Sunday, December 30, 2007

Even More Dialogue: The Weather Reporter

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you this KTLA news break. What looks to be an elaborate light show has erupted out of thin air near the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. We now take you live to downtown LA with weather reporter Pernea Atherton.

“Pernea here reporting live from downtown LA. As you can see, what looks to be an elaborate light show has erupted out of thin air. It’s a brilliant light, almost blinding. It’s beginning to overtake the sun, causing a flurry of wind that’s blowing everything in every direction.”

Pernea, how’s the weather down there?

“It’s a chilly 65 degrees, Pat, but I’m more concerned with the haze of smoke engulfing the street. The light show’s ceased save for one beam that seams to be searching its surroundings from within the fog.”

Will we be getting any rain tonight, Pernea?

“Pat, I think I see a figure emerging from the smoke. Behind him is a vague silhouette, something massive. Oh Lord, an odor just swept down the street. It’s very potent, I believe it’s . . . rum.”

“Ahoy, mateys! We be the Time Pirates!”

“Time Pirates? T-P? Haha!”

“Goodness, Pat, a laser just shot out of the pirate’s hook, completely vaporizing the heckler. The pirate seems to be holding a baby in his other arm”

“Avast ye primitive land scoundrels, we be Time Pirates! From the future! And this be baby Jesus!”

Saturday, December 29, 2007

More Dialogue: The Magic 8 Ball

“Don’t do it.”

“Who said that?”

“Above you. Hi, I’m from the future. I’m you, actually, twenty or so years from today.”

“Oh! What’s up?”

“Just came back to tell you that the plan you’re thinking of right now worked. They paid the ransom.”

“What plan?”

“Hm. I guess I came back too early. I’ll see you in a few.”

Five minutes later.

“Welcome back. So you mean the plan with Jesus and Shakespeare and them?”

“Precisely. Here’s the ransom.”

“A Magic 8 Ball?”

“It really works! It’s from the year 3,000.”

“Sweet! Magic 8 Ball, what came first, the chicken or the egg?”

Ask Again Later.

“Try asking again.”

“Magic 8 Ball, chicken or egg?”

You May Rely On It.

“Piece of shit! I—we were jipped! Forget what I said and go with the plan. Write that letter to the future, but ask them to send an invisible time machine. Charlemagne doesn’t take too kindly to technology.”

"Will it be a fun adventure like the Bill and Ted movie?”

“More or less, except people actually die in this adventure and you're a criminal.”

“That’s not so excellent. Wait, why’d you ask for a Magic 8 Ball?”

“Man, I don’t know. I was drunk on the planet of the pleasure bots when I got my ransom. It was a Magic 8 Ball from the year 3,000, you expect stuff like that to work.”

“Treacherous bastards! I guess I would’ve thought the same.”

“Oh, you will. Just make sure the fucker works.”


“And beware the Time Pirates. They’re fun to party with for a night or two, but ditch’em afterwards. Good luck.”

“Thanks! See ya in twenty.”


Monday, December 17, 2007


There’s something about music, probably the way it sounds, that gets me all riled up. Drum n Bass (dnb), for example, is in essence a series of beats tied together with another series of beats in between beats. These beats, it turns out, synchronize with the beat of my heart giving me a rush of blood to the head. Doctors call this “cardiac arrhythmia,” and tell me it’s fatal. I call it “awesome.”

The actual term, though, is “audiophilic stimulation,” similar to “audiophallic stimulation,” the type you get when sitting on a speaker heavy with bass. It’s nothing like “autophallic stimulation,” the type you get in the shower or when you’re sitting alone in a dark room, flipping through a VS catalogue at three in the morning on a Sunday and you’re drunk and just found out your ex is going out with another guy and she is flaunting it and you trick yourself into believing that autophallic stimulation to Gisele while shouting maledictions will somehow help you obtain vengeance because you’re stupid with liquor.

Anyway, dnb, good stuff. Drunken misguided vengeance, still sounds like fun regardless of your intent.

If you’re interested in cardiac arrhythmia, or awesome, here’s one of my favorite dnb DJs, and he’s local:

Tuesday, December 11, 2007


"Oh, God, everything's going so wrong! I lost my job, I got into a car accident, my cat died!"

"Aw, man, I'm sorry to hear that." (Places a glass of water before the weeping friend.)

"What the hell do I want water for!"

I see this all the time. Someone's breaking down and spilling their guts, and their friend fetches a glass of water. Why? How does water make anyone feel better? What the hell is water going to do for you?

"I just thought that, you know, water might help."

"What! My fucking cat died!"

"I don't know. Aren't you thirsty?"

"Fuck thirst! Thirst is the least of my problems!"

What was the friend thinking? Is water going to get this guy's job back? Or fix his jalopy or steal him another cat?

"I'm sorry, man. I'm just trying to help."

"What the hell kind of help is this? It's fucking water!"

"It's pretty good water. I mean, it's not a cheap brand or anything."

"Is it Poseidon in a Bottle?"

"Bottled Poseidon? No, Invisible Powdered Water."

"That's cool." (Drinks water.)

Seriously, how much better does he expect to feel after dri--

"--I feel fucking fantastic!"

"You mean the water's helping?"

"Yes! Amazing!" (Answers his cell phone.) "Hello? My old job back? A raise? New car and cat?! Hell yes I'll take the position!"

"What happened?"

"You're a fucking genius, that's what happened! Good call on the water, man."

Hmm. Well, that's just confusing. I don't know how the hell that happened.

Water, man, drink it.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

The Great Outdoors

There’s nothing like the great outdoors. It’s fresh, it’s open, it’s manly. Many cultures send their men to “prove” themselves by spending a night alone in the great outdoors. The Xachuca tribes of the Peruvian Highlands are a good example. The men there who spend a night in the great outdoors return heroes.

That’s kid stuff, though. All you have to deal with are frogs, birds, and the occasional giant rodent. I say the real test is spending a night in The Awful Outdoors, where trees steal your pants while you sleep, beavers ridicule your face, and everything is just a little stranger.

I went camping in The Awful Outdoors once. I was airdropped a la Man vs. Wild with only a bowie knife except it was during the dead of night with only the moon to light my way. The fall left me fairly bloodless and tired and I decided to sleep it off.

I woke and noticed how beautiful everything was. From the vibrant green vines winding up the aging bark of thieving trees, to the majestic waddling of the mighty penguin taking flight to escape the mechanical claws of the cyborg ape. I didn’t think it possible, but I fell in love with the awful outdoors. “I love you,” I said to the enchanting wonderland as I urinated on a pine tree.

Yes, it was grand and I figured what better way to start the morning than with some food. I set a vat of water to boil and tied my bowie knife to the end of a petrified snake and made my way to a pond. I waded and warded off the amphibious piranha with stabs from my snake spear and left with a giant lobster. I rode the beast to a bear cave where I challenged a bear to a wrestling match by abducting her bear cub. She gave chase for several minutes until my lobster bucked me off and jumped obediently into the boiling vat of water. I tackled the bear and defeated her, ironically, with a bear hug and made pants out of her. I was in desperate need of a pair after waking without any.

I dined on lobster with the bear cub whom I kept as my own. “I am your father and mother now,” I told him as I kicked over the dam of a beaver who said my eyes were crooked. With that I strapped the cub to my back and left the awful outdoors.

“Brave,” some say. “Stupid,” others say, and yet others: “hurry with the sedative, he’s out of his straightjacket!” Opine as they wish—I am a man now.

Monday, November 26, 2007

The Future!

I had a worrisome thought today. Actually, it was a series of thoughts coupled with a series of images in my head. Though I suppose the images are considered a part of my thoughts. Anyway, it happened while I was reading Calvin and Hobbes comics and it was about me in the future with a kid—my kid. I don’t know what to make of it, so let’s go some ten to twenty years into the future.

(Your vision becomes cloudy and you close your eyes. When you open them, the clouds are dissipating and two figures materialize as silhouettes. One is me, the other is the boy. Also, all this happens to that noise they make in Wayne’s World to denote the transition to a dream state; something like doo-doo-loo, but over and over again and quickly.)

“Dad, I’m going to bed. Will you read to me?”


“C’mon, just one! I’ll be—.” I begin unbuckling my belt and he flees in terror but I feel bad and take myself away from the computer and find him in his room reading to himself. “Here. Let’s read this one!” He says and hands me Calvin and Hobbes.

“I don’t like reading these,” I say as I flip through the book.

“How come?”

“Feels like you’re reading the diary of a dead boy.” He reaches for the book but instead I start reading it to him. It’s funny and sad at the same time, but to him it’s hysterical. At least he’s happy which, I’m assuming, is a good thing.

“I need sleep. Also, your reading sucks.” I stand and reach to unlatch my belt. “No, I’m just kidding!”

“Goodnight,” I tell him. I ruffle his hair and make for the door. I notice a crack on the wall next to the light switch. I pick at it and it chips.

“You know instead of spackling and repainting that, you should probably tear down the wall and rebuild it,” he says as I flip the light switch leaving his face lit in from the light outside.

“I’d never get around to rebuilding the wall.”

(Doo-doo-loo, doo-doo-loo, doo-doo-loo.)

That was it. So maybe that last part was more introspective than anything. I mean, what would a kid know about building walls anyway? And what the hell kind of idea is it to tear down a wall? You know how much trouble that is? Or how expensive? Hell, I wouldn’t even know where to begin on such a task. Maybe I work in construction in the future.

Whatever. Stupid hallucinations.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Happy Thanksgiving!

Everyone knows that the only way to prove how thankful you are is by gorging yourself with food on Thanksgiving day, so that’s just what I did: eat.

The day started out slow enough. I didn’t have much, three tamales for breakfast and three for lunch. Dinner started out well, though. I sliced some turkey breast and set it on my plate next to the slice of ham and the mound of mashed potatoes. Delicious! Just delicious I tell you! So delicious I went for seconds. I pulled a leg off the turkey and had more ham and mashed potatoes. I ate with glee and went for thirds as soon as I cleared my plate. I tried pulling the other leg off the turkey but it wouldn’t come off, so I took the rest of the bird with me. I thought since I had the whole turkey, I may as well take the rest of the ham, right? Why submit my family to turkeyless ham? I had a turkey in one hand and a ham in the other when I got to the mashed potatoes, so I shoveled some into the turkey with the ham like a plow pushing snow into a turkcave. I sat at a table filled with disgusted grimaces. Thankless pigs.

I finished it all out of respect for the spirit of Thanksgiving and man was I stuffed. I was having difficulty breathing, not because of eating so much, but because of the jeroboam of wine I’d quaffed. It slowed my metabolic functions down a bit. Who knew a man could survive off thirteen heart beats a minute, eh? And could you believe that through that all, I still had room for a slice of pie? I think after my eighth slice my stomach burst like a water balloon filled with 35 pounds of turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, and wine—stupid, worthless food pouch.

I had some pretty bad heartburn by then and wanted some Tums. “Mgruhh. Mgruuuhh!” I grumbled to my family as I pointed sloppily to the delicious tablets. They retrieved the bottle with a comforting sense of urgency and I emptied its contents into my stomach. I felt a little better, but two handfuls of Tums isn’t going to sew a ruptured stomach back together, now is it!

Anyway, I’ll be alright, I just gotta sit for a while. What a successful feast, though. Now everyone knows how thankful I am.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Can You Believe These People?

Weird things are always happening to me. I was at a café where they play bossa nova Thursday nights. I was outside sitting on a wrought iron chair that was unsteady on the cobbled stones with my cigarette smoke glowing in the soft yellow street lights. It was one of those dark blue and yellow nights with music and espresso, cigarettes and sherry. A tall man with roses walked to me, saw that I was alone and walked off. There was no room for red or white tonight.

“Another sherry, sir?” It was my waitress in black with muted makeup and hair held high with crisscrossed metal chopsticks.


“Would you like some sushi, sir?”

“No, thanks. I don’t believe in wasabi.”

“You can order it without—“

“Okay, but remember: I don’t believe in wasabi,” I stressed and she left for my sherry and sushi. I sipped my espresso and listened to the Portuguese music vibrating the glass table before me. An old janitor with gray hair and a blue jumpsuit stepped outside to sweep around me. He swept around my table, under it and he swept my shoes. "Thank you," I told him before he walked back to the door.

Rounding the corner of the café was the rose man with fewer roses.

“Would you like to buy a rose for the lady,” he asked.

“What lady?”

“The lady sitting there,” he motioned with his hand to the empty chair opposite of me.

“There is no lady.”

“Do you insult me, sir,” he asked taking a step closer.

“Are you blind? There is no lady. Please, sir, there is no room for red or white tonight,” I said as I stood and took a step closer to him.

“You are a fool, sir!” He swiped at my face with his thorny roses with a force that knocked me into my chair. I picked up my espresso and flung it into his eyes and he turned around, clutching his sizzling face. I frisbeed the saucer at the back of his neck, but he kicked backwards and shattered it midair. He pulled a switchblade from an ankle strap and lunged at me and I parried. He lunged again at my gut and I dodged to the side, lifted my hands and crashed them both onto his back. He fell to his belly and I stepped on his knife-wielding hand until he let go. I lifted him by his hair and put him in a chokehold and held him there until I heard the shattering of a wine glass against the side of my head. It tasted like sherry.

I dropped the bloody roseman and felt a chopstick graze my sherried ear. I turned around to see another spear my left thigh. I reached for the chopstick and tried to pull it out, but the waitress charged and drove it deeper with her palm. We jostled for a few seconds until I clamped my left fist and swung my right hand into her chin. She flew back into a telephone poll and I thrusted my right knee into her belly. She heaved over my knee and I felt her body relax. I was about to let her down when she grabbed hold of the chopstick and began twisting it like a joystick in my thigh. I reached for my order of sushi on the table and picked up some wasabi and thumbed it into her left eye. She let go of the joystick and began screaming frantically. I tried going after her but the roseman had latched onto my legs. I pulled out the chopstick and nailed his hand in between the cobble stones. His fingers twisted and his eyes bulged as he let out a scream that overtook the Portuguese music.

I turned the corner and saw the waitress running away in a frenzy. I snatched the broom from the janitor and threw it between her legs. She tripped and fell on her face with a splatter of blood from her nose. I began walking to her when I heard the cocking of a shotgun.

“Don’t move,” the janitor said. I turned around and stared down the barrels of a shotgun. He put his foot onto my chopstick wound and turned his heel. I cringed and sank down onto one knee. “Now you die, sherry man.” I put two fingers in the barrels before he pulled the trigger. The explosion concentrated and ballooned through the barrels, bursting into his face in a flurry of black gunpowder. He collapsed.

I walked back to my table and paid for my espresso and sherries, but not for the sushi because I don’t believe in wasabi. Because of that I only left the waitress a fifteen percent tip.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

The Incredible Sneezeless Boy

The withered tree shivered in wind, its wilted leaves whispered and rustled against each other, and the moon vibrated in the rippling water of the pond. During the day, maple leaves feathered floorward in orange strokes against the sky. This tree leaned over a great boy, giving him shade and making him cool. Today was a hot day, and even though this near-bare tree with its tired boughs and cracked, emaciated roots was barely able to give, it gave what it could. Were it able, its cracking roots would reach and pull from the pond what it could of water for the boy it shaded.

The hot wind woke the boy. He woke to clouds before him, beyond the pond. Massive as night, they bouldered into the sky above. He rose and behind him the tree cracked with lightning and it huddled over slowly. In death, this slumping maple tree gave shelter from not the sun, but the piercing spears from the darkened sky while its leaves whispered in the wind.

Monday, November 12, 2007


It always pisses me off how rude people are sometimes. Why can’t everybody just be nice. Is it so hard to stop your shopping cart to let a fellow patron shuffle his way past you? Do you really have to speed up and cut him off? And after he speeds up to pass you in revenge, do you really have to jab his Achilles tendons with your cart? And is it necessary to call him jack ass and call security after he knocks over your groceries with a swift flanking ram of his shopping cart?

It’s worse when this happens while driving. You’re trying to turn onto a street and the “Keep Clear” section before you is blocked by jerks at a red light. This just makes people more aggressive. Now when I want to turn onto a street, I don’t bother turning, that just slows me down. Instead, I drive straight ahead, perpendicular to these potentially keep-clear-blocking jerks. That’ll teach you! I don’t care if you’re flashing your lights at me, or blaring your stupid siren, I’m not moving.

I think the worst manifestation of rudeness, though, is being inconsiderate. I mean, how can people not be considerate? It’s pretty easy, just consider! Consider how spitting in that hamburger will affect me. Consider how, when slipping a razor into an apple, how unhappy I’ll be when I bite into it. It’s not hard! Spit’s nasty and razors hurt!

So remember this next time you’re at the supermarket, approaching a Keep Clear, or attempting to murder me. I would appreciate it.

Monday, November 5, 2007


I was reclining when the kitty chased a shadow onto my legs. She walked up my shin and thigh onto my belly, kneaded it with her front paws, curled into herself and went to sleep purring. I poked her and she popped up with a fluff. Pat pat pat. She was swatting at my finger. I was running it up and down my chest and stomach and she chased it in circles. I led her to my face and she rubbed her forehead into my chin and mouth. She sprawled on my shoulder and neck and went to sleep again purring and satisfied. Good kitty.

Sunday, October 28, 2007


There's a knocking above the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Yes, a knocking.

It's soft and fast like a woodpecker pecking perched atop the fridge. "frank, maybe it comes from the outside. You should check."

Are you fucking kidding me? Last time someone pulled a stunt like that, he was forever haunted by some immortal poltergeist crow on the pallid bust of Pallas just above his chamber door.

So, no. Forget that. I'm just--oh, it was a woodpecker, but outside.

Friday, October 26, 2007


I'm no good at this romance stuff. I just can't get it right.

A couple of weeks ago I planned a romantic dinner with my woman. I made a salad (nicoise because she loves olives) and boeuf bourguignon that I spent all day braising. For dessert, I dropped my pants and exposed myself beside her face and she threw up. "What gives? Don't be such a prude," I said as I chased her down the street to her car.

The following week we were spooning on my bed watching When Harry Met Sally. I caressed her ear and neck with the softness of a feather as I took in lungfuls of her vanilla perfume. She turned around and I told her how beautiful she was and how much she meant to me.

"I feel the same way about you," she said gazing into me with her misty eyes.

"May I sodomize you?" I asked.

"Excuse me?"

"May I buttsex you?"

"What the hell!" She sounded confused so I pulled out some photos from under my pillow.

"This is me and some woman doing buttsex," I said. I don't think she appreciated the photos very much, or the fact that I was already naked. So she left.

I guess I'll never be any good at this wooing business.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

The Beginnings of a Writing Exercise

Here are two descriptions of a tree and a sunset:

1) The tree bent, bathed by the warming beams of the setting sun.

2) The tree twisted against the night as if drowning in darkness, gasping for the last light of the sinking sun.

I don't know about you, but I'd much rather be the first tree. The second tree sounds like a total pansy.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

It Happened

Our first fight. We were in a restaurant and it went exactly like this:

"I'm telling you, Ozymandias was about the ravages of time," I said.

"No! It's about time as the Great Equalizer!

"Kings and queens will sit on thrones,
But in the end they'll blow to dust,
Like all outlived by rocks and stones,
And in the end it's time we'll trust," she said.

"Look at this all, look at it all,
Sometimes stays what we scrawl,
But in the end, no things crawl,
And in the end, all things fall," I said.

"Great Equalizer," she said.

"Ravager," I said.

"Equalizer!" she said.

"Ravager!" and with that she flipped the table onto to me, leaned back against the wall and kicked me to the ground with both feet. She stood and leapt into the air attempting to land her knee against my crotch, but I rolled twice and her knee and fist cracked the tile beneath. I swept my leg into her's and she fell backward collapsing a table behind her. I picked up a chair and crashed it into her arms which protected her face. Her eyes were closed and she didn't move.

I turned around and raised my arms in victory. I took a few steps when I felt her latch onto my back with her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. I was turning purple when I reached over my shoulders, pulled her over my head and slammed her onto the table of a family huddled in fear. She bounced up and cackled like a supervillain. She walked toward me and I swung my fist at her face but she caught it and squeezed. My knees gave out as I yelled in agony. She let go and I grasped my crumpled fist and she picked me up by my shirt collar. My legs were dangling and the few quick jabs I could manage to her face with my good hand didn't phase her. Still cackling, she flung me through the brick wall into the aluminum trash cans in the alley outside. She hovered over me as I clutched my head.

"Equalizer," she said.

I decided I'd let it go. We were both right, after all.

Monday, October 15, 2007


It's true, ignorance is bliss.

Look at kids for example. Those little turds couldn't be happier. Why? Because they don't know what the hell is going on. Give them a rattle and they'll shake it until their arms fall off their fat bodies while their fat faces jiggle with laughter. Who the hell is amused with rattles? Ever seen a rattlesnake? Ghastly beasts I tell you! Play-doh! Would you ever eat Play-doh? NO! It tastes like shit and I know both tastes well! But kids devour it like caviar. What gives, you puny balls of plump?

As much as I hate the littles chubs, I do envy them. I wish I could live as an imbecile. I mean, compare the following scenarios:

frank: Doc, give it to me straight. Will I ever walk again?

Doctor: frank, your legs were blown clean off. Without some sort of medical miracle, I doubt your pathetic stumps will support even half your weight. Also, as a result of the explosion, your genitals were pulverized. This jar contains what used to be your left testicle. As you can see, it is dust. Literally, dust. Your legs are worse off. I think they vaporized. Can't find them anywhere. Anyway, no walking for you. Ever.


frank: Doc, give it to me straight. Will I ever walk again?

Doctor: Uh. . . yeah. Yeah, sure you will. I mean, your legs might feel pretty numb right now, so numb that you might think they're not there, but they are, and you can walk. As a matter of fact, you'll be able to fly. That'll come in handy because the explosion made you invulnerable, and you'll need to fly around to save people.

frank: Really, Doc! Like in Heroes?

Doctor: Sure, kid, like in whatever.

Which do you prefer? The sad, depressing reality of being a castrated paraplegic, or flying? Fucking flying, man! WOOSH! Hell yeah!

Monday, October 8, 2007


Do you ever wonder what the geniuses of the past would say about your works?

I do. I also wonder how what I do appears to them. Is it deep, meaningful, layered, and great? Or is it so dumb that they see nothing?

I enjoy writing, it's fun. So I wonder what Shakespeare would say about my writing. If both he and I were artists, that's how it would go.

But we're not, so it would go something like this:

frank: Soo, whatcha think?

Shakespeare: You stupid lollipop!

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Act 1, Scene 1

Monkey: a stubborn, young adult male monkey. Wears an orange cape.
Trainer: Recent graduate of monkey training school. Shy, modest, homely, 27 year old woman who, for two arduous months, has been trying to train Monkey.

A dark, damp, empty hangar.

Act 1, Scene 1

(Bound and unconscious, Trainer is roused by Monkey's paws.)

TRAINER: (Groaning.) My head! Where are we? How long have I been out? Monkey? Monkey, please untie me.

MONKEY: (Unresponsive.)

TRAINER: Monkey, untie.

MONKEY: (Unresponsive.)

TRAINER: (Whispering to self.) Okay, just think back to Monkey Training 101. Appeal to conditioning, positive reinforcement. Command, reward. I got it! (To monkey.) Alright, monkey, there's a banana in my pocket. Untie me and it's yours!

MONKEY: (Scuttling off.) OO-OO, AA-AA-AAA!

[Exeunt Monkey]

[End Scene]

Saturday, October 6, 2007

People Like Pictures

It's true.

Right now, I'm trying to figure out how to add pictures.

You're probably thinking how easy it is to add pictures and maybe you're right. But you're not. You're wrong.

Thursday, October 4, 2007




With what to fill this space? With what to find my place? I know! A story about the incredible sneezeless man. This isn’t just any incredible story, this is the prelude to his incredible death.

Alive, no man suffered more than this sneezeless man, for he was the only true sneezeless man. You see, all other sneezeless men pretended to never sneeze, but they would always be exposed as frauds during allergy season. Not this sneezeless man, though, he would never sneeze. He wouldn’t sneeze in public, he wouldn’t sneeze in private, he wouldn’t even sneeze when engulfed by black pepper monsters.

What of black pepper monsters? They were cloud-like beasts the size of bulls and with temperaments to match but only weighed five pounds. The incredible sneezeless man had amassed a great fortune battling black pepper monsters as he was the only one brave enough to approach them without a face mask or a nose clip. These black pepper monsters were the cause of the incredible sneezeless man’s incredible suffering. The only way to defeat black pepper monsters was to inhale them, and if you’ve ever had the displeasure of inhaling a few specks of black pepper you can imagine what it'd be like to inhale a black pepper monster. As you have probably already guessed, the incredible sneezeless man, unlike you and me, had never felt the satisfaction and relief of a sneeze, thus his incredible suffering.

Where did the black pepper monsters come from? Nobody knows, but its not important as they weren’t the cause of the incredible sneezeless man’s death. He died a tragic death. Let me explain. Following closely behind the incredible sneezeless man’s great fortune were greatly unincredible, green-stricken malevolents. None were more evil than his best friend, the forever-sneezing Dr. Ungregario. How these two became best friends is a story better left for another day, however, opposites attract and that is most certainly true for these two.

It was years that the forever-sneezing Dr. Ungregario had worked on his masterpiece: his forever-unsneezing machine. The night of the machine’s unveiling, the unveiling to the incredible sneezeless man, was a sad night. It was dark and the sliver-crested moon was weeping tears of loss. These tears fueled the already crying clouds which rained upon the almost dry but muddy moat surrounding the bad doctor’s mossy-stoned castle. The incredible sneezeless man felt no danger, no sense of ominous doom upon entering the forever-sneezing Dr. Ungregario’s dark and cave-like grotto. He walked through snakelike halls with disheveled red-rugged floors and time-torn tapestries towards the highest point of the castle where he was asked to be.

Upstairs, near the very top of the bell tower, behind the unopened, metal-fastened, heavy wooden doors, Dr. Ungregario, with his weak, frail, seemingly moldy hands raised the lever that activated his masterpiece and then picked up a recently sharpened knife that seemed perfect for carving out somebody’s sinus, an incredible man’s sinus. Approaching the final steps and feeling the vibrations of something genius through his feet, the incredible sneezeless man felt a great pity and sadness when he heard his friends sudden and unstopping sneezing. He waited in reflection then contemplation at the final step before his mind gave way to silence, before pushing against the door, before meeting his friend, before--.