Domestic Violence

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Stephanie swung blunt, the face of the frying pan connecting with the back of Marvin’s skull. She heard something in his head crack and thought to herself, ‘You can’t make an omelet...’

Marvin spun, full circle- one hundred & eighty degrees- and blinked twice: “Honey, I really think we should talk about this.”

Stephanie, at the sink, spray arm in hand and hose extended, dousing Marvin in icy morning water, his Columbia blue necktie going Navy.

“Is this about that thing I did? Or that other thing I did?” He spat tap water.

Stephanie grabbed the iron off the board, yanking the plug out the wall, tossing it at Marvin who had never learned to duck. It smashed his face- permanent press- leaving a burn mark up his cheek and jaw.

“I can explain most likely!”

Steph threw the can of bread crumbs at her husband, which exploded on impact, breading him delicious.

“I think we need to see a marriage counselor.”

That's when she dumped the hot pot of decaf over his head, scalding him with the rich taste of Brim.

Marvin, at a loss for words: “Owwwww!!”

Stephanie took this moment to take out his kneecap with her heel, Marvin buckling and collapsing to the floor. Stephanie sat on his chest, ripping his hair out with her teeth and thumping his groin with a meat hammer.

At the kitchen table Marvin Jr. looked over at his sister Elizabeth.

“We should probably make our own lunches.”

Dead Roofers*

*Who Have Plunged To Their Death On My Driveway

John Pavarnick 

Uncle Vladimir

Evan “Champagne” King

Unknown Roofer #7

John Pavarnick, Jr.

Granderson Swedlow

Unknown Roofer #4

Sid “Shingles” Holloway

Leo Von Bisquick

Timothy “Nine Lives” Portnoy

Dom DaVulva

“Glass Joe” Semento

John Pavarnick, III

The Valentines

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The boy and the girl sat at the back of the church, obvious as an afterthought, snacking on cupcakes, watching the wedding unfold: grownups rushing around, orders for this and questions about everything else. Then the bride passing by in her innocent lace, the groom in his rented respectability, with the bridesmaids beaming hearts throughout the hall. This thing called love was so funny.

When the organ swelled the boy pushed the girl- because she was close enough- and she pushed him right back. Neither one of them complained. They had been thrust into this process, forced to witness the majesty, and they handled it with a grace mostly lacking in their elders: uncles standing backwards learning digital cameras, distant cousins with massive presents to justify, close friends of the bride and groom in silent mourning: this ritual surely equal to execution.

Because of this the boy and girl sat silent, kicking their legs and scratching their noses, no past to speak of and only future before them. He had seen her at somebody’s christening, she had played hide and seek with him at Easter years ago, but here they were, together again for the first time, awed by the force around them, showing their appreciation by rolling their eyes. She looked at him and stuck out her tongue.

At some point during the march she stepped closer and took his hand, and he reacted by pulling the tiny knot on his necktie, but not by pulling away. And when the priest let the bride and groom kiss the little boy pulled the girl beside him, put his mouth on hers and puckered, because that was what you do.

At the reception afterwards they sat back in their stocking feet, their first anniversary, watching the look of relief on the faces of the newlyweds, their parents and everyone they knew. The little boy turned to his wife and smiled, unafraid. The little girl smiled back and they both nodded: the cake tasted good.

Buyer's Guide To Baby Goats

My girlfriend and I decided we were ready to take the next big step: buying a baby goat. It seemed like a good idea at the time...

First Goat- Christopher

Christopher was a rebel. He was into rock music and insisted on getting a tattoo. He kept us up half the night with his extended guitar solos, which mostly consisted of him chewing on the strings of a 1957 Fender Stratocaster. He was wild: he refused to go to school and when he did he was expelled for eating the principal’s Pontiac. Eventually he ran away from home and started a punk band called Gruff. (Their new single is available on iTunes)


Second Goat- Julie

Julie- if you’ll forgive the expression- was an absolute slut. She would sex the mailbox and then eat it. She would sex the sofa and then eat that too. Her provocative outfits and unbridled sensuality made it impossible for my girlfriend and I to concentrate. When she got pregnant she told us she had no idea who the father might be and then proceeded to eat the kitchen table ... NEXT!


Third Goat- Wibby

Wibby was a raging alcoholic with over $300,000 in gambling debts. I don’t keep that kind of cash on hand. Also he ate our condominium.


Fourth Goat- Steve

Steve was the one... honest, generous, funny... he ate our complete bedroom set including headboard, nightstand & bureau, but still. None of us know why he took that gun and robbed that bank... or why he ate all the cash. We miss Steve and look forward to seeing him in five-to-fifteen years.

Life is hard... love is a blessing... and baby goats make it all worthwhile. Even when they eat your keybo

New Orleans Pussyfoot

Karla woke up in the hotel bed, sawdust in her hair for reasons she would never figure out. She was naked, the angry teeth of a bottle cap leaving an impression on her left breast. Her head rocked in alcoholic awe of sunshine, and she searched the room for the guy- whoever he was- because there had to be one. She looked around at the empty: couldn’t have scored this type of room without the pussyfoot.

The guy- whoever he was- was gone, giving her the chance to shower, repent, whatever it is that girls like Karla do the day after nights like that. She sat at the edge of the bed, feeling soreness between her legs and in her anus- she knew she had to be plenty drunk to give asshole... She sighs and  idly eyeballs the wastebasket for signs of protection. Empty. Oh well.

She wanted to speak, to no one in particular, to everyone, to her Mom but mostly her Dad but when she opened her mouth she made hot vomit- running half-hearted, half-assed, to the bathroom- but it was too late. She arrived just in time to catch sight of herself naked, soaked in her own rainbow chunk, un-chewed hunks of ground beef burger sliding down her smooth belly, and she wanted to laugh at her hideous situation, at knocking rock-bottom in a God-free galaxy. But all that came out of her was a blast of gas so foul she had to leave the bathroom.

The notepad on the desktop read “St. Louis Hotel New Orleans.” Out the window, three stories down, the wind blew heavy threw the sober Sunday morning French Quarter. A wino looked up and saw her as she was: dirty naked, spoiled, and he looked away in disgust. Karla wondered if it was too late to pray.

Back inside the hotel room she checked the drawer of the nightstand. There was no Gideon’s Bible. There was only a gun.

The rush of blood to her brain dizzied her, and somehow, in the matter of a moment, she was sitting on the bed again, only now she was holding the gun from the nightstand in her trembling hands. It was heavy, it was cold: it was a gun. She thought about the memo pad on the desk and briefly considered a note. A note to no one, saying nothing, to explain an act that would never be understood. Why not leave them asking why?

And then as easily as she sucked cock for champagne the gun was in Karla’s mouth, and then before she could pretend to be a poet her finger found the courage to pull on the trigger, and the bullet exploded through the back of her skull, fresh grey brain with red sauce tossed against the eggshell wall. For three-fifths of a second, before her husk hit the industrial carpet, Karla Understood, and you might have seen the smile in her eyes if you knew what to look for, but you don’t.  

Ransom Note (Second Draft)

Do you like your daughter? Wanna see her alive 

If If you want like to see your daugher alive again you have to listen careful. I am no joke I am part of the problem. I am ready to die by how I believe. I have your daughter and I know what to do. I have some of her her hair stuck in my throat when she fought when I took her. We are the first to make a reckoning in the process. Until forever you have seen the world as a fine place to drive to on your way to high glorious [ILLEGIBLE]. Now you you will undertsand it is quicksand under your feet.

If you comply by Easter Sunday there will be no rape but otherwise I will thrash your bunny in the most depraved [ILLEGIBLE]. Don’t you see how you desrve me? Your demands are too high that is not for you to decide! $750,00 cash is the only figure I accept. I will know always if you are even think about police and FBI is the same cosequence: your daughter get killed and that is by hand.

After I rape the bunny and she is scared as anything. She tells you “Butterfly kiss/ San Francisco” so you know we have her and just what that means she said you will know. Already she is black and blued can’t stop the girl from fighting back. Act fast if you know anything. I will call you with the drop off location before Thursday night. Dont make me kill I have been before and I won’t stop now, never again.

Respectfully yours,

Maniacal Kidnapper