Once seated in the club’s VIP section, sipping cocktails, the club’s thumping trap hip-hop music abruptly shut off. The rowdy group of late 20s, early 30 something tipsy gals were all shocked to then receive a surprise visit from the police. Three tall, handsome uniformed police officers entering from behind the bar. The men with frowns, serious gazes, one of them saying something about a complaint. That it was a serious matter.
“It’s a crime that you ladies LOOK SO FINE!!!!” shouted one of the policemen, pointing his finger at Kara, accusingly.
Then a Cardi B song blasted from the sound system, and the police started smiling and dancing and tearing off their police uniforms, revealing sculpted pecs and abs and man-thongs as they bumped and grinded on the now whooping and clapping, twisting and dancing, glass hoisting, hooting and hollering ladies. The smiles on all their painted faces stretched miles wide.
When the Chris Hemsworth clone strutted over to Samantha, he shook his hard ass in her face, then spun around and accidentally kneed her purse.
BANG!
It was like a firecracker, the sound of the gunshot. And a puff of smoke followed it; the gray plume flitting up in the air and dissolving, like an apparition.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Samantha pressed her eyes tightly shut and gasped. Her ears felt as if they’d been stuffed with cotton balls. Then her ears rang in a super high-pitched hum, and she faintly heard something like a scream from a horror flick, accompanied by hysterical crying.
She hung her head, timidly opened her eyes, looked toward the sound of the pop.
It had come from her purse. Cringing, she glimpsed down at a tiny burnt black hole in her glittery Gucci purse.
Lifting her head, she saw the Chris Hemsworth clone, in a fallen heap; he was writhing, in a pool of blood, on the club’s white marble floor.
His blue eyes bulging, he was screaming, primally. His face a hot mess of agony.
And his dark red, dripping wet hands were clamped tightly over his left thigh, which was gushing blood.
NO COMPLAINTS AT THIS PRICE
“It’s been a year, maybe a year and a half since I last flew,” I say, stuffing my Kindle, water bottle, and a pack of edibles into the seatback in front of me. I pause for a beat, scanning the surroundings, claustrophobia kicking in; then I continue, “Sure is a shame they didn’t enlarge the coach cabins while everyone was iced at home.”
The stranger by the window seat nods. I picture him forcing a grin. He doesn’t seem the type who’d smile much.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The stranger is thin and small, with a distended belly, like a malnourished child’s.
He’s wearing black jeans and a black Metallica “Ride the Lightning” t-shirt and a blue surgical mask that’s hoisted up to his eyelids, halving his face. His stringy steel-gray hair spills out of a plain black baseball cap and falls flat just past his frail shoulders. The hat’s pulled down so low it hides his eyebrows. There are skull, bones, dagger, and dragon tattoos covering his twiggy arms and a tiny pistol tatted on his pencil wide neck.
He seems like the type you’d see in a prison documentary, with all his tats.
I start to wonder if indeed he was in prison. If he killed someone. Or if he killed someone in jail. I could picture him killing someone in jail, in the shower, with a sharpened toothbrush.
“When was the last time you were on a plane?” I begin to ask, but when I shift my weight in my seat, I find myself in the window seat, and the adjacent two seats are empty.
Then I toss back my head and see the stranger crawling on the cabin’s ceiling like a lizard. He’s shoeless and his feet appear to have no toes.
Gathering speed, he scampers along the ceiling, shooting toward the business class cabin.
It’s been a while since I last flew, but I can’t remember there being people on planes who could attach themselves to the ceiling, crawl across it.
I start to tremble; sweat slicks over my forehead. Then the flight attendant scoots by me. She’s a chimp, on roller-skates. She makes a squeaky chimp sound as she passes and she smells like a dirty toilet.
Peering around the plane, I see that there are no humans aboard. Only dogs.
Every seat is occupied by an emotional support animal, a pit bull, each dog in a red doggie sweater.
None are in their seatbelts. None are emitting animal sounds or barks. All are quiet and still as stuffed animals.
The captain comes on the intercom. If it is the captain… It is only a voice. And to say the voice is tortured… that would be an understatement.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer The captain unlooses a series of guttural moans, pained shrieks, and then the address ends in a gunshot.
After the gunshot, I find myself standing, tethered, via duct tape, to a six-foot-tall, one-foot-wide steel pole. Panning my gaze, I see that every seat in the plane is gone, every seat replaced by a tall metal pole.
There are people again in the plane, and the dogs are gone. Each and every person, men, women, children alike, is duct-taped to a pole and is dressed like the stranger from before. Everyone in black baseball hats, identical Metallica shirts, and black jeans, everyone with bare, stumpy toeless feet.
The plane’s engine starts up. It roars like five football stadiums full of crazed fans.
It’s the loudest engine I’ve ever heard. My ears are in anguish, the ridiculous rumble of the engine deafening me. My ears suddenly seem stuffed with cotton balls.
Two flight attendants in moon suits own the aisles and are pushing a cart filled w/newspapers dedicated to dead celebrities. The flight attendants are with gloves, Freddy Krueger gloves, made of syringes. Up and down the aisles they woosh, stopping at each pole to poke, point and jab needles into arms, administer shots.
I hang my head, see my feet are bare, without toes. Then I lift my gaze, watch out the window. The plane is taxiing, inching forward at a measured clip. But the tarmac is gone. The terminals are gone. We’re on an empty highway, in a desert, a barren spit of scorched earth and khaki-colored dirt. Random rock formations flit through the haze like revenants, Rorschach tests.
Ahead in the hazy horizon, there’s a megalopolis, a square of a city that’s burning in a rainbow of horrible colors, great plumes of gray smoke billowing over its collapsing superstructures.
Panning my gaze to my left, the stranger is back. He’s bundled, wrapped and tied, neck to knees, with silvery duct tape, taped to the parallel pole.
The stranger has a voice that sounds like Kermit the Frog doing a Doctor Jordan Peterson impression, and the stranger whispers to me, “You see, this is how they expand the coach section. They tear out the seats, duct tape us to poles, and jab us with bloody knockouts. No complaints at this price.”
“No complaints at this price,” I return, just as I scan the aisle and spot a spacesuit flight attendant stuffing a crying blue ball of a baby into the overhead compartment.
Then a needle finds my forearm.
THE ULTIMATE FUCK TRUDEAU SELFIE
Careening toward the Canadian border, we are snow-blind, forcing forward, following fat clouds.
Finally, we arrive. Join the juxtaposition and encounter a lengthy line of snowmobiles, hockey players and Bigfoot. Peering up at the checkpoint, we see motorists collared and searched, probed, and the rectal exams begin, asses hanging from car windows, border-crossers stood spreadeagle, Canuck Grim Reaper Bots extending robotic arms, latex gloves snapping back in coruscating flashes of light.
My Adam’s apple bobs up and down as I dart a glance at a Bigfoot bending over, propped against a plastic palm tree, a gloved Canuck Bot’s hand halfway up Bigfoot’s butt. Then a gust of wind splashes a sheet of snow at our windshield, coloring everything milky, blurry white…
“We should have just snuck in through the woods or taken a hot-air balloon,”
Melvin affirms as he’s probing his nose with pliers and plucking nose-hairs meticulously in the rearview mirror.
But what if the Canuck Bots caught you? I ponder…
The Canuck Bots nor the Canucks are usually violent. But they could be, right? All that politeness. All those niceties. I’ll bet inside every Canadian, there’s a raging monster, an anger, a pressure cooker, a bomb waiting to explode. Any Canadian could be a merciless killer given the temptation and opportunity.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer An aggrieved Canadian, that could be the world’s most dangerous animal. Aside from playing hockey, the world doesn’t know what the Canadians are plotting, what they’re doing up there. I envisage dark, insidious actors, underground ice-bunkers, and cutting-edge weapons in the hands of polite and helpful neighbors.
“Jeffery Dahmer was a Canadian,” mentions Melvin, who’s slapping rhythmically on the dashboard, along to the drumbeat of Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks.”
Shaking my head, I proclaim that “no, he was a Wisconsinite… Similar accent, though.”
Melvin curls his upper lip in disgust, mentioning that that explains everything, and there are “no worse people than the Wisconsinites.”
Oh no, the Canadians are way worse, I insist. Their Mounties are monsters. The Mounties created like Frankenstein, monsters made from assembled body parts, the evil beings born sniffing for blood. Officers of Satan, the Mounties. The Mounties, militaristic, riding on battle moose, moose themselves perfected in laboratories, moose decked out in body armor, moose fitted with jet engines and wings, moose on clandestine flying moose missions; the flying moose fitted with machine guns, missiles, and laser beams blasting from moose asses and antlers.
It’s like I tell Melvin, moose run incredibly fast, too, for an animal that size, moose reaching a peak running speed of 35 MPH…
“Even if they don’t fly the moose, just imagine those Mounties on moose back, those moose hoofs clattering and the Mounties making morbid battle cries, sounds worse than Celine Dion’s most dreadful multi-octave wails.
“Imagine Frankenstein riding a rodeo bull like a racehorse.”
“Or a war elephant,” Melvin opines, and I nod my head tacitly, and I continue,
“It’s sinister… Far worse than the Wisconsinites’ black bear trampoline terror campaigns and rattlesnake catapult attacks,” I assert, plainly, and not even Melvin will argue this…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Our car inches closer. Melvin is practically licking the windshield. The snow slips wet, clearing the screen, leaving us with only the fuzzy outlines of oncoming Canadians.
Melvin has been stirring in his seat. Says the last time he attempted to enter Canada, the immigration officer refused his entry, without explanation, aside from hinting that Melvin looked too poor to be able to fund his stay in Canada.
It’s like I tell Melvin, you can’t wear dirty basketball shorts in winter and turtleneck trench coats in summer without repercussions… At least today he’s in a pink tutu, glasses/nose/mustache disguise and a wrinkly old Wizards Jordan jersey…
The line speeds up, fast. We unbuckle our belts, prepare to be fingered.
“Heck, I might even enjoy it…” I mention, reaching down to unzip my fly.
The stink-hungry border guards are 30ish; they are red-faced men, troglodytes, with slow-moving eyes and potbellies. They only peer at our passports, and one of the border guards pops his head into the car, scans around, then grunts and nods.
These Canadians are far gruffer than I’d pictured. They speak in a trembling tone that sounds forced, and one of them only speaks French to us.
But they let us pass, unmolested, and I feel a sense of release ease over me, a burden lifted.
Not Melvin, though. Heading through the Canadian immigration checkpoint has reanimated his PTSD.
Melvin reiterates his negative experience, relives it, and reminds me there are indeed Canadian cunts, that they exist.
“Cunts exist everywhere,” I affirm, scratching my eyebrows; after crossing into Canada, my right eyebrow begins to itch incessantly.
Melvin cocks back his bald head. His scruffy red lumberjack beard looks itchy too.
He scratches at it again but paws at his face in a way that appears contemplative.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I wonder if the border guards threw itching powder at us or something. I could see the French-speaking one being shifty like that. I didn’t like his man-bun. I don’t trust a man with a man-bun.
Melvin shares my disdain for the man-bun. Says he hopes to witness a mullet resurgence and rambles about the repercussions of hiding in some bushes, or up in a tree, then jumping out, like a ninja, and snipping off the policeman’s man-bun, with a pair of garden shears…
The sun starts to set, the bloody orange ball sinking into the panorama of the purplish-blue horizon. The sky here is heavier than home. The air up here is way cleaner. Everything is cleaner. The streets are so sanitary that they are aglow, gleaming like ice rinks.
Melvin is apoplectic, angrily scratching his face, and still ruminating on the stubborn border guard from two years ago, saying he wanted to go find him and…
We nose into the parking lot at the mouth of the Niagara Falls. The old box Chevy had died so I’d been behind the car, pushing it like a loaded shopping cart for the last three blocks.
Melvin yanks the parking brake, hops out and hurls invective, then spits at the car, kicks the tires, and screams something in Spanish.
The Falls are raging. A violent hiss, a vibration, a smell of powering water wafts and swirls about in the air, and I forget my itch.
Melvin and I pop the trunk. Inside are the squirrel suits. We zip into them.
Melvin laments that America never conquered Canada. That we tried in the War of 1812 and failed miserably. He says we should have annexed Canada and Greenland, a long time ago, for the oil, wood, and maple syrup.
“And the Tim Hortons,” Melvin asserts, convincing me that he’s a true expansionist, a proud imperialist, the last of a dying breed. “Teddy Roosevelt was America’s greatest president!” cries Melvin, climbing the protective fencing.
“I’m partial to Martin Van Buren,” I retort, and I climb up next to Melvin, flanking him. A crowd forms, encircles us. Fingers point, phones aloft. When the police race over, one riding aggressively on a Segway, shouting polite Canadian police things, it is then… it is then that we know… We know the moment has arrived.
“And we’re keeping William Shatner!” hollers Melvin, his head tossed back, his eyes toward the purpling heavens. His nostrils flaring, the veins on his neck popping like cables, he then swivels his gaze toward me, snorts and sneers.
Together, on the count of three…
One…
Two…
Three…
And we dive, face first. FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH… Our plunge propelled by the Lazar engines in our suits. Our dive is like an inverted parabola, first plummeting down, then straightening out, then arcing up and angling to a perfectly parallel, horizontal approach, flying full force forward toward the Falls.
Foooooooooooosh… And we’re zooming like fighter jets over the animosity and immensity and indifference of the pooling water below. Zooming over its frothy white bubbling, its supernatural strength and uninvited violence.
Zooming in a straight soar, we then angle and twist, slip under, bend behind the Falls, the curtain of water, the mammoth of motion, and we glide the tunnel, snap the ultimate Fuck Trudeau selfie and then shoot out the other end, ascending, and we’re over, backflipping a guardrail, touching down to a battered path, paved with blood and broken teeth.
Then we peel off our squirrel suits, disrobe, and run, naked, screaming names of recent Stanley Cup winners. Our naked, hairy man bodies, our shaven chests and backs painted in anti-Trudeau, Banksy-style artworks.
Naked at last, the itch returns, intensifies, overtaking us, as if we’d been bitten by a thousand mosquitoes, and as we run, we stop every few feet to flail, grunt, and scratch. Yet we somehow sustain our suicide sprint in the direction of the border, doing our damnedest to achieve the dash and to meet the simplicity of selection.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer WHY I ROBBED A JEWELRY STORE
Not many would suspect it.
Me, a nondescript 18-year-old girl, robbing a jewelry store.
Normally, it’s a man who does such things.
I mean, really, robbing a store? Even though it is a jewelry store, and diamonds are, at least according to Marilyn Monroe, “a girl’s best friend,” but still… It’s still, just like, sooooo unladylike.
Seriously. Close your eyes and think about someone robbing a jewelry store. Do you picture a girl? Is that the first image that comes to mind?
Probably not.
I mean, come on, would Marilyn Monroe ever commit an armed robbery?
Probably not.
Nope. When I say “armed robbery” you probably start envisioning, like, some drug addict guy. A wild-eyed freak, a strung-out meth addict, or a pill popper, with missing front teeth, ratty clothes.
Or a thug covered in tattoos, with, like, tons of face tattoos, the type you’d see in a documentary about prison.
Or a criminal gang, professional crooks, with walkie-talkies, and ski-masks, toting guns and duffel bags, an idling getaway car outside…
Oh, or maybe you’re thinking of scenes from Michael Bay movies, all that sort of crap, right?
But no. It was me. I did it. Me, a totally unremarkable young girl.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Honestly, it’s the first time in my life anyone has ever cared what I did. I’m usually inconspicuous. I’m a plus-size girl, which kinda renders me invisible. No one ever really notices or pays attention to fat girls. Maybe that’s why I thought I could get away with it. I’ve always been adept at disappearing.
Okay, okay, so you’re probably like, “Why turn to crime?! Get a job, you bum!”
and I understand that. But it’s not so simple. Let me explain.
My father died of a heart attack last year. Then three months ago, my mother had one of her feet amputated, due to her diabetes, so now she’s homebound.
I’d planned to go to college, to study nursing. Like, I’ve had a ton of practice, nursing, already, having cared for my mother, so I thought it’d be a suitable career.
But after my father died, and especially after my mom’s operation, there were just too many bills, and college wasn’t an option.
And the costs kept piling up. Medical bills. Rent. Utilities. I’d been working at a fast-food shop, the only job I could get, to help with the bills, but the money I was earning hardly made a dent, and further we sunk into debt.
It’s not like we had much saved. My father was a construction worker, didn’t make much. My mother was a line chef at a hotel and didn’t make much either.
Our family is scattered, living in different places, and they are also poor, so it’s not like we had a rich uncle to call.
Unable to pay rent, we were facing eviction. Our choices were, basically, to either go live on the street or to somehow pay the rent. Oh, and the back rent too.
So, after watching a movie about a bank robber, I came up with an idea. I’d do that. I’d rob a bank. I’d dash off with a boatload of cash, the type of cash that’d make all our problems vanish.
I thought that’d be the perfect place to rob, a bank, because that’s where the money is, right? But I couldn’t figure out how to do it and get away with it. I’m no criminal mastermind. And I don’t have any machine guns or gang members to help or anything like that. I’d also seen a video about bank robberies that showed
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer how the banks position buttons underneath their counters that instantly call the police and that the bank employees will sneak a bottle, a bomb, really, hidden in the moneybag, and the bottle will explode when it exits the bank, leaving the robber and money splattered in a crazy, Carrie, horror movie type mess of red paint that takes days to wash off.
No thank you. I’ll give that a pass.
Then I thought of robbing an ATM. They’re everywhere, right? Why not just walk up to an ATM with a baseball bat or a hammer and smash it open?
I looked into that one too. The ATM machines are built with super-tough materials, like a black box in a plane, and are nearly impossible to open, simply just bashing them.
But robbing a jewelry store… I saw a couple videos about that, including a few where the perps easily escaped… Hmmm… A jewelry store, the thought got my mind spinning… A jewelry store… Just like in the videos… Me… Running in there…
Just like those masked men did… Me… Smashing open a display case, snatching a handful of necklaces, rings, running off… That didn’t seem too hard. I figured I’m strong enough to do that... Maybe...
So I planned it. I picked out a jewelry store in the next town over. I studied the Google Maps, satellite street views, and I planned my escape route.
The hardest part was finding the right weapon. I really wanted to buy a gun. There is nothing cooler and badder than a girl with a gun, right? Even a fat girl like me could kick ass with a gun… But, sadly, I didn’t have the cash for a gun. Which was a conundrum in that I didn’t have the money to buy a gun, and that, of course, was the whole reason I was hatching the plan to rob a jewelry store in the first place. Ugh…
This being the case, I settled on a knife. But we only have kitchen knives and steak knives and those are too big and sharp to easily carry and conceal. Then I got an idea. I’d seen a documentary about 9/11, and it’d said how the hijackers used box cutters to seize control of the planes. Jeez, if a box cutter could be used to hijack a plane, it could easily be used to rob a store. And it’s also easy to carry.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer That was it. I’d go in there, wearing a surgical mask, to cover my face, and then I’d break out the box cutter, brandish it, let the staff know that I mean business. I’d make them raise their arms, like the police does to criminals, and then I’d reach in my backpack, whip out a hammer, and smash open a display case, swipe as much jewelry as I can stuff in my backpack, and run off, jump back on my scooter, and disappear into the blur of traffic.
In addition, what I thought would make my plan even better, was that I often cut my hair short. Since I’m a big girl, with short hair, and if I wore baggy clothes, they might think the suspect was a man. Then the cops would be searching for a man, and not me.
For the next week, I practiced the robbery in my bedroom, like an actor preparing for a role. I mimicked walking in, waving the box cutter, smashing the case, snatching the jewels, and running off. I envisioned it. I timed it. I estimated it would only take two minutes or so. Then I could ride away and pawn off the jewelry, be back home with a fat wad of cash.
When the day came, I thought I might be nervous. But I wasn’t. I slept well the night before. It was calming. Liberating. I’d pull off the smash and grab and we’d be free of stress, at least for a time.
Riding my scooter, that cool, sunny spring morning, to the store, I listened to “Bad Guy” in my earbuds and pictured myself as a badass, a warrior. I was wearing all black, black mittens, black sweatpants, black sweatshirt, and a black beanie. I felt strong, powerful, but at ease.
I parked my scooter on the sidewalk and stormed into the store. Then I broke out the box cutter from my sweatshirt’s pocket, gripped the square of cold metal in my palm, and approached the counter containing the prettiest and biggest gold chains. The chains were neatly aligned in parallel rows. Price tags, astronomical amounts, denoted under each. Each was worth more money than I could make in
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer a year. Not only that, but the gold was hypnotizing, how beautiful it shone in the soft, buttery yellow light of the shop. The gold so bright that flecks of light flickered off it in explosive little lightning-like bursts.
I clicked the box cutter’s blade up, raised and pointed the small silver triangle of death at the counter bitch’s face. The counter bitch, a stout middle-aged lady with an oddly shaped haircut that seemed a tad too long on the right side, had been leaning forward on the display case, staring and thumbing at her phone.
The counter bitch was wearing a mask too, so I couldn’t see the expression her lips made, but I could picture them making like an “O” because of the guttural gasping sound she made as she looked up from her phone and her eyes landed on the box cutter. I did my best imitation of a man, growled in a husky voice, told her to raise her arms and step back. Then I clicked the box cutter closed and slipped it back in my pocket.
Slinging my backpack into the crook of my arm, I quickly zipped it open, lifted out the hammer. It was a small hammer, the type for typical home repairs and such, but I figured it could do the job. And it did.
I was surprised at how easily the hammer sunk through the glass, shattering it like a thin sheet of ice.
Then I dug into the case, grabbing heaping handfuls of gold, flinging and stuffing it into my bag. And somehow I noticed the gold didn’t seem as shiny once it was in the open, once it was out of the case and in my bag. It was also heavier than I imagined. My bag seemed to weigh 200 pounds as I zipped it shut.
My bag bogged me down, and I felt like I was walking in a swimming pool. But I pushed forward, made my escape. I was surprised that I’d gotten this far. It seemed as if I might succeed, I might actually pull it off.
However, once I passed through the doorway, touched the outside air, there was a pack of the jewelry store’s staff surrounding my scooter. The jewelry store employees had angry eyes, and if they weren’t wearing surgical masks similar to mine, I’m sure I’d have seen them scowling at me.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer They swarmed, formed a circle around me, a perimeter of humanity, a fleshy fence from which I’d have to cut and kick and chop my way through. It was then I wished I were a true badass. I wished I were really a kung fu, action star, and that I could have knocked them all down and out with only a single kick or punch.
I could have tried, I guess. I could have taken out my box cutter. I could have tried to cut my way through them, stab and slash them. But, truth is, I don’t have it in me. That day was the first time I’d ever committed any crime. Like, it’s one thing to swipe some jewels, but to maim or kill? Nah, that’s not me.
My backpack felt heavier and heavier, like it might pull me down, through the sidewalk, down through the ground, to the center of the Earth, and, for a second, I hoped it would, just to get me out of there.
But it didn’t and it wouldn’t. So I let the bag slide off my back. And I stood there, like a caged animal, encircled by the staff. One of them then barked at me that the police were on the way.
After hearing that, I made a half-hearted effort to run for it, but then two of the staff locked arms and blocked my path before I could get more than a couple steps.
Then I heard the police sirens, the cops roaring in. The cops came out screaming, pointing weapons, and it crossed my mind they might shoot me. But they didn’t.
In fact, upon seeing me all pathetic and surrounded by the store’s staff, they actually began to laugh as they moved in, seized and handcuffed me.
It was probably the first time they handcuffed a girl in mittens.
My plan was a total failure.
I confessed to everything. That I’d done it because of my family’s predicament.
The judge was an old bird-faced man who spoke slowly, and he took pity on me, since it was my first offense and probably, too, he couldn’t help but have some sympathy upon seeing my mom, and her footless leg.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer (Not only that, but my mom, while reaching for a tissue, fell from her wheelchair and tumbled to the floor during one of my hearings. Thankfully, she was okay, but it caused quite the stir…)
((Thankfully, too, following my arrest, my mom was able to move in with a cousin in another county and found work at a hospital.)) In the end, I got 5 years in jail, two of the years suspended, although I might be released after one year, with good behavior.
The jail has job training too, and I’ve enrolled in a program to become a certified nurse’s assistant.
2002
“The last time I saw him… Must have been 2002… Wonder what became of him…”
“He was working in real estate, last I heard. Real crap work, too, cold-calling, digging through phonebooks, cold-canvassing…”
“Remember his dad? I remember how his dad would make these pancakes like better than any I ever ate.”
“And they’d glop massive slabs of butter on the pancakes, too, like a scoop of ice cream. For real, I’d never seen anyone eat butter like that… His dad guzzled coffee too, jugs of it…”
“That’s what happens to heaps of recovering alcoholics. They start smoking like a chimney, drinking gallons of coffee… Or they get really into religion…”
“Or exercise. His dad went from morbidly obese to running marathons.”
“Running marathons? His dad? Dude was almost obese enough to land a reality TV show…”
“Yup, I saw it in the local paper.”
“You sure it was his dad? And not a doppelganger?”
“I saw it in the paper. I know what I saw.”
“And where is ____ ? Still doing that crappy sales job?”
“I don’t know. He’s not on Facebook.”
“He’s not on Facebook?”
“No.”
“Is he on Linked In or Snap?”
“No.”
“Twitter?”
“Nope.”
“The ‘Gram?”
“The ‘Gram?”
“Instagram.”
“Oh… Hmmm… Yeah, uh, no…”
“Then how do you know he’s even alive?”
“That’s a good question.”
TO CATCH A THIEF… AND THEN HOLD THE ASSHOLE HOSTAGE
1
I’d come home a bit early from an obligatory Friday night of drinking. Stumbling down the hallway toward my apartment, despite my inebriated state, I had a premonition something was amiss. I was drunk, yeah, but not blackout or vomit drunk. I was still cognizant. Listening to my guts rumble, from both booze and bad
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer vibes, I unbuttoned my blazer, reached up and lifted out my Glock 19, unclicked the safety…
Pushing open my front door, a bar of yellow light began to widen. Always, and I mean always, I click the lights off before I go out. But the lights were on. And then I saw why, when I spotted the heavily tattooed young man, in skinny jeans and a white T-shirt, standing in my living room. The asshole emptying a shelf of my collectible CDs, DVDs into his backpack!
Then my heart sank as I saw my autographed Dan Marino jersey had been stolen out of its frame on the living room wall!
Fucking with my serenity, swiping my CDs, DVDs, was bad enough. But my Dan Marino jersey… That’s way out of bounds… Fucking with Dolphin Dan…
“Drop the backpack, shitbag!” I commanded, holding my gun with both hands.
Pointing the barrel right at the youth’s chest, the young thug swung his shaved head toward me, his small black eyes popping wide open. Then he turned on his heel, made a run for it but slipped on the hardwood floor and landed on his side, his right elbow piledriving into a puddle of broken glass.
(The cleaners had come today and, as usual, left the hardwood floors slick, unwittingly thwarting the thief’s escape plan…)
“Argh!” screamed the intruder. Not only had he bloodied his arm and side, but he’d also landed at an awkward angle. And it appeared that he’d dislocated his shoulder. He was struggling to get up in a pathetic way that reminded me of an insect trying to swim out of a sink or toilet bowl.
But now that he was down, a playful (yet terribly evil) drunken idea ran through my mind, and I decided to embrace it, let the evil in... Have a little devilish fun…
I holstered my gun, lifted a metal baseball bat from out of the umbrella bin by the front door (strange place to keep my weekend league bat, by the door, I know, but I’d rather sleep next to my gun). Then I approached the intruder and proceeded to whap him over the head with a nice hammering blow to his left temple that sent the miscreant straight to the stars.
Confident he was out cold, I patted him down, fished out a small .22 hidden in his waistband. Naughty boy! Then, in his pants pockets, I found an ancient iPhone
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer with a cracked screen and a Velcro wallet with a faded Golden State Warriors logo on it and only $11 in crinkly ones inside. No credit or debit cards or anything. No wonder this loser was breaking into houses. I’d bet he was the asshole who broke into 4B and 8A.
Looking at his driver’s license… shit, born in 2002? The dude was only 21. 21 and this is what he’s spending his Friday evenings doing? He ought to be in college, at a nightclub, dancing on TikTok, working his side hustle, or even just jerking off and playing video games in his mom’s basement like most dudes his age… Jeez, the fuck is this world coming to…
Then I noticed his name. Luis Javier Gomez… Why did that name seem so familiar?
Then I gazed at his driver’s license photo. He looked so sinister. The photo just oozed evil. Maybe it was his slight sneer coupled with the tilt of his long, protruding jaw. Or the vague menace in his eyes. Whatever it was, it was the sort of driver’s license photo that if he did a mass shooting or turned out to be a drug trafficker or terrorist, people probably wouldn’t be surprised once that photo made its way through the news.
Then my thoughts circled back to my evil idea. Since he wanted to come over for a visit, I figured I should make him my guest. For an extended stay.
I have a spare closet, in my hallway, that’s larger than the closet in my bedroom. I use that hallway closet to keep my gun safe, to store my rifles, and nothing else.
The closet also came with a design that enables the door to be locked from the outside and is unable to be opened from the inside. What’s more, the door’s made from thick, solid red oakwood, making it practically impregnable. I’d also set up a camera inside to monitor my gun safe, just in case I experienced any unexpected guests. Like tonight’s.
Unknowingly, I’d created the perfect accommodation for my visitor.
I dragged the grimace-faced, incapacitated Luis, by his feet, into the closet and set him down. For a second, I wondered if he was dead. But I hovered a finger under his nose, felt warm, wet pulses of breath, so I wasn’t a murderer. At least not yet.
But since I had no intention of calling the cops, I was, technically, a kidnapper.
However, I preferred to think of my role as more of an enthusiastic host. Maybe a life coach…
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer After depositing my guest into his accommodation, I rushed into the kitchen, grabbed some packaged foods- chips, cookies, peanuts- and a couple of plastic bottles of water, along with a bucket from the kitchen closet. Then I moved fast back to my new guest’s room, brought him his supplies and clicked the overhead light on. But before I closed the door, tucked him in for the night, I decided to dash over to the living room, bring Luis a few books. Then I locked him in and set about cleaning the mess he’d made and retrieving the stuff he’d stolen.
Scooping my CDs, DVDs out of his biggish blue backpack, I began placing them back on the shelf, in alphabetical order too. My guest’s unexpected visit had really sobered me up.
I took out my autographed Dan Marino jersey, which, luckily, hadn’t been harmed.
Then I found a crowbar and saw that Luis had moved through my bedroom and taken my iPad and two gold chains. The fucker had also snatched my grandpa’s retirement watch.
My gramps had boarded a boat from Ukraine, as a 10-year-old, to come to America and had slaved in an automobile factory for years upon years, doing back-breaking labor so he could provide a better life for his kids. And he did. And while he didn’t make a lot of money, one of the things he most prided himself on was his work ethic. That he woke up, every day, and did backbreaking work for decades. That gold watch and the message from the company inscribed on it had really meant something to him.
Now here’s my guest. The total opposite of my gramps. A lowdown thief. A piece of shit who steals the fucking gold watch a man worked for, for over 40 years.
Somehow, I couldn’t see Luis doing my gramps’ job for even a day. At that moment, it was hard to imagine a greater disparity between any two men.
After putting everything back, I cleaned the hallway, swept up the broken glass. I was hoping Luis didn’t have AIDS as I washed away the blood. Even if I used latex gloves, still, wiping up another person’s blood was discomfiting.
I’d expected to maybe hear yelling and thrashing in the new guestroom. But I heard nothing. I didn’t care if he died, really, but a social media mob or a bleeding-heart prosecutor might. Still, I had a clean record and this was a guy with face tattoos. I pay taxes while Luis probably collects food stamps. I donate money
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer to my local Police Benevolent Association, while Luis likely has served time in jail.
No matter what, I figured I’d be good in terms of the law. But I did want Luis to live, though, if only because that might make the next day or two more fun.
As I was finishing cleaning up, I heard a mumble rap ringtone, something about
“How can I be homophobic? My bitch is gay!” So I padded over to the living room and picked up Luis’s phone from the coffee table and checked its cracked screen.
It was a call from “Julia.” Feeling frisky, I decided to touch the green button to answer.
“Hello,” I said, happily, and I pictured a startled Julia as she stammered, “Ummm…
Hello… is… like… Luis there?”
“Oh yeah, he sure is, but he can’t come to the phone right now.”
“Who is this?” Julia rejoined after a lengthy pause. She started breathing heavily and sounded panicked.
“I’m Luis’s friend. This is Julia, right?”
“Uh, yes, it is,” she said, her voice turning from panicked to venomous. “Why?”
“Because Luis told me he thinks you’re a total fucking skank. He never wants to talk to you again. He knows you fucked like six dudes last weekend. Two at the same time at a party. He said it’d been cool if you’d banged like two or three dudes, but six? And two at the same time? And they were his boys too? That’s messed up, Julia… Luis says his boys say your pussy stinks too. Your pussy fucking stinks like death. Go wash that shit out… Maybe get a new vaginal deodorant…
Whatever… Just don’t ever call Luis again. You dirty, fucking whore…”
Julia gasped but didn’t reply. I hung up and was pleased to see Luis didn’t have his phone protected by any code. I was able to dig through his contacts and saw he had many ladies in there. Luis must get around. Time to change that. Methodically, I went through his contacts list and texted each girl similar platitudes as I told Julia.
Feeling even friskier, I checked through his text messages. Most were sexts with random girls I guess he met on hookup apps. But the most recent two were from
“miggy,” and said simply, “gone go” and “u all good.” Thinking “miggy” might be an accomplice or lookout, I didn’t reply. But for the other male names on Luis’s
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer phone, I texted them messages saying shit like, “Enuf of dis gangbang shit Imma Tekashi69 im calling tha cops yo I be confessin’ n snitchin on u bich.”
The only contact I spared was the one labeled “gramma.” Then I took out his phone’s SIM card. I used scissors to cut it up, along with his driver’s license, over the waste bin and flung the old phone out the bathroom window facing the alley below. Since I found the window pried open, and the bathroom window leads to the fire escape, I figured I knew how Luis had entered.
Another premonition ran through my mind. “miggy.” Luis, his curiously protruding jaw... Luis’s name- Luis Javier Gomez… Luis resembled and shared a name with one of my building’s newer security guards, Miguel… Miguel Javier Gomez... Both sharing the same protruding jaw… Both looking sort of like a swarthy version of Beavis from Beavis and Butthead...
That “miggy” in Luis’s contacts... Miggy being short for Miguel. That’d make a lot of sense, too, since Miguel often watched the security camera monitors in the control room… And that mine was the third apartment hit in the last two weeks.
And with long jaw “miggy,” or Miguel only showing up a month ago… It all made a lot of sense indeed…
Poking my head out the bathroom window, I scanned the alley below… Speak of the devil! I spotted what looked to be Miguel. The uniformed guard pacing, holding his blue-lit phone to his ear, smoking a vape and having an animated conversation. Guess “miggy” wasn’t watching the cameras when I came home early.
I closed the window. Headed to my bedroom. Clicked on my PC. Then I found the feed for the cam in Luis’s guestroom. Luis was still out like a light.
I’d be sleeping pretty well tonight, too, I supposed, knowing the Gomez tag team would strike no more. Thinking sweet thoughts of vengeance and vigilante justice, I got ready for bed, brushed my teeth, flossed and washed up.
Climbing into bed, Julia, Luis’s young skank, floated through my mind and my cock stiffened. I pictured Julia looking something like an In Living Color-era Jennifer Lopez and envisioned her breaking into my house, instead of that tattoo-faced fucktard, Luis.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Smoking hot Julia, in a string bikini top and tiny pair of white jean short cutoffs so tight they had half her voluptuous ass visible. Then the sexy Julia bargaining, unbuttoning her jean cutoffs, sliding down her thong, unsheathing her fresh, fat-lipped, clean-shaved pussy. Julia bending over, her healthy ass pointed right at me.
Julia and I working out a deal where I fuck her doggystyle in return for not calling the cops…
Reaching down, I squirted coconut oil on my dick and was soon choking one out to the lustrous fantasy of mounting and riding the sexy young Julia’s ass like a jet ski. Then I was drifting off into the warmth of a most deep, pleasant sleep.
2
I woke up early the next morning to hysterical banging, slapping, and screaming coming from my computer. Groggily, I pressed up from the bed. I padded over to the PC, squinting, and saw Luis, in full freakout mode, kicking and slapping at the door. Poor bastard was attempting, to no avail, to kick the heavy oakwood door in.
Good luck with that, Luis. A young guy that scrawny, probably a pill popper or a meth addict or smoking crack. No way a skinny junkie fuck like him could kick in that door.
Luis was looking pretty critical too. He had a big bump on the side of his head, right where I’d whapped him with the bat. His right arm was all gnarly and bloodied up, as well, but it looked like his dislocated shoulder was back in place.
The rascal must have popped it back in by himself. Crickey! That had to hurt!
Grinning from ear to ear, I yawned, chuckled and, still in my silk teal Miami Dolphins pajamas, I ambled over to the hallway to chat with my guest.
“FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!!! FUCKING let me the FUCKING FUCK out!! FUCK
YOU! FUCK YOU!!!” He kept repeating. Behind the heavy door his desperate shouts were audible albeit slightly muffled.
“Good morning, Luis!” I cut in, politely as possible, interrupting his outbursts.
“How’d you sleep last night?” I inquired, standing by and leaning an ear toward the guestroom door.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer A brief pause. The kicking, slaps ceasing.
“You… How do you fucking know my name?”
Faux-outraged I replied, “Hey, Luis, easy there, partner. That is no way to speak to your host. After all the hospitality, after everything I have done for you,” to which Luis didn’t reply.
I turned my tone to cordial, “Look, I left you some food. Did you have breakfast yet? Er, be careful, though, not to pig out. You might need that food to last a few days.”
Still no reply.
“Fucking let me out of here!!!” He finally let loose and resumed fecklessly attacking the door.
“But Luis, why did you come galumphing over here if you didn’t want to stay for a while? It’s rather rude to drop by unannounced too. I think it’s best for you to think about the way in which you interact with your friends...
“I’ve left you a copy of the Bible, the Koran, a book on mindfulness by Sam Harris, as well as a book of the Buddha’s wisdom. So perhaps you can spend some time today discovering spiritual and personal enlightenment. In the end, your stay here could be very beneficial. Maybe after this you’ll become a monk, go move to India or Nepal… Go live and farm on a mountain in the Himalayas… Or maybe go volunteer at an orphanage... Or go join Justin Wren, dig wells for the pygmies in the Congo... You know, just find a better path in life.”
“MAN, FUCK YOU!!!! LET ME THE FUCKING FUCK OUT!!!!” Luis was fuming. I could picture steam shooting from his ears like in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.
“Listen, buddy, I gotta go to work. That’s what a lot of people do, to make money.
They work. They create or construct useful products or perform services in return for money. Some people, like me, even work here and there on weekends. And most hard-working folks like me don’t appreciate uninvited guests showing up and stealing autographed football jerseys, CDs, DVDs, and tablets. Family heirlooms too. Like, if I broke into Julia’s apartment, how would you feel?”
“Ugh, you went through my phone, you fucking freak psycho. I am going to fucking kill you!”
“Oh, I did go through your phone, Luis. And what’s with the ringtone? ‘How can I be homophobic? My bitch is gay.’ Like, is misogyny the best way to counter homophobia, Luis?”
Luis kept quiet. Perhaps culture wars, identity politics weren’t in his purview, and I respected that, so I went on.
“And I had a lovely conversation with Miss Julia. That’s your ‘gay bitch,’ right?
Yeah, I told her about you thinking she’s a fucking whore and that you know she fucked 6 guys last weekend. Two at the same time…
“Damn, dude, 6 dicks in one day? Hot stuff! But seriously, did she really? Did she actually fuck 6 guys… Or was it like three that she fucked and three she just blew?
“Look, it’s cool if she did. If she wanted to suck three dicks. I’m not hating. I’m only pissing on your leg.”
Silence ensued, so I pressed further. “It’s kinda cool if she fucks like that. She must do anal too. Wowzer… Man, I bet that pussy must have power. I like a girl who is down to fuck. Is she into older guys, though? She’s your age, like 20, yeah?
I bet she is hot. Do you think she’d let me hit it for free? I mean, like, you know, without paying?”
“That’s my fucking sister!” Luis bellowed and followed his proclamation with another futile series of kicks and slaps at the door.
“Ooh, poor her. I sure hope for her sake she doesn’t have any face tattoos and isn’t as ugly and impolite as you, Luis. Oh wait, oh no, no, no, I shouldn’t say that.
Look at me being so inhospitable to my guest! You are a bad influence on me.
“Okay, Luis, I gotta go to work. I’ll be back by 6 or so, maybe 10, if I drink with the IT guys again. But we can certainly chat when I return. I’m hoping you’ll be a better interlocutor then.”
Luis stopped kicking and slapping, and his tone turned conciliatory. “Bro, please, would you, just let me out to use the bathroom?”
“That’s what the bucket is for, Luis.”
“Bro, please, I need to use a real toilet… There’s no toilet paper…”
“Eh, you can use your hand. Someone once told me that’s what they do in Turkey.
If it works fine for the Turks, it should work for Luis too.”
“I can’t… Please…”
“Mmmm, yeah, not sure about that, Luis.”
“Bro, I swear, you let me go, I don’t say nothing to no one. Just lemme out, please.”
“Perhaps we can strike a deal. If you answer my question honestly, I’ll let you out.
Right now. Do we have a deal?” I asked, grinning widely, crossing my fingers behind my back.
“Fine, whatever, please, yes, okay. What?”
“Do you have a brother, cousin, or friend named Miguel, and is he a security guard here?”
A long pause.
“Luis, I’m not hearing an answer…”
“Fuck you! I’m no snitch!” was the acidic rejoinder that eventually arrived.
Ah, yes, the “Code of the Streets,” snitches get stitches and all that. I understood.
So I sent a text message to our building’s management company asking them to check the background of Miguel, that I saw Miguel “acting suspiciously” and that I believed him to be involved in the recent robberies. Although I made no mention of tonight’s events. Or my houseguest.
“Alright, Luis, catch you later, alligator!”
As I strolled over to the bathroom to shower up, get ready for the workday, I could hear Luis frantically hitting the hallway closet door and screaming an amusing batch of muffled invective...
In my suit, walking past the hallway closet again, Luis was still at it. Smacking the door, shouting. Maybe he thought the neighbors would hear or maybe he was just venting. But no one would hear him through these reinforced concrete walls.
“In a while, crocodile!” I yelled, smiling and merrily swinging my briefcase as I walked by Luis’s room and out the front door.
3
Throughout my workday I checked in on Luis, using my phone. I saw him eat the salt & vinegar potato chips I’d left him. I saw him spinning the combination lock, pulling at the lever, lamely trying to break into my gun safe. I also witnessed him attempt lunging kicks at the door, trying to batter the door with his uninjured shoulder. At one point he looked like a little sumo wrestler or an offensive lineman the way he crouched and pushed at the door, tried to wedge it from its frame. I also observed him as he bunched up into a fetal ball, shaking as he cried.
That part I recorded, took screenshots of… Just in case I needed to (or just felt like) extorting him later.
But, alas, I never saw him pick up the Bible, Koran, Sam Harris or Buddha book. It saddens me that these kids aren’t reading these days. Fucking rapscallion wouldn’t even pick up a book when being held captive in a closet for over 18
hours…
Then I remembered an Australian comedian I’d seen, Jim Jefferies. He’d been bragging, in his act, about how he’d only read one book in his whole life. Only one book. All this to the roaring applause of the crowd. Not reading, not reading books, I’d posit, should be something people ought to be embarrassed to admit.
Maybe if Luis read more books, he wouldn’t have gotten taken hostage. But maybe he can be a standup comedian.
As for my guest... What should I do with him? I’d kill him if I had to, but didn’t really want to, and it was too late to call the cops…
I briefly pondered selling him into slavery of some sort. That might teach him a good work ethic. I could auction off Luis J. Gomez’s services on the Dark Web...
But then I stumbled upon the perfect punishment. The perfect dessert to follow the awful entrée of shit I’d already served.
On my way back from work, I stopped by a hunting supply store and bought a blowgun and bag of tranquilizer darts. When I got home, I checked the guestroom
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer cam on my phone and saw that Luis was sitting balled up in the corner, looking passed out. The bump on his head had really swelled up too... Fucker almost looking like a hammerhead shark…
Quickly I opened the door and shot Luis in the arm with a tranquilizer dart. Then I recoiled at the pungent stench of Luis’s body odor coupled with the reek of his excrement in the bucket. But I wasted no time following through with my plan...
On TV and in movies, especially Dexter, if you stick someone with a syringe or shoot someone with a tranquilizer dart, they instantly crumple, pass out.
But it’s not usually like that in real life.
The fellow with the long beard at the hunting shop explained that it takes at least a minute or two for the tranquilizer to set in. Could be up to a few minutes, the larger the animal, he’d warned. So, after blasting Luis, I slammed shut and locked the closet door, waited about 10 minutes, played a couple hands of online poker on my phone and then returned. By that point he was definitely out.
Upon entering Luis’s room, I ground my teeth and again crinkled my nose at the stink cocktail of Luis’s body smells mixed with his piss and shit. Maybe I should have left the asshole a stick of deodorant. Then I chuckled for a second, seeing Luis had wiped his ass with a sock. Then I put my plan in motion.
First, I stripped him naked. In the process, however, I noticed Luis either had a very small penis or was just a grower. Either way, I decided to take advantage of the situation and snapped a series of smartphone pics of a naked Luis and his small dick. Just in case I needed to (or just felt like) extorting him later.
Luis being a small person, maybe 5’6 and scrawny, I was able to easily stuff his entire body, along with his .22, which I unloaded, into an extra-large duffel bag.
To be safe, though, I locked the zippers together with a padlock. Then I set out, still in my 3-piece suit from work, and with my sleeping guest stuffed in the duffel bag slung over my shoulder. When I left my building, none of the building staff even gave me a second look…
I noticed too, passing by the security guards, that Miguel was gone, which made me happy.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I remembered the gang tattoo I’d seen on Luis’s arm and went online and found that street gang’s rival. I crossed the causeway, drove down to their neighborhood, parked in an alley, popped the trunk and lifted out Luis. After unlocking the padlock, unzipping the bag, I rolled him out, onto the pavement, set him down by the dumpster. I placed his gun next to his side and threw a handful of his bullets down toward the other end of the alley… Figured I should be magnanimous, give the kid a fighting chance…
Luis was snoring as I hurried off but appeared to mumble something when I opened the car door. Then, purposely, I backed out and reversed over Luis’s legs, to which he awoke screaming.
This was the sort of gang-infested neighborhood that a lot of guys driving a Benz, wearing a nice suit, generally wouldn’t want to enter. But the whole area appeared a lot nicer than I expected and I exited unscathed. Although the wild car ride sequence through the Bronx from Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities rushed through my head as I approached the highway. Fortunately, I fared better than Sherman McCoy and Maria Ruskin.
As I accelerated up the on-ramp, merged into traffic, I was really hoping that Luis had read at least a few pages from one of those books. The kid could use a bit of spirituality and/or mindfulness. In fact, these days, we all probably could.
JEW FOR JESUS
“You know Ari never had a full-time job.”
“His partner said that a lot of people thought Ari was a rich man.”
“People thought Ari was rich because he was Jewish, and his father owned properties. But his father wasn’t hedge fund manager rich.”
“And his father didn’t leave any money to him. His father left everything to his younger brother.”
“The understanding was that his younger brother, Ben, would send him an allowance, like his parents had been doing.”
“But that wasn’t what transpired.”
“ … “
“Ben went full religious. He’d met and quickly married his first real girlfriend. An evangelical Christian lady from Mississippi. This sharp-elbowed, short, pug-nosed lady who wore heaps of make-up and spoke with a gravelly Southern drawl...”
“I met her once… I can still recall the heavy, noxious odor of her perfume, her crazy long fingernails, and frilly, tacky clothes…”
“Ben met her by Times Square. Guy used to sneak over there to go to the peep shows, Ari’d said…”
“She was with her church group, passing out Bibles or something.”
“ … “
“Then Ben became a Jew for Jesus.”
“ … “
“Ari really blamed Joan, too, Ben’s wife, for corrupting Ben, polluting his mind with the Jesus stuff.”
“But hey, for some people, religion really benefits them. Ben was a total slacker who went to peep shows and spent all day watching TV. But after he got religious he was a changed man. He went from living with his parents, at 33, to working his way up the corporate ladder at an investment bank. The guy went on to head a division in Mergers and Acquisitions. Even got featured once in the Wall Street Journal.”
“Ben was at _____ ___, right?”
“For 40 years…”
“Jesus…”
“… yeah, but Ben hid the Jesus stuff pretty well. He only pushed it on Ari and their parents. He never once talked about it with anyone else in the family…”
“Ben could never bring his brother or their old man to Jesus, but he did ‘convert’
their mother on her death bed.”
“If you wanna call that a conversion… The lady was a vegetable, gone with dementia, had lost all her marbles…”
“ … “
“Okay, sure, it seems superfluous. Their parents leaving the money to the son making 6, 7 figures. But look, think about it, who’s gonna be more responsible?
An executive at an investment bank? Or Ari, Matoosh, or whatever, living with a yoga cult, in Death Valley? This dude who never had full-time employment…”
“Matoosh?”
“Ari had changed his name to ‘Matoosh’ for a while, was demanding that everyone address him as ‘Matoosh.’”
“And it was around then that he started wearing his trademark bandannas.”
“Some thought he wore those due to his obsession with the writer David Foster Wallace. But Ari claimed DFW swiped the bandanna thing from him, after they’d met briefly, at a Don DeLillo book signing…”
“It was around the Matoosh time, too, that Ari began wearing those Burmese longyis…”
“And it was around that time that he decided he was gay. Then he started living with something of a new-age yoga cult in Pahrump, Nevada, near Death Valley...”
“I’m sure none of this sat too well with his parents…”
“Matoosh, the longyis and bandannas, being gay, the yoga… His parents were conservative, second-generation Russian Jews. Ari’s grandfather was a rabbi…”
“It’d caused quite the stir when Ari got up and demonstrated the ‘downward-facing dog’ at a seder.”
“Jesus…”
“I mean he was living in Pahrump, Nevada… I mean… Pahrump… And calling himself ‘Matoosh’…”
“Ari apparently got quite angry too if you didn’t refer to him as ‘Matoosh.’”
“Living in the desert, in Pahrump was a big reason why hardly anyone in the family ever went to visit him. It was just so hot and remote…”
“His parents could have bought him a house in a place that didn’t have ‘death’ in its name and wasn’t hot as a furnace.”
“Or, like, the money could have gone to charity.”
“So Matoosh wasn’t enough of a charity case?”
“ … “
“Ari became an avowed pacifist around that time, too. Getting involved and volunteering at lots of hippy, antiwar, anti-violence organizations...”
“ … “
“Really everything between Ari and Ben went sideways, though, after their parents died. Their parents were accepting of Ari’s homosexuality, his ‘lifestyle,’
as his father called it…”
“Ari’s parents actually seemed far more uncomfortable with the yoga…”
“ … “
“First their father had a deadly, freak accident at the Serenoa Golf Club.”
“The Serenoa?”
“The Serenoa Golf Club.”
“The guy was out golfing alone, early morning. Got attacked by a swarm of wasps and drove his golf cart into a lake. Drowned to death…”
“It was in the papers. Front page of the Sarasota Herald-Tribune.”
“Jesus…”
“Then their mother died. And after their mother died, Ben let it rip. Started calling Ari ‘disgusting’ and saying that it was ‘Ari’s fault, Ari’s fault that Ari was gay.’ Then he insisted Ari ditch his partner, stop doing yoga and start taking gay conversion classes.”
“That didn’t happen, and Ari took his younger brother to court, tried to sue for the inheritance.”
“ … “
“… But Ari’s legal efforts were to no avail. The will was signed, sealed, delivered.
Written in plain English. It was airtight. There was nothing in the will for him. No property. Zero dollars. Nothing. And that whole ‘Ben providing Ari an allowance’
or whatevs was only a handshake agreement.”
“Ben’s lawyer had the case thrown out before it got anywhere.”
“After the suit got dismissed, Ari proclaimed that he’d ‘divorced his brother.’ I don’t think they ever spoke again…”
“Ben, Joan and their Jesus clique are quite polarizing… I don’t think I’ve even seen Ben this century... I heard through the grapevine that he has this stupid crib in Sanibel Island and that he’s been wintering there and summering in the Hamptons... And I heard Joan spends part of the year in Iceland… Their two sons are both bankers at ______ ____, following in their old man’s footsteps...”
“ … “
“Why didn’t Ari just get a job? His old man, Ben, anyone could have put him on…”
“… pink bandannas, Burmese longyis, spontaneous outbursts of yoga, demanding to be addressed as ‘Matoosh’… None of that goes over well on Wall Street…”
“My Pops was always on him, always pushing Ari ‘to do something with his life…’”
“For a while Ari tried to make a living as a poet… He’d done a yoga course in India, too, became a certified yoga instructor. But he never taught yoga as a profession.”
“So he never had a full-time job?”
“Nope. He claimed he couldn’t work because ‘he couldn’t.’”
“ … “
“Ari was quite coddled as a kid. He was a child of that post-Holocaust generation.
That generation thought of every child as a miracle beyond miracles, treated them like Fabergé eggs... His mother always cooking him food, picking up after him, letting him do whatever.”
“With parenting like that it shouldn’t have been surprising he had problems working… Showing up to an office every day. Someone all in his face, telling him what to do…”
“Then at some point Ari started writing new-age, self-help books. Then he tried getting his self-help books published. To no avail.”
“Part of me thought that because he had big teeth and was tall, that he could be the next Tony Robbins…”
“You know, I sorta liked Jacinda Ardern, and I think part of it was because she also has big teeth. There’s something striking and powerful about a person with big teeth…”
“ … “
“It’s just… I didn’t know. I didn’t know Ari was sick. No one knew about his heart condition. No one, aside from his partner.”
“...Ari was walking with a cane and confined to his couch, those last couple a’
years. He was bitter too. He hated not being able to do yoga or go teach his yoga classes at the prison. His partner told me Ari was spending most of his time eating hummus, drinking apple juice and watching the Daily Show and Oakland A’s games…”
“Ari always watched a lot of TV. I think he watched more TV than Chauncey Gardner.”
“Ari had told me he’d send a box of family photos and stuff. But I never received it.
He’d also told me that I was ‘in his will.’ And I thought that might mean the old Harley he had in the garage, which he’d once said he wanted to leave me. I’d have taken that. But it wasn’t that.”
“ … “
“I discovered that Ari left $6,000 to split between me and three other people. So I just told his partner to keep it and to only send the family photos.”
“Ari’s net worth was about $6,000.”
“His partner worked as a nurse, in Pahrump, and had bought their house, was paying the bills.”
“$6000… Bro… That’s a friggin’ first-class ticket from NYC to London…”
“Six thousand dollars.”
“Jesus…”
“I had no idea. But he never said anything. Never asked for help…”
“I was on him to do something with his Dahmer story… Write a book or make a movie…”
“Dahmer? Jeffery Dahmer?”
“Yup. Back when Ari was trying to be straight, he dated, of all people, Jeffery Dahmer’s mother.”
“And they remained friends for the duration of their lives. I have a picture of them together, arm in arm…”
“Jeffery Dahmer could have been your cousin.”
“I know right? Six degrees of something terrible...”
“ ... “
“Despite Dahmer’s crimes, abhorrent crimes, I mean, killing and eating people, necrophilia… Ari always had a soft spot for him. Called him ‘Jeffery.’ Said he saw Jeffery as a lost soul, blamed Jeffery’s father for everything... And Ari even had a long letter-writing correspondence with Jeffrey.”
“Ari told me he cried when Dahmer was murdered in jail.”
“Remember that Black lady, in court, hysterically screaming: ‘I hate you, Jeffery Dahmer!!!’? That lady who was all jumping up and convulsing with anger, getting restrained by the bailiffs… She probably didn’t share that sentiment.”
“I googled her... Rita Isbell… I saw a clip of her praising Dahmer’s killer.”
“Serial killer stuff might make for entertaining movies. But if your friend or loved one were among Dahmer’s victims… Like, yeah, I doubt Rita was watching the Netflix Dahmer movie.”
“Reminds me of this incredible one-man show I saw, by a comedian, Anthony DeVito. This dude discovered, at age 18, that his father was a mafia hitman that’d
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer been shot and killed and found hogtied in the trunk of a car. I doubt that dude wants to watch The Sopranos…”
“Wait… Danny DeVito? The actor? Was a mafia hitman?”
“Nah, it’s another DeVito…”
“ … “
“Bro, I’m so, so sick of all these true crime shows, murder shows and podcasts.”
“I liked it better when there were only one or two murder shows.”
“I bet that jerkoff who killed those college kids in Idaho was a fan of murder TV
shows and podcasts. I bet that stinkin’ jerkoff streamed the Dahmer movie like ten times.”
“That Netflix Dahmer movie really pissed Ari off. After it came out, he and his partner canceled their Netflix subscription. Then Ari wrote Netflix a series of angry letters.”
“Handwritten letters too… Envelopes, stamps and everything…”
“Ari was apoplectic, talking about ‘if a member of Reed Hastings’ family got murdered by a serial killer, Netflix wouldn’t be showing Dahmer and Bundy crap’… That ‘Netflix probably wouldn’t find serial killers too sexy and cool then’…”
“Ari just developed a seething hatred of Netflix CEO Reed Hastings. Like the way liberals hate Trump, and how conservatives hate Hillary or Obama. That’s how Ari felt about Reed Hastings.”
“I think his Dahmer connection was why Ari did the volunteer yoga teaching gig at the prison. Why he believed in those inmates.”
“Teaching yoga at a maximum-security prison…”
“You know Ari had a long letter-writing correspondence with Kip Kinkel, too, the mass killer. They’d connected through yoga. Ari considered him a friend, supported his release.”
“But Ari’s partner told me that Ari had all his Dahmer and Kinkel letters shredded upon his death. Ari didn’t want any of that finding its way to a ‘murderabilia’ site.”
“Hence probably why Ari didn’t write a book or make a movie or documentary with Dahmer’s mother.”
“Ari always saw the good in people.”
“Except for Reed Hastings… And Ben and Joan… And Israel... Oh, man, he just despised Israel.”
“Normally it’s only those Hassidic type of Jews, you know, the ones with the sideburn curls, black hats and big beards who hate Israel.”
“And Norm Chomsky.”
“Noam Chomsky…”
“Noam?”
“Noam.”
“How do you spell that?”
“N-O-A-M...”
“No-am.”
“No, you pronounce it like ‘gnome.’ As in gnome, like the mythical creature, or gnome, like a garden gnome, you know?”
“Noam?”
“Noam.”
“Not Noah?”
“No.”
“Not Norm?”
“No. Noam.”
“So… did he ever visit Israel?”
“Who? Norm Chomsky?”
“Noam!”
“No, not Chomsky, Ari…”
“Ari did, yeah. After India, he visited Israel and briefly lived on a Kibbutz.”
“He’d had something of a ‘Jewish Prophet’ phase, where either he thought he might be the messiah or that he might find the messiah in Israel…”
“But this is different from the Matoosh phase?”
“Yeah, no, Matoosh was a different time in his life.”
“After Israel, Ari volunteered at a potato farm in Ethiopia, then went backpacking through Europe.”
“Then while he was in Germany, he had this super-intense dream that he was standing in line, in what looked like a death camp. And he was next to this little red-haired girl, maybe 5 or 6 y/o, and that this little girl had these dimples and freckles, and was like the most adorable, most innocent girl he’d ever seen… After he woke up, he said he spent an entire day, in his bunk bed at the hostel, just crying.”
“That’s why he tatted the pink teardrop on his face…”
“Bro, Ari wouldn’t have done well in the Holocaust, being gay AND Jewish…. And antiwar…”
“And practicing yoga…”
“ … “
“… but Ari just hated Israel. He’d stand up, throw stuff, yell and spit at the TV if he saw anything about the ‘Zionist Occupation.’”
“He had a watercolor painting in his living room of a young Arab boy throwing a rock at an Israeli tank…”
“He always rooted for the underdog.”
“Like with everything. Sports too… He hated the Yankees. Though that could have been because his brother’s a big Yankees fan.”
“But Ari also detested Duke basketball, the Cowboys, and the Lakers. I think he saw the Palestinians as like the Oakland A’s or the Sacramento Kings or something…”
“I’m not sure Ari would have done well living in Palestine. Or Riyadh. Or anywhere in Saudi Arabia…”
“I know right? It was weird, his passionate, anti-Israel stance. Since homosexuality is so severely criminalized in the Middle East. Everywhere except Israel. Like, if he were in Gaza, he’d be lynched.”
“Eh, I think his hatred of Israel was more in relation to his younger brother. Ben and his wife’s church are big-time Israel supporters.”
“Maybe it was because of Ben, too, that Ari eventually became an atheist.”
“He’d gone from Jewish to Buddhist to Hindu, back to Jewish, for a few years, then tried to be a Sikh, I think… But once he discovered Sam Harris, he never looked back…”
“I wonder what happens to atheists when they die.”
“ … “
“I talked to Ari’s partner the other night. I saw on Facebook that it was his 76th birthday, so I gave him a shout.”
“They never got married?”
“Nah, but they talked about it.”
“Ari said that despite being together for almost 40 years, he wasn’t sure they
‘knew each other well enough.’”
“ … “
“It was around Thanksgiving that Ari died…”
“We both miss him.”
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer POETRY
YOU!
You!
went psychotic afternoon
acted invisible and chased after imaginary cats
You!
went really red rover
and Flamenco danced at a fortune teller
You!
rushed off on roller-skates,
after performing the Heimlich on a mannequin
You!
set fire to your feet
and played Frisbee with stolen toilet seats
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer You!
sucked off a Salvation Army Santa
and ran off Riverdancing
You!
spray-painted stanzas of Beatnik poetry
and puked on every public library
You!
started stupid new dancing plagues
and catfished Karen suicide cults
You!
went fishing with your bare hands
and called it performance sushi
You!
really licked random people in frog suits
and called it floppy lollipops
You!
guerrilla exploded empty empathy tanks
and went vigilante snowman with whip cream cans
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer You!!!
really whispered
what I didn’t wanna hear
You!!!!!
really bit off my ear
and called it true romance
You… You… Oh, you!!!
You called for
calisthenics and cannibalism
and practiced performance veganism
You understood
umbrellas were parachutes
and purposely padlocked airport bathrooms
You sipped
Psilocybin Bourbon Bitters,
and did angry ballet behind a Burger King
You plucked
pubic hairs with pliers,
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer and called it performance topiary
You sucked off
Ari Shaffir
and called it heckling
You hyperventilated
and imagined progress
You bought an AK-47
and begged for world peace
You!!!!
did it all
YOUR way,
on your OWN terms…
You went without
reading palms
You went without
breaking mirrors
And that’s exactly
what I like about you
POSITIVITY IN A NOPE
NO ride,
that’s given
to gangster body parts
is going to be floating like plastic bottles
is going to be swimming like porpoises
NOT
in this canal’s piping
NO ride,
That’s given
will ever be more than the most penurious monk
OR lab rats, drunk on digital feelings
And no, while your temper
may move quicker than lizards in toilets,
it remains the darkest of all my daydreams
Mr. Gum Disease Capone,
your tropical misery is a super yup genesis!
that’s a given
But darling, there’s a frog in my mouth
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer a mass, a mountain of sugar in a distance
it’s a give
a give for the take
a muck for the rake
it’s a given
Show me, show me
Show me your hands
Show me
your social security number and
your mother’s twinkle toes and your ugliest Xmas sweaters and your angry football coach rants that are still warm and fuzzy It’s a given
I’ll give you that
I’ll give you twenty-five reasons not to go
I’ll give you that
a punch in the arm
a cost to doing business
a sauce, a sizzle to the soul
I’ll give you that
Happy happy me
Happy happy me
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Have me laughing during dick surgery
Have me kick open an emergency exit
puke jungle juice and jump out the plane
It’s a given
You give me twenty-five of that
You give me another reason
never to search for the fog
You give me an excuse and a diagram
You show me that it’s a given
there’s positivity in a nope
BARBIE GIRL
Barbie and I were classmates
in sixth grade
Unlike most girls
Barbie sat
in the back of the classroom
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I always wanted to talk to Her
because She was beautiful
Of course, of course
She was beautiful
She was Barbie!
Barbie had blue blue eyes
bigger and brighter
than the brightest summer skies
and gold gold hair, in ringlets
finer than the finest jewels
Barbie was the first girl
my age
with legs
To me, Barbie
was even prettier
than girls on TV
And like TV
I’d watch Her
… as She got
more intriguing than GI Joe…
… me, Her secret admirer
watching Barbie Girl
as She stared out the window
head tilted, looking so cute
long legs crossed
chewing on Her lower lip
But as I studied Barbie
better than schoolwork
I started to notice
dark blue blotches
on Barbie’s thin arms,
a blue so dark
… damn near black
… a dark
in such stark contrast to the
color of Barbie’s eyes
Then Barbie came to class
two days before Halloween
limping like a zombie
with a black eye
and Her right arm
in a white sling
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer and I recalled
Barbie looked so sad
and I wanted so bad, to say
Something, anything
to make Her feel better
but I didn’t have the words
And I never got a chance
to cheer Her up
because Barbie vanished from school
All these years later
in another millennium
I still don’t really have the words
but, Barbie, if You’re out there
just know
that I hope You pursued,
found happiness
whatever that is
and please know
You weren’t forgotten
CORONAVIRUS PATIENT ZERO
Coronavirus, COVID-19
Sars2
the “Wu Flu”
Patient Zero
who are you?
where are you?
and how did you
catch the monster?
Did you
catch it from a bat?
a civet cat?
from a lab? A scab?
from barbecued rats at a wet market?
PERHAPS A PANDA OR A PANGOLIN?
Do you know?
that YOU are
the ultimate super-spreader
did you know?
that it was from your breath
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer your blood
your touch
your spit
that ALL THIS
is history
ALL THIS…
TELL US
let the record show…
WHAT DID YOU KNOW
AND WHEN DID YOU KNOW IT?
TELL ME
… DID YOU SEE?
the grim reaper on a respirator!?
DID YOU KNOW?
do you know?
ARE YOU ALIVE?
did you die?
are you in a Chinese jail?
chained to a wall?
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer or in the cotton fields
with Uighurs in chains
or toiling in Tibet…
or dead as the Falun Gong,
or dead as Hong Kong…
or are you in a padded room
GOING INSANE
Or are you in heaven with Doctor Li?
or crawling in a cave, in Yunnan
or are you wearing pants?
Are you in France?
And is your name really Huang Yanling?
Or were you
a pensioner seeking scraps
an accountant of maps?
a seller of bats?
an eater of cats?
a user of WeChat?
or another worker
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer at the Wuhan Institute of Virology
dropping beakers like babies…
or was your hand
bitten by humanized mice?
And
are
you
nice?
WHO ARE YOU?
are you a Chad or Karen?
WHERE ARE YOU?
are you in a kitchen?
chopping chicken?
listening to K-Pop, nonstop,
or are you still mad about THAAD?
are you in Wuhan or Hebei?
are you in Spain?
are you in pain?
or are you in a shopping mall?
are you laughing?
did you have a diagnosis?
and pray tell us all:
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Where did YOU spend YOUR quarantine?
DID YOU HEAR? SMELL? SEE?
the genesis?
And HOW WOULD YOU FEEL?
if you KNEW, for sure,
that you, from your hands
from your belly
from your vowels
FROM YOUR MOLECULES
lashed the droplets
brought the blood
birthed the seed
of the beast in its crown
That weighed so heavily on humanity’s head…
MOON MAN
Moon Man shoved a beer bottle
up his butt
then threw his blow-up doll
off the balcony
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Moon Man then proclaimed
he’d made merit
to all but the most gullible gods
Whenever Moon Man drank
he tore off his clothes
and fought with walls
he wheezed and wept
stuck bottlenecks up his ass
and even offered sex for science
but Moon Man only had fun
because he didn’t know
what was already done
Whenever Moon Man
woke to night terrors
he would drink more whiskey
then he’d wonder
just how do you kill a ghost?
can you use a vacuum cleaner to catch a ghost?
and when is a blessing simply a curse?
Moon Man shaved his head
made amends
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer then illegally downloaded
two self-help books
1) How to be an Alpha Male
2) How to Win Friends and Influence People
then he bought a gun
PERSPECTIVE
The stink of the city
Varies
Depends on your location
Your limitations
Your tolerance to foresight
Your view of
high-rises,
mud-huts and tin roofs
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer HOMELAND OF THE NEW MAN
You said
they were doffed,
mangled meaning.
You trundled,
licking blood off your baton
Your bombs,
liberation parade
You saw
fulminating,
painted steps
snowy swastikas
tickle attacks at the Potala Palace.
there they prostrated.
sextons in the brown skin.
animal Feudalists,
serfs strafing,
making maledictions.
scraping, straddling,
stabbing the People,
missing teeth moues.
gasoline showers
and You, YOU galumphed
You slipped
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer cigarettes, cannulas
invisible hands. Funky ghosts,
You built
camps
from muddy culverts
interlarded in ice
with apocalyptic armaments and
your bifurcated vagaries set in train
You estivated
in diamonds, blood hills,
biding your time,
biting your lower lip.
building your defenses
stacking your reserves
New men. NEW MAN.
Not geldings, not eunuchs.
New men.
No never men
nadirs of New nations.
No never paucity
Five Yellow Stars.
Red tongues, corpulence
perpendicular ideals
of Marxist nourishment,
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer mendicancy, into
Convenience or Death.
CANCEL CULTURE
This is not a story. This is not literature.
This is a spit in the face.
A kick in the nuts. A punch in the tit.
A shooting spree,
of consonants and vowels, aimed at snowflakes.
This is to be loathed. This is to cause anger.
This is to be deleted, blocked, downvoted, canceled and hated.
Demonetized
by coding corpses in Silicon Valley
It is my hope a Twitter Mob forms,
curses my name, relegates me to Louis CK status.
This is my penis and I take it out
a dark web palm reader for the snowflakes.
This is my penis and I take it out
to piss on the face of all Boomers, Gen Xers
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer and especially the Millennials and Gen Z
You who have grown with smartphones akin to limbs, priapic pineal glands, ophthalmic screens…
You who have “emotional support animals”
I hope your emotional support animal
mauls you to death like an Alaskan grizzly bear
and you fucking die like that execrable Australian crocodile cunt You who have “safe spaces”
I want to rig your safe spaces
with prepositions, adverbial pipe bombs
and laugh as they explode like an Ariana Grande concert Yes, YOU, you snowflakes…
You who have transformed young America
into a coddled wasteland
of mock outrage, moaning prudes
You who subscribe to video game streams on YouTube You who pay punk ass PewDiePie his millions
while the greatest living poet in America works as a janitor!
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer You who fight over bathrooms
You who bastardize legitimate arguments,
shame those who marched
shame those who righteously died
You who vote Republican and Democrat
You who watch CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News
You who wish to silence creators
You who are triggered
You who can’t take a joke
You who can’t fathom opposing views
You who Yelp, write online reviews
in braille
You who protest Joe Rogan and Dave Chappelle
You, you snowflakes: I want to reach into your toilets to smear myself in your shit
and kick at your cunts and balls as you whine online about my blackface I want to punch your nose
paint myself in your blood and attack your colleges with wadded up copies of The Naked Lunch and Tropic of Cancer
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer I want to hack Spotify
replace every playlist with Public Enemy on a continuous loop and blast 2 Live Crew
from loudspeakers down every boulevard in Northern California I want to hog-tie conservatives, make them watch gay porn I want to hog-tie liberals, make them watch monster truck rallies Because your phone can block
Your phone can delete
But energy cannot be destroyed
And ART, speech, thought
Are the purest form of energy
The very flesh of emotion…
Currency both malefic and supernal!
And now, snowflakes
now I tie your noose
I grind my knife to your throat
I aim my AK at your temples
Just to tell you this:
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Sticks and stones can break my bones
But words will always nourish me…
Let there be commerce!
***** ALL WORKS COPYRIGHT 2023 METH LAB PRESS *****
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