#the david brain rot is SICKENING ME

[ivomartins]

oh he's the one for me i fear

[englishchinesetranslations]

Tulsi Gabbard: Wake Up And Smell Our $6.4 Trillion Wars

REALISM & RESTRAINT

Tulsi Gabbard: Wake Up And Smell Our $6.4 Trillion Wars

Meanwhile, her fellow Democrats appear abysmally unconcerned about the human and financial toll.

Rep. Tulsi Gabbard in August 2019. (Flickr/Creative Commons/Gage Skidmore)

NOVEMBER 29, 2019

DOUG BANDOW

The Democratic establishment is increasingly irritated. Representative Tulsi Gabbard, long-shot candidate for president, is attacking her own party for promoting the “deeply destructive” policy of “regime change wars.” Gabbard has even called Hillary Clinton “the queen of warmongers, embodiment of corruption, and personification of the rot that has sickened the Democratic Party.”

Senator Chris Murphy complained: “It’s a little hard to figure out what itch she’s trying to scratch in the Democratic Party right now.” Some conservatives seem equally confused. The Washington Examiner’s Eddie Scarry asked: “where is Tulsi distinguishing herself when it really matters?”

The answer is that foreign policy “really matters.” Gabbard recognizes that George W. Bush is not the only simpleton warmonger who’s plunged the nation into conflict, causing enormous harm. In the last Democratic presidential debate, she explained that the issue was “personal to me” since she’d “served in a medical unit where every single day, I saw the terribly high, human costs of war.” Compare her perspective to that of the ivory tower warriors of Right and Left, ever ready to send others off to fight not so grand crusades.

The best estimate of the costs of the post-9/11 wars comes from the Watson Institute for International and Public Affairs at Brown University. The Institute says that $6.4 trillion will be spent through 2020. They estimate that our wars have killed 801,000 directly and resulted in a multiple of that number dead indirectly. More than 335,000 civilians have died—and that’s an extremely conservative guess. Some 21 million people have been forced from their homes. Yet the terrorism risk has only grown, with the U.S. military involved in counter-terrorism in 80 nations.

Obviously, without American involvement there would still be conflicts. Some counter-terrorism activities would be necessary even if the U.S. was not constantly swatting geopolitical wasps’ nests. Nevertheless, it was Washington that started or joined these unnecessary wars (e.g., Iraq, Libya, Syria, and Yemen) and expanded necessary wars well beyond their legitimate purposes (Afghanistan). As a result, American policymakers bear responsibility for much of the carnage.

The Department of Defense is responsible for close to half of the estimated expenditures. About $1.4 trillion goes to care for veterans. Homeland security and interest on security expenditures take roughly $1 trillion each. And $131 million goes to the State Department and the U.S. Agency for International Development, which have overspent on projects that have delivered little.

More than 7,000 American military personnel and nearly 8,000 American contractors have died. About 1,500 Western allied troops and 11,000 Syrians fighting ISIS have been killed. The Watson Institute figures that as many as 336,000 civilians have died, but that uses the very conservative numbers provided by the Iraq Body Count. The IBC counts 207,000 documented civilian deaths but admits that doubling the estimate would probably yield a more accurate figure. Two other respected surveys put the number of deaths in Iraq alone at nearly 700,000 and more than a million, though those figures have been contested.

More than a thousand aid workers and journalists have died, as well as up to 260,000 opposition fighters. Iraq is the costliest conflict overall, with as many as 308,000 dead (or 515,000 from doubling the IBC count). Syria cost 180,000 lives, Afghanistan 157,000, Yemen 90,000, and Pakistan 66,000.

Roughly 32,000 American military personnel have been wounded; some 300,000 suffer from PTSD or significant depression and even more have endured traumatic brain injuries. There are other human costs—4.5 million Iraqi refugees and millions more in other nations, as well as the destruction of Iraq’s indigenous Christian community and persecution of other religious minorities. There has been widespread rape and other sexual violence. Civilians, including children, suffer from PTSD.

Even stopping the wars won’t end the costs. Explained Nita Crawford of Boston University and co-director of Brown’s Cost of War Project: “the total budgetary burden of the post-9/11 wars will continue to rise as the U.S. pays the on-going costs of veterans’ care and for interest no borrowing to pay for the wars.”

People would continue to die. Unexploded shells and bombs still turn up in Europe from World Wars I and II. In Afghanistan, virtually the entire country is a battlefield, filled with landmines, shells, bombs, and improvised explosive devices. Between 2001 and 2018, 5,442 Afghans were killed and 14,693 were wounded from unexploded ordnance. Some of these explosives predate American involvement, but the U.S. has contributed plenty over the last 18 years.

Moreover, the number of indirect deaths often exceeds battle-related casualties. Journalist and activist David Swanson noted an “estimate that to 480,000 direct deaths in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan, one must add at least one million deaths in those countries indirectly caused by the recent and ongoing wars. This is because the wars have caused illnesses, injuries, malnutrition, homelessness, poverty, lack of social support, lack of healthcare, trauma, depression, suicide, refugee crises, disease epidemics, the poisoning of the environment, and the spread of small-scale violence.” Consider Yemen, ravaged by famine and cholera. Most civilian casualties have resulted not from Saudi and Emirati bombing, but from the consequences of the bombing.

Only a naif would imagine that these wars will disappear absent a dramatic change in national leadership. Wrote Crawford: “The mission of the post-9/11 wars, as originally defined, was to defend the United States against future terrorist threats from al-Qaeda and affiliated organizations. Since 2001, the wars have expanded from the fighting in Afghanistan, to wars and smaller operations elsewhere, in more than 80 countries—becoming a truly ‘global war on terror’.”

Yet every expansion of conflict makes the American homeland more, not less, vulnerable. Contrary to the nonsensical claim that if we don’t occupy Afghanistan forever and overthrow Syria’s Bashar al-Assad, al-Qaeda and ISIS will turn Chicago and Omaha into terrorist abattoirs, intervening in more conflicts and killing more foreigners creates additional terrorists at home and abroad. In this regard, drone campaigns are little better than invasions and occupations.

For instance, when questioned by the presiding judge in his trial, the failed 2010 Times Square bomber, Faisal Shahzad, a U.S. citizen, cited the drone campaign in Pakistan. His colloquy with the judge was striking: “I’m going to plead guilty 100 times forward because until the hour the U.S. pulls its forces from Iraq and Afghanistan and stops the drone strikes in Somalia and Yemen and in Pakistan and stops the occupation of Muslim lands and stops Somalia and Yemen and in Pakistan, and stops the occupation of Muslim lands, and stops killing the Muslims.”

Ajani Marwat, with the New York City Police Department’s intelligence division, outlined Shahzad’s perspective to The Guardian: “’It’s American policies in his country.’ …’We don’t have to do anything to attract them,’ a terrorist organizer in Lahore told me. ‘The Americans and the Pakistani government do our work for us. With the drone attacks targeting the innocents who live in Waziristan and the media broadcasting this news all the time, the sympathies of most of the nation are always with us. Then it’s simply a case of converting these sentiments into action’.”

Washington does make an effort to avoid civilian casualties, but war will never be pristine. Combatting insurgencies inevitably harms innocents. Air and drone strikes rely on often unreliable informants. The U.S. employs “signature” strikes based on supposedly suspicious behavior. And America’s allies, most notably the Saudis and Emiratis—supplied, armed, guided, and until recently refueled by Washington—make little if any effort to avoid killing noncombatants and destroying civilian infrastructure.

Thus will the cycle of terrorism and war continue. Yet which leading Democrats have expressed concern? Most complain that President Donald Trump is negotiating with North Korea, leaving Syria, and reducing force levels in Afghanistan. Congressional Democrats care about Yemen only because it has become Trump’s war; there were few complaints under President Barack Obama.

What has Washington achieved after years of combat? Even the capitals of its client states are unsafe. The State Department warns travelers to Iraq that kidnapping is a risk and urges businessmen to hire private security. In Kabul, embassy officials now travel to the airport via helicopter rather than car.

Tulsi Gabbard is talking about what really matters. The bipartisan War Party has done its best to wreck America and plenty of other nations too. Gabbard is courageously challenging the Democrats in this coalition, who have become complicit in Washington’s criminal wars.

Doug Bandow is a senior fellow at the Cato Institute and a former special assistant to President Ronald Reagan. He is the author ofForeign Follies: America’s New Global Empire.

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

life story part 23

Going up to north Idaho that winter was one of the few things I really enjoyed. Somehow, I didn't get bored up there. My mom got me this old fashioned clickety click type writer and I would just sit around and write all day. It snows hard and constantly up there in the winters. The sights were lovely. After school on Fridays, and during winter break, I would endure the three and a half hour drive up there to be in my grandpa Roy's mountain cottage. I would write and draw, and I found some occult books that I started to read. I was especially fascinated with Aleister Crowley I remember. I didn't obviously have access to his books or anything, just his life story and some statements he made. I think, even though I am not all that big on the guy now, that he might have been a gateway for me to really actually begin questioning reality. I mean, naturally, I have always been very much in my own mind. I had questioned a lot about life before, but this was sort of different. I think it made me interested more so in the way the world works that lead me to be interested in consciousness, the human mind, things like that.

I also started studying Arthurian Legends. It was difficult to understand some of the stories that are in the original book of Arthurian Legends. I got through it though. I made this anime in my mind that revolved around king Arthur, and I was drawing that a lot. In school, we had to read The Outsiders and That Was Then This Is Now. I remember being pretty heartbroken about the later. A comic book shop had opened up in Moscow, and we all swarmed up there to get anime stuff, which we were all very excited about. When we got up there, my friends went towards things they knew they liked. Katie was in love with InuYasha I think. For some reason, I ended up in the vintage anime section, and I ended up buying this really strange comic called Mya the Psychic Girl. My friends thought that the anime was bad, and I grew to be embarrassed that I had picked this out at random, but on looking back, I actually think the art was really good. The story was -eh, but I am actually pleased that went for something a little different.

Going up north, I was removed from my own identity. There was always a fire in the fireplace, and as I would sit there and draw, the dogs, all three, Chester, Tasha and Pepsi would all gather around me to snuggle. There was endless amounts of food to eat in the freezer. I also found this stash of my grandpa Roy's pickled garlic – something he must have enjoyed in life because he had an entire shelf of it. I ate a lot of this. Roxanne also for some reason on one of her spending sprees would buy these enormous boxes of Valentine's day chocolates, and eggnog. This caused me gain a lot of weight. At my dad's as well, I was secretly buying cookie dough and tubs of frosting and eating them straight. I would end up hiding them under my bed when my dad came home, and if I didn't finish them, they would rot. I had to dispose of the waste and this strange pattern of eating horribly and feeling shame set in. I would never/ could never do this now not only because it is terrible, but it is also gross. I had not yet reached the total awareness that eating had any connection to weight gain. Around me, there was a lot of stuff going on that wasn't good. There would be twenty to thirty people who were driving up to find Roxanne to spend her money, and she was gullibly giving it all away, all 90,000 of it. Drugs were everywhere. The whole thing was a mess, and a temporary convenience that was sure to fall apart at any moment.

Roxanne and my mom found out that I was wearing five bras – one on top of the other because they were all training bras and were not in themselves adequate in the job they were supposed to be doing. So, Roxanne was nice enough, despite being high as a kite, to drive me all the way to Post Falls, and at the time I was blown away by the first Super Walmart I had ever been in. She bought me a bunch of stuff I really needed, make up, hair stuff, a hoodie to keep warm, bras and underwear. My dad didn't really get me that stuff even though he had the money to. Roxanne, even as high on meth as she was really helped me during this time. We would also drive around from gas station to gas station going to the sticker machines and she would give me absurd amounts of money to try and get me as many stickers as I could. We would drive around late at night, buying out the machines – which caused me to have a big collection of venting machine stickers that I don't have anymore but wish that I did.

The grandest and most memorable thing of this time for me, was going to the theaters and watching Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. We went with my grandma Marie, my sisters, my mom and a my younger siblings. I honestly at the time thought that it was absolutely the best movie I had ever seen. I was on the edge of my seat. I remember every single aspect of it seemed amazing to me and perfect in every way. Though, now on looking back, I mean, it's okay. I am no longer that into the movies, and to be honest, I am not super into Lord of the Rings. But I mean, back then, that movie coming out had this major impact on me. I remember leaving the theaters feeling better than I had ever felt. It even made Kyle seem kind of distant and lame.

The worst time I had though was one night, I was waiting with Allison, and my mom had left with David. They were supposed to be back in two hours. Five hours went by, and I started to panic. I tried calling her on her humongous cellphone but given that we were too far out in the woods, I could not really reach her. Something switched in my mind, and in my mind, I knew that my mom and David were dead. I began crying out in despair. Another five hours went by. I had been hyperventilating. I had this perfect understanding by that point that the two of them were dead. I began throwing up. I could barely breath. I can't remember most of it, only that I was certain they had died. My mind was very lucid, and I could have been convinced of nearly anything. When finally, my mom and little brother did show up around three or so in the morning, I was at a loss. They had just stayed at my uncle Rusty's a little longer than normal. I tried to explain to them how I had known they were dead, and it was just like 'eh, well we aren't.' This was not my first panic attack, but this was in a way one of the first times where I could definitely point out that I alone had a way of mentally overreacting to my own thoughts. I try to take this side of me into account when I am upset. I have to remember that if I let my mind spin out of control, I can distort my own reality and do some pretty extreme stuff.

As anyone would guess, this arrangement in my grandpa's place did not last. My oldest sister Maria was there at my grandpa's home initially, but due to the poor relationship she has with our mom, there was a big fight. They had both been aggravating one another in ways that were unnecessary to me, but it was my dear old mom was actually really the vicious one. My mom has always been abusive towards Maria. Since Maria had had that panic attack that year, she had this big scar on her head from where she slammed her head into that can of green beans. In this fight between them, my mom grabbed a can of green beans and told Maria to bash her brains out on this can, and to go ahead and kill herself and do everyone a favor. It was extremely cruel, just a twist of the knife that made me sick in it's tone and how she meant it, and I was sickened by her. She always seemed hungover and moody. And to see this exchange go down – I watched something behind Maria's eyes crumple, and my mom had this bloodlust in her eyes like she really would like to see Maria die. I cried out 'MOM, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?' but she ignored me. Maria packed up Jasmine and baby Ian and went to Florida shortly after with Earl, whom she hated.

Then, sometime after I stopped going up there as well, as much as I loved being snowed in. Roxanne and I were in the house. My dad was coming to pick me up to take me back down to Kendrick to spend some of my winter vacation with my Uncle Bob who had flown up to see everybody, potentially go to Red River Hot Springs, and go to some kind of Christmas party with Jodi's family. As I was waiting, Roxanne was getting drunk on hard liquor and taking pills. I didn't know this, and it seemed to come upon her suddenly. We were just talking and hanging out, and suddenly she started telling me I was pathetic. I got confused. She started saying that if I didn't invite Kyle to stay up here during the weekends, than I was worthless. I tried to explain that under the circumstance and how close I was to Kyle, that that was absolutely crazy and sure to get a strong rejection. She started then screaming at me saying I was a ugly little bitch. I got teary eyed, and then kind of realized fully that she was drunk and high. I had absolutely no idea why she even did this to herself. She seemed suddenly quite miserable. She ran into the bathroom and began puking. My ride came and I left and decided that I wasn't going to go up there anymore. The drugs were starting to make people mean. Roxanne remembers saying none of this to me.

Jodi's family's Christmas party was long and boring. It was just a bunch of adults I had never met. I wasn't cute enough for them to be of any interest. There was a gift exchange. I ended up getting gifts from this crazy great aunt of Jodi's who was in a nursing home somewhere whom I never once met. Everyone seemed to silently agree that her gifts were the worst. We all took turns opening the presents. This crazy aunt's gifts were not all that bad though – for me at least. She got me this porcelain doll with this really fucked up look on it's face, with eyes bulging out. It was actually pretty cool, and where on earth did she find this doll? The second thing I received was this jukebox alarm clock. I didn't like it at first, but after awhile, I began having this appreciation for the oldies more so because of it.

I ended up skipping going with my dad, Jodi, Jessie and Allison and David to Red River Hot Springs. I loved that place and it was of course enchanting and all that good stuff, but I wanted to be alone in the house more. I wanted to charge food at the store, and just sit around and read and be alone for a few days. I felt really awkward going anywhere with them. So I pretended that I had the stomach flu. They left without me and I watched them go. And then, inn a strange turn of events though, I ended up legitimately getting the stomach flu. So perhaps it was better I had not gone after all.

I got better and I got to be alone like I had wanted. I heard Kyle going sledding one night, and seeing that my room had this big prominent front window that looked down over the street, I wanted to spy on him, but I didn't want to be noticed. So I sort of ducked and watched him. This behavior seems so ridiculous to me now, and I cannot imagine doing this at all, or even wanting to. In the process of doing this, funniest thing happened. As I was looking down and spying on him as he and his friend were getting their sled ready, I ducked before they saw me, and I think his friend noticed and said something. They watched for awhile looking up at my window, and I tried nervously to not move at all.. But then, Pepsi came to the window, and she looked at them intently and began howling like a coyote. I tried to stop her, but she would not be dissuaded. She howled for ten minutes. I had no idea what had gotten into her.

I had asked for a lot of empty tape cassettes for Christmas. I was getting for some reason obsessed with the radio. I had noticed over the years that songs stopped being played on the popular radio stations as new hits kept coming in, and I never got to hear them again. I didn't have money to buy albums, if there was a way to easily access them on the internet I didn't know how to do that. I have always been an obsessive archivist. I like collecting objects, noting small details. I try to write everything down even if I never put it online. I want to own music on my computer that I don't even like. I have about 100,000 songs on my computer. I like connecting small occurrences with major events. I try to take note of small details – while often times missing big obvious ones. I try to spin this comprehensive web, and I try to organize everything. Which leads to me forgetting about everything around me.

So, I go these tapes to tape the radio, hours and hours alone. I decided that somehow I was going to collect every single song I heard. I went through tapes and tapes. Then my tape deck stopped working to record the radio, and I had to get an individual tape recorder and set it close to the radio, which created weird static faraway sounding versions of the originals. I was up most nights doing this. I would listen over the tapes, and the entire vibe of these songs gave me this cold chill. I also started feeling like there was more to music than what I had always listened to on the pop radio station. There had to be more than Shakira, Sum 41 and all that. I  eventually tuned into the AM stations, which I had never done before. And I got sucked in to these distant recordings that were probably being broadcast over 100 miles away.

This feeling in and of itself caused/ still causes my heart to get this imploding feeling. I found these Mexican radio stations that broke my brain. It sounded like a mariachi band playing from hell. The sound of scratchy faraway sad obscure tunes from the 50's. Some of them were even sixties songs. It felt like some distant memory of a party in sixties where someone overdosed and was forgotten. There was a radio station that played very old country, and occasionally Art Bell would be on. It felt like something was being dragged out of me and I have never been the same. It wasn't pleasant, but it was still good. Sometimes, I would listen to the static with some inaudible preacher ranting. I could not hear it all, but the feelings I got from it was eerie, and made me feel more alive. After doing this for a few months, I stopped listening to pop music. It was no longer good enough for me. It sounded hollow and plastic. The feelings that were generally conveyed were very cheap. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But it's like if you were only aware of the top layers of the ocean where everything is more or less understandable and safe. But things go much deeper, and most people aren't really aware of that.

I had also asked for a few CD's for Christmas. My friends were all really into Avril Lavigne, so I bought that album. I secretly hated it, and it made me feel kind of sick, but for some reason since my friends liked it, I was unable to contemplate not liking it myself. I did eventually give up listening to it though. And then I got this Los Ketchup album, which is this ridiculous girl group from Mexico that did this song that was popular for awhile called The Ketchup Song. I thought that song was just great when I was younger. And I actually listened that silly album a lot.

Jodi had convinced my dad to get Dish. So I started watching a lot of music videos whenever no one was home. Music was becoming my world. MTV by this time had just been taken over by reality television, which never appealed to me. So I spent more time on MTV2 and VH1 (which both eventually were also taken over by reality TV). I stopped going to school whenever possible so I could watch I Love the 80's, and music videos. I really was getting into the 80's music videos. I felt like there was this alternative world in the 80's that never changed. Spandex were always in, Bizarre Love Triangle was always playing. It had this surreal darkness around it. And I was very lost. It had just gotten to this point where I couldn't go to school. One day, I was ready to go and everything. I was even going to be on time. But then this rush of anxiety hit me and I passed out. I couldn't really keep doing this at all. My dad and Jodi were fighting by this time, so I was able to stay home without him noticing. He was never home when the school called. And before there was caller ID, you just used your senses to know who was calling. I always knew it was my school, or if it was a friend. You could just hear something between the rings. I think a lot of people know what I mean by that, but it's hard to explain exactly.

I started dressing differently, and putting my make up on differently than my friends. I dressed in black as much as I could. Somewhere, I had seen a picture of Robert Smith, probably on VH1 eighties hour. I didn't know who The Cure was, but I loved his make up and I wanted to emulate that style. I would usually walk to the school when it got out to greet my friends. I was there maybe half the time, and only because my dad would be home that day. Sarah once asked me why it was that I dressed all in black. I responded that it was the way I felt inside. Which, on retrospect is so cliché. I meant it though and had no idea that I was doing something that had been said and done before, and at the time that seemed really profound to my friends. I also loved watching The Breakfast Club. Today, I have problems with this movie because I don't like the way that the weird girl has to change her look to be acceptable to Emilio Estevez's character. It is actually quite a slap in the face to my kind. But I loved that movie, and would watch it every time it was on television.

My dad just didn't know what to do with me. He decided that he would have Jodi take me to get a makeover at the mall. I think he was hoping to get me more into being into normal 'woman things'. Nobody understood why I taped hours of the radio or had drastically changed my attire, or reading books on horoscopes and the occult. I think a lot of people have thought it was some kind of a faze, but it wasn't really. I mean, I have changed my look over time for sure, limiting some things and expanding others, but overall, this change was honestly one of the first things I had done that set me apart from everyone else and felt more true to myself. The same with the music I was listening to and everything else. For years I had been trying desperately to fit into a certain image, with this dull unsaid promise that everything would be okay, if I could only be like everyone else. But embracing what I liked, I think actually made me a lot healthier. Sure, I was a terrible student. But I started crying less and less because Kyle didn't like me.

The make over was lame. The girl who did my make up was really subtly rude to me. She seemed uncomfortable with touching my face because of my zits, even though my face had been cleaned. She told me I had ugly eyebrows and eyelashes. My eyelashes are really small and light colored, despite having very course dark hair. I think it's because I am part Swedish. They put such light colors on me that it didn't really make me look that different. Everyone was expecting that I would look like a new person when I got home. I could see the disappointment on their faces. I actually did my make up better on my own. The black stuff looked better.

My dad also tried to get me glasses. I feel badly about this, since it was a waste of his money. By this time, I was absolutely blind as a bat, probably genetic since neither of my parents can see well, but maybe due in part to all the times I had pressed my eyes as hard as I could to watch the colors, lights and images that my brain produced. Or maybe all the times I had stared into the sun just a little too long. I went to the eye doctor, and against my wishes, I picked out some glasses. They were very expensive. I thought glasses on women were ugly at the time, perhaps my own internalized sexism against myself at work. So once I had gotten these glasses, I intentionally broke them one day so I would never have to wear them. I didn't want people thinking I was ugly. And looking back, I do feel bad.

There was a winter dance that January. I ended up going. It was the first dance I had ever been to. I was really nervous. Mostly, I stood off to the side. My friends had started hanging out with this girl named Ava. Ava had been popular, but she was a lot different than the other girls, so she had decided to jump the group and moved on over to my group which seemed like a lot more fun. She was really outgoing and forward. I hadn't really talked to her much yet but she had found out that I liked Kyle and she was bold and kind of did her own thing so she intended on asking if guys would dance with all of us, including, and maybe especially me. She did not understand my hesitation at all. We were entirely different in that way, and she didn't understand the lengths I took or how I overthought things. She was going to go straight over to Kyle and ask him on my behalf without my permission. She told me she was going to ask him whether I liked it or not. I was shocked. I begged her not to. So, exasperated, she  instead asked Andrew (boy who spit gum on my seat the previous year) if he would dance with me. He said yes. I have no idea if I danced correctly. I do remember that I was actually really happy. It wasn't bad at all. I didn't like Andrew like that, but it was actually really nice to just dance with boys. It gave me this tingling feeling in my head – which didn't last because I didn't have any real feelings for them.

Eventually I did dance with Kyle. I could not believe he had said yes. I really admired Ava for having demonstrated to me that I could do things like that. I don't even remember the actual dance. I was so overwhelmed and happy, but it seemed to go well (I mean, this was a lame small town junior high dance, so if you take that into consideration). I remember the song we danced to was some slow Usher song. My friends all danced with other guys. I was so excited that after dancing with Kyle, I went straight into the girls' bathroom and slid down the wall. In order to prevent myself from smelling like sweat, I had soaked my arm pits with perfume. The perfume was burning my skin terribly. Despite this, I could not feel any of the painful rash. I was shaking. Suddenly, a bunch of popular girls went into

the bathroom and surrounded me. They started asking me if I had a crush on Kyle. They said they could just tell. I denied it meekly, re situating my appearance of being on the floor to make it seem more casual and less like someone who was so happy they could not walk. They kind of tried to let me know that he was Kayla's, and to leave him alone. I acted like I didn't care.

PART 22 -  http://tinyurl.com/yat6cfnw

PART 21 -  http://tinyurl.com/y783egno

PART 20 - http://tinyurl.com/y8jskymt

PART 19 - http://tinyurl.com/rfhbms8

PART 18 - http://tinyurl.com/ycrznrwk

PART 17 - http://tinyurl.com/y77unlng

PART 16 - http://tinyurl.com/yadpsv8c

PART 15 - http://tinyurl.com/yb3lt6k5

PART 14 - http://tinyurl.com/yb4cfedq

PART 13 - http://tinyurl.com/yalanq9s

PART 12 - http://tinyurl.com/yc79mw94

PART 11 - http://tinyurl.com/yc9qhj84

PART 10 - http://tinyurl.com/yb734w24

PART 9 - http://tinyurl.com/yc2t6vfw  

PART 8 - http://tinyurl.com/ybl37utq

PART 7 - http://tinyurl.com/ybvo283g

PART 6 - http://tinyurl.com/kbc9dwu

PART 5 - http://tinyurl.com/msnz4am

PART 4 - http://tinyurl.com/k9x8esg

PART 3 - http://tinyurl.com/mwp9atx

PART 2 - http://tinyurl.com/lbt6xq2

PART 1 - http://tinyurl.com/l8xbvg8

[forestwater87]

John Dies at the End -- David Wong

So okay this is literally the best book I’ve ever read, but there’s really no way to explain “drug that lets you see into other dimensions turns two assholes into the worst exorcists ever” that doesn’t make it sound a little lame, so fuck it. I’m typing up the entire goddamn prologue.

If you need something to read, just . . . try it. It’s amazing. Try the book that the author calls a “convoluted NyQuil fever dream of a horror story,” “a Class II biohazard,” “the unholy thing I was growing in my brain’s murky cloning vat,” a “gruesome hyperactive chain of absurd non sequiturs,” “a crash between two semi trucks hauling napalm and vibrators,” “400 pages of undiagnosed personality disorder,” a “150,000-word cry for help,” “a hallucinogenic cacophonous Mardi Gras of fart monsters,” and “a 400-page tour through my misfiring synapses.”

Seriously, everyone. A work of fucking genius.

Prologue

SOLVING THE FOLLOWING riddle will reveal the awful secret behind the universe, assuming you do not go utterly mad in the attempt. If you already happen to know the awful secret behind the universe, feel free to skip ahead.

Let’s say you have an ax. Just a cheap one, from Home Depot. On one bitter winter day, you use said ax to behead a man. Don’t worry, the man was already dead. Or maybe you should worry, because you’re the one who shot him.

He had been a big, twitchy guy with veiny skin stretched over swollen biceps, a tattoo of a swastika on his tongue. Teeth filed into razor-sharp fangs—you know the type. And you’re chopping off his head because, even with eight bullet holes in him, you’re pretty sure he’s about to spring back to his feet and eat the look of terror right off your face. On the follow-through of the last swing, though, the handle of the ax snaps in a spray of splinters. You now have a broken ax. So, after a long night of looking for a place to dump the man and his head, you take a trip into town with your ax. You go to the hardware store, explaining away the dark reddish stains on the broken handle as barbecue sauce. You walk out with a brand-new handle for your ax. The repaired ax sits undisturbed in your garage until the spring when, on one rainy morning, you find in your kitchen a creature that appears to be a foot-long slug with a bulging egg sac on its tail. Its jaws bite one of your forks in half with what seems like very little effort. You grab your trusty ax and chop the thing into several pieces. On the last blow, however, the ax strikes a metal leg of the overturned kitchen table and chips out a notch right in the middle of the blade. Of course, a chipped head means yet another trip to the hardware store. They sell you a brand-new head for your ax. As soon as you get home, you meet the reanimated body of the guy you beheaded earlier. He’s also got a new head, stitched on with what looks like plastic weed-trimmer line, and it’s wearing that unique expression of “you’re the man who killed me last winter” resentment that one so rarely encounters in everyday life. You brandish your ax. The guy takes a long look at the weapon with his squishy, rotting eyes and in a gargly voice he screams, “That’s the same ax that beheaded me!” IS HE RIGHT?

I WAS PONDERING that riddle as I reclined on my porch at 3:00 A.M., a chilled breeze numbing my cheeks and earlobes and flicking tickly hairs across my forehead. I had my feet up on the railing, leaning back in one of those cheap plastic lawn chairs, the kind that blow out onto the lawn during every thunderstorm. It would have been a good occasion to smoke a pipe had I owned one and had I been forty years older. It was one of those rare moments of mental peace I get these days, the kind you don’t appreciate until they’re ov— My cell phone screeched, the sound like a sonic bee sting. I dug the slim little phone from my jacket pocket, glanced at the number and felt a sickening little twinge of fear. I disconnected the call without answering. The world was silent again, save for the faint applause of trees rustling in the wind and crumbly dead leaves scraping lightly down the pavement. That, and the scuffle of a mentally challenged dog trying to climb onto the chair next to me. After two attempts to mount the thing, Molly managed to send the chair clattering onto its side. She stared at the toppled chair for several seconds and then started barking at it. The phone again. Molly growled at the chair. I closed my eyes, said an angry five-word prayer and answered the call. “Hello?” “Dave? This is John. Your pimp says bring the heroin shipment tonight, or he’ll be forced to stick you. Meet him where we buried the Korean whore. The one without the goatee.” That was code. It meant “Come to my place as soon as you can, it’s important.” Code, you know, in case the phone was bugged. “John, it’s three in the—” “Oh, and don’t forget, tomorrow is the day we kill the president.” Click. He was gone. That last part was code for, “Stop and pick me up some cigarettes on the way.” Actually, the phone probably was bugged, but I was confident the people doing it could just as easily do some kind of remote intercept of our brain waves if they wanted, so it was moot. Two minutes and one very long sigh later, I was humming through the night in my truck, waiting for the heater to blow warm air and trying not to think of Frank Campo. I clicked on the radio, hoping to keep the fear at bay via distraction. I got a local right-wing talk radio program. “I’m here to tell ya, immigration, it’s like rats on a ship. America is the ship and allllll these rats are comin’ on board, y’all. And you know what happens when a ship gets too many rats on board? It sinks. That’s what.” I wondered if a ship had ever really sunk that way. I wondered what was giving my truck that rotten-egg smell. I wondered if the gun was still under the driver’s seat. I wondered. Was there something moving back there, in the darkness? I glanced in my rearview mirror. No, a trick of the shadows. I thought of Frank Campo. Frank was an attorney, heading home from the office one evening in his black Lexus. The car’s wax job gleaming in the night like a shell of black ice, Frank feeling weightless and invincible behind the greenish glow of his dashboard lights. He senses a tingling on his legs. He flips on the dome light. Spiders. Thousands of them.

Each the size of a hand.

They’re spilling over his knees, pushing up inside his pant legs. The things look like they’re bred for war, jagged black bodies with yellow stripes, long spiny legs like needle points.

He freaks, cranks the wheel, flips down an embankment.

After they pried him out of the wreckage and after he stopped ranting, the cops assured him there wasn’t a sign of even one spider inside the car.

If it had ended there, you could write it off as a bad night, a trick of the eyes, one of Scrooge’s bad potatoes. But it didn’t end there. Frank kept seeing things—awful things—and over the months all the king’s doctors and all the king’s pills couldn’t make Frank’s waking nightmares go away.

And yet, other than that, the guy was fine. Lucid. As sane as a sunset. He’d write a brilliant legal brief on Wednesday, and on Thursday he’d swear he saw tentacles writhing under the judge’s robes.

So? Who do you go to in a situation like that?

I pulled up to John’s building, felt the old dread coming back, churning like a sour stomach. The brisk wind chased me to the door, carrying a faint sulfur smell blown from a plant outside town that brewed drain cleaner. That and the pair of hills in the distance gave the impression of living downwind from a sleeping, farty giant.

John opened the door to his third-floor apartment and immediately gestured toward a very cute and very frightened-looking woman on his sofa. “Dave, this is Shelly. She needs our help.”

Our help.

That dread, like a punch in the stomach. You see, people like Frank Campo, and this girl, they never came for “our help” when they needed a carburetor rebuilt.

We had a specialty.

Shelly was probably nineteen, with powder-blue eyes and the kind of crystal clear pale skin that gave her a china doll look, chestnut curls bundled behind her head in a ponytail. She wore a long, flowing skirt that her fingers kept messing with, an outfit that only emphasized how small she was. She had the kind of self-conscious, pleading helplessness some guys go crazy for. Girl in distress. Makes you want to rescue her, take her home, curl up with her, tell her everything is gonna be okay.

She had a white bandage on her temple.

John stepped into the corner of his tiny apartment that served as the kitchen and smoothly returned to place a cup of coffee in her hands. I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling; John’s almost therapist-like professionalism was ridiculous in a room dominated by a huge plasma-screen TV with four video game systems wired to it. John had his hair pulled back into a neat job-interview ponytail and was wearing a button-up shirt. He could look like a grown-up from time to time.

I was about to warn the girl about John’s coffee, which tasted like a cup of battery acid someone had pissed in and then cursed at for several hours, but John turned to her and in a lawyerly voice said, “Shelly, tell us your story.”

She raised timid eyes to me. “It’s my boyfriend. He . . . he won’t leave me alone. He’s been harassing me for about a week. My parents are gone, on vacation and I’m . . . I’m terrified to go home.”

She shook her head, apparently out of words. She sipped the coffee, then grimaced as if it had bit her.

“Miss—”

“Morris,” she said, barely audible.

“Ms. Morris, I strongly recommend a women’s shelter. They can help you get a restraining order, keep you safe, whatever. There are three in this city, and I’ll be happy to make the call—”

“He—my boyfriend, I mean—he’s been dead for two months.”

John cast a little gleeful glance my way, as if to say, “See how I deliver for you, Dave?” I hated that look. She went on.

“I—I didn’t know where else to go. I heard, you know, through a friend of mine that you handle, um, unusual problems.” She nudged aside a stack of DVD cases on an end table and sat the mug down, glancing at it distrustfully as if to remind herself not to accidentally drink from it again, lest it betray her anew. She turned back to me.

“They say you’re the best.”

I didn’t inform her that whoever called us “the best” had pretty low standards. I guess we were the best in town at this, but who would you brag to about that? It’s not like this shit has its own section of the phone book.

I walked over to a cushioned chair and scooped out its contents (four worn guitar magazines, a sketch pad, and a leather-bound King James Version of the Holy Bible). As I tried to settle in, a leg broke off and the whole chair slumped over at a thirty-degree angle. I leaned over nonchalantly, trying to look like that’s exactly what I had expected to happen.

“Okay. When he comes, you can see him?”

“Yes. I can hear him, too. And he, uh . . .”

She brushed the bandage on the side of her skull. I looked at her in bewilderment. Was she serious?

“He hits you?”

“Yes.”

“With his fist?”

“Yes.”

John looked up from his coffee indignantly. “Man, what a dick!”

I did roll my eyes this time and glared at John once they stopped. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a ghost, but I’m guessing that if you did, the thing didn’t run over and punch you in the face. I’m guessing that’s never happened to any of your friends, either.

“When it first happened,” Shelly said, “I thought I was going crazy. Up until now, I’ve never bel—”

“Believed in ghosts,” I finished. “Right.” That line was obligatory, everybody wanting to come off as the credible skeptic. “Look, Miss, I don’t want to—”

“I told her we would look into it tonight,” John said, heading me off before I accidentally introduced some rational thought into this thing. “He’s haunting her house, out in [town name removed for privacy]. I thought you and I could head over there, get out of the city for a night, show this bastard what’s what.”

I felt a burst of irritation, mostly because John knew the story was bullshit. But then it suddenly clicked in my mind that, yes, John knew, and he had called me because he was trying to set me up with this girl. Button-cute, dead boyfriend, chance to be her hero. As usual, I didn’t know whether to thank him or punch him in the balls.

Sixteen different objections rose up in my mind at once and somehow they all canceled each other out. Maybe if there had been an odd number. . . .

WE HEADED OUT, in my Bronco. We had told Shelly not to drive herself, in case she had a concussion, but the reality was that, whether or not her story was true, we still had vivid memories of Mr. Campo and his unusually spidery car. You see, Frank found out the hard way that the dark things lurking in the night don’t haunt old houses or abandoned ships. They haunt minds.

Shelly was in the passenger seat, hugging herself, looking blankly out the windshield. She said, “So, do you guys, like, do this a lot?”

“Off and on,” said John. “Been doing it for a few years.”

“How does somebody get into this?”

“There was an incident,” he said. “A series of incidents, I guess. A dead guy, another dead guy. Some drugs. It’s kind of a long story. Now we can see things. Sometimes. I have a dead cat that follows me around, wondering why I never feed it. Oh, and I had one hamburger that started mooing when I ate it.” He glanced at me. “You remember that?”

I grunted, said nothing.

It wasn’t mooing, John. It was screaming.

Shelly didn’t look like she was listening anymore.

“I call it Dante’s Syndrome,” John said. I had never heard him call it any such thing. “Meaning, I think Dave and I gained the ability to peer into Hell. Only it turns out Hell is right here, it’s all through us and around us and in us like the microbes that swarm through your lungs and guts and veins. Hey, look! An owl!”

We all looked. It was an owl, all right.

“Anyway,” I broke in, “we just did a couple of favors for people, eventually word got around.”

I felt like that was enough background and I wanted to stop John before he got to the part where he says he kept eating that screaming hamburger, down to the last bite.

I left the truck running as I jumped out at my place for supplies. I bypassed the house for the weatherworn toolshed in the backyard, opened the padlocked door and swept over the dark shelves with my flashlight:

A Winnie the Pooh toy with dried blood around its eyes;

A stuffed and mounted badgerconda (a cross between a badger and an anaconda);

A large Mason jar filled with cloudy formaldehyde, where inside floated a six-inch clump of cockroaches arranged roughly in the shape of a human hand.

I grabbed a medieval-style torch John had stolen from the wall of a theme restaurant. I picked up a clear squeeze bottle filled with a thick green liquid that immediately turned bloodred as soon as I touched it. I reconsidered, sat it back on the shelf and grabbed my vintage 1987 ghetto blaster instead.

I went into the house and called to Molly. I opened a small plastic tub in the kitchen cabinet filled with little pink, rubbery chunks, like erasers. I put a handful in my pocket and rushed back out the door, the dog following on my heels.

Shelly lived in a simple two-story farmhouse, black shutters on white siding. It sat on an island of turf in a sea of harvest-flattened cornfields. We walked past a mailbox shaped like a cow and saw a hand-painted sign on the front door that read THE MORRISON’S—ESTABLISHED 1962. John and I had a long debate at the door about whether or not that apostrophe belonged there.

I know, I know. If I had a brain, I would have walked away right then.

John stepped up, pushed open the front door and ducked aside. I dug in my pocket and pulled out one of the pink chunks. They were steak-shaped dog treats, complete with little brown grill lines. I realized at that moment that no dog would know what those grill lines were and that they were purely for my benefit.

“Molly!”

I shook the treat in front of her and then tossed it through the door. The dog ran in after it.

We waited for the sound of, say, dog flesh splattering across a wall, but heard only the padding of Molly’s paws. Eventually she came back to the door, grinning stupidly. We decided it was safe to go in.

Shelly opened her mouth as if to express some kind of disapproval, but apparently decided against it. We stepped into the dark living room. Shelly moved to flip on a light, but I stopped her with a hand motion.

Instead, John hefted the torch and touched his lighter to it. A foot-tall flame erupted from the head and we slowly crept through the house by its flickering light. I noticed John had brought along a thermos of his coffee, this “favor” already qualifying as an all-nighter. I admit, the horrific burning sensation really did keep you awake.

I asked, “Where do you see him, mostly?”

Shelly’s fingers started twisting at her skirt again. “The basement. And once I saw him in the bathroom. His hand, it, uh, came up through the toilet while I—”

“Okay. Show us the basement door.”

“It’s in the kitchen, but I—guys, I don’t wanna go down there.”

“It’s cool,” John said. “Stay here with the dog, we’ll go down and check it out.”

I glanced at John, figuring that should have been my line as her handsome new knightly protector. We clomped down the stairs, torchlight pooling down the stairwell. Shelly waited behind us, crouching next to Molly and stroking her back.

A nice, modern basement.

Washer and dryer.

A hot-water heater making a soft ticking sound.

One of those waist-deep floor freezers.

John said, “He’s not here.”

“Big surprise.”

John used the torch to light a cigarette.

“She seems like a nice girl, doesn’t she?” John said softly and with a kind of smarmy wink in his voice. “You know, she reminds me of Amber. Jennifer’s friend. When she came to my door, for a second I actually thought it was her. By the way, I wanna thank you for comin’ along, Dave, sort of being my wingman on this. I’m not saying I’m going to take advantage of her distress or anything, but . . .”

I had tuned John out. Something was off, I knew right then. Lingering in the back of my mind, like a kid in the last row of the classroom with his hand up. John was acting all detectivey now, leaning over a large sink with a bundle of white cloth draped over the side.

“Oh, yeah,” said John, pulling up a length of cloth. “Take a look at this shit.” The garment was white, a single piece with straps, like an apron. Well, it had been white. Once. Now it was mostly smudges of faded-blood pink at the center, like a kindergarten kid’s rendering of the Japanese flag.

I turned to the large floor freezer. That freaking dread again, cold and hard and heavy. I strode over and opened the lid.

“Oh, geez.”

It was a tongue. That’s the first thing I saw, rubbery and purplish and not quite human. It was longer, animal-like, twisted inside a ziplock bag and coated in frost. And it wasn’t alone; the freezer was filled with hunks of flesh, some in clear bags, some bigger chunks in pink-stained white paper.

Butcher paper. White apron.

“Well, I think it’s obvious,” said John. “Those stories of UFOs that go around mutilating cows? I think we just solved it, my friend.”

I sighed.

“It’s a deer, you jackass. Her dad hunts, apparently. They keep the meat.”

I nudged around and found a frozen turkey, some sausages. I closed the lid to the fridge, feeling stupid, though not for the reason I should have felt stupid. I wasn’t thinking. Too late at night, too little sleep.

John started poking around in cabinets. I glanced around for the boom box, realizing now that we hadn’t brought it down here. Why did that bother me? It was upstairs with Shelly, right?

“Hey, Dave. You remember that guy whose basement got flooded, then called us and swore he had a fifteen-foot great white shark swimmin’ down there?”

I did remember but didn’t answer, afraid of losing that thread of thought that kept floating just out of reach like a wayward balloon on a windy day. Besides, when we got there, it wasn’t a great white at all. Just a garden-variety eight-foot tiger shark. We told the guy to wait until the basement dried out and call us back. When the water left, so did the shark, as if it evaporated or seeped out the tiny cracks in the concrete.

Think. Damned attention span. Something is wrong here.

I tried to pull myself back from my tangent, thinking of the boom box again. John had found it at a garage sale. There’s a story in the Old Testament, a young David driving away an evil spirit by playing pretty music on his harp—

Wait a second.

“John, did I hear you say you thought she looked like Amber?”

“Yeah.”

“John, Amber’s almost as tall as me. Blond hair, kind of top-heavy, right?”

“Yeah, cute as hell. I mean—”

“And you think Shelly looks like her? The girl sitting upstairs?”

“Yeah.” John turned to face me, already getting it.

“John, Shelly is short. Short with dark hair. Blue eyes.”

—They haunt minds—

John sighed, plucked out his cigarette and flung it to the floor. “Fuck.”

We turned toward the stairs, took a step up, and froze. Shelly was there, sitting halfway up the stairs, one arm curled around Molly’s neck. Innocent, wary eyes. Playing the part.

I stepped slowly onto the third stair, said, “Tell me something, Miss, uh, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your last name—”

“Shelly is fine.”

“Yeah, remind me anyway. I hate forgetting things.”

“Morris.”

I took another step toward her.

“That’s what I thought.”

Another step. I heard John step up behind me.

“So,” I said, “whose house is this?”

“What?”

“The sign out front says Morrison. Morris-son. Not Morris. Now would you describe your own appearance for me?”

“I don’t—”

“You see, because John and I have this thing where we’re both seeing completely different versions of you. Now, John has eyesight problems because of his constant masturbation, but I don’t think—”

She burst into snakes.

That’s right. Her body sort of spilled out of itself, falling into a dark, writhing puddle on the ground. It was a tangle of long, black serpents, rolling over each other and down the steps. We kicked at them as they slithered past, John warding them off with the torch.

Some, I saw, had patches of color on their scales, like flesh or the flowered pattern of Shelly’s dress. I caught a glimpse of one snake with a writhing human eyeball still embedded in its side, the iris powder blue.

Molly jumped back and barked—a little too late, I thought—and made a show of snapping at one of the snakes as it wound its way down the stairs. She bounded to the top of the stairs and disappeared through the doorway. We kicked through the slithering things and stomped up after the dog, just as the stairwell door banged shut on its own.

I reached for the knob. At the same moment it began to melt and transform, turning pink and finally taking the shape of a flaccid penis. It flopped softly against the door, like a man was cramming it through the knob hole from the other side.

I turned back to John and said, “That door cannot be opened.”

We stumbled back down the stairs, John jumping the last five, shoes smacking on the concrete. The snakes fled from the firelight and disappeared under shelves and between cardboard boxes.

That’s when the basement started filling with shit.

The brown sludge oozed up from the floor drain, an unmistakable stench rising above it. I looked around for a window we could crawl out of, found none. The sewage bloomed out from the center of the floor, swirling around the soles of my shoes.

John shouted, “There!”

I whipped my head in his direction, saw him grab a little plastic crate from a shelf and set it on the floor. He climbed up on it, then just stood there with the muck rising below. Finally he looked at me and said, “What are you doing? Go find us a way outta here!”

I was ankle-deep now in a pool that was disturbingly warm. I sloshed around, looking above me until I found the large, square duct feeding into the first floor from the furnace. The return air vent. I went to a pegboard on the wall and grabbed a foot-long screwdriver. I jabbed it into the crease between the metal of the duct and the floor, prying down the apparatus with a squeal of pulled nails.

I finally got a hold on the edge of the metal duct and felt it cut into my fingers. I pulled it down to reveal the dark living room above me, blocked by a metal grid. I jumped and knocked the grate aside with my hands. I leapt again and grabbed floor with both hands, feeling carpet under my fingers. With a series of frantic, awkward movements I managed to pull my limbs up until I could roll over on the floor of the living room.

I looked back at the square hole and saw a flicker of flame emerge, followed by the torch and then John’s hand. In a few seconds we were both standing in the living room, glancing around, breathing heavily.

Nothing.

A low, pulsing sound emerged from the air around us. A laugh. A dry, humorless cough of a noise, as if the house itself was expelling the air with giant lungs of wood and plaster.

John said, “Asshole.”

“John, I’m changing my cell number tomorrow. And I’m not giving you the new one. Now let’s get this over with.”

We both knew the drill. We had to draw the thing out somehow. John handed me his lighter.

“You light some candles. I’ll go stand in the shower naked.”

Molly followed me as I went back to where we left the boom box and the other supplies. I lit a few candles around the house—just enough to make it spooky. John showered, I found another bathroom and washed the sludge off my shoes and feet.

“Oh, no!” I heard John shout over the running water. “It’s dark in here and here I am in the shower! Alone! I’m so naked and vulnerable!”

Out of things to do, I walked around for a bit and eventually found a bedroom. I glanced at my watch, sighed, then lay down over the covers. It was almost four in the morning.

This could go on for hours, or days. Time. That’s all they have. I heard Molly plop down on the floor below. I reached down to pet her and she licked my hand the way dogs do. I wondered why in the world they felt the need to do that. I’ve often thought about trying it the next time somebody got their fingers close to my mouth, like at the dentist.

John came back twenty minutes later, wearing what must have been the smallest towel he could find. He lowered his voice. “I think I saw a hatch for an attic earlier. I’m gonna see if there’s room to crawl around up there, see if maybe there’s a big scary-looking footlocker it can pop out of or somethin’.”

I nodded. John raised his voice theatrically and said, “Oh, no. We are trapped here all alone. I will go see if I can find help.”

“Yes,” I answered, loudly. “Perhaps we should split up.”

John left the room. I tried to relax, hoping even to doze off. Ghosts love to sneak up on you when you’re sleeping. I scratched Molly’s head and—

SLEEP. LICKING. A soft splashing sound from another room. I dreamed I saw a shadow peel itself off the far wall and float toward me. Most of my dreams are like that, always based on something that really happened.

My eyes snapped open, my right arm still hanging over the edge of the mattress, the rough tongue still flapping away at my ring finger. How long had I been out? Thirty seconds? Two hours?

I sat up, trying to adjust to the darkness. A faint glow pulsed from the hall where the nearest candle burned away in the bathroom.

I quietly stepped off the foot of the bed and headed across the room into the hallway. Down the hall now, toward the sound and the light. I ran my hand along the textured plaster of the wall until I reached the bathroom, the source of the gentle splashing. Not splashing. Slurping. I peered in.

Molly, drinking from the toilet. She turned to look at me with an almost catlike “can I help you?” stare. I thought absently that she was drinking the poowater with the same mouth she used to lick my hand. . . .

If she’s in here, then that wasn’t her by the bed.

I picked the candle off the counter and headed back to the bedroom. I stepped in, the candle casting an uneven halo of light around me, rustling the shadows aside. I moved toward the bed and saw . . .

Meat. Dozens of the wrapped and now partially unwrapped hunks from the freezer, laying neatly on the floor next to the bed in an almost ceremonial fashion, the objects arranged in the rough shape of a man.

I moved the light toward the head area, where I found a frozen turkey still in the Butterball wrapper. Under it, wedged between turkey and torso, was the disembodied deer tongue, flapping around of its own accord.

Hmmmm. That was different.

I jumped back as the turkey, the tongue, and a slab of ribs levitated off the floor.

The man-shaped arrangement of meat rose up, as if functioning as one body. It pushed itself up on two arms made of game hens and country bacon, planting two hands with sausage-link fingers on the floor. The phrase “sodomized by a bratwurst poltergeist” suddenly flew through my mind. Finally it stood fully upright, looking like the mascot for a butcher shop whose profits went entirely to support the owner’s acid habit.

“John! We got, uh, something here.”

It was about seven feet tall, its turkey head swiveling side to side to survey the room, the tongue swaying uselessly below. It extended a sausage to me.

“You.”

It was an accusation. Had we dealt with this thing before? I didn’t remember it, but I was bad with faces.

“You have tormented me six times. Now prepare to meat your doom!”

I have no way of knowing that it actually said “meat” instead of “meet” but I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt. I ran.

“John! John! We got a Situation Fifty-three here!”

The thing gave chase, its shaved-ham feet slapping the floor behind me. My candle went out. I tossed it aside. I saw a closed door to my right, so I skidded to a stop, threw it open, and flung myself in.

Linen shelves smacked me in the face and I fell back out of the closet, dazed. The meat man wrapped its cold links around my neck and lifted me up. It pinned me against the wall.

“You disappoint me. All those times we have dueled. In the desert. In the city. You thought you had vanquished me in Venice, didn’t you?”

I was so impressed by this thing’s ability to articulate words using that flapping deer tongue and a frozen turkey that I almost lost track of what it was saying.

Venice? Did he say Venice? What?

Molly came by just then, trotting along like everything was just A-OK in Dogland.

Then she noticed some meat standing nearby and started happily chewing on a six-inch-wide tube of bologna serving as the thing’s ankle.

“AARRRRRGHHHH!!!!”

It dropped me to the floor. I scrambled to my feet and ran downstairs. The meat man followed.

At the foot of the stairs, John was waiting.

He was holding the stereo.

The monster stopped halfway down the staircase, its eyeless turkey head staring down the device in John’s hands, as if recognizing the danger.

Oh, how that Old Testament demon must have howled and shrieked at the sight of young David’s harp, seeing at work a form of ancient magic that can pierce any darkness. The walking meat horror knew what was coming, that the same power was about to be tapped.

John nodded, as if to say, “Checkmate.”

He pushed the “play” button.

Sound filled the room, a crystal melody that could lift any human heart and turn away any devil.

It was “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake.

The monster grabbed the spots on the turkey where its ears would be and fell to its knees. John wielded the stereo before him like a holy talisman, stepping up the stairs, driving the sound closer to the beast. Every inch of its fat-marbled skin and gristle writhed in agony.

“Take it!” John screamed, suddenly emboldened. “It looks like you should have taken time to beef up your defenses!”

The beast grabbed its abdomen; in pain, I thought.

Instead it pried loose a canned ham and, before John could react, hurled it at the stereo, the can whizzing through the air like a Randy Johnson fastball.

Direct hit. Sparks and bits of plastic flew. The stereo tumbled out of John’s hands and fell heavily to the stairs.

Disarmed, John hopped down to the floor as the beast rose to its feet and pursued. It grabbed John by the neck. It snatched at me, but I dodged and grabbed the coffee thermos from the table. I ran back with the thermos, spun off the top and dashed the contents at the meaty arm that held John.

The meatstrocity screamed. The arm smoked and bubbled, then burst into flame. The limb then blackened and peeled off from the socket, falling to the hardwood below. John was free, falling to his knees and gasping for air.

The beast howled, collapsing to the floor meatily. With its only remaining arm, it pointed at me.

“You’ll never defeat me, Marconi! I have sealed this house with my powers. You cannot escape!”

I stopped, put my hands on my hips and strode up to it. “Marconi? As in, Doctor-slash-Father Albert Marconi? The guy who hosts Magical Mysteries on the Discovery Channel?”

John stepped over and glared at the wounded thing. “You dumbass. Marconi is fifty years old. He has white hair. Dave and I aren’t that old combined. Your nemesis is probably off giving some seminar, standing waist-deep in a pile of his own money.”

The thing turned its turkey at me.

“Tell ya what,” I offered. “If I can get you in touch with Marconi so you two can work out your little differences, will you release us?”

“You lie!”

“Well, I can’t get him down here, but surely a being as superhumanly powerful as you can destroy him at a distance, right? Here.”

It watched me as I fished out my cell phone and dialed. After talking to a secretary, a press agent, a bodyguard, an operator, the secretary again and finally a personal assistant, I got through.

“This is Marconi. My secretary says you have some kind of a meat monster there?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

I offered the phone to Meaty. “Do we have a deal?”

The thing stood up, hesitated, then finally nodded its turkey up and down. I held out the phone, while giving John a dark look that I hoped conveyed the fact that Plan B involved me letting the monster beat the shit out of him while I tried to escape out of a window somewhere. Fucking girl and her “ghost boyfriend.” Marconi would have seen this shit coming a mile away.

A bundle of sausage fingers took the phone from my hand.

“So!” it boomed into the receiver. “We meat again, Marconi. You thought you had vanquished me but I—”

The beast spontaneously combusted into a ball of unholy blue light. With a shriek that pierced my ears, it left our world. The lifeless meat slapped to the floor piece by piece, the cell phone clattering next to the pile.

Silence.

“Damn, he’s good,” said John. I walked over and picked up the cell phone. I put it to my ear to ask the doctor what he had done, but it was the secretary again. I switched it off. The doctor hadn’t even hung around long enough to say hello.

John made a casual hand-dusting motion. “Well. That was pretty stupid.”

I tried the front door and it opened easily. Who knows, maybe it had never been sealed. We took time to straighten up the place, not finding any Morrisons restrained or dismembered and figuring that “Shelly” was at least telling the truth when she said the real family was on vacation. The shit had vanished from the basement, but I couldn’t fix the heating duct I had messed up earlier. We packed the meat back into the freezer as best we could, with one exception.

The sun was already dissolving the night sky by the time I got home. I opened up the toolshed and set the broken boom box inside. I found an empty jar, filled it from a square can of formaldehyde and dropped the deer tongue in. I placed it on the shelf next to a stuffed monkey paw, lying lifeless with two fingers extended. I locked up and went to bed.

—from the journal of David Wong