and didn’t want to go through the ordeal of wasting away in constant pain, anyhow. So, BANG!
Here’s the kicker; since he did it against his monument, the whole fucking thing was covered in blood and gore. It stained – Bad. The county health department wouldn’t even release it into our custody for us to move it. Granted, at that point we really didn’t want to use it. It was a gruesome sight, but we figured that we should cede to grandpa’s emphatic (although, deeply flawed) determination.
Furthermore, the ensuing lawsuit against the cemetery caused Rosehill to void my grandfather’s lease on the burial lot, which meant we had to dig up grandma and plant them both in some cut-rate shithole plot out in the exurbs.
Their graves still remain unmarked seven years later.
I guess that’s the price you pay in pursuit of perfection.
---
Okay, that was all just a huge lie. None of it ever happened. I've just been lazy with the bloggin' lately, nothingmore.
I was at President Ford's state funeral today, and the premise for this story came to me during the wait before the service began. Sitting quietly for two hours straight on a fold-out wooden chair while listening to ominous organ music is a pretty good way to get a couple of story ideas.
I'd been meaning to get some more short original prose up here, and the story wouldn't have worked as well with the disclaimer at the top. If you're pissed (alla the Drinky Joe April-Fools Day fiasco), I'm sorry. By now, all of you should know better. Hell, try reading the masthead once in awhile.
I still need to get up a self-indulgent holiday wrap-up on here, and I'm putting together the Winter WILT soon, so look for some straight-forward L&E posts over the next few days.
And remember, I hit you because I love you. Now sing the songs like I told you to sing the songs!
As many of you know, my grandfather killed himself back early in the morning of December 31st, 1999. They found him later that day with the upper part of his skull blown out by a 12-gauge double-aught buck shell. It was a fucking mess.
The crazy motherfucker did it slumped against his own headstone. The old man was always big on production, but short on foresight – Probably why the whole thing blew up into such a huge rigermarole.
You probably heard the story; an elderly grieving widow found him and succumbed to a heart attack right there and then. Some nice old lady from Skokie – Dead as disco.
Well, the whole sorted story got picked up by the national news media, and the cable news networks had a fucking field day with it. My grandfather’s estate was sued by the family of the dead woman. Hell, they sued everybody; our family, the cemetery, The City of Chicago, and even the State of Illinois.
In order to give you the full story, I have to backtrack a few decades here, sorry: My grandmother had died in a car accident back in the early ‘70s, and my grandfather was utterly heartbroken. He used up all of his money he had at his disposal to buy a dual burial plot at the nicest cemetery in Chicago. He sold his house and his Buick to pay for a huge 12-foot tall ornate engraved stone monument for my grandmother (and someday himself). Therein lies the rub – He was in his 60s at the time and never foresaw living another twenty-odd years. Below his name read: 1907 – 19(blank-blank).
According to his suicide note, he killed himself because didn’t want to ruin the damned monument by having to sand-down and re-carve his part of the headstone. It wouldn't match. It would throw-off the whole aesthetic.
Fuck, he was 92 and had recently been diagnosed with cancer, so he only had a year left anyway... Two years tops.
According to the note, he figured that he’d had a good run, and didn’t want to go through the ordeal of wasting away in constant pain, anyhow. So, BANG!
Here’s the kicker; since he did it against his monument, the whole fucking thing was covered in blood and gore. It stained – Bad. The county health department wouldn’t even release it into our custody for us to move it. Granted, at that point we really didn’t want to use it. It was a gruesome sight, but we figured that we should cede to grandpa’s emphatic (although, deeply flawed) determination.
Furthermore, the ensuing lawsuit against the cemetery caused Rosehill to void my grandfather’s lease on the burial lot, which meant we had to dig up grandma and plant them both in some cut-rate shithole plot out in the exurbs.
Their graves still remain unmarked seven years later.
I guess that’s the price you pay in pursuit of perfection.
---
Okay, that was all just a huge lie. None of it ever happened. I've just been lazy with the bloggin' lately, nothingmore.
I was at President Ford's state funeral today, and the premise for this story came to me during the wait before the service began. Sitting quietly for two hours straight on a fold-out wooden chair while listening to ominous organ music is a pretty good way to get a couple of story ideas.
I'd been meaning to get some more short original prose up here, and the story wouldn't have worked as well with the disclaimer at the top. If you're pissed (alla the Drinky Joe April-Fools Day fiasco), I'm sorry. By now, all of you should know better. Hell, try reading the masthead once in awhile.
I still need to get up a self-indulgent holiday wrap-up on here, and I'm putting together the Winter WILT soon, so look for some straight-forward L&E posts over the next few days.
And remember, I hit you because I love you. Now sing the songs like I told you to sing the songs!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Proser
Okay, after four months of stalling I've decided to clean-up and post the rest of the second-coming short story. I wrote this last July to read at Chris B's Xtreme (il)Literature Slam. I posted the first part back in August, but never got around to posting the rest of the story (despite several inquiries into the matter). I'm kinda a jerk like that.
Anyway, here is the rest of the 5-page version of the story (I didn't have the patience to clean-up the 12-pager). It is the same version I read back in August.
First, read THE FIRST PART .
Then, Here's the rest:
Parts Two and Three
Anyway, here is the rest of the 5-page version of the story (I didn't have the patience to clean-up the 12-pager). It is the same version I read back in August.
First, read THE FIRST PART .
Then, Here's the rest:
Parts Two and Three
Things have been really fucked-up Jesus came back to Earth.
He descended to
It was widely reported that the concept of “rapture” was conceived and popularized by John Nelson Darby in the 19th century, as part of the Dispensationalist movement, but that didn’t dissuade the pilgrims. If anything, any rationalization of the ongoing events just strengthened their belief… poor bastards.
By the 13th day all of the world’s religious leaders had congregated around the base of the mountain the western slope – facing
On the thirteenth day Jesus appeared from beneath the shroud, on the western slope, toward
Personally, I think that he was freaked-out by all of the crosses that littered the landscape. Hell, if martin Luther King or JFK came back to life, I’m sure that the last thing that they’d want to see is a fucking hunting rifle, but that’s just me.
Anyway, he took off running through the crowd – He didn’t get far. All at once the crowd of faithful surged forward, crushing the religious leaders and the man-god in one unstoppable throng of humanity. He didn’t stand a chance.
Within 5 minutes of the second coming of Christ, pilgrims in search of the ultimate relic were ripping him to pieces. I watched it all live on CNN – a bird’s-eye view of the evisceration of the messiah. I could see it unfolding before me – it was truly horrible.
That’s when things got decidedly Old Testament. Time went sideways. Everything slowed down, or sped up, or whatever. My fancy-ass monkey brain can’t describe it well enough, or even begin to comprehend it for that matter. If you want a technical explanation, ask an angel – those fuckers seem to be everywhere.
All I know is that all of a sudden it was like we were living in breathable water. Then a few seconds/minutes/hours/days (who knows) later the rapture happened. Well, I call it the rapture, but that’s just gallows’s humor; there definitely was no ascension involved. Everyone just sorted melted in agony and were consumed by the earth. Poof, gone.
Then everything went back to normal.
---
I assumed that everyone else had been consumed by God’s wrath. I went outside; no one else was around. I was alone.
As I drove to the Home Depot to grab some generators, there was no one else around. As I filled up barrel after barrel of gasoline at the gas station, no one was to be seen. I even backed my Jeep right up to the front door of Atlantic Guns, and filled it to the brim with rifles, handguns, and mostly ammo… (All of the ammo), and there weren’t any signs of life.
On the way back I headed downtown to grab some top shelf bourbon and tequila. That’s when I realized that I wasn’t alone. A small group of bums were building a huge bonfire out of furniture in the middle of
I spent the next week holed up in the basement in the dark surrounded by what liquor I had left, a mattress, and a motherload of guns. I was too afraid to hook up the generators. I figure if there were other survivors out there that the telltale whir of a diesel engine or the glow of electric light would create attention that I wasn’t ready for. I stayed huddled in a dark corner with my finger on the trigger of an AK-47 for 9 days straight. It’ll fucking eat at you.
Lack of bottled water and toilet paper was my downfall. I found that it was easy to shit in a hole in the yard, but a real trick to clean up with notebook paper and water that had accumulated in the neighbor’s birdbath. I had all the guns in the world (for all intents and purposes), but you just can’t wipe off shit with a shotgun or drink a revolver. Without basic provisions or a fresh water supply, I was doomed. Plus, I was almost out of cigarettes, and had started into the bottle of Vermouth as a last resort. It was time to go.
I used my second-to-last bottle of water to give myself a good lathering of soap, and changed into some fresh clothes. It felt good. I threw a few clothes in a knapsack; grabbed a rifle, a shotgun, and 2 pistols; filled a couple of dry-boxes with ammo; threw a generator and two cans of gas in the back of the Jeep; locked up everything in the back room; and walked out into the warm sunlight.
I headed straight south down 13th toward downtown. The entire way was punctuated by the frantic barking of dogs from behind closed doors. They could hear the hum of the engine and seemed to be hoping against hope that their masters had returned to let them out, give them food, and not beat them too hard for the piles of shit all over the living room carpet. It was a futile effort, but that was all they had.
I’d drive through the occasional pile of charred debris in the road, and occasionally I’d see a body or two (or three) in the road, but nothing alive. From the looks of the corpses it seemed like the gang bangers that remained tried for a king of the mountain/lord of the flies end times winner-take-all turf war. By my estimation, everybody lost. I didn’t see any remaining signs of human live all the way down to
I parked in the alcove of the bus lot between S and T. There were plenty of other cars around, and if nobody saw me pull in, then the car should blend in undetected. I tucked the 1911 pistol into my waistband, and grabbed the AK to go do some shopping. I filled my backpack with spare ammo, and covered everything else in the back up with a blanket. I figured that I’d hit one of my old haunts, The Black Cat, first and see what I could salvage from there first. It was familiar, should have a lot of what I needed, and the less stops the better.
The door was boarded up but open, and I scurried in – rifle first. I turned the corner and was met with an unexpected sight. I came face to face with the barrel of a
Once I looked past the barrel of the 12 gauge, I realized that I knew that I recognized the holder, and I could see that she recognized me. It was Molly, one of the Black Cat bartenders. I looked further around; there were two more people I knew there, along with a few other people I didn’t know, and oddest of all… a fucking angel passed out and bound to the bar. Even during the apocalypse, The Black Cat seemed the place to be.
Word from the crowd was that after the non-rapture people just started coming out of the woodwork. Most of them were not the type of people you’d want surviving the end of the world. Apparently, I’d made a sound decision to hole-up for a few days. It was an all-out throw down between the dregs of society. Junkies, bums, gang members, thugs, and the disaffected all jockeyed for position at the top of this new world without society, law, or God. A couple of the girls in the place had been raped, a couple of the Black Cat refugees had died fending off attackers, and everybody there (aside from me) had witnessed death up close and personal. The world was a mess.
The angel was still lying out-cold on the bar, but everyone had something to say about it. All agreed that:
A) The fucking thing spoke like Dr. Seuss.
B) It wasn’t happy that people were still on the Earth.
C) It definitely couldn’t hold its liquor
D) Most of what it said was dead wrong… Angels lie.
The angels had descended to take dominion over the world, and were very surprised to find survivors. They had tried to talk God into cleaning up the rest, but he was either gone, or not listening.
This angel clamed to be Uriel, who (according to the Goth chick with the pink hair) used to be a huge big-shot in heaven. Who knows how he ended up here; the one thing that is for sure is that once he got here and realized his boss was on vacation he hit the bar – Hard.
Molly told me that it had said that we were “remained” because we didn’t have the common sense to repent. Our stubbornness or ignorance had spared us.
I hadn’t even thought about it, but she was right. I was too engrossed in the television coverage from day-one to think about praying. I had been an Agnostic since I was 15, but was too perplexed by the happenings to even think about the implications. I was saved by my stupidity. I saw the proof of the divine, and was too awe-struck to accept it. I kept waiting for what followed next… Like an idiot.
Somehow we all ducked the omnipotent rage of God. We were too awe-struck, willful, stupid, or fucked-up to accept the obvious. We looked straight into the eye of god and went “pfft”.
Everyone in the place had a story about religion, and not one of those stories had a happy ending. That small crowd was filled with boys who had been fucked up the ass by their childhood priest, girls who were molested by pious family members, kids who were disowned by their religious parents for their decisions, or those who had suffered a great loss that defied reason. Everyone there had rejected God, and he didn’t seem to think enough of us to bother.
We are the damaged remnants of humanity, and all that remained were strippers, thugs, drug addicts, whores, homos, the hate-filled, a couple of Goth kids, and me. We are the soul-less scorned ex-girlfriends of God.
We are the dejected meek, and we have inherited the earth. We’re just not sure that we want it.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Late-Night Weekday Stream of Consciousness Prose Entry
There’s something about a woman - Some fiery determination that leaves me helpless to resist. Men are men, women are gods. Old pagan gods filled with irrational wrath and fury. Crazy gods. The fun gods.
I can’t hold any sentimentality for other men. Fuck, I provoked a fistfight with the old drunken doctor that brought me into this world. It was nearly 2 decades after his shaky hand cut the umbilical cord, when happenstance brought my drug-addled ass to his ER. That night started in the company of women – one too many, to be precise. I didn’t care, and still don’t - Sentimentality is for women – That’s what makes them special.
I actually prefer the company of men. There’s no pressure to be spectacular, no expectation of brilliance. It’s comforting. It’s safe. It’s boring. It’s nice. Nice is boring. Nice doesn’t get you laid.
Women are whiskey, men are water. There’s an intoxication in being around that certain girl – More like a shot of epinephrine dragging you out of a weekday morphine overdose. An excitement, a fear - A sharp knife slashing through the haze – Amplifying the high by tingeing it with frantic shock. Paralysis, poison, oxygen deprivation – Love, lust, desire. Semantics.
I sit drinking vodka and sour cherry juice. Drinking a girl drink, and that’s not bad. Pouring it out, drinking it down – slightly drunk and mostly damaged. Punching at a keyboard like drunks before me waved fists at the sky - Wishing that that special girl was still awake, or that any other one was knocking at the door.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Writer's Blog
I've never claimed to be a writer (except when loaded; In that state I've claimed to be just about everything), but have been kicking out the prose at a decent clip lately. I've been working on a couple of things so that I wouldn't have to show up empty-handed at ChrisB's soiree, or (God forbid) read something re-hashed from my stupid blog.
The thing that's really cornered my attention lately is my story about the second-coming of Christ. It started of as a snarky page & 1/2 comedic piece, but it seemed flat, so I wrote an intro to it. I really got into the intro, and before I knew it the intro was longer than the story itself. The tones of the two were completely different, so I scrapped the original and kept writing in the tone of the intro. Next thing I knew I was at 12 pages (which is way too fucking long for a casual reading), so i trimmed off all of the tangential story-lines & got it down to 4 & 1/2 pages. The pared down version is still pretty rough, and I hope to get some time to polish it a bit before the reading.
Here's that intro (warts and all):
---
They found the 7,327 bodies frozen on the Ronne Ice Shelf, off of the Orville Coast, at the Base of the Ellsworth Mountain Range. Antarctica – (77°00’00.00” S, by 77°00’00.00” W).
The specific details of how the ship, Liberty of the Seas, ended up ice-locked in the Weddell Sea (over 300 Miles North-East from where the bodies were found) still remain a mystery. The ship was chartered by the group, New Dawn, for a cruise from Florida to Rio de Janeiro, but evidence indicates that after the last stop in Rio the ship continued to head south until it ran into the ice shelf.
One thing was obvious; this was planned. The ship continued to pick up passengers along the route, and by the end the ship was carrying almost double the maximum passenger load. There was next to nothing carried in the way of cargo except for several hundred brand-new tractors and snowmobiles, that were used to tow the sleds (fashioned from the scrapped materials of the ship) to the site.
Add it up: no food, no luxury provisions, people sleeping on top of each other, and several tons of snow transportation; this pilgrimage was deliberate.
As the weeks unfolded, we began to get a picture of what was going on. Apparently, members of the group were consumed of visions of the rapture, and claimed to be visited by angels who promised divine ascension and eternal bliss in the arms of God. There was no leader of the group, and these visions were received by people from all over the globe.
5,000 people all spontaneously arrived in Miami on March 9th, and by the 11th, they had set sail.
No one has been able to track down any record of “New Dawn”. The payment was wired from a Bermudan bank, but that bank cannot find any record of the account ever having existed. It is widely rumored that the Cruise Line “donated” the ship and then fabricated the transaction. Nobody knows.
The whole episode became known as “Jonestown on ice”. It provided the late-night talk show hosts with an unending cache of glib jokes; it gave the 24-hour news stations an endless source of tragedy to exploit; and eventually it robbed millions of their faith.
Once those images and gruesome details started to flood the airwaves, it was over.
People started seeing video of a sea of frozen bodies littering the Antarctic wasteland. Young people, old people, obese people, emaciated people, black people, brown people, white people (well, blue people in the end, but…), people of all races and persuasions, of all backgrounds and classes – dead. Pictures of the dead flooded the lives of the living. The picture of the elderly woman frozen slumped over her walker; the picture of the two little black twin girls frozen together in an embrace of sadness and agony; pictures of corpses stripped of flesh, pictures of gnawed bones… pictures of a frozen hell. They became tattooed into our collective subconscious. It’s all we could see when we closed our eyes. It stopped being a media story – it became our lives.
Oddly, the thing that really started permeating the collective conscience were the phrases found carved into the ice, or more frequently scrawled into the snow with blood. After a few weeks you’d see graffiti everywhere and t-shirts that read: “All Hope is False Hope”, “Forsaken”, “Faith is Deceit”, and (most popular) “Angels Lie”. That last one was found scrawled in 20-foot tall letters into the ice, and then the letters were colored in with the writer’s blood…. Pretty fucking creepy, but that guy knows how to make a point.
The impending investigation ended up in the financial ruin of the Royal Caribbean Cruise Line, who was found in court to be complicit in the incident.
The CEO of the company hung himself about a week later. Turns out, he was one of the lucky ones. He didn’t have to see what happened a few months later.
Exactly 5 years to the minute after the time the New Dawners prophesied that Christ would return to Earth; He did… 8,670 Miles to the northeast from their final resting place.
Never trust an angel.
---
Well, there it is. It was written to be read aloud after a few drinks, but you get the point. If you show up at Chris's you'll get to hear the following 2 parts.
Fuck it... I'll probably scrap it all, and just read a few bawdy limericks of my own invention. Give the people what they want.
The thing that's really cornered my attention lately is my story about the second-coming of Christ. It started of as a snarky page & 1/2 comedic piece, but it seemed flat, so I wrote an intro to it. I really got into the intro, and before I knew it the intro was longer than the story itself. The tones of the two were completely different, so I scrapped the original and kept writing in the tone of the intro. Next thing I knew I was at 12 pages (which is way too fucking long for a casual reading), so i trimmed off all of the tangential story-lines & got it down to 4 & 1/2 pages. The pared down version is still pretty rough, and I hope to get some time to polish it a bit before the reading.
Here's that intro (warts and all):
---
They found the 7,327 bodies frozen on the Ronne Ice Shelf, off of the Orville Coast, at the Base of the Ellsworth Mountain Range. Antarctica – (77°00’00.00” S, by 77°00’00.00” W).
The specific details of how the ship, Liberty of the Seas, ended up ice-locked in the Weddell Sea (over 300 Miles North-East from where the bodies were found) still remain a mystery. The ship was chartered by the group, New Dawn, for a cruise from Florida to Rio de Janeiro, but evidence indicates that after the last stop in Rio the ship continued to head south until it ran into the ice shelf.
One thing was obvious; this was planned. The ship continued to pick up passengers along the route, and by the end the ship was carrying almost double the maximum passenger load. There was next to nothing carried in the way of cargo except for several hundred brand-new tractors and snowmobiles, that were used to tow the sleds (fashioned from the scrapped materials of the ship) to the site.
Add it up: no food, no luxury provisions, people sleeping on top of each other, and several tons of snow transportation; this pilgrimage was deliberate.
As the weeks unfolded, we began to get a picture of what was going on. Apparently, members of the group were consumed of visions of the rapture, and claimed to be visited by angels who promised divine ascension and eternal bliss in the arms of God. There was no leader of the group, and these visions were received by people from all over the globe.
5,000 people all spontaneously arrived in Miami on March 9th, and by the 11th, they had set sail.
No one has been able to track down any record of “New Dawn”. The payment was wired from a Bermudan bank, but that bank cannot find any record of the account ever having existed. It is widely rumored that the Cruise Line “donated” the ship and then fabricated the transaction. Nobody knows.
The whole episode became known as “Jonestown on ice”. It provided the late-night talk show hosts with an unending cache of glib jokes; it gave the 24-hour news stations an endless source of tragedy to exploit; and eventually it robbed millions of their faith.
Once those images and gruesome details started to flood the airwaves, it was over.
People started seeing video of a sea of frozen bodies littering the Antarctic wasteland. Young people, old people, obese people, emaciated people, black people, brown people, white people (well, blue people in the end, but…), people of all races and persuasions, of all backgrounds and classes – dead. Pictures of the dead flooded the lives of the living. The picture of the elderly woman frozen slumped over her walker; the picture of the two little black twin girls frozen together in an embrace of sadness and agony; pictures of corpses stripped of flesh, pictures of gnawed bones… pictures of a frozen hell. They became tattooed into our collective subconscious. It’s all we could see when we closed our eyes. It stopped being a media story – it became our lives.
Oddly, the thing that really started permeating the collective conscience were the phrases found carved into the ice, or more frequently scrawled into the snow with blood. After a few weeks you’d see graffiti everywhere and t-shirts that read: “All Hope is False Hope”, “Forsaken”, “Faith is Deceit”, and (most popular) “Angels Lie”. That last one was found scrawled in 20-foot tall letters into the ice, and then the letters were colored in with the writer’s blood…. Pretty fucking creepy, but that guy knows how to make a point.
The impending investigation ended up in the financial ruin of the Royal Caribbean Cruise Line, who was found in court to be complicit in the incident.
The CEO of the company hung himself about a week later. Turns out, he was one of the lucky ones. He didn’t have to see what happened a few months later.
Exactly 5 years to the minute after the time the New Dawners prophesied that Christ would return to Earth; He did… 8,670 Miles to the northeast from their final resting place.
Never trust an angel.
---
Well, there it is. It was written to be read aloud after a few drinks, but you get the point. If you show up at Chris's you'll get to hear the following 2 parts.
Fuck it... I'll probably scrap it all, and just read a few bawdy limericks of my own invention. Give the people what they want.
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