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So I'm a big author, now ; )   
12:15pm 21/12/2011
mood: chipper
Mason Parker is back to being Paige Burner. I published a novella and three novels, so far. I have another novella I'm trying to get online for Christmas, Zombie Killa, a nerdcore hip-hop zombie story that I hope to see made into a film by Troma films. It uses the NCHH kids as characters, and they'll play themselves in the film. Dan, the director/producer of 'Nerdcore for Life' is set to direct. Because we all work for nothing or next to nothing.

Perfect Me - Funny Sci-Fi (Hitchhiker's Guide universe)
Pageburner - Detective thriller
Radar Love - Prison Romance. First in the Ultimate Hustle series.
Hurricane Regina - Adventure sci-fi


Dean and Soapy are mentioned in Zombie Killa. ; )

I'm looking for Amazon reviews, so hit me up if you want a review copy of anything...

collabs.and.covers @ gmail.com
Introducing Mason Parker   
06:37pm 21/08/2008
mood: artistic
This is chapter one of my post-modern detective novel I'm editing and hope to shop around to a literary agent. It's full of tech, philosophy, in-jokes, obscure hip-hop references, drug culture and other oddball things that I feel qualify it as post-modern. Somehow. I'd love to just post the whole book for free, but my wife said she'd kill me for giving away something that is potentially worth real money.

It starts off slowly, so this isn't even a good example. But you have to start at page one, I guess. Email me in private if you want to read more.

Her name was originally Paige Turner, but I was in jail and couldn't research it. So I loved her as Paige, but I had to change her name, naturally. Feedback appreciated and considered, but like music, I tend to do what the hell I want, criticism be damned. But I'd still like to hear from you about it. And I don't have a name for the damned book yet, either. The last 7-10 chapters are still in my head. I want to type it up, fact-check it, edit it, so I can get used to her new name (if I keep this one) before I finish it.

I'm not sure it can be published as is, because it has her going to a Bad Brains show, ranting about Aspartame, etc. Publishers won't like some of that, and I'm not really inclined to change it. Maybe for a juicy deal, I would, I guess. It'd make a great paperback.

Chapter 1 – A Fishy Tale (part one)

Detective Mason Parker sighed and pushed open the door that opened into the Laguna Niguel Ritz-Carlton suite seven. She was immediately struck by the pungent odor of decaying seafood. “Bleh,” she said, grimacing in mock disgust. The truth is, Mason can and has eaten sandwiches next to mutilated bodies writhing with maggots, where the victim fully lost control of their bowels, before or after death. Simpler smells, like pooled and drying blood, were almost comforting.
Her least favorite dickhead, Office Blankenship, was already slouching toward her. “Blankenshit”, she thought, “shut the fuck up.”
Blankenship was one of those wannabes who would never in a million years graduate to detective status. She held a general disdain for long-term uniformed officers in the abstract, and for Blankenship in the specific.
Uniformed officers, she felt, were fake cops. Street janitors. If you didn’t aspire to make detective, in her mind, you were lazy, ignorant, corrupt.
Uniformed officers didn’t solve crimes. And more often than not, they committed them. Low-paid, uneducated. If they didn’t steal dope money, they were sadists that took joy in human misery and beating suspects.
“Ah, Detective Parker! So good to see you”, Blankenship lied. He was an ugly little man, all bald head and decaying buck teeth. “What we have here is…”
Mason cut him off. It was best to not let him get worked up in the first place. “Has the scene been disturbed?”, she inquired.
“No one has been into the bathroom, the actual site of the altercation.”
She winced, internally, at his misuse of terminology. Buffoons like Blankenship tried to use stilted speech, and often failed spectacularly at it.
“But,” he said, “About ten P.C. have been in here, and about four of us uniformed officers. The victim is, uh, in the state of being nude. Disrobed.”
“Plainclothesmen?”, she asked. She knew what he meant, but felt like subtly chiding him. She was premenstrual, and no one to fuck with.
“Affirmative. Detective Gautier, Detective Charles, Detect…” Mason cut him off again. She was in no mood for repetitive braying from a jackass.
“Thanks, Clement. That’ll be all. I’ll take it from here.”
“Are you sure? I could…”
“Quite sure, Clem. Thanks.”
Duly chastised, born-loser Blankenship had already slunk away, leaving behind only the faint, forgettable aura of a second-rate buffoon. She was called in for the oddball murder scenes, the ones that had officers with twice her years on the force scratching their heads at the onset of the case. This was undoubtedly going to be a doozy.
Now she could relax and work in peace and silence. She set her Rubbermaid bag down and donned her forensics gear: surgical scrubs, hairnet, O.R. mask, and gloves. Few were as meticulous as she.
Humming “Ode to Joy”, she turned the corner that led to the over-sized bathroom. Such opulent surroundings were rarely the setting for murders. Splayed awkwardly across the cold tile floor, under bright lights, was the corpse of an attractive thirty-something year old woman. No wonder they took so long to call her, she thought. Her body was perfect.
She raised her six-megapixel Nikon and began snapping photos before ever entering the bathroom. Considering it, she removed her shoes to enter in her stocking feet. This was one aspect of detective work she could never decide on. Outside shoes could bring in contaminants: dirt, dog shit, etc. But shoe covers could also remove evidence. When working alone, she usually worked barefooted or in pantyhose. She liked working alone.
The victim, a Ms. Maureen Benford, lay on her back with her head toward the Jacuzzi tub, blond ringlets matted, soaking in a puddle of blood that had already congealed to the consistency of thick Karo syrup. No flies in the Ritz, at least, she mused. They would come, she knew. They always did.
Having read a scant dossier on Ms. Benford, now Maureen to her, she knew she was unique, even for this upper-upper class coastal neighborhood. You don’t remain an unmarried woman here, often, except in a few cases: gay, ugly as sin, or extremely eccentric. And Maureen was quite a catch.
He file didn’t contain info on her family, but Mason knew the name. Descendants of a real estate mogul, the Benford children each had a considerable nest egg, each of the four probably sitting on twenty million or so.
Jealousy, money and revenge being the primary motives to murder, in Mason’s mind, net wealth and the bottom line had to be considered. And money was hard to forget in Laguna Niguel, where even this branch of the Ritz-Carlton, she knew, made other Ritz-Carltons look like Holiday Inns.
She loved the view from this hotel. Looking to the north, you saw the endless expanse of the Pacific, but also the cove that the Ritz inhabited. At nine a.m., it was already populated with nannies pushing strollers, gold-diggers in French-cut bikinis, and older men in Speedos and gold chains, trolling for either of the other two.
Opposite the slight inlet, there was a private residence nearly the size of the hotel, and twice as ostentatious, all shining glass and metal. It was probably a forty million dollar house, minimum.
One of Mason’s first assignments as a uniformed officer was to escort a bewildered pair of married servants from that property. The couple, young, good-hearted but naive domestics from the southern U.S., learned the hard way what will happen if you stand up for yourselves against the super-rich.
They had apparently angered their boss. Owner, really, Mason thought. And thus found themselves summarily evicted from the house on a Sunday morning, without warning. It was hard for her to do, back then, because she knew the situation. Still, legally, the property owners could throw anyone out, live-in servants or not. But she didn’t enjoy it, and such interactions discolored her view of the elite.
Returning from her brief daydream, she gingerly padded into the room to gather evidence. She didn’t like to receive the analysis of others beforehand, when working a scene. She didn’t want their preconceived notions to shape her view of events.
She snapped shots of the gorgeous-in-repose female body on the floor, including several close-ups. You never really knew what clues the photos might hold later, when the actual body had been vivisectioned, stuffed and mounted, or cremated. And, she knew, as hot as this chick was, she’d probably be mounted and stuffed several times on the coroner’s table. Corpse-fucking was a privilege afforded that morbid profession. Everyone on the force knew it, but few discussed it.
So, it was best to get all of your evidence on the first pass. Mason usually didn’t leave a scene before she felt she’d solved the case, anyway.
She had graduated top of her class from the academy. This was no small task. She had worked her fingers to the bone, mentally and physically. She had endured hardships and trauma, repeated hazings, and even out-right threats. In the end, she was their superior, and she never quite forgave or forgot the type of cretins who’d impeded her. And she carried her dedication to excellence with her even today.
While taking artful photos of the reclining nude, she noticed what had sent the other detectives running, and was also the source of the scent of dead marine life. A large Maine lobster, blue-gree, lay on its back near the toilet and wastebasket, its claws open, tail extended. It was a big one, and her mouth watered slightly.
Rock lobster, B-52s aside, was for suckers. Maine lobster was the eating kind. Boil for nine to twelve minutes; serve with real butter and ground garlic, with a hint of sea salt and a fine wine.
Mason shuddered and reminded herself to let someone not entirely distasteful take her out to dinner soon. She wanted lobster and to get laid, in that order. Forced to choose, she’d settle for the lobster and an enjoyable conversation.
The future cadaver/necrophilia-subject-to-be mostly attended to, she redirected her focus on the ill-fated decapod, which belonged either in the North Atlantic, or in someone’s stomach. Mason had once wanted to be an oceanographer or marine biologist, until ‘Jaws’ came out when she was six. Thanks, Mr. Spielberg.
It was too bad she never got to utilize her marine biology knowledge, she thought. After snapping abundance of photos of this dinner who got away, she produced an evidence bag, labeled it, and placed the lobster inside. She put the bag on the countertop, with the lobster lying on its back. For fun, she examined it with a biologist’s eye. An adult American lobster, about three pounds or so, female. Examining the swimmerets on the abdomen, she noted brine shrimp eggs and a few dead hatchlings.
This was symbiosis in action. The brine shrimp, sea monkeys to laymen, often spawned there, giving their eggs a fighting chance at survival. Unless, that is, the lobster was harvested. And this one was fresh, no more than two days from the sea, three, max. Otherwise the shrimp would have all hatched by now.
Now donning her detective’s hat, she performed forensics on the lobster. The cephalothorax, or main shell, wasn’t cracked. It was too supple before boiling to crack, but it was bruised, indicating it may have been thrown or dropped. The facial region, eyes, brain, mouth and maxillipeds was covered with ash. Interesting. Mason had no doubt that under the ash was a mass of burns.
She turned her attention to the ashtray on the counter, ignored until now. She counted eight butts, two with lipstick. Using her tweezers, she examined each in turn, after taking a few photos of their initial arrangement. She bagged them together as she examined them.
After she removed five of them, she found a roach buried in the ash. Unsurprising. This was California. Everyone, even a lot of cops, smoked pot. Mason certainly did, before work, after work. Occasionally at lunch. It made her a better detective, she felt, and relieved stress, helping her to sleep at night.
She brought it to her nose and inhaled, trying to place the strain. It smelled like Purple Haze, a potent, smooth-smoking hybrid favored by smokers with money. The hard weed-heads smoked B.C. bud from Vancouver, or whites, rhino and widow. But there was a base note to the scent she didn’t immediately recognize, a faint candy smell reminiscent of opium. On a whim, she left the bathroom and began to search the suite.
Within three minutes, she had her answer. She found most of an eighth of Haze. She knew her weed. In the baggie was a piece of foil. Inside of that were three cubes of rock cocaine. This was a package deal some sellers offered. For $100, you got a sack of high-grade hydro and five stones.
So, considering the lack of a pipe, the pack of Job Crystal papers, the roach, and the smell emanating from it, Mason concluded that the joint was a primo, marijuana laced with crack. And a good primo could burn for nearly twenty minutes, she noted. Neither here nor there, but a good investigator considered everything, significant or not.
She returned to the lavatory, pocketing the herb sack. No need to shame the victim after death. The coroner’s toxicology report would show traces of THC and cocaine anyway, but that wouldn’t be widely known or reported.
Mason refocused on the wounds of the victim. Wound, in this case. Obviously, there was no gunshot involved, or stab wound. Blunt force trauma seemed most likely, but she knew poisoning or overdose could have had the same effect. The victim, she surmised, was most likely struck in the head, assuming murder was the case. Barring that, once possibility remained. Well, two. But a single dichotomy often not considered by many murder investigations. It might not have been a murder at all.
True, a long shot could mean that something akin to poisoning or overdose could have resulted in Lady Maureen falling over and striking her head on the floor. But what if that wasn’t the cause? Yes, you could fall out from smoking crack, or even have a heart attack, but it wasn’t very common in small amounts such as this. Maureen was a “chipper”, an amateur. A light, weekend smoker.
The autopsy would reveal more, but Mason wanted to know, now. She still had time to get herself a lobster for lunch, if she wrapped this up. She went back into the suite and called the front desk. “This is room seven. Do we have lobster on the menu?”
“Yes, ma’am. Shall I send up another one?”
Mason paused. “No, thanks. I’ll come down for lunch. Please have the chef prepare a two-pound lobster, with a Catalina chef’s salad and a glass of Zinfandel.”
“Certainly, madam.”
Polite to a fault.
The Funniest Stuff I Ever Wrote   
07:22pm 13/08/2008
mood: crazy
( You are about to view content that may only be appropriate for adults. )
06:09pm 25/04/2008
mood: productive
She'd come dangerously close. Luckily, she had him at bay. As long as he left her alone. She would certainly never touch him.

It would be her undoing.

But, sometimes, she wanted to let him hold her close. To just give in and and see where it took them.

If only she could be sure nothing bad would come of it.
10:26am 25/04/2008
mood: accomplished
"Christ!", she thought. Would this asshole ever leave her alone? Show someone a little kindness, and they attach themselves to you like a leech.

What was in that other stupid book he had gotten her to read? He was a psychic vampire. She really didn't know what to do.

So she let him ride with her. Endured his stupid, pathetic romantic nonsense.

She could handle it, up to a point. But basically, he gave her the creeps. She disliked everything about him. His looks, his body, his personality.

She secretly hoped he would kill himself, and soon.
11:04pm 24/04/2008
mood: discontent
He was doomed.

He couldn't have her and he couldn't leave her. The whole episode had pushed him over the edge. He lashed out angrily at the world, alienating himself further.

Eventually, he reached a kind of middle ground. Not acceptance, he would never accept things as they were, but he tried to look at things in a positive manner.

Circumstances, he told himself. She can't. She's married. He was married.

He was quite sure her husband had cheated on her already, and would do so again. Poor, silly loyal girl, he thought. What a sad world, where something so good could feel so bad.

She was both the problem and the solution. He tried to focus on everything she had given him in spite of the circumstances. It really was a lot.

His own wife had told him that he constantly expected more and more from people, and when they couldn't give anymore, he reacted badly. Very badly.

Luckily, he focused most of his (anger?) back at himself. But he had behaved horribly toward her at one point, and had agonized over it ever since. Was this his fate? To hurt the people he loved the most? He wanted to change.

He's done more than hurt his wife. He'd killed her. The fact that these two women still accepted him somewhat in spite of his monstrous behavior should have proven to him once and for all that they did care for him and love him.

Was he really so insecure as to need constant reassurance? He was.

He knew it wasn't fair to keep asking her for help. It was also dangerous. He tried to keep his requests small, and to ask (beg) only when absolutely necessary.

Sometimes, and it came more often now, more intensely, he desperately wanted to beg her to come inside and hold him for a few minutes. To not pull away from him first. To tell him she loved him.

But he was too afraid.
10:46pm 24/04/2008
mood: blank
He was born with a small hole in his chest. He was generally regarded as a freak as a result. It didn't bother him. People only saw it in the shower in gym class.

Like he cared what a bunch of sweaty teenage boys thought of him. If you weren't warm and soft and female, he didn't want to know you.

One day, the hole was a little larger.

"That's peculiar", he thought, "I wonder why that is?"

He thought nothing of it until the next Monday, when it was larger still. He could nearly fit his entire fist in there now. "Shit", he thought, "this is serious."

So he tried to fill the hole. He put pounds of weed into it. Thousands of hits of acid. Forty ounces, cakes, candy, books, music. He even put a mother and child in there.

Nothing helped.

In fact, it made it worse.

So, one day, when the hole was big enough, he crawled into himself and disappeared.
     Read 1 - Post
10:17pm 24/04/2008
mood: cheerful
I only wanted to feel loved, he cried

Knowing full well he was about as lovable as a razor-filled Hitler teddy bear that spat poison

And as desirable as flesh-eating bacteria

I'm not such a bad guy, he lied

Knowing that somewhere in hell, the devil himself feared his arrival

He wasn't always like this, another lie

He had harbored the seed within him since birth

Adding layers of complexity like an exquisitely evil black pearl

Or at least a rotten onion
07:59pm 24/04/2008
  This was written in 1994, but it might as well have been written yesterday, in a sense.

Ka like a wheel.

He had to have her. He wasn't even sure why, but he had to have her. She wasn't particularly nice, and she'd stopped flirting with him long ago, leaving him twisting in the wind like a hanged man.

What was it about her that made him feel this way? He asked himself every day.

She was certainly attractive in a non-conventional way, but it went a lot further than mere lust. He loved her. He wasn't sure what love was, but he definitely felt something very strongly, and love was the generally accepted term for it.

What's worse is that he TOLD her he loved her. Worse still, she said she loved him, twice.

He had given her every opportunity (well, one or two) to retract or back out of that misstatement, but she had weakly insisted it was true.

Very weakly, to be sure, but she wasn't exactly brimming with passion about anything. She hadn't acquired the secret nickname "Flatline" for nothing.

He didn't take such things lightly. Only one other person had ever said that to him, and he had been by her side ever since, long after the declarations of love had turned to screams of hate.
Untitled Emo, 1994   
08:29am 24/04/2008
mood: accomplished
It doesn't hurt
So bad anymore
Or at least I hide
It better
It's sad to think
You face the world alone
And no one cares
And no one will care
Writing helps
Captain Dan and his Scurvy Crew Make Good   
07:10am 24/04/2008
mood: sympathetic
The captain stood at the rails of his ship, sternly and stoically surveying the choppy waters.

"Sir, we're just about out of fuel. We don't have enough for another pass, and make it back to port before she hits, sir", Yeoman Clancy pointed, out, respectfully, in accordance to his duties.

"Yeoman", the captain said through gritted teeth, never taking the binoculars from his eyes. "If you don't shut the fuck up with your fucking bullshit concerns, I am going to throw you the fuck overboard." All delivered calmly, evenly, seriously.

Clancy imperceptibly nodded, to a man who wasn't looking, and dismissed himself in silence.

His own reaction gave the captain pause. He wasn't known as "The Highest High-C On the Fucking High-Seas" for nothing. Whatever they actually meant by it. He knew his crew loved him like no other, harsh taskmaster or not.

Still, all this for a stowaway?

20 minutes later, Clancy returned.

An observant captain would have noticed the liquid courage on his breath, steeling himself with alcohol as he did to gain the confidence for another confrontation with his mentor.

It always came to this, in the student/teacher relationship.

It's like he told his sons, before the world forced him to relocate permanently to the ocean in order to save a shred of his fading humanity. You’re not a man until you kick your dad’s ass.

"Sir, we c- ngh", Clancy emitted, as Captain Dan's left hand raised up, silently, from nowhere, with the comedic actions reserved for cartoon zombies rising from the grave, and backhanded Clancy into unconsciousness.

He saw...something, out there, in her. "Her", being the sea. Everything was a She when you lived on the ocean with a bunch of hardlegs.

But he KNEW his feelings. He trusted them above all. His instincts and feelings made him who his was. And he was the best rogue pilot the NAU Navy could afford.

He radioed the contower. "Kill the engines, and drop some boats", he said. "I want everyone awake, in these fucking boats, ROWING and SEARCHING until we find her again. "NOW", he gritted. "MOVE".

Thirteen tired, angry men stirred. Had they a little less respect, he would have been the next one overboard.

But he saw something out there, in her. His imagination? No. That speck, that slightly discolored portion of ocean too far up ahead to be sure it was REALLY a speck of a different color, represented his salvation. He had lost crewmen and passengers before. But he wasn't losing this one without a fight.

"Radio for a tanker to rendezvous at 0600.", he snapped into the radio. "We're going to be here the rest of the night, until we find her."

And, some thousands of feet away, held aloft by pure human will, a frail, scared, nearly unconscious young lady with a rebellious streak as wide as the Mississippi called out with the last of her strength, "help".

No one heard her. But he wasn't going to lose another one.
     Read 1 - Post
The Girl In The Lab   
09:02am 22/04/2008
mood: flirty
This is a longer form piece I started, recently.

I can only write when I am in love, I think. If I don't have a person to write for, to write to, I don't write.

I am lucky to have someone to write for, right now. For however long it lasts.

This is sort of interactive fiction, as not all of the words are mine, but also hers. Pretty cutting edge, not the words, but the way it is being written.

It may never progress past this point, though. We shall see.

The Girl In The Lab: Chapter 1

The light had gone out of her life. She had become so myopic that she hadn't noticed. What she was sustained by was an after-image, a trick of the light and human frailties.

The man who had loved her was dead, and she had killed him. He existed, in memory, even as he was still physically present.

But he was not the person she believed him to be. For at this moment, when her mind was so totally on him, he was elsewhere.

Running free through fields of flowers, he was essentially dancing on her grave.

He didn't deserve to be so happy. His callous disregard for the well-being of others, as manifest by his desire to rip the foundation away from the person who had stayed with him for some twenty-two years, through all manner of turmoil. She had lost her looks and her health to him, acquired weighty burdens, and now she had lost him.

Never knowing what he meant, he thought that by giving all of his income, and remaining on the premises, he was fulfilling his obligations.

But a transference had occurred. He had removed his love from one and begun to implant it in another. He could only hope the operation was a success.

He was writing his life's story hour by hour, now. Turning it into his greatest work of interactive fiction.

Unfortunately, it was an extremely disturbing piece he was writing.

He had, so near at hand, the most stunning female specimen on the planet. Perfect in every way, her every strength and frailty meshed against his with the totality of two pools of mercury reuniting.

He wanted to think he was doing it for the wrong reasons. To find fault with himself. He said his interest was largely sexual. Because she was the perfect submissive. Perfect, in that she wasn't at all submissive. She was active in her role as his counterpoint. She controlled the universe. She got what she wanted. Her need was to be his need. And so she was.

The parts of her that yielded to him created new strengths within himself. Strengths to which she further merged herself into the embrace of.

And her strengths outnumbered his own. Only her tender age frightened him, at this point, not the consequences of marrying her.

Was he taking advantage of a girl powerless to resist his promises and charms? He'd acquired an arsenal of skills in his lifetime of living the secret romantic life of private writer.

He was armed for bear, so to speak, and it was now that he unleashed the full brunt of his emotion, in the hopes of spurring her into further adoration of him.

Chapter 2

She had left her iPod on the table beside a microscope and some slides. She was in a rush; it had begun to rain, as was expected, and the sky was darkening.

The iPod was left on a certain playlist, titled "Playlist_01." This is what was heard:

04/20/2008 04:31 AM 4,202,496 Ashanti - Happy.mp3
04/20/2008 03:27 AM 3,801,338 Bangles - Eternal Flame.mp3
04/20/2008 04:06 AM 5,751,256 Christina Aguilera - Love For All Seasons.mp3
04/20/2008 04:09 AM 4,031,634 Christina Aguilera - We're A Miracle.mp3
04/20/2008 04:24 AM 4,387,485 Danielle Bollinger - Kiss The Sky.mp3
04/20/2008 04:31 AM 5,353,600 Debbie Gibson - We Could Be Together.mp3
04/20/2008 04:36 AM 5,091,194 Dido - Here With Me.mp3
04/20/2008 03:28 AM 4,123,584 Expose - Seasons Change(1).mp3
04/20/2008 04:16 AM 7,857,062 Laura Paulsini - The Extra Mile.mp3
04/20/2008 03:44 AM 3,696,977 Roxette - Fading Like A Flower.mp3
04/20/2008 04:27 AM 4,453,817 Roxette - Spending My Time.mp3
04/20/2008 04:27 AM 4,933,632 Samantha Mumba - Lately.mp3
04/20/2008 04:23 AM 5,453,295 September - Looking For Love.mp3
04/20/2008 04:41 AM 3,258,842 Shania Twain Notting Hill Sndtrack - You've Got a Way With Me.mp3
04/19/2008 09:55 PM 6,601,050 Sia - Breathe Me.mp3
04/20/2008 04:37 AM 3,299,497 The Corrs - Breathless.mp3
04/20/2008 04:40 AM 7,771,387 Within Temptation - All I Need.mp3
04/20/2008 04:17 AM 3,477,450 Xscape - Who can I run to.mp3

She hadn’t intended to, of course. Not consciously.

But subconsciously? He was the hottest professor on three campuses, after all. Part of her wanted him to find it. To wonder about her. Because these songs were the key to understanding her.

She should be so complete, at her age. She faced a rewarding career ahead. She was tops in her class, in a field dominated by men. She was nearing graduation. The future should have seemed bright.

But there was something lacking. It was him, she had decided. Not a thing, but a person. And not just any person. Him.

Boys left her cold. She didn’t want to have to tell someone what to do, and how to do it. She needed someone who already knew how to be a man. But she required honor in her life. Such dilemmas she faced! It was hardly fair. She told herself that anything worth doing required effort. Nothing worthwhile was easy. Even doing the right thing, when it came naturally.

A turmoil existed below the calm surface exterior of the picturesque lake surface that was her appearance. Swans? Alligators? And which was which? Or were there any such things, or only the purity of water and air?

Sometimes it was difficult to view the world with the heart of a poet. She tried to not let the world damage that part of her. The part that still believed in romance, and happiness, and destiny. The poetry.

She had to have it in her life. In a myriad of forms. She wanted her life itself to take on the qualities of an epic poem. With the wit of Chaucer, the passion of Shakespeare, and the length and strength of Beowulf.

Hence, he was the only logical choice. This was not a normal thing, like Mr. Physics and Biology would undoubtedly claim.

It was a calculated choice, drive by logic and reason. So few possessed those skills, she had found. And they were life-shaping tools. Once you learned to code, you looked at life differently. Like men must view the world, she thought.

She knew what his reaction would be, already. She had spent two years in his service as his most trusted grad student, research assistant and lab partner. They were peers.

He would lean back in his chair, and puff on his pipe, a parody of a professor’s pipe, as it was only ever used for marijuana.

“Angel,” he would say, (Never knowing, each time he used her first name, she started to drip).

“What you are experiencing is a biological imperative. You, the vulnerable, breeding-age female, in the face of very uncertain times, are simply following your programming.

Nature dictates that you survive. Nurture. Replicate.”

He would pause.

“Everything you do in your life works in this direction”, he’d finally say.

As if that explained everything.

Chapter 3

He idly fingered the iPod. He really did have work to do. But he knew who owned this device.

He smelled it.

That was her. The scent of vanilla.

It stirred him, somehow. What girl, in this modern age, knew the simple device of a dab of vanilla behind her ears?

It was intoxicating. His classes were starting to fall apart. He couldn’t focus on work for very long at a time.

He smelled her deeply, one last time, and put the mp3 player in his desk drawer. He would wait for her to come to him.
     Read 5 - Post
Flash #4, 1994   
08:45am 22/04/2008
mood: pessimistic
He had a theory. He postulated that when he was "insane" (and he really was totally fucking insane at one point in his life), he felt and saw and heard things that were not real. Not hallucinated it, he knew what hallucinations were, obviously. This was actual laying of hands on the illusion. The line crossed.

Reality was filtered through your senses. If you brain says it's real, IT'S REAL. So life was a consensual hallucination we all shared.

The problem last time was the Haldol, of course. He looked up the side effects: INSANITY! Heh.

He scored one hundred hits of Berkeley pure. No bullshit white blotter, either. Acid without artwork on it was worthless. He's sooner be straight.

He tried to recreate what happened last time. He ate ten hits to start.

He wasn't sure on what day it occurred, but he crossed over again. It wasn't just the acid, but the exhaustion and lack of nutrition. He stepped out of his apartment into a perfect world. Perfect. He had everything he had ever wanted, without limits. And he would live forever.

"Get this fuckin' chickenhead back in his room, he's drooling on himself again!"
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Flash #3, 1994   
08:43am 22/04/2008
mood: cynical

He was in the grips of a machine. A great mind-mangling, soul-crushing machine of his own making. Uhh, that's it.
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Flash #2, 1994   
08:40am 22/04/2008
mood: apathetic
The Man Who Loved Shit

There was once a man who loved shit. He wasn't a coprophile or anything. He lived in a shitty, shit-coloured house, working at a shitty job in a shitty town, et cetera. But he had an idea, a dream, which he pursued. After several (need I say shitty?) years of work, he had done it. He had built an engine that ran on shit. "It runs on shit!", he would exclaim loudly and often to anyone who would listen.

The world did not beat a path to his door.
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Flash Writing, 1994   
08:40am 22/04/2008
  Flash writing, I think, is a story told in 200 words or less. Something like that little toad taught me that. I never knew it was a style, much less a hot, modern style. I am always so far ahead of the pack, I just get bored and wander off into the woods. Then the marathoners pass me by, and think they were always in the lead.

But I like writing. I have too much inside to keep it all in, anymore. And precious little else to do with my time, anyway.

So, contextually, these were written when my daughter was born, and I as in a tawdry three-way affair with my married boss and my wife, in a sense. Emotional three-way, anyway. I lost out on all of that, big time, of course. And I think I wrote these, and one or two more, at that time. No one has ever read them, and they are embarrassingly bleak.

Still, I feel they are good writing, and I want to share good writing with people who like good writing. If that's not too pretentions of me.

J. Claiborne

He lay trapped, broken and bleeding at the bottom of the abandoned well.

"Dolores Claiborne, you fucking CUNT!" He wondered idly if she would retain his name after he was dead. He thought he could have climbed out despite the broken leg, if it hadn't been for the rock the BITCH dropped on his head. He was thinking in caps now, like Cujo. He knew he deserved it. Didn't make him feel any better at this point. He regretted every day of his life, every harsh word, every stupid action, every bad decision. He used the last of his energy to scream obscenities at the top of his lungs.

Unsurprisingly, no one came to his rescue.
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Nerdapalooza 2008 - Orlando, FL, July 4 & 5   
08:28am 22/04/2008

I guess I bought a headliner slot, sort of. I pay my own way, of course, and I'm housing a bunch of other MCs. It's basically my last big show, as far as I'm concerned.

Captain Dan and his Scurvy Crew


DJ Snyder

Dual Core

Emergency Pizza Party

Former Fat Boys

funky49 and Redvoid


Killer Robots!

Krondor Krew



MC Frontalot

MC Gigahertz



Nora Ricci


Random Beats

The REAL DefCon 4

Rocket Propelled Geeks

Schaffer the Darklord

Select Start

Sudden Death





Zombies! Organize!!

Plus Harry and the Potters, Uncle MonsterFace and more. Expect drama, Surprises, Love, Arm-Wrestling!

In some crazy way, Nerdapalooza is because of me. So I do have something to take to the grave with me.
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I'm a writer again   
08:22am 22/04/2008
mood: awake
Hi, you handful of people here who know me.

Someone I know has convinced me that I need to go with my strengths, which is writing, basically, and not rapping. She didn't say that last part, but I know, guys. I know.

So, here I am. I have some old flash from 1994. I have some new stuff. And surprises. Mean, scary old Jason Gortician is primarily a romance writer. Naturally.
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Nerdcore Hip-Hop Compilation CD   
09:03am 17/04/2006
mood: tired
Announcing the first ever Nerdcore Compilation CD...

Banding together from around the globe, the most talented Nerdcore hip-hop artists who weren't too big, busy or full of themselves are contributing tracks for this monumental event in the making. More artists are signing on daily.

Artists slated to appear include:

1337 G33k B3at (1GB) - New track

Andrew Octopus

Beefy - New track, plus "Internet Celebrity"

Benjamin Bear - New track, plus "Joystickin'" (license)

DJ Manticore - "St. Roman's Passion" (instrumental)

Doctor Popular - New track (instrumental)

Funky49 and Red Void - New track, "RPG"

futuristic sex robotz - "WoW" (license)

HamSTAR - Hamstar Rap (with DJ Phonicoid)

High-C - New track, "RIAA Criminal", plus "Flame Extension"

Incredibad - "I Think I Might Have Killed The President" (High-C's Minimalist Remix) (license)


Jesse Dangerously - New track

MCDJ - New track, "Lossy Compression"

MC Dope Dope - New track (license)

MC Hawking - New track, "01000101" (tentative title)

MC Plus+ - New track

MC Wreckshin with JeffMK - New track

Meter Versus Yard - New tracks, "La Violencia", "Divided States"

Monzy - New track

Oddioblender - New tracks,

Old Scratch - "Proud to be Wack"

Rappy Mcrappperson - "Grocery Store"

Shael Riley - New track, "Miss Information", plus "Bit Pop"

shagrugge - "Ain't Sayin Nuthin (Sleepy Holophlo mix)" (license)

DJ Snyder - New track

Spamtec - New track

Ultraklystron - New track

YTCracker - New track

Wally Glutton - "In A Way"

ZeRoBiTrAte - New track, "Arkanoid"

Everyone is trying to contribute new, unreleased material for this disc, but there may be a few previously released tracks on there that you might not have heard before. Now, here's where it gets even more interesting.

Skinnable and Decentralized

The CD will be freely available by Bittorrent when it's released. There may be a few tracks that are Internet only, due to Creative Commons licensing considerations. But each artist will also have the option of selling copies at shows, etc. if they want to.

Finally, there will probably be several different pieces of cover art, and even different CD titles. For what it's worth, the version that will be released here will be called 'Rhyme Torrent'.

Are you as excited as I am? Good. If things go as planned, the disc will be available here via torrent on 6/6/06. We might as well make that day eventful...

If you'd like to appear, or have changed your mind, email me here.

It looks like this will definitely be a double CD... One old track and one unreleased track from many of the performers is the new goal. We're drawing the line at four CDs. After that, it'll be mp3 downloads.

Recent press: Boingboing.net | Doubleviking.com | G4TV (sort of)

Wikipedia Nerdcore Hip-Hop Edit War...

But wait, there's more... Creative Commons may promote the work, if we can determine who is under what CC license. I'll be contacting each of the artists involved in turn to sort this out. In the meantime, take the time to consider licensing original works under one of the Creative Commons licenses. This means the discs will be sorted into "sellable", "freely distributable, but not for sale", and "straight-up pirate" categories.

Creative Commons

The discs, as it stands:


(Legal To Sell)

Rhyme Torrent

(Freely Distributable)



(Bands are linked from the site. Anyone else rap in a geeky fashion?)
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GUNTGRUTCHER meets Jason GORTICIAN Christie (Non-Fiction)   
09:37pm 30/08/2004
  (Note: This is about me, not by me. It details the night Brian Magar of Guntgrutcher and Brad of The Black Method and I partied in New Orleans.)

Halloween 2000. Brad (Chemical) and I are scheduled to be in New Orleans. I made plans to meet the infamous JASON GORTICIAN a month in advance. So the whole time before "the day" we were waiting in anticipation. Wondering what this guy was actually gonna be like. To give some background. I have been corresponding with Jason Christie for about 5 years via email. He's always been down with what I've been doing and vice versa. Not familiar with GORTICIAN? Poke around on a search engine for a few minutes. I'm sure you'll be able to find some kind of press on Gortician.

So anyway. It comes down to "the day" we are supposed to meet. Brad and I are conjuring up all these scenario's of what this guy will actually be like. Laughing and bonding away on Bourbon Street until he calls. "He's on his way." We meet Jason in the lobby of the Marriot right off the French Quarter. He comes strolling in with a beat up leather jacket. Leather top hat, and a GUNTGRUTCHER shirt. FUCK YES!!!. We get his wife and kids squared away in our hotel room and go hit the streets. Halloween in New Orleans is surreal. Big floats and shit. Everyone is dressed up, drunk, naked and crazy as fuck. This definitely added to the insanity.

First stop was a craphole strip joint. We go in and I buy Jason 2 beers, a shot of jagermeister and a long island iced tea. He kills these in 5 minutes. We hang out and watch some big breasted stripper dance for 3 seconds. Then some crackhead broad comes out and dances. The whole time Jason is talking about virtual reality and concepts for DOT COM companies. To be honest I am not a tech guy, so I didn't understand a lot of the technical lingo. Later on Brad confirmed that Jason was no joke in the tech department. The strippers and belligerent hillbillies weren't giving us a good vibe at this place, so we left.

On to the next strip club. On the way there. Jason says, "Hey man, you know how you can tell it's not Mardi Gras?" I say. "No?". He says "Watch this." Jason proceeds in pinching this really hot girl's ass who was walking down the street. She turns around and says "Get the fuck off of me you sick-o." All three of us were laughing. It was about at this point that I realized that Jason's online persona is actually quite tame compared to the real deal.

So we all go to this other strip club. Once again. I take care of a large round of drinks for Jason. All in all. I think I spent about 60 bucks on Jasons drinks. So we're sittin there, Shootin' the shit about all things death metal and gore. Just chillin. Watching a few HOT strippers in action. Jason says "Man, I need to go smoke some weed. I'll be back." He goes in the back of the club and fires it up in the bathroom.

5 minutes later he's back in action. "Oooo..Ok man..You don't know me." This is what Jason said and moved to the back of the stripper wheel. I had no idea what he was talking about. Just then Brad bumps my shoulder and says "Hey man, Check out the wheel." I look up and see this stripper perched on a spinning wheel with GUNTGRUTCHER, GORTICIAN and 3 pentagrams slapped on the side. Turns out that Jason was sitting back there tagging the shit up as the stripper was dancing. I hear the bathroom has some nice tags as well.

Jason moves back and Brad goes in the VIP for some Lap dance action. Jason and I are shooting the shit some more. All the while I'm tipping this chick. Just then Jason stands up and says "Here, you want my fuckin' money? Here..Take it." He crumbles dollar bills up into little balls and proceeds to throw them as hard as he could at the womans ass. "Here...here's your fuckin' money!!!" It was pretty insane. Only because it isn't everyday that you see someone literally throwing money at someone's ass.

So we all get bored of that shit and decide to go out and try and find us a show. The Misfits where playing at the House of Blues that night. But It didn't really seem like the thing to do. So we walked around into uncharted territory. Jason fires up a joint like 5 feet away from a cop. Then he blows it in someones face. Walking around like the mad hatter. It was surreal in a way that I cannot really describe. Then we came across a huge group of hippies burning shit in the street around a drum circle. This wasn't our scene. We end up sitting in front of some store for a few hours just shootin the shit. It's like 6 am at this point and I'm tired.

We go back to the hotel and Jason hooks Brad and I up with some GORTICIAN CD's and a FESTERING SORE (Jason's other deal. Kind of reminds me of Bathory mixed with Venom) promo. ROCK!!!

I remember reading a short clip on the BRUTAL TRUTH newsletter a while back about Jason. It said something like "Special thanks to Jason Christie for the shirts and the killer time in Louisiana." That stuck in my head all night for some reason. Now I know why they felt the need to thank him for the good time. A few words come to mind when thinking about Jason. CULT is one of them. Jason is total CULT. A one man army fueled by insanity. Words cannot describe it. Jason is a man truly living the underground.
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