I love Laura Lindsay.

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I love Laura Lindsay.

I mean I fucking love Laura Lindsay.

And when I say I love Laura Lindsay, I mean I love Laura Lindsay more than a 39-year-old man with a wife and a kid should love a 21-year-old girl.

Especially one I’ve never met.

One I’ll probably never meet.

And one who in all likelihood is dead.

And when I say she in all likelihood is dead, I mean we just don’t know.

Somebody probably knows.

But I’ll never fucking know.

And Pete and Repeat down at the Loving Laura Lindsay podcast will probably never know.

And her family probably doesn’t know.

The police don’t know. They don’t know! Trust me, even though every local resident of Brattleboro, Vermont thinks the police not only know but are in on her disappearance, they don’t know. There is not some huge police coverup of Laura Lindsay’s vanishing. They police may be corrupt. But an entire dynasty of police covering up essential information that could clear this thing up forever — for the family, for the town, for everyone — not likely. Trust me, in my 20 years of true crime investigation, it’s just never happened. Not once. The police do not know where Laura Lindsay is.

No one fucking knows.

Well, maybe Lisa Morabito.

She might know.

But she won’t talk to fucking anyone.

I went to that bitch’s house to ask her some questions.

She acted like a murderer.

And I’ve interviewed fucking murderers.

Every fucking murderer I’ve met has been nicer than this fucking bitch.

Talk about making yourself conspicuous.

She yells, “How did you find me?” and slams the door in my face.

I mean a smart murderer — or someone with something to hide — would invite you in, make you coffee, chat it up with you for half an hour, and act like they had nothing to hide. Can you imagine Ted Bundy slamming the door in someone’s face? No, you fucking cannot. Smart people with something to hide don’t act like they have something to hide. Lisa Morabito knows where Laura Lindsay is — I guarantee it. I would cut off my left testicle if Lisa Morabito doesn’t know what happened to Laura Lindsay. That bitch fucking knows. I wouldn’t be surprised if, the day I went to Lisa Morabito’s house, Laura Lindsay wasn’t right behind the door listening to everything we said. And by everything we said I mean Lisa telling me to get off her motherfucking porch.

I get told that a lot as an investigative journalist.

Get off my fucking porch.

I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t get off my motherfucking porch.

I have a shotgun and I’m gonna blow your motherfucking head off if you don’t exit yourself off my motherfucking porch in the next five seconds.

People don’t necessarily like to answer questions about their missing daughters, neighbors, and residents of their jurisdiction. But when a white, 21-year-old girl goes missing — just goes poof in the middle of the night and a body is never found, a person is never found, her credit cards are never used again, ground searches turn up nothing, helicopters with forward-facing radar turn up nothing..that’s a story. People want to know. And that’s where I come in.

I write true crime books.

I’ve written three.

The book on Laura Lindsay would have been my fourth.

But things got fucked up.

I had this camp counsellor. Used to lecture us on the importance of carrying foot powder. Said, “You never know when a ten-minute walk is going to turn into a five-day survival hike.”

He was right.

That guy was right.

He was motherfucking right.

And that’s what happened with this Laura Lindsay situation. What should have been a ten-minute hike turned into a five-day survival hike.

And I wasn’t carrying my foot powder.

A fucking bitch goes missing. It happens all the time.

Then Seventeen and the local papers and the Investigation Discovery channel come in and do their thing.

I come in and do my thing.

I try to keep it to a higher level.

I mean I have a fucking degree in this shit.

So for them it’s sensation. It’s leaving out facts to imply that things happened that didn’t really happen.

But I’m trying to make a living at this shit.

This is my fucking reputation, you know?

I got to get this shit fucking right, or people will never buy my books again.

So I find an angle.

But I find a true angle.

At least that’s what normally happens.

But with Laura Lindsay, it was like that bitch was specifically trying to fuck with not only this book, but my entire career.

She refused to be pinned down.

And I wanted to pin that bitch down. The more time went on, the more I wanted to pin her down in the nastiest way. It was like she was asking to be fucked — and I mean fucked — but she only wanted to be fucked by someone worthy of finding her.

Or her dead corpse.

Which I wasn’t going to do — fuck her dead corpse. But finding her dead corpse would have been as good as fucking the live Laura Lindsay — at least for me it would have. But the problem is Laura Lindsay’s dead corpse wouldn’t reveal itself.

The bitch parks her wrecked car in the parking lot of the Walmart Supercenter on Brattleboro Road in Hinsdale, New Hampshire.

By all accounts she walks in.

By all accounts she never walks out.

She never goes back to her car.

She’s never found in the Walmart.

Police were on her tail for driving erratically. They thought she was drunk — which she probably was.

They saw her walk into the Walmart Supercenter.

They saw the fucking bitch get out of a wrecked car — windshield cracked, axles broken — and go into that Walmart.

Then that was it.

There has never been a credible sighting of Laura since.

Now either she’s hiding out working in the produce section, or that bitch snuck out the back and wandered into the woods and died of a head wound..or maybe she committed suicide..or maybe she was abducted.

Or maybe Laura Lindsay staged one of the most brilliant disappearances in the history of intentional goddamned motherfucking disappearances.

The question is: just how smart is Laura Lindsay?

Is she smart enough to intentionally wreck her car — but not enough to kill herself — to put bottles of alcohol in her passenger seat to lead us all to believe she was drunk, to have someone waiting for her in an SUV behind the Walmart, walk casually through the back warehouse and get in the friendly vehicle, and disappear to Canada with her new boyfriend or Lisa Morabito, and then live so quietly that she never raises any kind of flag on any kind of radar? Change her name? Work quietly in some coffeehouse in a tiny town and maintain the discipline of never contacting her family again?

Did she want to get away that fucking bad?

If so, why?

Are the sexual abuse theories correct? Because whether there was actual sexual abuse or not, and whether she meant to kill herself or just get away for the weekend — or if she meant to get away forever — the intentional disappearance theories do hold one thread in common for me.

And that was that she was trying to get away from something.

And I believe that something was her family.

But, dear reader of present book, don’t become distracted by the theories surrounding Laura Lindsay’s disappearance.

Because that is the least important thing about this story.

Theories come. Theories go.

But you know what’s constant?

People’s obsession with the dead.

Or people’s obsession with the missing.

And you know what’s become really constant for me?

My obsession with Laura Lindsay.

I mean I’m about to get fucking divorced over this shit.

I have a wife. I have a five-year-old daughter.

That’s what I should be paying attention to.

Licking my wife’s pussy when we’re in bed at night.

Kissing my daughter’s forehead and reading the motherfucking Berenstain Bears.

Right? That’s where my focus should lie.

A little book writing on the side. A little investigation. Write a decent book on Laura Lindsay.

That’s just not how it’s worked out.

My writing room looks like a cross between John Nash’s woodshed in A Beautiful Mind and the den of a serial killer stalking his next victim.

Laura Lindsay is my victim.

She’s no longer my research subject.

She’s my motherfucking victim.

I should be making phone calls to the residents of Brattleboro and Hinsdale. Instead I’m driving to Vermont.

I live in fucking California, people.

I have regular hotels I stay at in Brattleboro.

The bartenders recognize me.

The day drinkers recognize me.

They all know I’m writing a book.

They know it’s about their Laura Lindsay.

And you want to know something about New Englanders? For one, it’s that they don’t tell you shit until they get to know you. You can’t just ask a New Englander a question. Fuck. The bartender won’t even serve you a drink unless he knows you. It’s a very mind your own business type of place. So when writers come in — especially after every cheese news outlet in the world has already come and gone, raped the towns and every shop owner in them for information about this missing girl — they’re not exactly welcoming. I mean, in a way, you get the sense that everybody but you knows exactly what happened to Laura Lindsay and it’s your job to find some special key to put in some special lock to get them to simply tell you what it was.

I hoped to do that by hanging around Vermont and New Hampshire as much as possible, making myself seem local.

My wife was not a fan of this idea.

My daughter was not a fan of this idea.

I started off not being a fan of the idea, either, but the more I flew into Burlington and rode the Amtrak down to Brattleboro, and the more tantalizing but minuscule clues these fucking Vermonters dealt out to me (one card at a time), the more Vermont became my home and California became the inconvenience of being further from the facts.

You have to understand something about locals.

Locals know what is going on.

Whether it be the locals of a family, a town, a club..the locals know what is going on, either by intuition or by proximity. But locals see things that outsiders don’t see by the simple fact of their being around all the time. So locals are where your story is. Trust me. If your serial killer goes to Florida, you go to Florida. You’re gonna meet someone, wandering around a dock polishing a boat, who knows where your killer is. You’re not gonna get that making fucking phone calls from California.

With a missing person, you need the family.

The family knows.

Nine times out of ten, the family knows.

That’s why I was so frustrated with Mike Lindsay.

I didn’t think he knew.

In fact I was pretty sure he didn’t have any idea where his daughter was.

But I’d bet you my right testicle he knows somebody who does.

That’s why it irked me so much that motherfucker was so motherfucking unhelpful when it came to finding his daughter.

Wouldn’t you at least want to find her dead body, rotting in the woods of Vermont, clutching that last bottle of gin she grabbed from her car, nursing herself with a little alcoholic warmth before she froze to death?

I realize I haven’t established the bottle of gin.

I’m a bad narrator. Spank me and send me home from school.

The gin..

Well, look, I don’t want to get into a bunch of details since this is just the intro chapter and shit, but I’ll tell you one thing:

This book is about how Laura Lindsay fucked my life.

And it’s about how I fucked up hers.

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Dead Girls


They thank me for being their guide—2016

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I have a memory. I am in the sandbox. A lizard appears. I grab the lizard. His tail detaches. The lizard runs away. I am left holding this gray lizard tail — and the lizard had been green. He tricked me. And I learned a new thing that day — that lizards can eject their tails to avoid predators. Only later did I learn that they grow back.

I live in Pain, South Dakota. It’s a kind of tourist spot in that people stop here to see what a place called Pain looks like. And we’re on the bus line. So travelers sometimes think that Pain, South Dakota would be a nice place to stop for the night — or they plan to run out of money here and start a new life. There’s a similar place in Pennsylvania. It’s called Intercourse. When my aunt was alive she went there and sent me a picture of her and my uncle standing in front of a t-shirt shop each wearing t-shirts that said “I ❤ Intercourse.” There is no t-shirt shop in Pain.

We have a population of about 300. Mostly trailers. A main street that looks like the main street in The Last Picture Show. Have you seen that flick? — great flick. Our Main Street has a place called Betsy’s, which is a diner, which is the geographical center of Pain. If you see someone going somewhere, chances are they’re going to Betsy’s — if you see someone coming from somewhere, chances are they’re coming from there.

I drink my coffee at Betsy’s when I’m not otherwise engaged.

I sit at the bar.

I read the newspaper, which is one sheet front and back, and mostly consists of livestock and other classified advertisements. A working record player, ten dollars. A red tricycle, five dollars. I try to remember if I ever had a tricycle. I think I did. I think it was yellow.

Every morning I sit at Betsy’s.

Every morning Betsy says, “Good day to you, Mr. Simple.”

And every morning I say, “Good day to you, Mrs. Langton.”



And Betsy Langton takes a cup from under the counter, flips it over, sets it in front of me, and pours me a hot cup of coffee.

“Will you be having your usual pancakes or your usual French toast, Mr. Simple?”

“I’ll be having my usual French toast, thank you, Mrs. Langton.”

“Alrighty-do,” she says, and turns around to cook them.

Betsy’s is a one-woman operation. There’s not a lot of room in this town to hire employees. It’s a hard place to get started. That’s something the end-of-the-line tourists of Pain, South Dakota don’t have figured out before they get here. But there’s a place for everyone. I even manage to find a place for some of them with me.

But I can’t take everyone. In fact I’m quite particular about who I take to my house.

I only like women.

Of those, I only like young women.

Of those, I prefer petite women — women shorter than me, and I’m five ten.

I’ll take women of any hair color, but of course my preference runs first with redheads, then blondes, then brunettes — as most men’s preference runs.

I prefer women with small breasts — in fact I won’t take anything larger than a B cup. This very particular preference has left many women standing at the bus stop on Main Street for much longer than they expected — but I can’t help it, it’s my personal preference and my business is a business of personal preference. In fact my business wouldn’t exist at all without it.

Other than that, it’s a look in the eyes — that kind of girl that thinks Pain, South Dakota is as good as Hollywood, California — a girl who gets off that bus and has hope in her eyes, who thinks that this is where she’s going to start her new life, and somehow she’s going to fit into this tiny town and get a job as a waitress at Betsy’s and rent a room with a family who has two girls and a father and mother who treat everybody right, and in this new place she’ll be able to forget everything that happened in Pittsburgh or New York or Miami or wherever the fuck she came from.

But she won’t.

But she thinks she will.

That’s the type of hope I’m looking for.

That hope is the single most important characteristic I look for in a girl. Because that hope is what I drain from her. I take her from a girl who hopes to make a life for herself in Pain, to a girl who hopes someday to escape my crate, to a girl who just hopes not to die, to a girl who hopes there is a heaven, to a girl who hopes that death comes quickly — which it won’t.

To a girl with dead eyes.

To a girl who isn’t there.

To a girl that I control.

Do you know what a psychopomp is? It’s a deity whose job is to safely escort the dead to the afterlife. They’re not like our concept of the grim reaper — who actually does the killing. The psychopomp exists in many forms in many cultures, and her job is protector, guide — that’s what I am. The girls who come to me have chosen to die in Pain. No one realistically comes to Pain, South Dakota to thrive. They come here as a last-ditch effort — they know this is the end of the line.

Otherwise they would solve their problems wherever it is they came from — or move to another big city. No. The type of person who comes to Pain, South Dakota, Population 300 is the type of person who is tired — tired of trying — and they’re looking for a place to die.

So I don’t really kill them — they kill themselves by coming here. I just carry them from Pain, South Dakota to the land of the dead. And they thank me for it.

They thank me for giving the end of their lives meaning.

They thank me for being their guide.

They thank me for showing them what death is.

And they thank me for killing them — finally — for taking their last breath.

It’s sort of like a father-baby arrangement. Baby daughter, held in the arms of the father. I can rock you. I can drop you. I hold your body in complete control and you have no choice but to trust me. And I rock you, my baby, gently, to sleep.

I’m sure you’ll have trouble with my metaphors. You’ll think them inaccurate. You’ll think them insensitive. You’ll think I’ve deluded myself and you’ll feed yourself all that Boar’s Head-quality bullshit on a sandwich made of flies.

But here’s the thing.

People don’t actually fear death.

What they fear is being alone — dying alone.

With me, no one dies alone!

Maybe you get lost in the woods. Maybe a rattlesnake bites you. Maybe a cougar gets ya — maybe a bear. Or maybe you break your leg and you just fucking starve to death. Three days, no water, and you’re stuck screaming in the middle of nowhere hoping someone will come, hoping some stranger will save you or at least hold your hand when you pass away.

That’s not the kind of death we want — eaten by ants.

Now imagine you’re in the hospital with all your family around you. You look at all of them receding through a tunnel and you know that you mattered. Someone showed up for the big event.

Well with me you get something in between. You’re outside in nature — at gunpoint of course — and you have me (who’s become a friend) there with you squeezing the last breath out of your tiny little girl neck, crushing your petite larynx and — if you’re lucky — fracturing the precious hyoid bone which makes a distinct snap that you’ll hear clearly because that bone breaks before you die. But I’ll be there with you, you see! — and that’s what makes all the difference. You’ll have a psychopomp sitting on your shoulder, with you all the way through the curve from birth to death, I like to think — as you’re never truly born until you wake up in my chair, naked, restrained, with a television and corrugated walls and a chest neatly organized with every surgical, dental, mechanical, and gynecological tool known to the human race. On the other wall is a cabinet I keep closed while you’re alive — stuff I salvaged from an old slaughterhouse in Pain.

Yep, just another day in Pain, South Dakota — Betsy making my usual French toast and me drinking my coffee, black. I’m new enough to Pain to still be a novelty (I’ve been here four years) but long enough to be a regular. Known quantity. No one notices me too little..no one notices me too much. No one asks me too many questions — like where I got my money. Pain is the kind of place where even in this age people have kept a measure of privacy. Politeness. You leave a person to their business.

And every morning, at eight o’clock sharp, I show up at Betsy’s. Because every morning, at eight seventeen, the bus comes rambling through Pain, stops on Main Street, and the creaky door opens. Usually no one gets off. Hardly ever does anyone get on. Today the bus comes knocking up dust all over Main Street — bit of a wind rising — and it comes to a pinpoint stop where the sign specifies — in front of Tom’s Tool, our hardware store. The bus door is on the other side of the bus from where I sit, so all I can do is sip my coffee and hope, wonder, pray that some petite B cup little girl seeking her next Hollywood gets off at our stop. The bus pulls away, and I see her: red wavy hair, one suitcase, about five foot even, and I look at her jeans and imagine her vulva. Think about taking my Norelco to that motherfucker and getting to work.

The bus is still in front of Tom’s.

This is a good sign.

The longer it sits there, the greater the chance that the bus driver is taking someone’s bags from underneath the bus.

Of course it could be some grandma and grandpa come here to move in with their relatives and die.

But it could be my little girl.

I drink almost my whole cup of coffee waiting for the bus to pass.

“Black?” Betsy says.

I put the cup on the counter and don’t say a thing.

This is my church, the Pain bus stop.

I worship here, waiting for a savior, some girl to save me from my boredom, save me from killing myself with my own tools, leaving the most bizarre suicide scene in the history of the world.

Betsy fills my cup with her sour coffee which I’ve gotten used to.

I feel Pain owes me one today — something — I’ll even take an older woman or someone with C cups — I can cut her down to size.

The bus just sits there.

My imagination drives me into a frenzy such that I cannot even pick up the fresh cup of coffee.

Images in my head of what could be behind that bus have my dick hard and I have to cover it with the one sheet.

This could be the one — ’cause I’m not gonna do this forever.

I’m looking for the perfect one, you understand?

I need the girl to end all girls!

I didn’t set off to kill hundreds! I set off to kill one!

But the perfect one.

And with each new one, only the imperfections become apparent.

That’s the problem.

With each new one, I become less and less satisfied, more and more desperate for the one I can make into my perfect one.

The bus doors creak closed.

The driver is back in his seat.

And the bus pulls away, and there is someone there. And it isn’t granny and granddad moving here to die.

My mouth opens.

I blink.

And what I see across the street makes me cum involuntarily, semen pumping along the side of my leg and seeping through my jeans.

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9/11 Twist


Fuck you America—2016

This book shall be considered if I die in or of a plane crash, supposed suicide, unknown cancer, mysterious disappearance, or other possible murder by compartmentalized forces.

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Photo by Pulpolux !!! via Foter.com under CC BY-NC

“If it was me everyone would still be listening to Rob Bass and C+C Music Factory.” That’s Agent #1.

Agent #2 says, “Well tonight..you can make your dream a reality.”

Agent #1 and Agent #2 walk down a long hallway, doors every twenty feet, raised flooring — the kind used to conceal computer wires — and they come to a door labeled with a series of squares and triangles — like the tangram (they all are).

They stand before the door.

Our camera position is behind them. We see Agent #1 on the left. Then in the middle the cryptic door labeling. Then on the right, Agent #2.

“Is this the one?”

Agent #2 fumbles with a napkin which contains a cryptic drawing like the one on the door.

“This is it.”

Agent #1 pokes a magnetized straw into a hole in the door.

The tangram drawing turns green.

Agent #2 pushes open the door.

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Ashley’s roommate Purity had a sister named Clarity—2016

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My best friend Ashley’s roommate Purity had a sister named Clarity. They all lived in Phoenix. Purity was coming to LA to audition for the role of Wonder Woman at Six Flags. Ashley and Clarity were coming with her. But Ashley wanted to see improv shows at Improv Olympic all day. Which left Clarity taking her sister Purity to Six Flags alone, and Purity was going to be in fittings and taking photographs all day. Clarity could have gone with Ashley to Improv Olympic, but improv wasn’t her thing. That left Clarity wandering around Six Flags by herself for an entire day. That’s where I came in.

My job was first to give all three girls a place to stay (the small apartment I shared with my friend Mike) and second, to accompany Clarity, who I had scarcely met, around Six Flags all day while Purity tried out to be Wonder Woman. Believe it or not I was not excited about this proposition. I had only met Clarity once. She had a boyfriend, a kid (though a very cute kid) and the idea of hanging around Six Flags with a stuck-up Phoenix bitch who I wasn’t allowed to flirt with was not my idea of how to spend a Saturday.

Plus it was a little complicated for me, see. I was renting cars from the airport at that time. Even though I had a good job, I didn’t have good credit, so I couldn’t buy a car. Every three weeks I went to the Burbank airport and exchanged vehicles. It was way more expensive than actually buying a car, but like I said, I had the money to buy a car, just not the credit. We do things very strange in America.

Purity and Clarity weren’t rich, but they weren’t going to be happy with some economy Citroën that was good enough for me but not two Arizona girls who had high-class taste and I didn’t want to hear about the car all the way to Six Flags so the first thing I had to do was rent something a little more upscale to impress these women. Not a frigging Mustang, just something where they’d look at it and go: Matthew must be doing well and say, “This is nice,” and get in and I wouldn’t hear another word about it.

So there was that: there was the car.

Then, additionally, I had another problem, which is that I had been at my drug dealer’s house for about seven days snorting crystal meth, and when you’re in a run like that it’s sometimes hard to bring the outer world into focus, if you know what I mean. Realities like your three friends are coming to be houseguests for two days are hard to connect with, as events that are actually going to happen that involve you participating in ways other than being high on crystal. Like you’re going to have to get off your ass and drive. And you’re going to have to carry on conversations with people who are not high on crystal meth. People who are high on crystal meth can talk to each other like family. Ditto people who are not high on crystal meth. But mix the two and you might have problems. I mean I was in a different fucking world.

Then I had to walk around Six Flags with a woman I hardly knew, on no sleep, while I was coming down. Coming down from crystal is hard enough without being thrown into a difficult social situation. And since Clarity is Purity’s sister and Purity is Ashley’s roommate and Ashley is my best friend, it’s kind of important that I’m nice to Clarity and show her a good time. I’m basically responsible for making sure Clarity has a good day while her sister auditions for Wonder Woman and if there’s anything you know about crystal meth it’s that crystal meth and responsibility do not go in the same sentence.

So this is the problem I’m faced with, people. My meth run is being interrupted by a bunch of high-class primrose bitches who somehow are going to stay at me and Mike’s two-bedroom apartment, while Ashley goes off to watch improv comedy all day and Purity — who I barely knew — and Clarity — who I knew even less — did Six Flags for up to one entire day..as long as it took Purity to audition. When I say primrose bitches I’m being a little harsh. I just mean girls who put on makeup every single day, who do their hair and carry purses and freshen up their lipstick at regular intervals and wear chains and multi-finger faux-platinum plates that say Clarity and Purity.

Like, my drug dealer is my friend, ok? She doesn’t wash her hair, I’ve never seen her take a shower, she sleeps with her dog — and me — and her skin is all fucked up from doing at least one line of meth every day (by which I mean ten lines like continuously throughout every day). She doesn’t paint her fucking fingernails. She doesn’t go to the spa. She doesn’t get her cuticles done or her eyebrows plucked and this is the type of girl I’m used to hanging out with.

Clarity and Purity didn’t have a pristine upbringing or anything, but they come across like they did. You have to go digging with them to find the dirt. I’m used to girls whose dirt is on the surface.

My defenses were up, I admit. I was skeptical. I wasn’t looking forward to this. I mean Clarity is a beautiful chick — so is Purity. They maintain themselves. The way I met Purity? Ashley took me in when I was homeless. These aren’t the type of girls who would ever be homeless. They’re up here — I’m down here. Me and Clarity being thrown together — just the two of us — for an entire day at Six Flags, was an artificial situation to say the least.

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Must be willing to lose it all to gain it all—2016

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Cutting. Carving. Have you ever seen what it looks like to cut the cheek off a man’s face with a fishing scythe? It looks like a flap of skin, that’s what. I was in the skin-flapping business. I had a double-scythe setup, duct taped to the wrists. I would hide on rooftops three times too high to jump from and I would wait. And wait. And wait. Then the next contestant would creep along downstairs, like he couldn’t see anybody — but I could see him. And I would jump. And sometimes I would break my leg but I would slice that motherfucker across the face and the blood loss would be phenomenal. That’s a wrap. That’s a wrap, people. Medics would come in and carry me off to the rapid clinic. Medics would carry him off to the morgue. And you want to ask me how I feel? When you’re put on television — taken from school — and put on television for The Cutting Show, you don’t really have time to feel. I felt like a killer, that’s what I felt like — which is to say I felt like nothing. I felt like a man with one way out. So I took the one way out. Is that what you wanted to hear? Sometimes I’d slice ’em up the side of the ribs, and man that’ll take a guy to his knees. The first week, you know how I won my fame? I cut a guy’s head off — straight off — with a double-scythe move, straight from Gladiator. Fuck the crowds. But they loved it. This country has a fetish for kids who kill. It’s like worse than our babydoll sex fetish. Kids who kill each other, kids who kill their parents. Kids who blow up their entire motherfucking school — CAN WE GET MORE OF THOSE PLEASE?? Fuck. Do you want to know what it feels like to see a man’s head roll off his neck and hit the ground, then for a half second his hands try to catch his balance, then the body falls. Drone cams in your face, spiraling around you standing over a dead body in two parts. Then you hear in your earpiece the show credits running, next on is Chopped! (the cooking show). And who came up with The Cutting Show? Some twelve-year-old kid named Andrew. Want to know how many Twitter followers Andrew has? 2,146,768. Two-million followers for being the producer of a show where American teens cut each other, cut themselves, maybe a little at first, but all to the point of death. They wanted meek little kids, so they chose kids with high test scores. But I can tell you now that they should have chose kids with slightly lower scores — I had perfect scores — and once they let me on the show, that first episode — it was on. They expected us to mow each other down gradually — the civilized way — but when I jumped off that roof breaking my leg and Gladiator-ing that motherfucker, ratings went through the roof, and Andrew the twelve-year-old had his new motherfucking hero. They had a psychologist interview me after the show to determine if I was a danger to myself or any of the show’s staff. We spoke for three hours and he determined that I completely understood the rules of The Show, and that I was only playing the game while on the show. There was no danger of me harming the show’s staff or myself while not on the show. While the show was on, all bets were off. The psychologist couldn’t determine that I wouldn’t hurt PAs — even though production assistants weren’t supposed to be in the cage — or myself, in order to gain some sort of a perception of a win by pure ill. That is, he could not rule out the event of a gruesome suicide by me that was designed to win the respect of the audience. Andrew the billionaire said he was ok with that. Sticks. Marker. End of episode one. But you might imagine I spent most of my time thinking. I watched people to see how to cut them in the way they would find most humiliating. A girl: cut off her boobs or cut off the whore’s stinking clit? If I could get her in the bathroom — the set was an old school — and I could get inside the stall before she could get out, she would already have her pants down, and all I had to do was swipe right up the middle, cut the top of that bitch’s vagina, split her pee hole in two, and come all the way up and do a swiggly motion with the scythe to try to do as much damage to that bitch’s clitoris as possible. Then get out of the stall before she could cut me — go in through the top, come out through the bottom. Then for the rest of the show that girl could hardly walk and she’d be thinking, Even if I get off this show, I’m not sure I can ever cum again, so what’s the point? Got her suicidal. Despondent. In touch with her emotional centers. And if I get in and out without a cut to myself, then she thinks I’m some type of hero (which of course I’m not) and she stays the fuck away from me because she knows if she gets too close I’m coming for her nipples next. That’s what I mean when I say that’s the type of stuff I would think about on the show. I would sit up on a rooftop or stand behind an auditorium curtain and be aware of everything that was happening on all sides of me, and I would think.

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Pussy be rampant—2013

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Pussy be rampant. They be so much pussy at this school they has to haul in dicks from out of town just to fuck it all. The female-to-male ratio be something like three to one. On weekends, guys be drivin’ in from Youngstown, Abilene, as far away as Dexter.

Girls want dick. They is drooling for it. Eighteen-year-old hunnies with nothing better to do than spread and get a hot spike in they cooch.

School is just a pretense. No one care about classes or grades. In class we get our dicks sucked while the prof is doin’ his thing. I once came in this girl Jenny’s hair while she sucked me off in Intro to Philosophy 101.

The main way to get pussy be in the club. Get a bitch drunk, go to her place, fuck her. She wake up in the morning like what the hell happened to me, her cooch aching like she had a rolling pin up there. She ask her girlfriends, and they be like, “You remember that one guy? You took him home.” Then you fuck her friends.

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Love and shit—2013

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Things were spinning and we were doing high-fives in the air to note our balance. The table was spinning. The seat part of it was. The table part stayed still. Then I was slowing down and there was barely a wobble to my movements. We were crossing the street and this girl from the movies came by, a child star, and she had red hair, and she was wearing maternity clothes, overalls, and when she got knocked to the ground shit came out of her and sprayed all up her back. Then she shit some more and chunks of it were everywhere, covering her like chili, and my friends wanted to leave her but I said, “Look, here, we have to clean her off.” So we went into this alley where there was a hose and she took her clothes off. And I took my clothes off, too, to make her feel comfortable, and I held her hair off her forehead while I sprayed her, and we were gradually getting the shit off when the jostling of holding her got my dick hard, and she said, “Look, your dick is hard.” And I said, “Well if you jostle around like we have been then my dick is bound to get hard. It’s bound to do that.” And she started pushing it down below her pregnant belly, to her vagina, and she rubbed me on her, and then she put me inside the four inches that was left of her pussy and we fucked.

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