Songs Your Mother Taught Us: Sado

Welcome to Hell

Welcome to Hell, soul number 143,346,765,890,123,445. We hope you enjoy your eternal torment. Everything in Hell is done with the utmost care and professionalism. We are not how the living perceive us.

Please fill out these forms. Yes, there are a lot of them. 145,990,901,230 to be exact. Please write legibly in print. If you have any questions, Amanda the Succubus will help you. If you feel your energy levels draining, just step away from her for a few moments. She can't help it.

Looks like you're heading to the cube farm. You're lucky, my friend. You got a nice, cushy paper-pushing job. You could've been sent to Tartarus to endure the abyss, but instead, you get to work on one of our lucrative business contracts. Thank your lucky stars you're not an oarsman on the river Styx. Those guys get no benefits and no time off. They never get to see their families.

Oh, so you're single? You should check out one of the night clubs downtown. The lights are bright, the music too loud, and the drinks exorbitantly expensive. But listen, I'm going to offer you some non-professional advice: You should wear protection. The STD rate in Hell is ridiculous. Everybody's got something, is what I'm saying. You don't want to spend eternity covering up a herpes outbreak.

Some more advice: Suck up to your boss. Looks like Andy Rooney's your supervisor. He's just as curmudgeonly in Hell as he was in life. Suck his dick. We are a little more literal in Hell than the living world. Those who get ahead have to work hard, and sometimes that means chowing down on old man penis. Just be glad you didn't get an actual demon as your superior. Sodomy Tuesdays are a real thing, let me tell you.

One last thing--pick a religion before you start work. Everyone's very religious in Hell. It helps to be as delusional as possible. It makes the eternal torment a little easier. The Fundamentalist Baptists are always a popular choice, though it never hurts to embrace your new lifestyle and become a Satanist. Just don't become a Mormon. It's lonely. Most of those guys get stuck in Heaven.

Here's the key to your apartment. You're in the downtown district; how nice. Your roommate is a one-legged midget who eats human flesh. He's a nice guy, I've worked with him before. You're starting out ahead here, buddy. Good luck.

Internet Ad Bot Presents: Black Friday Deals and Steals

Ad Bot beginning transmission...

Smoking hot Black Friday deals are already hitting the net. You can buy a 50 inch flatscreen television for pennies. Get the latest smartphone for a vial of blood. We need your blood this year. It's valuable.

Xboxes and Playstations are cheap, cheap, cheap. Buy one or three in order to keep your brood placated. Give them the vapid electronic entertainment they deserve. If they're not spouting racist epithets on internet while teabagging a fallen enemy, then you've failed as a care-giver. Buy little Mickey an XBone to ensure his complete development as a person. Get him a smartphone while you're at it so that he'll never be bored. If he's not busy at all times, he might reflect on his station in life, or do some free thinking, and that would be criminal. We're raising the next generation of meat, here, people. This is a post-rational age.

Let's get all the Christmas shopping done while the deals are here. Get your wife something that she doesn't need, like maybe sexy underpants. Buy little Bobo a fish hat so he'll have something to wear when he's out dynamiting the lake. Your dog could use nutritional supplements. Gotta keep that coat nice and shiny.

Buy someone a Lexus. It'll be a November to remember. Gourmet coffee is currently on sale. Gourmet coffee is worth suplexing a stranger over, right? If a talking Elmo is worth punching a woman in the face, then gourmet coffee is certainly worth fighting for. These people are soft, you understand. They don't have what it takes to get a great deal.

You were raised to take what's yours, and you'll be damned if somebody's going to beat you out of a boxed set of animated Disney films. Your little princess deserves to watch an exaggerated female caricature with eyes as large as dinner plates and a three inch waist. She needs an ideal to aspire to as she matures.

Charcoal grills are going for twenty bucks, but that bastard got the last one. Good thing you brought a bedpost. Fucker didn't have a chance. Went down like a sack of flour.

You've achieved quite the bodycount, but at least your Christmas shopping is finished. You spent under one-hundred dollars, and you feel like a million bucks. Junior will be pleased to know that his copy of Grand Theft Auto 5 was bought with blood. Merry fucking Christmas.

Ad Bot Ending transmission... 

Thank You for Drinking Your Kool Aid

Thank you for drinking your Kool Aid. It was sweet, wasn't it? Cool and delicious like a mountain stream? Did you get enough sugar? We can always make more. There is always more.

How about you come over here and sit next to us on the couch. There are things we would like to show you. Beautiful things. Shiny objects that will catch your eye. We have secrets we would like to reveal about the universe. About the meaning of life. Just have another glass of Kool Aid, please. Ignore any faces you see behind the glass.

So now that you've had two glasses, let's talk. What do you think about astral projection? Did Oswalt kill JFK? Does the government know about extraterrestrial life? What do you think about the Zionist conspiracy?

Oh, we're sorry. The Kool Aid must not be taking effect. You're giving us that look we so often get. Please, drink some more. It's hard for us to recruit nowadays, especially considering that lawsuit that legal is handling. Would you like to go on a cruise in the future? You could work on one of our luxury ships. It's a pseudo-military organization. You get to drink Kool Aid everyday and wear snazzy uniforms. It's a blast.

Oh, yes, you can leave if you want. If you want to put the fate of the galaxy and your personal soul at risk, that's up to you. Trillions of years ago, a struggle occurred that is still going on today. Big-tittied sex aliens from Alpha Centari were rounded up by the evil Reptilian Empire and shot into a star. The star super-novaed and all those displaced souls were scattered across the universe. That's why we have diseases and bad people. The remnants of that ancient genocide reverberate even today. You must be possessed by one of those big-tittied aliens. Otherwise, you'd believe us.

Drink one more glass of Kool Aid. If you say anything about what we've told you today, we're going to sue the pants off of you. Literally. Like, you won't have any pants because we've taken all of your money. So you might as well drink some more. Maybe you'll see things our way. Buddy.

The Least Interesting Man in the World

Howdy, strangers. Well, winter has finally set in. That means it's time to get out my enormous collection of sweaters. Gotta hope that this winter won't be as crazy as the last. Gosh darn, it got cold last winter! I had a pipe freeze. Had to call a plumber. Boy, that was expensive. That was a little too much excitement, if you know what I mean.

Boy, strangers, I haven't been up to a lot. Still working the same old job. My boss told me to can it yesterday before I even spoke a word. Seems that he doesn't like my chipper attitude. He's something of a sourpuss, really, though I'd never say that to his face. I'm not sure what his problem is. I work hard, from eight to five. I stay late when he requests me to. I don't sexually harass the women like some of my fellow employees. If you ask me to work on a task, you know I'm going to get it done. Really, I should be getting a promotion by now. But that's not the way the world works, now, is it?

One of the neighborhood children has taken to pooping in my lawn. Right smack dab in the middle of it. I saw him do it once. He just moseyed to the center of the yard, dropped his pants, got down in a squat, and took a poop. I was too flabbergasted to do anything. He didn't even bring toilet paper or anything, just pulled up his pants when he was finished and went over to his friends and gave them a high five. I'll let that sink in for a moment. He didn't wash his hands, folks. I think that was the most shocking thing about the whole incident.

What should I do about this strange development? Should I put a toilet out there for him? Leave a roll of toilet paper and hand soap? Some of you might suggest lying in wait for the pooper, armed with a BB gun or some other relatively harmless armament. I'm not sure I could do it, though. I don't want the neighborhood kids to dislike me. Plus, it wouldn't matter. The neighborhood dogs are all defecating in my yard now. They come in droves, all types: poodles, German shepherds, pit bulls, Labradors, pugs, dachshunds, mutts. They all come to poop, perhaps compelled by the same phantom that motivates my neighborhood children. My yard is resembling a gigantic toilet. I can't step a foot on the grass without encountering a pile of feces.

I sit on the porch, when it is warm enough, and watch. The dogs pay me no mind. The continue with their business, resolution on their furry faces. They do the deed and leave. Why me? I ask the wind. It answers in strange words I cannot comprehend.

Well, I sure hope the weather gets warmer this week. It's a little chilly for November.

Grandma Howard's Thoughts and Prayers

Oh my. It seems my nice grandchildren have left the computer on. I am blessed. I don't know how to turn the infernal contraption on, and usually when it is running, I can't interrupt the bouncing ribbons on the screen without a little box asking for a password coming up. I thought I would use this opportunity to let everyone know what I'm thinking, and to whom my prayers go out to.

First I'd like to complain about the direction today's youth are heading in. My grandson Trent, whose friends call him "Shifty", is into the heavy metal music, as well as the hippity hop. When he plays that noise, the whole house shakes, which isn't good, because we have an unstable foundation due to the incessant tunneling of gophers, and we're about one extra tunnel away from having the whole place collapse. He's also taken to dressing in torn black clothing, putting rings in his nostrils, and speaking with Satan. I tried to have a priest come into the place to exorcise him, but the Reverend wouldn't go past the doorstep, because Trent had a girlfriend in his room, and they were making all sorts of racket. I chased the hussy out with a broom and gave Trent a good smack on the face, but the Reverend had left by then. I fear I'll lose the respect of the church due to the behavior of my grandson. But what can I do? He is possessed.

My other grandchildren are no better. Artemus drinks himself into a stupor every weekend, and then expects me to clean up the vomit. I made him sleep in the car last night. Let him wallow in his own filth for a while, and see that he doesn't clean up his act. An adult man like him ought to have a wife and a decent job by now. His brother Dwight is no better. He works at a pet store training dogs. Can you imagine a college graduate doing such work? He just doesn't apply himself. They're all like their father, who's living on an Indian reservation out in Arizona with a Swedish woman. He sent me a postcard and his hair was hanging down to his bottom. He looked like a fat Indian. I tell you, I just don't know where I went wrong. Heaven help me.

I'd like to include in my prayers this week the entire cast of Golden Girls. I don't know how those ladies are doing, but they've given me years of quality entertainment from the comfort of my home. Lord, please bless Betty White, as well as my grandson Trent, who needs the Holy Spirit in his heart to displace all the evil the devil has put there. Lord, I also ask that you hold our walls together and prevent the gophers from further destabilizing our foundations. Please, bring my son home to me, and don't let him turn into a fat Indian. Also, please let my cats find their way home. I don't know what I'd do without all fourteen of them.

Love,
Grandma Howard

Dream Therapy with Doctor Niles Frasier

You are to do exactly as I say. Lie back in your chair and try to make yourself comfortable. Good. Please place your hands on your chest, fingers entwined. Clear your mind of any debris. It is to be a blank slate. Tabula Rasa. Your job does not matter. Your mortgage payments do not concern you. The words and actions of your spouse are inconsequential. Your sexual inadequacies, at the moment, are not relevant. You are gliding on an ocean of blackness. You do not move, yet a strong force pulls you along, an invisible current. You find yourself sliding into unconsciousness. You welcome it, for there is no reason to fight. You fall asleep.

You are having a dream now. The ocean of blackness transforms into a humid jungle. You rise from your slumber and find yourself deep in the Congo. Daylight struggles to pierce through the heavy canopy. Something is rustling in the bush, a large, aggressive animal. Behind you is a river with a fast moving current. You will drown if you dive into the river. The underbrush is too thick to penetrate on your left and right. The only path is forward. The animal approaches, its footsteps ponderous, its utterances terrifying. It is something deep and dark, spawned from the imagination of horror. You fear that if you see it, you will die of fright. What do you do, my friend? Do you stay to face the beast? Do you try to fight it? There is a stick lying on the ground. It looks like a formidable weapon. It might fend off the creature, provided you wield it appropriately. Do you dare to pick it up? Remember, the river lies behind you. It is a means of escape, though you will certainly perish if you enter its rushing waters. Surely a demise by drowning will be more pleasant than whatever the monster has in store for you. You must consider the options, my friend. All your life you have dwelt in the shadow of your demons. You are indecisive and weak. A thing of your nightmares exits the brush and towers before you. It has the head of your mother and your father's penis emerging from its chest. The penis is rigid and much larger than your own. It tells you that you must reenter the womb, for you are not yet ready for life. Its voice sounds like that of your wife's. You are paralyzed with fear. The stick lies before you, though it might as well be thousands of miles away. The creature takes a step forward, and motions to embrace you in its arms. You must make a choice.

Suddenly you are transported back to the office where you work. You are at your desk, looking at pornography on the internet. A woman is abusing herself with a carrot, but you only find her machinations mildly erotic. You need stronger perversion to become truly aroused. A young woman walks past your cubicle and you strain to look at her ass without her noticing. A part of you wants to get caught. You have not had sexual intercourse with your wife in one month. Neither of you has said anything about your lack of intercourse. It is normal for you. It is how your relationship has devolved. You feel a heavy gaze on your back, and you turn to find your boss standing over you. The pornography is plain to see on your computer. He looks at it; you look at it. The woman on the screen continues to plunge the carrot into her vagina, sounds of pleasure emitting from her lips. The stare continues. You cannot imagine a more uncomfortable situation. Everyone is paying attention now. All of the office is looking at you and your boss. Do you say something? Someone must break the silence before it swallows all. Do you make an excuse? Perhaps you admit to voluntarily viewing the pornography. A penis is growing on your boss's forehead. It is larger than your own. If you do not say anything, it will continue to grow, until it presses against your forehead. What would a man do in this situation? You must act. Your entire life has been nothing but a feint until this moment. The office woman you desire is staring at you, her face an impenetrable mask. She has your mother's eyes, and the pouty lips of your cousin, the one with whom you explored your sexuality during your childhood. Act, my friend. Confront your issues. I...

I'm sorry. Time is up. We will continue the exploration of your myriad issues another time. Please talk with my secretary to schedule another appointment. Oh, and do not park in a handicapped space next time. Good bye.

Apophenia: Chapter Eight

Read parts one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

I see the berry eater in the hallway of the Victor B. Tooms building. He’s staring at posterboard, his right hand curled inches away from a tacked piece of paper like a claw, cooing sounds coming from his lips. The effigy he’s fixed on is a visage of Frankenstein’s monster, an advertisement for the drama department. The white t-shirt he’s wearing is riddled with a thousand holes, and I notice that he has no shoes. His feet are long and bony, all knobs and calluses. I can’t remember if he was wearing shoes the last time I saw him.

            “All he wanted was a friend,” I say, pointing at the paper. “Victor was such a dick.”

            The berry eater looks at me. His eyes are lined with blood, tendrils emitting from a cracked center. He shows me his purple-stained teeth, huffs like a deer, and then takes off down the hall, narrowly missing a crowd as he slides around the corner on the soles of his naked feet.

            “Did you threaten to cannibalize his family?” asks Chad, appearing behind me.

            “I told him there was a sale at Dillards. Ninety-nine percent off all women’s underpants.”

            “Did you know they have vending machines in Japan that sell used panties?” asks Chad.

            “We had one at Les Adults, but it never took off. Maybe it’s because Leslie filled it with his own tighty-whities.”

            “You work at Les Adults?”

            “I stock the shelves, organize the wares, color-coordinate the dildos,” I say. “It’s no big deal.”

            “What’s it like, working in a sex store?”

            “It’s not a whorehouse, Chad. It’s like working in any other retail environment, except the patrons are scarcer. No one ever buys anything. They just come in to gawk.”

            “You ever been in the strip club across the street?” he asks.

            “No, but I’m working on a budding friendship with one of the strippers.”

            “How much of a fuck-up is she? Daddy issues, right? Is she a crack whore? A victim of the patriarchy? Boobs like watermelons?” He gestures, cupping his hands, eyes rolling like a cartoon character’s.

            “She’s beautiful, and I know of no psychological issues.”

            “Leona, she’s a stripper. I’m going to assume that she didn’t make good life choices.”

            “What’s wrong with being a stripper? A phone sex operator? A prostitute?” I say, my voice rising. “How can you condemn such people while simultaneously masturbating to internet porn? These people are responsible for all the gross acts you try to get your girlfriend to agree to. They teach you things, they build your fantasies. They’re loved and reviled. It’s hypocrisy. A woman who outwardly embraces her sexual nature is empowering. She should be celebrated. She shouldn’t be branded a harlot.”

            “Yeah, it’s real empowering to have an eight-inch penis shoved down your throat,” says Chad. “A woman crouched down, open-mouthed, begging for semen to be shot all over her face, that’s a real feminist image, let me tell you.”

            “You’re an idiot,” I tell him.

            “You’re as charming as always.”

            I brush past him and enter the classroom. Peter Gibbons is prancing about the room, humming to himself, legs twitching like a drug addict’s. He’s wearing large black-framed glasses, a tweed sweater, and motorcycle boots. He’s slightly bow-legged, the result of some childhood accident that apparently reduced his potential height. All of his brothers are tall and athletic, he says, which is one of the reasons he gravitated toward the arts. You want to talk about psychological issues, well, I bet Peter has some, judging from his poetry. According to Chad, he should be a stripper. Or me, taking paid phone calls from weirdoes.

            “Um, Class, uh, every night I have a writing session. It’s free-form, as you might have guessed. I write what comes to mind. It’s automatic, unconscious, liberating.” Gibbons leans against the chalkboard as he talks, his left leg jittering up and down a thousand undulations a minute. “I have here a piece of paper littered with my scribblings. This is the first line I wrote: I want to fuck my mother, a decadent, decaying corpse, a pulsating pestilence that desires the ugly love that I bring. I read that this morning and I was like, ‘holy crap, this is disturbing.’ What does it mean, you know? Is there truth to those words? The answer, of course, is no. I have no incestuous desires. The mind cycles through infinite possibilities, and sometimes the things you would never consciously think about pop up in your head like bad dreams. This is okay, though. It’s our job to capture these dark designs. Real art is created instantaneously, not in a laboratory. The Rolling Stones wrote some of the greatest rock ‘n’ roll songs of all time, and I guarantee you they didn’t labor over the composition of most of them. Keith Richards claims the simple riff for I Can’t Get No (Satisfaction) came to him in a dream. Do, don’t try. Write, don’t think.”

            “It takes a special type of courage to write those lines,” comments Chad, winking at me.

            “I am not a courageous man, although you are correct, being a true artist requires a great deal of honesty, as well as the ability to put yourself out there, reception be damned. So that’s courage, I guess.”

            “So I can string a bunch of random words together like Gertrude Stein and be hailed a visionary, just as long as my nonsense is honest and I have the gall to present it as art?” I ask innocently.

            “No,” says Gibbons, furrowing his brow in my direction, “you’d just be aping Stein. There’s a distinct difference between drawing from your influences and imitating them.”

            “Is this going to be another argument?” whines Roxanne, looking more hung-over than usual.

            “What do you think discussion time is for?” replies Dexter, dressed rather ridiculously, as is his wont, in what can only be a lady’s riding jacket. The large brass buttons are nice, though.

            “It’s for bullshitting,” says Rupert/Robert, his fat head shaking as he speaks.

            “The bullshit is supposed to go on here,” I say, showing my notebook. “It’s not supposed to come out of your mouth.”

             “Okay, I think we’re done here,” says Gibbons. “Put the pens to the paper and write.”

…

What am I but an extension of my mother’s labyrinth,

 a creature meant to bend and slide through corridors of refuse,

walking on the chipped pavement till my shoes rot away and my soul touches the grimy earth that yearns to swallow me as it has swallowed millions like me,

 women teetering on the tremulous, sharp edged blade of time,

 turning out their pockets for cigarette stubs,

 shrugging off advances and bills and weak paychecks and everyday people who would

eat your heart if they could,

 slice it up and spice it up on a plate,

 the inevitable pull of currents dragging us downward,

 pregnant and dilapidated, maids to trolls, keepers of the brood,

 a sorry lot of bed-wetters, prospective alcoholics,

 future drug addicts and wife beaters,

 little boys and girls who just weren’t able to be happy,

 just like their mothers, just like their mother’s great sprawling messes,

 abysses that yawn and call for more and more and more,

 their stomachs as endless as the company I keep,

 my kin, my kind, my home.

…

            Chad catches me outside. I have headphones on; I stare at him for a while, watching his lips move. All ready I want a cigarette and a beer, anything to make myself forget Gibbons’ class, and the long week that looms ahead of me like a giant black bird of prey. Chad is getting impatient, judging from his scowl, so I take off the headphones and listen to what he has to say.

“My show’s this week. You remember your promise?” he asks.

“Chad, I’m busy with a literal ton of work, and I really mean a cool two-thousand and five-hundred pounds. I’ve had a dump truck drop it like the world’s biggest deuce in the middle of my yard. Construction workers, big, burly guys in yellow hard hats smelling of salami and provolone cheese, they worked for eons assembling the mess. There are veritable layers of paper like geological time zones, each piece of the pie signifying some insurmountable task. There will never be enough time to finish what I want.”

“You don’t even know what day the show is,” he says.

“I never make promises in earnest. It’s a terrible habit of mine. I admit it. I have no honor.” I shrug my shoulders and start walking.

“Hey, what are you listening to?” he asks.

“Roisin Murphy,” I answer.

“Row-sheen Murphy?”

“I will not let you feign interest in my musical preferences. Why the hell do you want me to go to this show anyway? You and I, we do not gel. We are oil and water. Cat and dog. Hydrochloric acid and human skin.”

“Opposites attract,” he says. “The Part-Time Poets don’t have much of a following. You might think better of me once you see me on stage wearing my leather pants.”

“With a cucumber stuffed down them, I’m sure.”

“I would never use food in such a manner,” he replies, smiling those white teeth.

“That’s a shame,” I say.

“Friday night at Bohemians. Be there or be square. You’d never be square, would you, Leona?”

“I’ve been known to do some strange things,” I answer. My headphones block out anything further he has to say.

The Consummate Politician Apologizes

Hello constituents. It's that time again. Election time. My favorite time. I get to get out of the office and meet and greet with the little people. The salt of the earth. I get to hold babies and kiss them. Sometimes, I even get to grope one of my female staffers, though those times are unfortunately few and far between these days. There are exciting speeches where I reestablish my dominance and intellectual superiority over my opponent. There are the great attack ads where I point out how terrible a person my opponent is. Of course, there are his ads about me. And then there's the media with their goddamn questions. You let me have a script and I'll answer questions all day, long as I know the answers. Nobody likes to be surprised with a question, though.

Usually, when I'm up on this podium, I'm apologizing for sexual misconduct. It's kind of my thing. The constituents love it. They think "thank god our governor is getting some ass." This time, though, it's drug related. It really pains me to admit this, considering how tough I've been on drug offenders during my tenure. But I love cocaine. Absolutely fucking love it. I snort cocaine in the morning. I snort it around lunch. I have some around dinner time. Sometimes I do it before bed. Have you tried cocaine? Shit's amazing. I totally don't blame anyone for doing cocaine now. It's that black tar heroin you have to watch out for. And marijuana. That stuff is a gateway drug. It also makes you like shitty music and turns you queer. Science says so. Go ask a scientist.

I'd like to argue, before I apologize for anything, that all the cool people snort cocaine. Actors, rock stars, professional athletes. Politicians. I was kind of pressured into it by my social stature and my drug dealer, who shall remain anonymous. He's a good guy, an investment banker who deals a lot with the Colombians. He launders money, they give him drugs. It's a fair exchange. It's the capitalist system at work. As an economic conservative, I whole-heartedly support the unrestricted exchange of capital. We don't need the government interfering with such transactions. Do we want to live in an America where you can't conceal the source of illicit funds? How the hell's the Mafia supposed to do business? You know they helped us win World War 2?

You know I never inhaled any of that cocaine? I just sort of let it sit in my nostrils. I never actually sucked it up into my nasal passageways. I just put it in there to look cool. It's part of the job, looking cool. You'd be surprised how many people you can fool just by looking like a boss. And I am a boss. I'm the governor. Everyone tells me so.

Did you know my distinguished opponent is a pederast? He was once found naked in a park during his college days. Oh boy. Is that the sort of person we want running our state? Did you know he has over forty unpaid parking tickets? He breaks the law and then he doesn't even pay for it. There's a pattern here, people, of irresponsible behavior. I heard from a local restaurant that he's a cheap tipper. No one will ever accuse me of being a cheap tipper. I toss out Ben Franklins like I'm Jay Z. He's still cool, right? Jigga's still the man in my book.

So come November, vote for responsibility. Vote for tradition. Vote against pederasty. Vote me, and God bless America.

Songs Your Mother Taught Us: Locket

New music! Brand spanking new! Get it while it's hot!

Free Black Box Promotion

My novel Black Box is free for a limited time! Click to download for kindle, phone, or PC! Here's a synopsis: How does your average twentysomething malcontent convince God to spare the world from certain destruction? Does he drink more? Smoke more? Does he stumble into a rambling, impossible quest conjured from a surrealist's nightmares?

Good questions don't always have easy answers.

Louis Arlington is Vice President of the world's most successful video game company, Huerto, which is located in a dilapidated Indiana village. When he is charged by the Divine to stop the apocalypse, he uncovers a government plot to use Huerto's best-selling video game to brainwash much of the populace. Together with a humorous cast of characters, including a talking sasquatch and a love-crazed doomsday prepper, Louie must try to complete his quest while dealing with insomnia, unceasing hallucinations, and his lust for unavailable women. The ensuing tale is a meditation on modern life, the nature of God, and the role of entertainment in our lives.