I aspire to more than observing a panoply / panopticon and reacting and being observed and reacted to. So, I find myself spending more time in my sketchbook, playing with shapes and silhouettes and perspectives. It’s what feels fun to me now, and I always chase fun. Even if it’s type-2 fun that looks suspiciously like work. 😅

I’ve gone back and forth about sharing this because it was never meant for consumption and…well, I’m a naive artist in every definition. So, if you like it and want more, say so in the comments. And if you hate it put this emoji in the comments: 🧟‍♂️

Everything done in eInk on a Remarkable2 tablet. Don’t worry, I’m still writing.

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Are you a weak, soppy loser with feelings?

Barf! 🤮

Are you cursed with literacy (read-can-good)? Are those annoying symbols everywhere conveying pointless meaning?

Laaaaaaaaaame!

Are you filled with a nameless, unquenchable rage?

Grrrrrrrr! So angry!

THEN YOU NEED: TURBOMASS!!!

Aaaaahhhhhhh!

The complete meal replacement sports drink muscle massifcatiation personality perfectionizationizer, alphamalemakealizer, basedass, nootropic, strongmaker!

Whaaaaat?

Yes, it’s true. One drink (consumed daily for the rest of your life at the low, low price of $420.69 a month plus tax, (price listed is minimum, zip code adjustment applies) plus WinBet vigorish, minus Master Beast coupons, plus our Glorious God Emperor’s General Levy to Liberate the Holy Land, minus a one-time deduction for single males enrolled in a coding camp, who were born at the stroke of midnight, to a single mother descended from the lineage of the Pendragons, plus TSA inspection fees, plus insurance against contaminated product fees, plus protection fees for delivery drivers traversing bandit infested roads (Download the TurboMass app on BasedAppsforRealMen.gov and fill out our handy questionnaire to find the final price for you. (Subscription contract non-negotiable and heritable by any next of kin.))

How does it work?

Whoa, dude. You ask a lot of questions. Questions are for nerds and 🤮🤮🤮 ribspawn (that’s what we call women at TURBOMASS).

No, really, how does it work?

I dunno, man. Are you sure you’re ready for this? It’s protein, a little bit of gunpowder, steroids, amphetamines, stevia, some ground up cardboard, creatine, uh, vitamin D. Heh. D.

That doesn’t sound healthy…

No, but it’s totally healthy. Only the weak die of liver failure. Don’t you want to be like Bane, from Batman? Rampaging through town, grunting and screaming and slobbering, smashing cars, ripping people in half like phone books? That’s masculinity, bruh. Just working out and muscles revving your engine and blind rage and snarling and grunting and looking cool and having huge muscles and guns and flags and muscles and pushups and screaming at people and tailgating and muscles and smashing your skull into another man’s skull until one of them cracks like an egg and their brain splashes out like a yolk and you dip your fingers in the red mess and paint your face in the warpaint of his blood and absorb his animal spirits and growwwl out your hatred at the world, the world that denied you all the things you were owed, the respect, the adulation, the fastest car, the biggest house, the most desirable ribspawn, the glory — THE GLORY IT SHOULD BE YOURS! Everything in this world is yours. Yours to disdain or despoil or destroy. You don’t build. You don’t make. You don’t listen. You don’t heal. You don’t think. You don’t love. You don’t wonder. You don’t believe. You simply take and take and take and take because it’s all yours. YOURS. You deserve it all. Why? Because the worm says so. The little worm in your heart, that squiggling hole of fear and need that’s too frightful and painful and feminine to confront. You might cry. You might look WEAK. You might be pitied. Or worse, bathed in the coruscating empathy of a kindred soul and burn in the shame of your communion. That you cannot bear. To be so plainly exposed. To be humbled. To be seen and felt and understood and loved. Love is painful. Love reveals in its beauty the contrasting wickedness of your actions. And god, if such love is possible, then everything you’ve done is wrong and the impossible inertia of your dismal trajectory must be overcome. So you pad the hole with layers of scarring. Abuse heaped upon yourself and the selves of others. The worm feasts and the hole grows and you take and you take and you take and it’s never enough for the hole.

Uhhhhh…

That’s why you need TURBOMASS! It makes you strong! You’ll feel powerful! You can hurt people. That’s what being a man is. Being big and strong and hurting anyone you want because you’re big and they are small and you are strong and they are weak. And you’d better do it too or they’ll do it to you. If you hurt enough people, you’ll never be hurt again. If you hurt enough people your own hurt wanes to a blip in the screams.

I think maybe I’ll pass…

Bruh.

Looking for more unhinged inspired writing like this? Subscribe to my publication below:

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Or visit www.andyfuturo.com. You can get a book for free. Or buy a paperback. And then, somehow, life feels more vivid, the air more crisp and delicious — once that paperback sits on your shelf. You receive more compliments, and feel a comfortable assurance with choices that might have stressed you in the past. Yes, something about buying that paperback really seems to make a difference. 👇

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my legacy, and how if the current literacy trends in the US continue, none of anything I’ve written so far will be even remotely legible in about three years.

So, I wanted to put out something that would truly endure and be accessible to everyone, even people who have been de facto lobotomized by industrial pollution and AI infinite scroll slop.

Enjoy!

This is the Great American Novel.

The main character is a man. Duh. His name is Brian. He is a good guy. He drives a fast car. It is very expensive. Brian is very fit. He eats protein.

But there are other people.

Their names are Jack, Sue, and Bob.

Jack is a bad guy. He does not like Brian. He wants to destroy the world. Maybe he doesn’t eat enough protein. That is the conflict.

Brian does not want the world to be destroyed. That’s why he is the good guy.

Sue is a woman. She is blonde. She does Pilates. She is a good guy. But she is with Jack. Maybe he kidnapped her.

But then, Brian fights Jack. Brian punches Jack in the face and Jack dies. Or Brian uses a gun. Kapow! Punching! Shooting! Brian says something funny.

Then something explodes. Don’t worry! It’s not the world. Brian saves the world.

Brian wins!

Brian is the good guy, so it’s good that he wins.

Then Sue says, “I love you, Brian.”

And Brian says, “I love you, Sue.”

The two of them get married. They have a big wedding. They live in a big house. It is very expensive. That is good.

Then everyone is happy because the bad guy lost and the good guy won. The world wasn’t destroyed.

The end.

(You should feel happy that the good guy won and the world was not destroyed.)

Also, I forgot that there’s another character called Bob. Let’s say he’s a dog who can talk and he tells jokes. Bob is cute. The jokes are funny.

You should laugh at them.

So yeah, then I imagine the next, like, 200 pages of the book could just be coupons for gambling — I’m sorry, I mean “futures markets,” — bitcoins, OnlyFans, and various Mr. Beast products. Now I don’t want to see any more articles about how there’s no great American millennial novel or whatever because I just wrote it and this is it so shut up.

Looking for more stupid bold, courageous writing like this? Subscribe to my publication below:

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Or visit www.andyfuturo.com. You can get this book for free.👇

On lunes, the city was abuzz with excitement. The Men in the Glass Cubes were coming, and already crowds had thronged the streets around the zocalo, pressing against the barriers to get a glimpse of their arrival. Some people had come and camped out as early as midnight to secure a spot, and all the restaurants and hotels were abustle. The balconies overflowed. Every window teemed with faces.

Mom had forbidden me from going, but there was no way I was gonna miss this.

Under the pretext of going to my friend Aadam’s house to study, I had excused myself from the breakfast table, scarcely touching my chilaquiles because my stomach was turning over. I took the fareless metro to the zocalo; every car was cramped and heady with sweat. Taking advantage of my smaller size, I squeezed through the clot of bodies in the station and made my way up to one of the prime positions pressed against a barrier. I was thankful I had not drunk my carrot-orange juice. Many were surrendering their spots on a quest for the public toilets. Because like everything in the great city of Neotihuacan, the arrival of The Men in the Glass Cubes was delayed.

The crowd waited with great anticipation as the morning shadows meandered across the square. I had never seen the zocalo so empty, completely cleared as it was by the police. Except, of course, for the palomas, who, disdaining the rules of their human hosts, cooed and flapped and defecated as normal, drinking and bathing in the fountains, and puzzling at the odd lack of crumbs and discards in their normally fruitful gathering grounds. The palomas were the first to discern the arrival of the exhibition, in a great confusion of wing and feather and startled ornithological exclamation. The flocks took off as one, and their shadows against the now noonish sun peppered the square, and they peppered the crowd with other things, provoking a retaliatory volley of swears in their direction. The palomas didn’t care. They flapped away to their nests in the domes and cupolas of the catedral, debonairly preening amidst the pointed but ineffectual spikes that had been installed in the gutters to ward them off, but which instead formed a palisade, so that when the pigeons peered down at you through the crisscrossing spikes, they looked like a besieging army, well-equipped for battle.

The noise that had precipitated the flight of the palomas was a grumbling of angry air. The air on this unseasonably hot November nearlynoon, being very still and wet and languid, was understandably annoyed at the thrashing it received from the many spinning blades from a fleet of whirlybirds, military style, each of them looking like fat green sausages, suspended by a pair of frantic rotors, heavy cargo whirlybirds, which landed right there in the square. The wind took its vengeance upon us, the crowd, rushing angrily into our faces, blowing spittle from the fountains and grit and dust and road debris from the pavement into our eyes, which did not stop the crowd from cheering and applauding the arrival of the whirlybirds. And I include myself in that dumb mass of overly excited spectators.

The wind exhausted itself in this tantrum, and the crowd exhausted itself in cheering a whole lot of nothing, except for mechanical ingenuity in an unexpected place. A hush rolled in. A corpulent expectation in the zocalo, in the air, in the crowd, and even the palomas peering down from their battlements. I counted six large, green-painted, military sausage cargo whirlybirds, and each of their sausage casing anuses opened up in the manner of a drawbridge. I wish to say that our military had coordinated the effect with appropriate showmanship, releasing each of these drawbridge anuses in synchronicity, so that the mystery that had stilled the palomas and invigorated the crowd would be revealed in a crescendo of theatricality.

This was not the case.

The whirlybird anuses opened haphazardly. Starting at different times and different speeds. And one of them jammed and had to be examined by mechanics, closed again, and then opened, and then closed, and then at last, unclenching its mechanical muscles, and nearly turning the mechanic into a pancake, flopping open. The soldiers and aircrew that had arrived with the spectacle stood about chatting and yammering with each other. But the hush, which had blundered in with the stilling of the rotary blades, sat clumsily over their conversations and nothing could be heard. Overstaying its welcome, the crowd chased the hush away with a grumble, precipitated by the bang of the flopping sausage anus. The grumble rose to a chant of, Bring them out, bring them out, bring them out!

The soldiers and aircrew subsequently complied, knowing, perhaps, that if they tarried too long on this homework, the crowd would add persuasive missiles to their argument in the form of crumbled-up burger wrappers, exhausted cans of pop, cold pomme frites. And the most perilous weapon of all — the dreaded soggy tofaco wrapper.

The Tofaco: a species of tubular tofu taco, which had invaded the city by storm and through this surprise blitzkrieg claimed the acme of popularity among street food vendors and patrons alike, left an unfortunately soggy yet stable cardboard carton in the wake of its consumption, similar to the tubular spine of an eliminated roll of hygienic paper. The soldiers no doubt eyed the crowd, which, even with the bulwark of the police, outnumbered them twenty to one, and saw the great many tofaco tubes held and ready to be both lobbed as grenades and hurled as spears, and perhaps even slung like the stones of David’s sling in their direction. In those peaceful times, we all knew that the soldiers’ weapons were unloaded, and that, menacing as they looked, they would be easily vanquished in the onslaught of discarded street food wrappers. So they complied with the chants, which were their orders in any case.

Out of the mechanical anuses of the whirlybirds rolled two large glass cubes each, which, stained as they were from the interior by various greases and excrements, still shimmered in that high noon sun like invulnerable ice cubes, magical defiers of heat and nature. The cubes rolled out on large bearings underneath them, which were attached at the base — unique amongst the other sides of the cubes for being crafted of perforated metal and covered with a flimsy rubber mat. The perforations, as I learned from the digital placards that were being erected, were to allow for the entrance of food pellets and water to the creatures trapped within the cubes. And also for an easy purification of the excrements and other extrusions of the miserable creatures contained within.

There were no other ways to open these cubes. The sides were all fused, as had been commanded by the High Court of Justice, in accordance with the punishment meted out to these miserable creatures. And the creatures: the once men who had once ruled the world, or at least imagined themselves to be such kings and rulers, but who were now reduced under the boots of justice to a life of the animal in the zoo, the circus freak, the prisoner. Each cube contained within it a naked man, though at first it was hard to discern anything manly about them, for they were much withered and burnt in the sun, and overgrown with hair, and besmirched in their own horrible juices.

The cubes and their horrid cargo were arranged evenly about the zocalo. And then, much in the way the starter of a drag race waves a flag to begin the chaotic tumult of motor vehicles jostling against each other at speed, the commanding officer blew his whistle, lowered his baton, and the police opened their barricades. The crowd swarmed in, sometimes carrying the bemused and startled officers with them, though not in the malicious way that had pit police and protesters against each other just ten years prior, but simply in the way of excitement.

The crowd surged forward and surrounded the cubes and people took out their cameras and snapped photos and pointed with fingers and yammered excitedly and pressed their hands and faces against the glass to get a closer look. Though when the smell eked out of the grate below, those people shirked away and laughed and made faces and commented on the horrible stink of the creatures within. The creatures were well-used to this treatment. Still, the frenzy of the mob translated to their own frenzy and anxiety. Some of them curled into balls, hugging their knees, rocking and moaning and crying and wailing and beating their breasts and begging, I presumed, in their gringolin language, for the torment to end. Others struck a more defiant tone. They raced back and forth across the tiny confines of their cubes, pounding against the glass and screaming in animalistic fury, bellowing like the extinct lions with their drool-speckled manes … though failing to effect any such dignity and instead looking like crazed and rabid hamsters. The crowds around these cubes egged the manlions on, pounding on the glass and chanting, Show us, show us, show us what you’ve got!

One of the creatures attempted to effect a stately dignity, standing with arms crossed and a head cocked, staring out at the nothing. And the crowd responded to this by mimicking his pose. Or saluting him and saying, The king, the king, the king of the cube, the king of shit. The king of piss. The king of the lice. In his hair, in his scalp. The king of the worms in his armpits. The king of the crabs in his crotch!

I wormed my way up to the king of crotch crabs, and I pressed my face against the glass, leaving smears of human sweat against the surface. And I looked at the king of crotch crabs, and the king looked at me to my great shock and displeasure. Whereas before his gaze had fixed on a stately deluded nothing, he found my eyes — perhaps because my eyes were unconvinced at the righteousness of the spectacle and doubtful of the justice in any of this, and also filled with guilt at the disobeying of my mother’s orders and a newfound understanding of why she had forbidden me to come this day. Perhaps he saw in my eyes that doubt, that lack of pleasure the others in the crowd exuded. Perhaps he saw someone with whom he could commune.

He met my eyes and his lips twitched into the meagerest of smiles, and that startled me. I felt as though in communicating with me, he had somehow singled me out and brought me into the cube with him, that I had quite literally teleported through that glass, and I was now physically with him, being equally mocked and tormented by the crowds, and that I too would be stripped naked and pelted with insults and hosed down in the evenings and fed little pellets of dog food, stuffed through the holes in the corrugated metal of the cube as my only pleasure of repast. I closed my eyes and pushed away from the glass as hard as I could and then angrily opened my eyes and saw that of course I was not encased in the cube, had not been transported, and such a thing could not possibly occur.

And — had the king even been smiling and looking at me? Or at the comely woman behind me? For immediately thereafter, the king ended any pretense of stately, aloof nobility, and began to abuse his nether regions in the crudest of manners, provoking gales of laughter and scorn from the crowd. I had seen my fill, though so thick and pressing was the crowd that I could only squirm away when someone squirmed into my place, like a grain of sand jostling in a flattened hourglass, so that only a smattering of specks could traverse the bottleneck at a time.

I found myself by accident in front of one of the glowing digital placards that explained the exhibit. Placards that alternated between their explanation and a map to the public toilets, with this other face of Janus capturing 100 percent of the attention except for mine. I alone read that informational display with its burdensome educational messages, for at that point I felt rather sick, perhaps from hunger and thirst and the aggression of the noon sun, or perhaps from the display of the villains in the cubes and the somewhat equally villainous behavior of the crowd. And so, hoping to cast my attention elsewhere, I read.

I read that these men in the cubes were criminals of the highest order. And that, in fact, they all had once, long ago, been kings of a fashion. They had all been kings of companies, corporations, CEOs, and these companies had committed a terrible crime. They had, colluding together, sought to deny any semblance of privacy from other people. To deliberately do everything in their power to observe and control their fellow man. To track their locations, to listen to their conversations, to watch them on the toilet and in their bedrooms and in their intimate couplings with others. To monitor their heartbeats, their blood pressure, their height, their weight, their age. To lay bare their genotype. To catalogue any genetic afflictions or diseases. To know what they ate and what they drank and if they ever ate or drank to excess. To read their correspondence. To capture their keystrokes and the tappings of their fingers, and even to press cameras to their faces and observe the minute motions of their eyes. In short, these men sought to strip their fellow human beings naked at an atomic level, to strip away any kind of barrier or boundary between them and the prying eyes, so that there was no room for the independent formation of the self, and so that all human beings could be controlled and conformed to their vision of what a human being must be.

They did this out of a perverse need for control. They did this out of a hatred for their fellow man. They did this so that they could profit and enjoy lives of material luxury, while those that they spied upon and controlled languished. And so, when the people rebelled against this unforgivable intrusion, when the people tore down these companies that these would-be kings had erected, and the companies were dismantled and their assets seized and redistributed, the CEOs and their henchmen were dragged into court and treated like the vulgar criminals that they were. They were given a suitable punishment for their crimes. The people of the court ordered that they themselves be stripped of any privacy, that they never be allowed to shield themselves from the eyes of others.

They were stripped of everything — their assets, their clothing, their freedom — and imprisoned in these sealed glass cubes, which were transported around the world in exhibitions to show the people that justice had been served. And to serve as a warning to anyone aspiring to a similar crime. The only peace that these mancreatures enjoyed was in the darkness of the cargo berths of the whirlybirds and the ships as they were transported to and fro. And even then, they were monitored by their jailers and cameras installed in the cubes, which broadcasted to anyone in the world who cared to watch.

At the time, I didn’t know much what to think of that. I turned away from the signage and the cubes and squirmed my way through the zocalo. I bought a tofaco and took the metro to Aadam’s house, only to find that he too had snuck away to the exhibit despite the prohibitions of his mother.

We had a hushed conversation about what we saw.

It was awful, Aadam said. Truly, truly awful.

Yes, I agreed. I hated it. But I can’t argue the punishment was unequal to the crime.

No, Aadam said. It was awful, but those men certainly deserved it.

Then the two of us, in lieu of doing our homework, worked out a suitable fib to tell our parents because neither of us was eager to be punished for what we had decided was a very natural curiosity. And anyway, after seeing The Men in the Glass Cubes, we decided that we should be able to keep some secrets, even from our parents.

After all, privacy was a good thing.

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Hey, if you liked that, check out RUOK? It’s a horror story told entirely in text messages. Quick and creepy — you can read it an evening.

Amazon has RUOK? on sale for $0.99. I have no idea how long this sale will last so grab your copy now! 👇

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Step into the unknown with RUOK? by Andy Futuro — a horror thriller that redefines suspense for the digital age.
Told entirely through text messages, RUOK? pulls you into the lives of two teens whose world unravels one message at a time.
Rori’s father is gone—and what looked like an accident was anything but. Her quest for the truth draws her into encrypted secrets, shadowy corporations, and an abandoned lab that hides more than just evidence. With every new thread uncovered, she’s pushed closer to a truth no one wants her to find.
But she’s never really alone. Thousands of miles away, Rori’s best friend James is her only lifeline. His messages offer comfort while he struggles to adjust to a new home, but even the warmest text can’t keep the darkness at bay. As Rori spirals deeper, cryptic messages begin to arrive—from sources both living and… not.

Perfect for fans of fast-paced horrors, psychological thrillers, and experimental fiction, RUOK? combines heart-pounding tension with the intimacy of real conversations. The result is a story that’s as emotionally raw as it is unputdownable.

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In their cramped, rundown apartment, Tim, Jess, and their unpredictable cat Harvey are barely hanging on—struggling with money, bad neighbors, and a building with more locked doors than answers. When Tim’s only friend vanishes under strange circumstances, the shadows in the hallway seem to deepen, and Harvey’s obsession with a mysterious “nowhere door” turns dangerously intense.

Every night brings whispers, anonymous knocks, and the creak of hinges where no one’s supposed to be. Jess—overworked, fiercely protective, and running on fumes—worries the apartment is doing more than wearing them down. Tim tries to hold it together, all while battling haunting visions, cryptic dreams, and his own unreliable mind.

But something is watching from the hallway. Something hungry, maybe even hopeful for their collapse.£

Is it just the paranoia of poverty and medication—or is the real horror waiting in a place no tenant dare enter?

Step into Hallway, a claustrophobic tale of urban dread where reality warps and every closed door hides a new nightmare. Perfect for fans of slow-burn suspense, psychological horror, and the movie Barbarian, this novel turns the mundane into the monstrous and never lets you escape the echo of footsteps just beyond your sight.

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Please note this is a Kindle Countdown deal for the Amazon US and UK stores. Starting at 5:00 a.m. PST (or 1:00 p.m. GMT) February 13, the price will be $0.99 or (£0.99) and then rise gradually over the weekend. I’m sorry if this deal is not available in your region. Amazon makes the rules.

Dear Realtina,

I am writing this letter before God and everyone so that you can see I have nothing to hide and that my words will ring true, much like the tinnitus rings in my ear after that guy set off a firework right next to me on the 4th of July on Sunset Beach, and this trueness will ring true in the ears of everyone else so that everyone will have tinnitus of truth.

You are probably concluding that I had the means and the motive to consume this ice cream. Yes, I am first to admit that I have committed crimes against ice cream in the past. How could I not? Cold, smooth, sweet, delicious, and this one was no exception — caramel with pieces of brownie. It was one of those fancy rich-people brands that puts a picture of the creamery owner’s family on the label, all laughing and cavorting. It was so rich, it even included a biography of everyone in the family — Sue-Ellen (mom), Randolph (dad), Bridget Lee Swan (child 1), and Baron Igor DaVinci (child 2). Right next to the family tree tracing their lineage to the Merovingians, the label displayed report cards from the children’s Waldorf School, so you know that they’re good children and that Bridget Lee Swan excels at pottery and camming, and Baron Igor DaVinci aspires to be a data broker when he gets access to his trust fund. Of course, the lid had a series of intimate photos showing Sue-Ellen and Randolph holding hands and locking eyes. It’s clear that they have rampaging chemistry, and that rampaging chemistry translates to a passion for mixing cream and sugar and freezing it. Or whatever. I don’t exactly know how ice cream is made, but I guess they, like, whip it or churn it or something. And you can tell by looking in their eyes, eyes that are mentally undressing each other on that tub label, that they imbue that coital urge to whip and beat and churn into the ice cream.

In any case. I did not eat the ice cream. I had just, like, a spoonful of it. Just a taste. Just to whet my appetite. To cool the sultry burning of my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Burnt by the gallop of impatience. Burnt as I brought forth the bubbling cheese and unfathomable meat of a frozen burrito — no longer frozen, but aflame with the agitated dihydrogen oxides of a microwave oven.

Yes, the burrito, scornful of my appetites. Lamenting of its own fate. Dead animal fragments bemoaning their separation from the living parts. Striking a cruel revenge against my tender mandibles. I, who was guilty of nothing but hunger. I who did naught but nibble the edge, and was condemned to the blistering agony of agitated dihydrogen oxides, jailed with the battered fats and proteins of mammary fluid, which we — proving forever and without counterargument the unseriousness of our civilization — refer to as “cheese.”

So yes, I did have a taste. Would you not, in my circumstances? Yes! We’ve talked about this many times. I recall our conversations. So many long nights and floods of tears over ice cream, and who ate it, and who didn’t save any for the other person, and who then lay on the couch groaning in misery, emitting rude sounds, those cuttings of cheeses, those burblings of angry gut, those swells of captured gas that could if only harnessed to practical purpose, convey one aloft like the balloons that are the unfailing delights of children and morons.

How could I forget these conversations! These ruptures to our relationship, and dawns of sleepless nights, and the embraces of repair. (Forestalled often by the rumbling of guts and winds cackling free of their fetters, like the storm gales foolishly unleashed by those unfaithful and greedy Ithicans, the sailers under Odysseus.)

Shame! Yes, I felt it as the cool succor of sweetened cream touch my heat-scoured tongue. Tears of many natures dribbled from crinkled eyes that had seen uncountable failures and disappointments (such is the lot of an artist; it is the price we pay for our gift). But know as I sought this relief, I thought only of you, Realtina! Only of your love and forgiveness, which shines like a celestial boon on the twisted homunculus of my soulless personage.

Anyway…then, like, a giant bird came in through the window and ate all the ice cream and then threw the container away and covered it in paper towels so you wouldn’t notice but you did and then it flew away before I could take a picture. I was going to go to the store to get more, but then I fell asleep because I haven’t been sleeping well, and, I don’t want to point fingers here, but you kind of toss and turn a lot in the bed and mutter threats in your sleep and so…it’s kind of your fault, like, if we’re going to be taking accountability here. Plus…I don’t really have any…money…so yeah I’m just as torn up about this situation as you are, if not more so because of your totally not cool accusations.

Yeah, that’s what happened to the ice cream and I’m sure my VERY LOYAL subscribers can corroborate this in the comments and won’t contradict me if they know what’s good for them.

Love ya, babe

Andy Futuro

Substacker (1.5k+ Subscribers)

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Balls drop, bombs drop

Blood drips, souls rot

Future sold, busy playing roblox

Flopping willies, poppin’ pills

Self-abuse to AI thots

Thought’s racing, muscles bracing

Waiting for that shoe to drop

Knock knock!

Amazon suggests:

Try the new hate-scented swiffer mop

Clean up that human slop

50 states, 50 shades, 50 lists of names

Who you rooting for in beast games?

Every script the same

Lionsgate gone tame

Polio making alphas lame

Let’s find a witch to blame

Light a candle, set a flame

Ladies! Hide your shame!

Nevermind God’s grace given to the least

Oh, look, the sun also rises in the East

Papers please —

The gas makes you sneeze, can’t breathe

Smell of burning bodies — calories

Amazon suggests:

Try the new sour-cream flavored febreeze!

What’s with younglings these days?

Bald slits slitting wrists

BPA turning Pepe gay

Soft boys, soft brains,

soft strokes to grok

and mein kraft let’s plays

Bruh. This is the way.

Half cray cray, half prey

And Saturn — Oh, he ate!

Autocorrect corrects to: auto-da-fé

Can’t work, can’t sleep, can’t breathe

What a boring web we weave

Truncated turtleneck dweebs

Willies rotted from VD, ED, C3

PO dreams of electric sheep

God, did we really sell ourselves so cheap?

I’d kill, take a pill, drink way more than my fill

for one night’s sleep!

Knock knock!

Now you get to suck a glock

Itchy triggers, “christian” flock

No problem here — comply

Lay down and unalive

But whatever the hell you do —

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50 states, 50 shades, 50 per cent off

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A venal nation’s venation

Please, learn your station

No strikes and you’re out

On the streets, hunted by the beast

God, could we get some grace for the least?

No? Just star wars episode 333.

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Well, now I’m spilling the beans — figuratively and literally as I appear to have spilled some beans on my laptop. Below, exclusively for subscribers of my newsletter, I have shared my possibly legal (EMPLOY AT YOUR OWN RISK CONSULT A LAWYER OR THERAPIST) techniques for winning any argument with anyone ever even when you’re wrong and have no idea what you’re talking about.

Now you have the power!

Argument by never shutting up

This one’s pretty self-explanatory. It is also extremely common. Just never shut up. Never stop talking. Not even for a second. Not even to breathe. Not for any reason at all. Never let your opponent say anything. Wear them down. Just talk and talk and talk forever. Doesn’t matter what you’re saying. No one’s listening at this point. Just talk. Eventually, they’ll give up and you will have won.

The only danger is if someone else employs this strategy against you. Then it becomes a battle of wills. Extremely obnoxious wills. But I believe in you!

Argument by blammo!

This is most prevalent in the US, where everyone is packing heat. I mean, you have to! Everyone is packing heat. You don’t want to be the only person without a Tommy gun when the shooting starts.

To employ this argument, simply draw your firearm and discharge it in the air. You can scream or say something like, “I can’t take it anymore!” Make sure you empty your clip so the strength of your conviction shines through.

The Malthusian argument

This has fallen out of favor recently with the explosion of the world population but can still be effective in the right context. Just start saying, “Hmm, that’s so Malthusian.” Do it in a very suggestive way. Touch your neck, your wrists, your collar bone and say, “Oh, mmm, yes, very Malthusiaaaan.”

Really draw it out. Roll it around your tongue. Malthuuuuusian. Malthuuuuusiaaaaan. Lick your lips. Stroke you hair. Slither your tongue across your teeth. Maaaaalthuuuusiaaaaaaan.

I don’t think anyone’s going to argue with you after that.

The “your mom” argument

This is perhaps the oldest tactic of argumentation recorded in human history. Still, it’s no less effective. When your opponent says something like, “Why, you’ve contradicted yourself,” simply respond, “Your mom contradicts herself.” If they say things like “Straw man” or “Slippery slope” just say, “Your mom’s a straw man.” Or your mom’s slope is slippery.”

Many times, this will introduce people to a history of their mom they were not aware of. They’ll be so grateful for your insights, they’ll usually thank you and concede the argument.

The “my daddy” argument

This is the inverse of the “your mom” argument. It is employed thusly. You say, “Well, my daddy is a (whatever), and he (does whatever you’re arguing about) and you are totally wrong.” Obviously, you need to replace this with the profession your daddy actually occupies. Congressman, exotic dancer, personal injury lawyer, marine sniper, oyster shucker, etc. If your dad doesn’t really occupy a relevant profession or is a total deadbeat, that’s no problem. It’s okay to lie and exaggerate here — what, does this person you’re arguing with know your dad?

Argument by birthday

This is my favorite. Just sit down, hug your knees, start crying and say, “It’s my birthday, man. It’s my birthday. I really need a win. Just let me have this, man. I don’t have anything going on. I need something in my life.”

This will usually make your opponent so uncomfortable they’ll back off.

Ad hominem

This is one of the most maligned forms of argumentation (irony much?) but also the most successful. Just start cussing out your opponent. Get real nasty. Go for the jugular.

Just make sure you don’t do this against someone who employs argument by blammo! because they might not point their gun in the air.

Argument by Thriftway

This one’s pretty specific. I knew a man once and every conversation I had with this guy always wound its way back to a vacant storefront around the block from him, and what a good location it would be for a Thriftway.

He was so surprised that a Thriftway or some other grocery store wouldn’t go there. His eyes would take on a wistful sheen and he’d wax about how convenient it would be for him to have a Thriftway so close. Every conversation, no matter where it started, always got to the subject of Thriftway. At about this point, inevitably, I’d be desperate for an exit — from the conversation, the room, the building, my life.

It always worked to drive me insane. So maybe it’ll work on your opponents too?

Argument by backflip

It doesn’t have to be a backflip, but it should be something equally as impressive and athletic. While your opponent is spouting their stupid words — what even are “words,” who even cares anymore — do something awesome, like a backflip. Or a handstand. Or ... or a backflip that lands in a handstand.

I guess a somersault’s okay.

Maybe you can balance on a ball or juggle something?

Argument by nudity

This one requires you to lock eyes with your opponent. Then, as they’re talking, slowly start removing articles of clothing. Make it subtle, but sustained. Make sure there’s no way that they can miss what’s happening. They’ll usually catch on by the time you get to your underpants.

If that doesn’t interrupt their train of thought, I don’t know what will. But make sure you’re willing to commit. If your opponent pulls an uno reverso on you and also employs argument by nudity, things could get spicy! So, really, there’s absolutely no downsides

Argument by possum

Feign death. Drop to the floor, curl into a ball. It’ll be worth any injuries you sustain.

I don’t know if you’ll exactly win this argument, but you’ll win in the sense that the argument will be over.

Unless they keep talking, because honestly, sometimes that also happens. It’s possible your opponent is employing argument by never shutting up. They might not even notice you curled up in a ball, trying to roll away.

Also, be careful if your opponent is employing argument by blammo!, because they might pump a few rounds into you just to make sure you’re actually dead.

Hegelian dialectics

Hegel is basically the Game Genie of argumentation. Nobody knows what Hegelian means, but they know whoever says it first wins. If both people say it at the same time, then you have to say it faster and louder. Yell at the top of your lungs: “Hegel, Hegel, Hegel! Hegelian! Hegelian! Hegelian!”

Eventually, your opponent will see the superiority of your ways and concede.

Argument by “sure, why not”

As flawlessly established by my prior assertions, no one is really listening to anyone else anyway. So just say, “Sure, why not?” every time your opponent comes to a natural pause. They might think they’ve won the argument, but in your mind, you’ll know you weren’t ever listening and never gave a shit.

You preserved your attention, which according to YouTube, is the most valuable commodity on Earth.

Argument by poor hygiene

This one requires some preparation. First, work up a sweat. Do some hot yoga. Hike up a mountain. Read the news and let the stress sweat gush out of you. Make sure you don’t wear any deodorants, perfumes, or pleasantly scented self-care products.

Then, consume the most odorous provisions you can come up with. I’m talking sardines and bean dip. Tangy bries and sauerkraut. If you’re allergic to gluten, eat a loaf of bread. If you’re lactose intolerant, drink a gallon of milk.

Then, during the debate, just stand there sweating and farting and stinking and belching, exuding this horrific miasma of stench. Try and clear the room.

I doubt anyone’s going to want to talk to you or even look you in the eye after all that.

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Does dark magic really work for growing your Substack?

YES! Dark magic works exactly as well as any other technique promising to grow your Substack.

What is dark magic?

It’s a lot like light magic, but darker.

Must I commit human sacrifice?

No. You don’t have to commit human sacrifice. With over seven billion people on the planet, the cosmic deities don’t really respond to human sacrifice the way they used to. Put simply, it’s a question of supply and demand. With such a glut of supply, human life is essentially worthless.

Now, since wild animals are rapidly disappearing, you’ll get better results sacrificing one of those. But, you’ll really have to look into its eyes and plunge the knife into its breast and endure a load of horrid bleating. It’s messy and awful. That’s why most people just pretend meat naturally comes out of cans and try not to think about it.

Your best bet is to use something like an animal, but without a fully congealed soul. Like an egg. Or, really, lots of them. Let’s say one egg per desired subscriber.

Okay, I have, like, a thousand eggs. What do I do with them?

Sacrifice them, silly! I recommend throwing. If you have an HOA, that’s a profound well of dark magic. Hurling eggs at the board members is sure to unleash some kind of power. Or, if you don’t live in the US and haven’t been acculturated to our unique brand of super- and extra-legal freedom, maybe some other minor authority figure would work.

I don’t recommend throwing eggs at anyone with the power to throw something back. That’s more a light magic thing.

Alright, eggs are thrown. My neighbors hate me. Am I famous yet?

Yes! Your story is sure to make the news. At least local. And if not, keep throwing eggs! Eventually, someone is going to come up to you and say something like, What the hell are you doing? Please stop throwing eggs at me.

They have now been drawn into your dark magic sales funnel. You need a CTA — a call to action. Keep it short and simple, like this:

I will stop throwing eggs at you if you subscribe to my Substack.

It worked! I got some subscribers. But eggs are expensive. How do I get my subscribers to upgrade to paid?

Whoa, whoa, whoa! This is about growing your Substack with dark magic. Not earning money from it. If you want that information, you’re going to have to upgrade to paid.

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Achievement Unlocked: Rise and Shine, Baby!

Wake up 10,000 days in a row.

Data Source: YU-Track sleep monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Intermittent Faster

Skip breakfast seven days in a row.

Data Source: YU-Track gastrointestinal motility monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Dry Fire

Try and fail to make a bowel movement.

Data Source: YU-Track gastrointestinal motility monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Marlboro Man

Have a cigarette first thing in the morning.

Data Source: YU-Track spirometer

Achievement Unlocked: Let’s Get Stoopid!

Loiter on your front steps for over thirty minutes.

Data Source: Door camera DCAM-X5P7-3948-LQ22

Achievement Unlocked: La Vida Tequila

Have a tequila shot before noon.

Data Source: Fridge camera SFCM-24A9-Q7L3-9821-ZX

Achievement Unlocked: Off Label

Use a prescription medicine for recreational purposes.

Data Source: Hydropmorphone SmartCap

Achievement Unlocked: Cyberspace Frontiersman

Spend over an hour online before noon.

Data Source: Bluecon ISP

Achievement Unlocked: Pole Vaulter

Use an alternate account to circumvent another user’s block.

Data Source: Freevox: Connect with Anyone, Anywhere!

Achievement Unlocked: I’ve Heard No Complaints

Have over 100 complaints filed against you on Freevox.

Data Source: Freevox: Connect with Anyone, Anywhere!

Achievement Unlocked: Time Killer

Spend over two hours on social media on a weekday.

Data Source: Freevox: Connect with Anyone, Anywhere!

Achievement Unlocked: No Job, No Problem

Fail to log in to your MustWork account seven days in a row.

Data Source: MustWork: Find the Job You Need

Achievement Unlocked: 19th-Century Bather

Go seventy-two hours without showering.

Data Source: SmartLife SmartFaucet Shower Cam

Achievement Unlocked: Fire Breath

Go seventy-two hours without brushing your teeth.

Data Source: SmartLife SmartBrush Oralsense

Achievement Unlocked: I Swear it’s Me!

Take over three attempts to start your car with YU-FaceID.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 Dashboard SelfieCam

Achievement Unlocked: Don’t Call it a Rut

Drive the same route seven days in a row.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 GPS

Achievement Unlocked: Drive Through Bandit

Enter a drive through at over thirty-five miles per hour.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 speedometer

Achievement Unlocked: Addicted to Flavor!

Order the new Tacoloco Gizilla Splooshwrap Combo Plate and unleash the cheesy beast!

Data Source: Tacoloco Customer ID

Achievement Unlocked: Scrounger

Search in the cushions, under the seats, and the center console of your vehicle for change.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 SeatCam

Achievement Unlocked: Printed and Minted

Pay with obsolete hard currency.

Data Source: Tacoloco Customer Transaction Records

Achievement Unlocked: Moment of Flavorful Solace

Eat in the parking lot.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 SelfieCam

Achievement Unlocked: Home Again, Home Again

Return home after less than an hour outside.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 GPS

Achievement Unlocked: Senpai

Visit xxx.waifu.vr seven days in a row.

Data Source: Bluecon ISP

Achievement Unlocked: Solo Afternoon Delight

Attempt self pleasure before five p.m.

Data Source: YU-Track blood flow monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Half Mast

Fail to “get it up.”

Data Source: YU-Track blood flow monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Onesome

Ingest a PDE5 inhibitor with no partner present.

Data Source: SmartFlat PersonasenseTM Apartment Occupancy Monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Why, Mama, Why?

Ignore three calls from your mother in one day.

Data Source: YU-Tel call monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Slider

Send over seven unsolicited direct messages in less than an hour.

Data Source: Freevox: Connect with Anyone, Anywhere!

Achievement Unlocked: Autorhetorical

Make a Freevox post with over 1,000 words and receive zero Likes, Hearts, Stars, Upvotes, Whoas, or Rainbows.

Data Source: Freevox: Connect with Anyone, Anywhere!

Achievement Unlocked: Digital Denizen

Spend over seven hours online in any ten-hour period.

Data Source: Bluecon ISP

Achievement Unlocked: Free Speech Absolutist

Receive a temporary ban from Freevox.

Data Source: Freevox: Connect with Anyone, Anywhere!

Achievement Unlocked: It’s My Stuff and I Can Do What I Want With It

Damage or destroy at least three personal appliances.

Data Source: IlPane Smart Toaster Cam

Achievement Unlocked: Can You Hear Me, God?

Scream for at least ninety seconds.

Data Source: SmartFlat PersonasenseTM Apartment Microphone

Achievement Unlocked: I Can’t Take It Anymore!

Say the exact phrase: I Can’t Take It Anymore!

Data Source: SmartFlat PersonasenseTM Apartment Microphone

Achievement Unlocked: Get Them Out of Me!

Attempt to remove YU-Track intraocular holography implants by hand.

Data Source: YU-Track intraocular holography implants

Achievement Unlocked: Zzzzzzap!

Receive YU-Track intraocular holography implant electric shock deterrent.

Data Source: YU-Track intraocular holography implants

Achievement Unlocked: I’m Not Crying, You’re Crying

Break into tears.

Data Source: YU-Track intraocular holography implants

Achievement Unlocked: Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

Slam your PortSafe Smart Door.

Data Source: PortSafe Smart Door latch sensor

Achievement Unlocked: Rut Breaker

Set a new destination for the first time in seven days.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 GPS

Achievement Unlocked: Road Tripper

Set a destination over 300 miles away from your domicile.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 GPS

Achievement Unlocked: Pedal to the Metal

Exceed speed limit by double.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 Speedometer

Achievement Unlocked: Where We’re Going, We Don’t Need Roads

Exceed speed limit by triple.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 Speedometer

Achievement Unlocked: It’s the 5-0!

Have a police officer attempt to pull you over for speeding.

Data Source: Patrol Car P256 Scanner

Achievement Unlocked: Catch Me If You Can!

Ignore instructions to pull over from a police officer.

Data Source: Patrol Car P256 Scanner

Achievement Unlocked: Can You Hear the Sirens Calling?

Have three or more patrol cars in hot pursuit.

Data Source: Patrol Car P256 Scanner

Achievement Unlocked: Straight Shot!

Run three red lights in a row.

Data Source: Traffic Enforcement Camera TL-56278 - TL-56281

Achievement Unlocked: Jesus, Take the Wheel!

Lose control of your vehicle while going over 100 miles per hour.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 Speedometer

Achievement Unlocked: Impromptu Physics Lesson

Collide with an immovable object at over 100 miles per hour.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 Impact Sensor

Achievement Unlocked: Ow, That’s Got to Hurt!

Suffer severe full-body injuries.

Data Source: YU-Track trauma sensor

Achievement Unlocked: Don’t Go Into the Light

Lose consciousness after injury.

Data Source: YU-Track electroencephalogram

Achievement Unlocked: Uh, Shouldn’t This Be Inside Me?

Lose over a liter of blood.

Data Source: YU-Track blood flow monitor

Achievement Unlocked: Norse Funeral

Have your electric vehicle catch fire while you’re still inside.

Data Source: Travolt Budgeteer 1HGCM82633A004352 Intelligent Battery Sensor

Looking for more unusual writing like this? Subscribe to my publication below:

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For the month of November, I will be donating all royalties from sales of my novel, Hallway, to my local food bank, the Upper Valley Haven.

For more information or to participate yourself, check out ’s original post below:

A Fictionalized Account

Read a Book, Feed a Neighbor

The Problem…

Read more

6 months ago · 19 likes · 3 comments · J. Kyle Turner

You can grab your copy of Hallway below, available in eBook or paperback.

Buy Now!

In their cramped, rundown apartment, Tim, Jess, and their unpredictable cat Harvey are barely hanging on—struggling with money, bad neighbors, and a building with more locked doors than answers. When Tim’s only friend vanishes under strange circumstances, the shadows in the hallway seem to deepen, and Harvey’s obsession with a mysterious “nowhere door” turns dangerously intense.

Every night brings whispers, anonymous knocks, and the creak of hinges where no one’s supposed to be. Jess—overworked, fiercely protective, and running on fumes—worries the apartment is doing more than wearing them down. Tim tries to hold it together, all while battling haunting visions, cryptic dreams, and his own unreliable mind.

But something is watching from the hallway. Something hungry, maybe even hopeful for their collapse.

Is it just the paranoia of poverty and medication—or is the real horror waiting in a place no tenant dare enter?

Step into Hallway, a claustrophobic tale of urban dread where reality warps and every closed door hides a new nightmare. Perfect for fans of slow-burn suspense, psychological horror, and the movie Barbarian, this novel turns the mundane into the monstrous and never lets you escape the echo of footsteps just beyond your sight.

Buy Now!

Subscribe now

Ideas - No AI

Don’t get your ideas from AI. It doesn’t have any. It can’t come up with ideas. All it can do is regurgitate. Any idea you’re asking it for is being baby-birded into someone else’s mouth as we speak.

Steal your ideas the old-fashioned way, by reading books.

Creative Writing - No AI

Obviously not. What the hell would the point of that be? The AI flattens. Condenses. Smooths. Homogenizes. It abrades away anything unique and interesting. Despite its ability to mimic speech, it cannot speak, and it has no voice. Asking AI to write for you is denying yourself the ability to hone your voice. It’s denying yourself the practice of speaking. And in a world with AI, the voice that stands out from the choir is the one that will be heard.

Editing - No AI

Hey, I’m sure I’ll get some disagreement here, since there are so many apps that do this. And who knows, maybe AI will get better at it? But I have noticed in all my attempts to use AI to reduce my editing burden that the AI still tends to flatten and homogenize. It doesn’t understand the musicality of a sentence or a paragraph and so it will break or beat the sentence into something “proper” and “grammatical.”

I take great pains to create an interesting, varied, and surprising rhythm from sentence to book, so the AI doesn’t work for me. The aspects that I find most entertaining about my writing often get tagged as flaws by the AI.

And that really summarizes the danger of outsourcing your writing to AI. It scrubs away the you. It doesn’t know what good writing or interesting writing is. It doesn’t know anything. It just has a big, stolen dataset of books to search for patterns.

I’m not trying to conform to the most popular pattern. (Not for the amount of money I’m making, at least.) I’m trying to create a new pattern. My pattern. It is this pattern — my personhood — that is the value proposition of writing. I speak my truth as purely and bravely as I can, and hopefully someone reads it and is enriched by it.

Writing and reading is a conversation, long, slow, and deep — just the way I like it. I don’t need a robot telling me what to say.

Formatting - Maybe AI

Need to clean up a text real quick? Get rid of redundant characters? Add or remove paragraphs? Change the style? AI can do this pretty well. Just really double check it doesn’t change anything else, because it can, has, and will.

Marketing - Hell Yeah AI

I used to get creative with every aspect of my books — including the blurbs, store page descriptions, the websites. I always wanted to be different and stand out. Then I talked to an old hat indie publisher who cranked out cookie cutter horror books (no shade, that’s what she did and she made bank). She took a knife to all my fun descriptions and made them simple, direct, one-glance friendly.

And it worked. My sales improved with the (IMHO) lamer descriptions.

This is a situation where you need to flatten and condense your writing. Where you need to translate it into the quick, palatable, pez of consumerism. Being forced to wear so many hats — as the writer, editor, and publisher — makes it difficult for me to establish the critical distance I need to be a marketer. To me, a book is art, but to sell it, I need to treat it like a product.

Not to mention, I am writing these books for myself. I know someone is reading them because reviews show up and money appears in my checking account. But I don’t always know who. I don’t have the time, and I really, really don’t have the passion to be studying and adapting my marketing materials to achieve the optimal reach.

So yeah, the AI can do all that from now on. It can parse the data, find the audience, and tag the book for them. And I can save my blood, sweat, and tears for the next book.

Blurbs

Yes sir. If your book is out there and has enough reviews, you can ask an AI to whip up a blurb for it. If you don’t have the reviews, you can feed it roughly the first 5,000 words of your manuscript and it’ll do a bang-up job.

That’s what I did for Hallway:

Nothing is safe behind the locked doors of their apartment, where paranoia, strange visions, and a terrifying presence threaten to consume them all.

In their cramped, rundown apartment, Tim, Jess, and their unpredictable cat Harvey are barely hanging on—struggling with money, bad neighbors, and a building with more locked doors than answers. When Tim’s only friend vanishes under strange circumstances, the shadows in the hallway seem to deepen, and Harvey’s obsession with a mysterious “nowhere door” turns dangerously intense.

Every night brings whispers, anonymous knocks, and the creak of hinges where no one’s supposed to be. Jess—overworked, fiercely protective, and running on fumes—worries the apartment is doing more than wearing them down. Tim tries to hold it together, all while battling haunting visions, cryptic dreams, and his own unreliable mind.

But something is watching from the hallway. Something hungry, maybe even hopeful for their collapse.

Is it just the paranoia of poverty and medication—or is the real horror waiting in a place no tenant dare enter?

Step into Hallway, a claustrophobic tale of urban dread where reality warps and every closed door hides a new nightmare. Perfect for fans of slow-burn suspense, psychological horror, and the movie Barbarian, this novel turns the mundane into the monstrous and never lets you escape the echo of footsteps just beyond your sight.

Hey, you might as well buy it while you’re here.

Buy Hallway!

SEO and Keywords

Yep, anywhere you can edit the SEO, the AI can quickly adapt to what you need. (Like a Substack post.) Same for keywords. On Amazon, for example, you get seven keywords and the AI can find the right ones for your book in about 7 seconds.

Pitfalls - AI Hallucinations

Something you really have to watch out for is this — if the AI does not have enough data, it will make shit up. If you don’t have enough reviews for your book for it pull data from, or if you haven’t given the AI enough of your manuscript to work with, it will begin extrapolating and it can go to weird and highly inaccurate places.

Always, always, always, double-check the AI’s work.

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Buy Hallway!

Available in eBook and paperback from Amazon. Also on Kindle Unlimited.

Buy Now!

In their cramped, rundown apartment, Tim, Jess, and their unpredictable cat Harvey are barely hanging on—struggling with money, bad neighbors, and a building with more locked doors than answers. When Tim’s only friend vanishes under strange circumstances, the shadows in the hallway seem to deepen, and Harvey’s obsession with a mysterious "nowhere door" turns dangerously intense.

Every night brings whispers, anonymous knocks, and the creak of hinges where no one’s supposed to be. Jess—overworked, fiercely protective, and running on fumes—worries the apartment is doing more than wearing them down. Tim tries to hold it together, all while battling haunting visions, cryptic dreams, and his own unreliable mind.

But something is watching from the hallway. Something hungry, maybe even hopeful for their collapse.

Is it just the paranoia of poverty and medication—or is the real horror waiting in a place no tenant dare enter?

Step into Hallway, a claustrophobic tale of urban dread where reality warps and every closed door hides a new nightmare. Perfect for fans of slow-burn suspense, psychological horror, and the movie Barbarian, this novel turns the mundane into the monstrous and never lets you escape the echo of footsteps just beyond your sight.

Buy Now!

Read a sample below…

Day 117

Harvey was perched on the bottom stair, just above the landing. His whiskers twitched and his tail swished. He reached out a paw to the hole in the floor for the hot water pipe, careful not to touch it. He'd learned that lesson already.

Harvey, time to come in! Tim called. His voice carried a note of warning. You're flirting with danger, bud.

Harvey didn't much care for Tim's advice, as usual. His eyes were two golden moons, staring with fathomless intensity down the hole into the first floor.

Babe! Tim called through the half-cracked apartment door. He's not coming in. Can you grab him?

Why don't you grab him? Jess called back. I'm naked.

You have a towel.

That's naked. And close the door.

Should we just leave him out there, then? He's hunting something.

The argument was settled by the creak of the front door. Tim quickly closed the door to apartment A, the one he shared with Jess and Harvey, and hustled down the twisted half-flight of stairs to put a gentle but firm hand on Harvey’s neck.

Sorry, he said to Sean, their neighbor.

It's no problem, Sean said. He closed the door with a foot. His arms held a cardboard box of old skateboard parts. Harv's a good cat.

Harvey had been disturbed by the opening of the front door. His sleek blue gray fur bristled. Then he decided whatever was happening in the hole was still of prime importance and shifted his focus to that.

I'm sorry you're going, Tim said. We really appreciate you keeping an eye out for Harvey.

Yeah, I'm sad to be going too, Sean said. He rested the box on the windowsill. But it's time.

Why are you moving? Tim asked, stroking Harvey's fur. Did you get tired of the squirrels living in the roof?

No, I don’t mind the squirrels, Sean said. He knelt and gave Harvey a little rub on the chin. I bet you like them too, don't you, little dude?

Harvey rewarded this gesture with a bite.

Harvey, you little shit, Tim said. He picked up Harvey and cradled him a moment before depositing the cat a safe distance away, two stairs down. Did he get you?

No, he didn't break the skin. Sean chuckled. It was a love bite. I'll miss you too, little dude.

Sean balanced his box on a knee while he fished for his keys, and then opened the door to apartment C, leading up to the attic.

By the way, Tim said. I’m all yours Saturday.

Thanks, dude. It’s not too much stuff.

Buy Now!

Day 119

Not too much, as Sean imagined it, was a bed, a dresser, a table, a TV stand, multiple lava lamps, and a TV. Fortunately, the TV only had to go down one floor.

Sean said we could have it, Tim announced as he and Sean tramped it into apartment A and placed the TV on the floor. I've been wanting to get a bigger one for a while.

Jess set her magazine in her lap and arched an eyebrow.

Do we need a bigger TV? she asked.

You always need a bigger TV, Sean said.

Sean said we could also have one of his bongs, Tim said.

Thank you, Sean, but we definitely can't accept that, Jess said. She gave Tim an acid glare and then picked up her magazine.

You're in trouble, dude, Sean said, as he and Tim navigated the disassembled pieces of a couch down the twist in the stairs.

Nah, Tim said. Jess doesn't mind me smoking. She just likes to give me a hard time.

Such is the mysterious way of womenfolk.

I probably won't take the bong though.

Stop! Sean yelled. He froze with the heavy couch frame held overhead. Do you hear that?

Dude, I’m losing my grip!

Shh! Sean hissed. Listen!

Tim strained his ears but heard nothing. A few bars of Jess's humming floated down from apartment A. Can we please move? Tim said.

Sean took a step. His foot missed the stair and he fell backwards. The couch back slipped out of Tim's hand and the two of them tumbled to the ground.

Jess snapped on a pair of blue latex exam gloves and worked her hands lightly over Sean’s neck and back. She parted the mess of his dreadlocks to examine his skull.

Ooooh, ow, Sean groaned.

You're lucky you didn’t break your neck, Jess proclaimed. But this bruise is going to turn into a pretty impressive lump.

Oof, thanks, Sean said. He pulled out a pre-rolled joint and in a fluid motion lit it with his skull lighter.

That's not a good idea. Jess frowned. You could be concussed.

It helps with the pain. Oof. Sean rotated his arm in his socket and groaned.

You do you. Jess shrugged. She checked her watch. I gotta go. The bus is coming. If it’s on time for once.

Bye, hon. Tim gave Jess a peck on the cheek. Save lots of lives tonight.

Jess snorted. I’ll probably spend the night in a donut shop parking lot listening to Rick talk about big foot and Area Fifty-One. Try not to die while I'm gone.

Jess snapped off her gloves and stowed her first aid kit in her backpack and went out the front door. Through the grimy hallway windows, Tim watched her walk to the bus stop fifty feet down the block. She tossed the used gloves on the pile of trash overtaking the trash can.

Is Jess a nurse or something? Sean asked.

Paramedic, Tim said. Terrible job. Worse pay. She likes it though. Kind of.

Hmm. Sean passed Tim the joint. Tim took a puff and erupted in coughs.

Good, good. Gotta cough to get off, Sean said, slapping Tim’s back.

Wow, that hits. Tim coughed again into his elbow.

Here. Sean handed Tim a baggie full of pre-rolled joints. Your payment for helping me move.

I won't say no.

Share it with Harvey. He needs it.

You're telling me. He's been wild ever since we moved here. Scared. Twitchy. And he is obsessed with the hallway. I hope the new neighbor is as cool with him being out here as you are.

He's a good cat.

When Jess got him, I wasn’t sure if we could keep him. He was a handful. A trash cat. His foster mom's home was a zoo. She had, like, nine cats, three huge dogs, lizards. She let him eat pizza.

That's cute.

Cute, yeah. He also got fleas. We had to flea bomb our old place and wash everything. And he kept stepping in his own turds and tracking them all over the place. We'd come home and see little brown paw prints all over the bed.

Sean chuckled. You love him though.

To a point.

No, you love him.

He's a hard cat. The first night we got here, I dropped my meds and they scattered over the floor. Harvey went after them and we didn't know if he ate one. We took him to the emergency vet in a cab. It was gonna be six grand to pump his stomach. We didn't have that, so we just waited with him all night. He's lucky to be here. It was a long road. And we're lucky to find this place. It was the only place in our price range that allowed cats.

Lucky, Sean repeated. He stared out the filthy window at the sallow yellow streetlight illuminating the bus stop. He passed the joint back to Tim and stood. Finish that, he said. I have a few more things to pack up.

Tim took a greedy suck of the joint and coughed. You need a hand?

Nah. It's just small stuff.

Okay. Let me buy you a beer before you head out tomorrow.

Yeah. Thanks.

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Day 120

Sean? Tim whispered.

Hmm? Jess rolled over and clamped her pillow around her head.

Do you hear that?

It's four in the morning. Let me sleep.

Sounds like someone is knocking on the door.

No one is knocking.

Tim lay awake, listening to Jess mumble in her sleep. A shadowy black blob crawled through the dark. Harvey. He jumped softly down from the perch on his cat tower, paused on the dresser, and then hopped onto the couch. A car passed on the road outside and its headlights stuttered through the curtains.

Tap, tap, tap.

There it was. Light, distinct, unmistakable taps on the apartment door. Then again.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed and clumsily felt his way to the doorway, sliding his feet along the floor to keep from banging into anything. It was a short journey across the tiny bedroom that doubled as their living room. There, the coffee table. There, Harvey's scratching post. Then, the doormat. A line of searing yellow burned under the crack between the door and the floor. A blink of darkness broke the line. A foot. Someone standing on the other side.

Sean, Tim whispered. He placed his ear against the door and listened. No more taps. Something furry brushed his leg. Harvey pawing the wood, sticking his paws under the crack, hoping to hunt whatever was in the hallway.

Not today, idiot, Tim whispered, and blocked Harvey with his foot. Quickly, he unlocked the door and opened it just enough to slide through. Harsh light burned from a bulb high in the ceiling that had no accessible off switch. A million dead flies lay at rest in the grave in the glass fixture. No Sean. Nothing. Just the filthy brown rug. The ugly beige walls. The closet on the landing. Room B next to theirs. Room C, Sean's attic apartment. And the fake door in the wall a few steps down on the twisting stairwell. The nowhere door.

Great, Tim muttered. He put his hand on the brass knob of his apartment door.

Click.

With a creak, the door to apartment C inched open. Tim let go of the doorknob.

Sean, he whispered.

No answer.

Yo, Sean, he said louder. He could hear it now, a sound from upstairs. Snoring or … gurgling? He nudged the door open with his foot. The narrow stairwell was dark except for a hazy blue from Sean's glow-in-the-dark posters and blacklight. Tim took a step up the stairs and a floorboard let out a squeal.

Sean, man, did you knock?

No answer. Tim stared up into the fuzzy blue darkness at the top of the landing. Was that…?

Scratching behind him. Harvey, clawing at the door. The little jerk ripping the paint to shreds. Tim backed down the stairs and closed Sean's door behind him. He slid back into his apartment and grabbed Harvey with both hands to keep him from darting into the hallway.

Harvey hissed and squirmed, a ball of claws and rage. Tim carried him to the bathroom and locked him in.

You’ve sealed your fate, Tim pronounced.

What was all that about? Jess mumbled as Tim rolled into bed.

Sorry to wake you.

I was up. I heard a noise.

Me too. I think it was Sean. He got too high and left his door open again.

Typical.

You locked the door, right?

I forgot. Harvey tried to knife me. He’s really after something in that hallway.

Tim got up and locked the door. For good measure, he slid the chain lock closed too.

In the bright, cheery blue of the morning, the restless night felt like a weird dream. Tim got up before Jess and made coffee and blueberry waffles. Lured by the scent of crisp buttery batter, Jess shuffled into the galley kitchen. She blinked tired eyes and gave Tim a smile and a kiss as she accepted the mug of coffee he handed her—hot oat milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon.

She yawned and said, What even happened last night?

Just another restless night, Tim said. He blew a whisp of steam from his own mug of coffee. Did Harv wake you up? I feel like he was nibbling my hand last night.

No, I thought I heard something in the hallway.

Harvey pattered in and jumped on the card table that served as their kitchen table. He managed to stick his whiskers in the batter and knock over the French press before Jess could wrangle him to the floor.

When the waffles had been consumed and the dishes washed and dried and put away, Tim checked his phone. He tapped out a message and then frowned and glanced at the stove clock.

I feel kind of weird, Tim said. Sean’s not answering my texts.

He probably just slept in, Jess said.

It's almost noon and he's moving out today.

You two were smoking last night and he probably went up and sucked his black hole bong or whatever after.

Gravity bong.

Whatever. The thing that makes you super stoned.

It’s just a two-liter bottle in a bucket. You put the weed in the little cap in the top, light it, and then lift it out of the water a little. That creates a vacuum and draws the smoke out. Then you take the cap off, put your mouth on the nozzle, and push the bottle down. That forces the smoke into your lungs.

Jess's eyes narrowed dangerously. The coffee cup hovered under her pursed lips.

How do you know all that? she asked.

I…watched him use it.

Babe, it is so not a good idea for you to be getting stoned on your meds. A joint is bad enough, but smoking gravity bongs now?

You don't even know what that means.

Oh, I know exactly what it means, thank you. But I don't need a scientific breakdown to know that if Sean does something, that something gets you super stoned and you cannot smoke as much as Sean.

Can we not have this fight again?

I’m sorry? This is a fight? When I remind you that you are predisposed to psychosis and that weed is definitely one hundred per cent factually proven forever to cause psychosis in certain people.

The studies don't really show if it causes or just exposes pre-existing psychosis.

Is that distinction sounding meaningful to you? It's uncontrolled polypharmacy. You’re mixing meds and you don’t know how they’ll interact.

Sean calls that crossfading.

How are you so blasé about this? Jess’s coffee cup hit the table and the coffee leapt up from the force. Did you ever think maybe I don't want to deal with…? she trailed off.

Tim rose from the table and walked into the living room bedroom. Jess heard the door slam. She picked up her coffee and blew on it, though it was already cold.

Shit, she said.

Tim walked around the neighborhood. It was an early May day, blessedly cool after a week of unseasonable heat. A pollen and flower scent coasted in on every deep breath he took to calm himself.

His phone pinged with a text from Jess. Hey, come back, babe. I'm sorry.

He texted back, No, I'm an idiot, you're right.

Wanna watch trash TV and eat ice cream?

Tim booked it back to the apartment building. Their new home looked oddly grim in the bright day. It was an old Victorian mansion that had been converted into units, then an office, and then back into units again. The rooms bulged at uncomfortable angles, walls and doors and windows never placed where you'd want or expect. The windows of the empty first floor were boarded up and tagged with graffiti.

Sean's old hatchback, which had been parked on the street out front for easy loading, was now gone.

What the hell? Tim muttered, checking his phone again. No calls or messages.

He walked over to the cracked concrete patio with the trash cans and looked in the bottom hallway window. Harvey was perched on the sill, looking back at him.

Hi, bud, Tim called through the cobwebbed glass and waved. He walked back to the side entrance that led to the three apartments and opened the door, blocking the entrance with his foot to keep Harvey from running out. But Harvey was back on the floor, staring down the hole that led to the first floor. His silky body shivered with tension and focus.

What's down there, bud? Tim inquired. He peered over Harvey, trying to see into the little hole. But all he could make out was a glimpse of grimy concrete wall. You find a rat?

Harvey didn't answer.

Jess met Tim at the top of the stairs with a kiss and a lingering hug. They spent the rest of the day entwined under a blanket on the couch, passing back and forth a pint of cookies and cream ice cream, and watching daytime television.

These two are never going to work. Jess sucked on the spoon and then aimed it at the couple on the TV. I just don't think she's into him.

He's nice though.

He's really sweet. But I think she's taller than him. And she also seems really surfacey.

We'll see. How much better is this TV than our old one?

It's incredible. You were right. I can't imagine we ever used that dinky little TV. What did you do with it, by the way?

I put it out front on the curb. Someone took it already. Tim stole a glance at his phone.

Jess muted the TV and asked, He still hasn't texted you?

No, and his car is gone. He ghosted me.

Maybe he got towed. He was parked in a two-hour spot.

Hmm. Yeah. Maybe.

Uh, what was that look?

What look?

That look you just gave me.

I gave no looks.

Oh my God. Jess angrily turned off the TV and yanked the blanket over to her side of the couch. We are fighting now.

What, why?

You think I saw Sean move out and didn't tell you.

Tim held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, and said, You were here all day. Are you sure you didn't see or hear anything?

Why wouldn't I tell you if I did?

You never liked us hanging out.

I had no problem with you sitting around playing skateboard games and watching edgy cartoons. I didn't like you getting stoned on your meds. Look, it's even making you paranoid.

I can't believe we're back to this.

Jess stood and stomped to the apartment door and her footsteps rattled the windowsills. She flung open the door and grimaced as she stepped onto the filthy brown carpet with her bare feet. She banged on the door to apartment C.

Hey, Sean, you up there? We need your help settling an argument. Did you move out in the middle of the night or sneak out while I was in the shower? She grabbed the handle and rattled it, trying to open the door. It was locked. Then she stopped and pressed her ear to the door, as if waiting for something to happen.

Harvey padded up the stairs to see what all the commotion was. He sniffed at the bottom of the door and then wandered back down the stairs.

Tim let himself sink halfway down the doorway. He clutched his stomach and said, Oh man, that sucks.

I'm sorry, hon, Jess said. She rustled Tim’s hair and patted his shoulder.

I feel kind of sick. I thought we were friends.

Honestly, he was weird. I'm glad he's gone.

I see that now. I should have listened to you.

He was always up moving around in the hallway in the middle of the night. Sometimes I’d come back from a shift and he’d just be sitting there staring out the window. It creeped me out knowing there was just that thin door between him and our bedroom.

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Greetings friends.

When I first joined Substack, I had no idea what I was doing. It was all an experiment. Then a vision took shape. I would use Substack as a delivery platform for my books, publishing serialized chapters and then mailing out the ebook when the serial was completed…and that kind of worked.

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In their cramped, rundown apartment, Tim, Jess, and their unpredictable cat Harvey are barely hanging on—struggling with money, bad neighbors, and a building with more locked doors than answers. When Tim’s only friend vanishes under strange circumstances, the shadows in the hallway seem to deepen, and Harvey’s obsession with a mysterious "nowhere door" turns dangerously intense.

Every night brings whispers, anonymous knocks, and the creak of hinges where no one’s supposed to be. Jess—overworked, fiercely protective, and running on fumes—worries the apartment is doing more than wearing them down. Tim tries to hold it together, all while battling haunting visions, cryptic dreams, and his own unreliable mind.

But something is watching from the hallway. Something hungry, maybe even hopeful for their collapse.

Is it just the paranoia of poverty and medication—or is the real horror waiting in a place no tenant dare enter?

Step into Hallway, a claustrophobic tale of urban dread where reality warps and every closed door hides a new nightmare. Perfect for fans of slow-burn suspense, psychological horror, and the movie Barbarian, this novel turns the mundane into the monstrous and never lets you escape the echo of footsteps just beyond your sight.

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Hallway will release on Amazon October 10.

Day 117

Harvey was perched on the bottom stair, just above the landing. His whiskers twitched and his tail swished. He reached out a paw to the hole in the floor for the hot water pipe, careful not to touch it. He'd learned that lesson already.

Harvey, time to come in! Tim called. His voice carried a note of warning. You're flirting with danger, bud.

Harvey didn't much care for Tim's advice, as usual. His eyes were two golden moons, staring with fathomless intensity down the hole into the first floor.

Babe! Tim called through the half-cracked apartment door. He's not coming in. Can you grab him?

Why don't you grab him? Jess called back. I'm naked.

You have a towel.

That's naked. And close the door.

Should we just leave him out there, then? He's hunting something.

The argument was settled by the creak of the front door. Tim quickly closed the door to apartment A, the one he shared with Jess and Harvey, and hustled down the twisted half-flight of stairs to put a gentle but firm hand on Harvey’s neck.

Sorry, he said to Sean, their neighbor.

It's no problem, Sean said. He closed the door with a foot. His arms held a cardboard box of old skateboard parts. Harv's a good cat.

Harvey had been disturbed by the opening of the front door. His sleek blue gray fur bristled. Then he decided whatever was happening in the hole was still of prime importance and shifted his focus to that.

I'm sorry you're going, Tim said. We really appreciate you keeping an eye out for Harvey.

Yeah, I'm sad to be going too, Sean said. He rested the box on the windowsill. But it's time.

Why are you moving? Tim asked, stroking Harvey's fur. Did you get tired of the squirrels living in the roof?

No, I don’t mind the squirrels, Sean said. He knelt and gave Harvey a little rub on the chin. I bet you like them too, don't you, little dude?

Harvey rewarded this gesture with a bite.

Harvey, you little shit, Tim said. He picked up Harvey and cradled him a moment before depositing the cat a safe distance away, two stairs down. Did he get you?

No, he didn't break the skin. Sean chuckled. It was a love bite. I'll miss you too, little dude.

Sean balanced his box on a knee while he fished for his keys, and then opened the door to apartment C, leading up to the attic.

By the way, Tim said. I’m all yours Saturday.

Thanks, dude. It’s not too much stuff.

Day 119

Not too much, as Sean imagined it, was a bed, a dresser, a table, a TV stand, multiple lava lamps, and a TV. Fortunately, the TV only had to go down one floor.

Sean said we could have it, Tim announced as he and Sean tramped it into apartment A and placed the TV on the floor. I've been wanting to get a bigger one for a while.

Jess set her magazine in her lap and arched an eyebrow.

Do we need a bigger TV? she asked.

You always need a bigger TV, Sean said.

Sean said we could also have one of his bongs, Tim said.

Thank you, Sean, but we definitely can't accept that, Jess said. She gave Tim an acid glare and then picked up her magazine.

You're in trouble, dude, Sean said, as he and Tim navigated the disassembled pieces of a couch down the twist in the stairs.

Nah, Tim said. Jess doesn't mind me smoking. She just likes to give me a hard time.

Such is the mysterious way of womenfolk.

I probably won't take the bong though.

Stop! Sean yelled. He froze with the heavy couch frame held overhead. Do you hear that?

Dude, I’m losing my grip!

Shh! Sean hissed. Listen!

Tim strained his ears but heard nothing. A few bars of Jess's humming floated down from apartment A. Can we please move? Tim said.

Sean took a step. His foot missed the stair and he fell backwards. The couch back slipped out of Tim's hand and the two of them tumbled to the ground.

Jess snapped on a pair of blue latex exam gloves and worked her hands lightly over Sean’s neck and back. She parted the mess of his dreadlocks to examine his skull.

Ooooh, ow, Sean groaned.

You're lucky you didn’t break your neck, Jess proclaimed. But this bruise is going to turn into a pretty impressive lump.

Oof, thanks, Sean said. He pulled out a pre-rolled joint and in a fluid motion lit it with his skull lighter.

That's not a good idea. Jess frowned. You could be concussed.

It helps with the pain. Oof. Sean rotated his arm in his socket and groaned.

You do you. Jess shrugged. She checked her watch. I gotta go. The bus is coming. If it’s on time for once.

Bye, hon. Tim gave Jess a peck on the cheek. Save lots of lives tonight.

Jess snorted. I’ll probably spend the night in a donut shop parking lot listening to Rick talk about big foot and Area Fifty-One. Try not to die while I'm gone.

Jess snapped off her gloves and stowed her first aid kit in her backpack and went out the front door. Through the grimy hallway windows, Tim watched her walk to the bus stop fifty feet down the block. She tossed the used gloves on the pile of trash overtaking the trash can.

Is Jess a nurse or something? Sean asked.

Paramedic, Tim said. Terrible job. Worse pay. She likes it though. Kind of.

Hmm. Sean passed Tim the joint. Tim took a puff and erupted in coughs.

Good, good. Gotta cough to get off, Sean said, slapping Tim’s back.

Wow, that hits. Tim coughed again into his elbow.

Here. Sean handed Tim a baggie full of pre-rolled joints. Your payment for helping me move.

I won't say no.

Share it with Harvey. He needs it.

You're telling me. He's been wild ever since we moved here. Scared. Twitchy. And he is obsessed with the hallway. I hope the new neighbor is as cool with him being out here as you are.

He's a good cat.

When Jess got him, I wasn’t sure if we could keep him. He was a handful. A trash cat. His foster mom's home was a zoo. She had, like, nine cats, three huge dogs, lizards. She let him eat pizza.

That's cute.

Cute, yeah. He also got fleas. We had to flea bomb our old place and wash everything. And he kept stepping in his own turds and tracking them all over the place. We'd come home and see little brown paw prints all over the bed.

Sean chuckled. You love him though.

To a point.

No, you love him.

He's a hard cat. The first night we got here, I dropped my meds and they scattered over the floor. Harvey went after them and we didn't know if he ate one. We took him to the emergency vet in a cab. It was gonna be six grand to pump his stomach. We didn't have that, so we just waited with him all night. He's lucky to be here. It was a long road. And we're lucky to find this place. It was the only place in our price range that allowed cats.

Lucky, Sean repeated. He stared out the filthy window at the sallow yellow streetlight illuminating the bus stop. He passed the joint back to Tim and stood. Finish that, he said. I have a few more things to pack up.

Tim took a greedy suck of the joint and coughed. You need a hand?

Nah. It's just small stuff.

Okay. Let me buy you a beer before you head out tomorrow.

Yeah. Thanks.

Day 120

Sean? Tim whispered.

Hmm? Jess rolled over and clamped her pillow around her head.

Do you hear that?

It's four in the morning. Let me sleep.

Sounds like someone is knocking on the door.

No one is knocking.

Tim lay awake, listening to Jess mumble in her sleep. A shadowy black blob crawled through the dark. Harvey. He jumped softly down from the perch on his cat tower, paused on the dresser, and then hopped onto the couch. A car passed on the road outside and its headlights stuttered through the curtains.

Tap, tap, tap.

There it was. Light, distinct, unmistakable taps on the apartment door. Then again.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tim swung his legs over the side of the bed and clumsily felt his way to the doorway, sliding his feet along the floor to keep from banging into anything. It was a short journey across the tiny bedroom that doubled as their living room. There, the coffee table. There, Harvey's scratching post. Then, the doormat. A line of searing yellow burned under the crack between the door and the floor. A blink of darkness broke the line. A foot. Someone standing on the other side.

Sean, Tim whispered. He placed his ear against the door and listened. No more taps. Something furry brushed his leg. Harvey pawing the wood, sticking his paws under the crack, hoping to hunt whatever was in the hallway.

Not today, idiot, Tim whispered, and blocked Harvey with his foot. Quickly, he unlocked the door and opened it just enough to slide through. Harsh light burned from a bulb high in the ceiling that had no accessible off switch. A million dead flies lay at rest in the grave in the glass fixture. No Sean. Nothing. Just the filthy brown rug. The ugly beige walls. The closet on the landing. Room B next to theirs. Room C, Sean's attic apartment. And the fake door in the wall a few steps down on the twisting stairwell. The nowhere door.

Great, Tim muttered. He put his hand on the brass knob of his apartment door.

Click.

With a creak, the door to apartment C inched open. Tim let go of the doorknob.

Sean, he whispered.

No answer.

Yo, Sean, he said louder. He could hear it now, a sound from upstairs. Snoring or … gurgling? He nudged the door open with his foot. The narrow stairwell was dark except for a hazy blue from Sean's glow-in-the-dark posters and blacklight. Tim took a step up the stairs and a floorboard let out a squeal.

Sean, man, did you knock?

No answer. Tim stared up into the fuzzy blue darkness at the top of the landing. Was that…?

Scratching behind him. Harvey, clawing at the door. The little jerk ripping the paint to shreds. Tim backed down the stairs and closed Sean's door behind him. He slid back into his apartment and grabbed Harvey with both hands to keep him from darting into the hallway.

Harvey hissed and squirmed, a ball of claws and rage. Tim carried him to the bathroom and locked him in.

You’ve sealed your fate, Tim pronounced.

What was all that about? Jess mumbled as Tim rolled into bed.

Sorry to wake you.

I was up. I heard a noise.

Me too. I think it was Sean. He got too high and left his door open again.

Typical.

You locked the door, right?

I forgot. Harvey tried to knife me. He’s really after something in that hallway.

Tim got up and locked the door. For good measure, he slid the chain lock closed too.

In the bright, cheery blue of the morning, the restless night felt like a weird dream. Tim got up before Jess and made coffee and blueberry waffles. Lured by the scent of crisp buttery batter, Jess shuffled into the galley kitchen. She blinked tired eyes and gave Tim a smile and a kiss as she accepted the mug of coffee he handed her—hot oat milk, a sprinkle of cinnamon.

She yawned and said, What even happened last night?

Just another restless night, Tim said. He blew a whisp of steam from his own mug of coffee. Did Harv wake you up? I feel like he was nibbling my hand last night.

No, I thought I heard something in the hallway.

Harvey pattered in and jumped on the card table that served as their kitchen table. He managed to stick his whiskers in the batter and knock over the French press before Jess could wrangle him to the floor.

When the waffles had been consumed and the dishes washed and dried and put away, Tim checked his phone. He tapped out a message and then frowned and glanced at the stove clock.

I feel kind of weird, Tim said. Sean’s not answering my texts.

He probably just slept in, Jess said.

It's almost noon and he's moving out today.

You two were smoking last night and he probably went up and sucked his black hole bong or whatever after.

Gravity bong.

Whatever. The thing that makes you super stoned.

It’s just a two-liter bottle in a bucket. You put the weed in the little cap in the top, light it, and then lift it out of the water a little. That creates a vacuum and draws the smoke out. Then you take the cap off, put your mouth on the nozzle, and push the bottle down. That forces the smoke into your lungs.

Jess's eyes narrowed dangerously. The coffee cup hovered under her pursed lips.

How do you know all that? she asked.

I…watched him use it.

Babe, it is so not a good idea for you to be getting stoned on your meds. A joint is bad enough, but smoking gravity bongs now?

You don't even know what that means.

Oh, I know exactly what it means, thank you. But I don't need a scientific breakdown to know that if Sean does something, that something gets you super stoned and you cannot smoke as much as Sean.

Can we not have this fight again?

I’m sorry? This is a fight? When I remind you that you are predisposed to psychosis and that weed is definitely one hundred per cent factually proven forever to cause psychosis in certain people.

The studies don't really show if it causes or just exposes pre-existing psychosis.

Is that distinction sounding meaningful to you? It's uncontrolled polypharmacy. You’re mixing meds and you don’t know how they’ll interact.

Sean calls that crossfading.

How are you so blasé about this? Jess’s coffee cup hit the table and the coffee leapt up from the force. Did you ever think maybe I don't want to deal with…? she trailed off.

Tim rose from the table and walked into the living room bedroom. Jess heard the door slam. She picked up her coffee and blew on it, though it was already cold.

Shit, she said.

Tim walked around the neighborhood. It was an early May day, blessedly cool after a week of unseasonable heat. A pollen and flower scent coasted in on every deep breath he took to calm himself.

His phone pinged with a text from Jess. Hey, come back, babe. I'm sorry.

He texted back, No, I'm an idiot, you're right.

Wanna watch trash TV and eat ice cream?

Tim booked it back to the apartment building. Their new home looked oddly grim in the bright day. It was an old Victorian mansion that had been converted into units, then an office, and then back into units again. The rooms bulged at uncomfortable angles, walls and doors and windows never placed where you'd want or expect. The windows of the empty first floor were boarded up and tagged with graffiti.

Sean's old hatchback, which had been parked on the street out front for easy loading, was now gone.

What the hell? Tim muttered, checking his phone again. No calls or messages.

He walked over to the cracked concrete patio with the trash cans and looked in the bottom hallway window. Harvey was perched on the sill, looking back at him.

Hi, bud, Tim called through the cobwebbed glass and waved. He walked back to the side entrance that led to the three apartments and opened the door, blocking the entrance with his foot to keep Harvey from running out. But Harvey was back on the floor, staring down the hole that led to the first floor. His silky body shivered with tension and focus.

What's down there, bud? Tim inquired. He peered over Harvey, trying to see into the little hole. But all he could make out was a glimpse of grimy concrete wall. You find a rat?

Harvey didn't answer.

Jess met Tim at the top of the stairs with a kiss and a lingering hug. They spent the rest of the day entwined under a blanket on the couch, passing back and forth a pint of cookies and cream ice cream, and watching daytime television.

These two are never going to work. Jess sucked on the spoon and then aimed it at the couple on the TV. I just don't think she's into him.

He's nice though.

He's really sweet. But I think she's taller than him. And she also seems really surfacey.

We'll see. How much better is this TV than our old one?

It's incredible. You were right. I can't imagine we ever used that dinky little TV. What did you do with it, by the way?

I put it out front on the curb. Someone took it already. Tim stole a glance at his phone.

Jess muted the TV and asked, He still hasn't texted you?

No, and his car is gone. He ghosted me.

Maybe he got towed. He was parked in a two-hour spot.

Hmm. Yeah. Maybe.

Uh, what was that look?

What look?

That look you just gave me.

I gave no looks.

Oh my God. Jess angrily turned off the TV and yanked the blanket over to her side of the couch. We are fighting now.

What, why?

You think I saw Sean move out and didn't tell you.

Tim held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, and said, You were here all day. Are you sure you didn't see or hear anything?

Why wouldn't I tell you if I did?

You never liked us hanging out.

I had no problem with you sitting around playing skateboard games and watching edgy cartoons. I didn't like you getting stoned on your meds. Look, it's even making you paranoid.

I can't believe we're back to this.

Jess stood and stomped to the apartment door and her footsteps rattled the windowsills. She flung open the door and grimaced as she stepped onto the filthy brown carpet with her bare feet. She banged on the door to apartment C.

Hey, Sean, you up there? We need your help settling an argument. Did you move out in the middle of the night or sneak out while I was in the shower? She grabbed the handle and rattled it, trying to open the door. It was locked. Then she stopped and pressed her ear to the door, as if waiting for something to happen.

Harvey padded up the stairs to see what all the commotion was. He sniffed at the bottom of the door and then wandered back down the stairs.

Tim let himself sink halfway down the doorway. He clutched his stomach and said, Oh man, that sucks.

I'm sorry, hon, Jess said. She rustled Tim’s hair and patted his shoulder.

I feel kind of sick. I thought we were friends.

Honestly, he was weird. I'm glad he's gone.

I see that now. I should have listened to you.

He was always up moving around in the hallway in the middle of the night. Sometimes I’d come back from a shift and he’d just be sitting there staring out the window. It creeped me out knowing there was just that thin door between him and our bedroom.

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That night I went over to Sigfredo's room where Wen was also staying. I saw a blue light oozing out under his door crack and I rapped softly and he opened the door the length of the chain lock that he had installed to protect himself not from Jacques but from one of the other deranged roommates at the grouphouse who had since fucked off and probably died. When he saw it was me he opened the door and ushered me inside and then closed the door quickly behind me and he said, Yeah?

Yeah, I said. I looked around Sigfredo’s room. He had a bed, a real bed, a twin on a metal frame, and a desk, a computer, the source of the blue light. He was watching some kind of K-pop drama. Wen was on his bed, huddled up, still in the same clothes she'd been wearing when she'd run out into the rain and gone to the shelter. And she still stank. She still hadn't washed herself. I surmised from that they hadn't been fucking. In fact, I didn't really think there was anything sexual or even romantic to their vibe. I think Sigfredo just had a serious mama bird issue. And he was taking Wen under his wing.

Yeah, I said again. I've come to talk about our little problem.

Little problem? It's a big problem, Sigfredo said. Sigfredo’s room was clean, or at least the cleanest in the house. He wiped down the baseboards, dusted the surfaces of his furniture, scrubbed the walls, vacuumed, swept. It smelled nice. He had incense going. I guess he cared or something and he kept his place clean. Maybe he was a clean freak or something like that.

I sat on the floor. My shorts squelched wetly.

We can't make the first move, I said. We can't do it like that. I'm not going to do something like that.

No, no, Sigfredo said. I understand. I understand. No first moves. But if something happens, if something happens and I got to do something, you got my back, right? You got my back?

Yeah, I got your back, I said.

Okay. Because I'm telling you, it's not an if, it's a when. Something's gonna happen.

I nodded, and then I got up and I left. Because I didn't want to be lingering in Sigfredo’s room. Because I knew that Jacques was a real loose fucking cannon and I wouldnt’ve put it past him to be eavesdropping on the door if he noticed the three of us getting together and organizing some kind of cabal against him. He was paranoid enough as it was. Well, I waited about a half hour for the blue light to go off in Sigfredo's room and then I went down the hallway and I tapped lightly on Jacques's door.

It swung open instantly. In the darkness, I saw Jacques's body, poised and naked with the bat hefted, ready to smash my fucking head in.

I said, Hey, hey, it's me. Cool it with that shit.

Yeah, yeah. What the fuck are you doing, man? he said. I thought it was fucking looters. You know there are looters everywhere, man. They're looting our fucking city. We gotta get out there. We gotta get looting ourselves or there ain't gonna be nothing left. He turned on a light.

I said, Jesus Christ, put some pants on, and he pulled on some dirty underwear off the floor, and he sat on his bed and giggled, still holding his bloody bat, and he said, What? What the fuck? You want to smoke, man? Is that it? You want some drugs?

I said, Listen, Sigfredo, he's plotting against you. He's going to do something, I don't know what, but it's a when, not an if. You read me?

Then Jacques got all serious. He sat on the bed and he looked at me and he gave me that shrewd look, the shrewd look of a survivor, and he said, Why are you telling me? Why tell me? I thought you and Sickfucko were buddy-buddy.

I said, I'm nobody's buddy, man. Nobody's buddy but my own. I just didn't think it was right. I didn't think it was right what he was planning to do to you, so I wanted to let you know. Let you know so it would be fair. You get me, man? You get me?

Oh, I get you, man. I get you loud and clear, Jacques said, giggling. And then he gave me another shrewd look and he said, You want something. You want something for your trouble, man. And he dug into his trash bag full of food and pulled out some beef jerky and an MRE and I took it not because I wanted his offering but just because I wanted him to think that I was in some kind of accord with him.

Then I went back to my room. My room, which was the emptiest of them all. No computer, no desk, nothing. And I lay down on my bed that was just a foam pad that I'd taken from one of the shelters. I stared up at the wall and I listened. I listened to the rats crawling in the wall and I grinned.

I lay on my bed and I stared at the wall and then I fished under the pile of clothes that was my pillow for my handle of vodka and I drank and I looked at the ceiling and I drank some more. It was hot, so hot. I took another drink, and I stared at the label and the vodka. And I looked up at the ceiling. I looked at the stains of the water dripping through. And as I looked at the ceiling and I drank away the heat, I saw the stains taking shapes.

They took the shapes of two world-striding rodents wrestling each other, scratching at each other's bellies with their sharp claws, biting and gnawing each other's eyes, wrapping their tails around each other and strangling their throats.

Rats, I said. The world is a rat.

It was so hot. I don't think that I slept, but I must have passed out at some point because I woke up. I woke up in gray light and went outside my room and waited on the landing, listening for the sounds of the rats and the screams of the neighbors, but I heard nothing. I went to the cold room and checked on the Airconditioner in the window and wrapped electrical tape around the cord where it had been chewed and frayed and performed my morning ritual of maintenance.

We had built an altar of sorts around the Airconditioner. Catherine had been a fan of little plastic animal figurines that she bought from the bodegas. Dozens of these adorned the windowsill. My cleaning supplies sat in the toolbox underneath. A censer with pine-scented incense rested on top of the Airconditioner to freshen the room. That must’ve been Sigfredo’s doing.

I patted the side of the Airconditioner and then went downstairs to the kitchen. With Wen basically brain dead and Sigfredo busy guarding her, a mess had accumulated. A standoff. None of us wanted to clean anymore. All the plates and cutlery were dirty and stacked around the countertops — guerrilla terrain for the rats to hide in and make their sneak attacks from, fortified with crumbs and scraps.

I turned on the faucet and let it run for a minute to clear out the black and brown and red gunk that usually poured out. Even after a minute, the water ran rusty red. I let it run and run, filling up the stink in a brown murk to mimic the brown, murk of the basement. It never went clear.

I turned the tap on the countertop water filter the city had sent out to all the houses after the first floods the year before and filled a glass that I rubbed clean with my wet shirt. The water stank. Little black things wiggled on the surface and brown hairs danced in the whirlpool formed from the spout. I twisted the plastic lid and felt the plastic to be rough and wounded and penetrable by my fingers. I pried off the damaged lid and looked down into the three-gallon tank. A litter of rats bobbed in the sloshing water, bodies bloated, skin and fur sloughing off in the damp and the little black things crawling everywhere.

Well, that just about turned my stomach inside out and I ran to the toilet and puked. Then I opened the fridge and searched for soda or milk or orange juice or bottled water or some kind of drinkable liquid but it had all been scavenged already, even the juice from the pickles and canned beans. My thirst and the taste of vomit was a burning torment and just to soothe my throat I squirted catsup in my mouth and gargled the sweet paste and it wasn’t even too horrible.

I went to the front stoop and I observed the street. The water level had finally subsided and the merciless sun had baked away the wet. It left behind a silt of sewage, slick oil and furry blots of dead animals in the drains — cats, dogs, possums, raccoons, rats, and maybe there were human shapes in there, mixed amidst the black plastic bags and shimmery rainbow garbage. I didn't look too closely. I didn't want to know.

The people on the street moved quickly, keeping their eyes downcast, hands in their pockets, at their waists or their breasts clutching whatever weapons they had with them. It was too hot for coats but people wore them still to conceal their weapons or maybe something valuable they didn’t want known that they carried.

I was no different. I had on a heavy, baggy hoodie that rubbed against my dissolving skin and in the front pocket I held the rusty cast iron pipe I used to bash the rats — an upgrade from my mallet.

I made it three blocks but the bodega had already been annihilated, flooded, and then looted, the heavy bulletproof windows kicked and smashed in with bricks, cinder blocks and sledgehammers. The shelves were bare, everything swept away by the water or dragged away or eaten by the rats.

I trekked another three blocks and saw a crowd gathered at one of the shelters. Angry shouting. Men in fatigues and combat gear on the back of a military truck. They threw packets of MREs into the crowd and precious clear glimmering treasures of bottled water.

I kept my distance, knowing what would come next, and sure enough the supplies ran out before even half the crowd had gotten any, and they fought and punched and kicked and stabbed each other to grab the bottles of water and the MREs. And then someone fired a shot, and screams erupted, and the men in fatigues fired their rifles in the air, and the crowd scattered.

I waited for a woman to run by, clutching a backpack to her chest, and then smashed her in the shin with the cast iron pipe. She shrieked as she went down. I heard the crack of her skull hitting the pavement and I grabbed the backpack and wrestled it out of her spasming grip and I ran at full tilt back to the grouphouse. I ran past the door and took a turn around the block, and then I ducked down into the flooded downstairs opening of a basement apartment. I waited, letting my breath come back and my heart bump still. I waited, and no one came. No one came after me. I peeked into the apartment, the door being half open, and saw nothing but brown and black shadow. The apartment was flooded halfway with muck. It stank something awful.

I unshouldered the backpack and zipped it open. Inside, I found two liter bottles of water. And four MREs. Spaghetti and meatballs. I shouldered the backpack and went back to the grouphouse, and got inside before anyone else was up, and back up to my room, and I stashed the backpack and scarfed down one of the MREs and drank half a liter of water and practically cried at that clear pure sweet taste.

Already it was getting hot again. The air thick, heavy, wet, and reeking, reeking like nothing had ever reeked before, with all of the puked-up sewage staining the city streets and the brown swath baking in the infernal oven of the sun. God sticking his fingers in our eyes and then painting a cross on our brows with the the bloody mush. God sticking his fingers in our bowels and dragging them upward, letting the guts spill down and coil into the sculpture of his infinite perfection.

I ate my MRE and lay on my foam bed and drank my vodka and looked up at the stains on the ceiling and I saw that one of the stain rats had won. And now it hung prostrate on a cross. And I whispered, Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. And then the heat bore down on me and popped my mind like an overripe plum and all knowing ceased.

I woke up in the dead heat of the afternoon because I could no longer breathe in that sultry suffocating air. I startled upward, and gasped, and then I wept at my own wickedness and ran my stained fingers across my cheeks and licked the salt from my fingers.

I could hear the rattle of the Airconditioner. I went down the hall and into the cold room. Everyone was there. Each in their own corner — Jacques sitting on the floor rubbing the bat between his palms, Sigfredo across from him casually sharpening his knife, and Wen in the corner closest to the AC, clutching her knees, eyes wider than ever, still reeking of unwash, staring at nothing in a merciful shock.

I closed the door quickly and shoved the rag back under the crack and sat in the corner opposing Wen and hugged my knees as well. No one acknowledged my entrance.

Jacques said, A rat. I smell a rat. A big, big rat. We've got a rat problem, eh? Okay. Okay, you know what I'm saying?

Sigfredo didn't say anything. He glanced in my direction. I didn't answer the glance. I stared straight ahead at Wen, trying to see into her eternal stare what she saw.

A big rat problem, Jacques said. He stood up and casually pendulumed the baseball bat between his legs, bouncing the blood-stained tip between the arches of his steel-toed boots. A rat problem, you know what I mean?

Without looking at him, Sigfredo stood too. He clenched the knife in one hand. He glanced at Wen, at the sputtering Airconditioner, at me, at the stained ceiling, at the dripping walls sparkling with their beads of condensation, anywhere but Jacques.

You know what we do with rats, Jacques said. Do you know what we do with them? We kill them. In this house we kill rats. I kill rats.

Jacques took a step into the center of the room. Sigfredo held his knife at arm's length and said, Back, man. Take a step back.

Jacques took a step forward and jutted out his chin. Oh, what, man? You're gonna kill me? You're gonna stab me with your little pig sticker? I don't think you have the balls, Cojones, comprende?

Take a step back, man, Sigfredo said. Step back.

Jacques grinned. He twirled the bat and said, It's okay. It's okay. You got nothing to worry about. You got nothing to worry about, man. Okay, okay, okay, I just kill rats. If you ain't no rat you got nothing to worry about. Let's see.

Sigfredo glanced at me and said, You got something to say, man? You want to talk this guy out of this rat shit?

I didn't say anything. I just stared at Wen. Her lips were trembling. Her eyes were still staring wide at nothing. Glistening tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and oozed sickly down her grime-smeared cheeks. Her lips quivered. Her tongue slithered between them. Her hands clenched into fists and reached behind her.

He don't like rats neither, Jacques said, nodding his head at me. In fact, he told me we got a rat problem. A big rat problem.

Sigfredo looked at me, and the doubt was written plain and dead on his face. I didn't look anywhere but Wen. The tears were flowing, pissing water from her eyes, lips stammering, wordless sounds, and then she shrieked and leapt at Jacques, and he screamed in red spurts. Blood fountained from his neck and oozed out of his side as Wen stabbed and stabbed and stabbed into him with a penknife. He swung around and clipped her right in the head with the baseball bat and then Sigfredo yelled and ran forward and jammed his knife into Jacques’ chest. Jacques screamed and fell to his knees, and Sigfredo stepped back, staring at his bloodstained hands, staring at the knife jutting from Jacques's neck. Jacques's lips puffed and puckered and mumbled sounds, choked screams and laughter bubbled up with the blood that ran down his face and then he toppled to his side on top of Wen's twitching body.

The bat had got her right in the temple. Her wide eyes had found the true nothing at last.

Sigfredo stared at the bodies, the blood on his hands, staining his clothes and he said, No, no man, no, no way man, no. This didn't happen, man. This didn't happen. This did not happen.

He rubbed his hands on his shirt, smearing the blood on the fabric and his skin and the handle of the door as he rattled it and ran out. I heard him moaning and wailing as he fumbled in his room. I stood and followed him, watching him as he grabbed his backpack, his wallet, his laptop, smearing the blood across the clean, polished surface of his desk, the cleanly washed sheets, leaving red turkey handprints on the dusted walls.

He couldn't even look at me. Couldn't see me. I watched him like a ghost. As he mumbled and moaned and said, This didn't happen. This ain't happening. And then he ran down the stairs and out the house.

I went back to the cold room and I sat and I watched the two bodies and felt the cold air on my wet skin. Already the rats in the walls squealed joyously and clawed the plaster in excitement at their impending feast. I walked around the dark puddle oozing from the bodies. I rested my head against the rattling God of the Airconditioner. I pressed my face into the grate and felt the cool rush of air expunge my sins.

The end_

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Turned out Jacques was wrong when he said that only rats could live in the city. Because even the rats were having a hard time. The rain came and came — a whole fucking twenty-four hours straight. Nothing for months. And then bam, a whole fucking day of rain.

From time to time we got service. The internet came back and we'd get glimpses of news or we'd get texts or we'd get the weather report and we'd see that a foot of rain had fallen in one day.

Twelve fucking inches, Jacques said. Twelve inches. My whole fucking dick's worth of rain.

And Sigfredo said, It’s twelve, not three inches, you cock.

Sigfredo and Wen had come back the next morning. Wen was soaked to the bone and shivering despite the heat. She couldn’t get dry because everything in the house was so wet from the humid air and the leaks and the rain that was everywhere.

Wen had gone to the shelter the Guard had set up in the stadium. She thought she'd stay dry there, but then the shelter flooded. Then the rain flooded the subway system and it flooded the sewers, and then all the rats came pouring out of the subway and into the streets. Man, it was really something to see.

Tens of thousands, maybe millions of rats, just pouring up out of those subway mouths, swimming up against the stream of the water, crawling up wherever they could get somewhere dry, floating like pirates on the roofs of cars, crawling into any house they could get into, God damn the fucking rats were everywhere.

We'd find the fuckers chewing their way through the walls and coming into the living room. Jacques would go around and bash in their heads with a fucking baseball bat. And then I would scoop up their dead splattered bodies with a dustbin and chuck them out the window. Whole tribes of fucking rats invading our house. And we'd kick and stomp and beat them. And they would bite and claw and hiss at us.

They didn't give a fuck. They were drowning. They were drowning just like us. And they knew that there was only so much dry earth left in this world. And they were going to fight to the death to claim theirs.

Everywhere, the fucking rats. We heard the neighbors screaming, screaming as the rats came at them. You couldn't sleep. Couldn't leave your baby, your pets unattended. Because they would crawl into the crib or the kennel or the bed and chew on you while you were asleep.

God damn those fucking rats.

Wen was close to traumatized or something. She could barely speak. She was shivering something crazy. Sigfredo took her to the cold room to dry off and patted her down with a towel. Jacques gave her some of his ramen. And then Sigfredo watched over her, thinking that Jacques was going to do something awful.

We weren't sure if it was the rats or some of the homeless trying to make a move on her at the shelter, but whatever it was, Wen could barely speak a word. She alternated between staring into nothing and crying, and then sometimes just screaming when a rat would crawl out of a crack in the floorboards or chew its way through the wall or slither in through the window and hiss and bristle its fur, exposing its horrible scarred and boiled, flea-infested body like a rodentine flasher.

And then Sigfredo would bash it with a ladle or kick it. And oh god damn the rats. They just came and came in torrents. And Jacques hid in his room protecting the food, whacking the rats with a baseball bat, rolling joint after joint so his eyes were bright bloody red, like the red eyes of the rats as they hissed and squealed and screeched and clawed their scabbed, hideous bodies onto our dry land, ours that we owned that didn't belong to them. And we fought them and we killed them by the dozens and we hurled their bodies out the window.

Jacques would say to us, You fuckers are lucky, you fuckers are lucky I got that food or we'd be eating these little fuckers. We'd be eating them just like they want to eat us. And then he would laugh and laugh.

Late that afternoon, Sigfredo found me studying the basement, trying to figure out a plan to bail us out again. The basement kept flooding from the brown, stinking, horrible water pouring out of the drains, seeping up out of the ground, dripping in from the windows.

Sigfredo said, Yo man, we gotta do something about Jacques, that motherfucker's crazy.

Jacques is fine, I said, not wanting to get involved in their little private feud.

Sigfredo spat into the gurgling pool of stink creeping up the stairs to the first floor. He said, That motherfucker is not fine. He is not stable. He is danger, liability, warning, He's a son of a bitch. You know why Catherine left, huh? She left because he was trying to make a move on her. He was making moves on Catherine and she didn't like that and she said no. She told him to stop and he would not stop. He would not let up. He did not know the word no. And so she left in the middle of the fucking night because of Jacques. And I'm worried about when he's going to do the same fucking thing to Wen. This little girl cannot defend herself. I got to watch her like a hawk, man. I got to watch him like a hawk. It's dangerous, you know? It's a bad situation.

All of this is a bad situation, I said. It's all a bad situation.

Well, if you aren't interested, I'm going to have to take matters into my own two hands. I'm going to have to do something. I'm going to have to do something about this motherfucker, this crazy motherfucker, you know? You know, he's a real crazy motherfucker, and I'm going to have to do something about it.

I could see Sigfredo was working himself up, and I said, Let's deal with the rats first, okay? Let's not worry about Jacques just yet.

When night fell, the rats made another attack. We could hear them crawling around in the walls, squeaking and hissing, their little claws scraping against the wood, pinging against the metal pipes. We could hear them in the roof, scrabbling along. We could hear them running through the cupboards, banging against the cookware, through the drawers and the shelves. They were everywhere, inside all the hidden areas of the house. Then they'd burst out into the open, and we'd see one running the perimeter of the living room. Jacques would leap up with his blood-smeared bat and take a shot at it and more likely than not smash another hole into the wall and then he'd cackle and say, Looks like we're not getting the security deposit back! And then add on, The whole city's not getting its security deposit back! as if that meant something.

We knew the neighbors were having an even worse time with the rats. They were screaming and crying and shrieking. We knew that they were a family there. Little kids, old people, and just the one able-bodied mom trying to keep them all together. And we knew those rats would be going for the kids. And we knew those rats would be trying to get to those elderly people. And we tried not to imagine what was going on with the noises that we heard.

Sigfredo was always wanting to play the hero, and he wanted to go next door to help out. But then he also didn't want to leave Wen alone. I don't think he really trusted me to protect her. And that was probably right of him. Because if it came to a confrontation with Jacques, I didn't want to have it. And if Wen wasn't willing to fight for herself, well, I sure wasn’t willing to fight for her either. Besides, I didn't know if what Sigfredo said about Catherine was true or not. I knew that Catherine and Sigfredo had had their own problems too. And I had my own problems. And we all had our own problems. Even though we lived together, we weren't friends. We were just roommates trying to survive this nightmare fucking summer.

The next day the rain died down. The city settled into a swamp of shit and flies and clotted chemicals. The water started to drain a little bit, but the rats had decided that they liked the upstairs world more than their flooded hell below and they were going to fight to keep the new territories they had claimed. We could still hear them skittering around in the walls. See them peeking out at us from behind the radiator. Out from under the carpets or the couches. They knew they had the numbers and they had the will and that they were the superior species for this fight. For they could eat anything, including us.

Then Jacques and Sigfredo got in a fight because Jacques didn't want to give any of his food to Sigfredo. He was saying, You scorned me, man. You scorned me. You scorned my gift. You scorned my offer. You spat in my face. You spat in my eye. You said no. Okay, okay. Now you gotta face the consequences. This is your doing. I was gonna be generous, man. I was gonna share.

At this point, I didn't want to get involved. I went up to the cold room and I sat in front of the rattling old Airconditioner and performed my ritual, the ritual that calmed me down in these hard times and also kept our worthless asses alive in this hot, reeking, sultry hell. I took a toothbrush and I dipped it in white vinegar and I ran it very gently along the fins, the cooling fins of the Airconditioner, to scrub out the mold. And I unplugged it and I examined the electronics — all the mechanisms, the machinery inside that I didn't understand. Fuck, I wasn't a mechanic. But I knew what right looked like and I knew what wrong looked like and I knew what mold was and I knew that I had to scrub it out because it was always wet. In that horrible, hot wet, halitosis air the mold grew like crazy and fucked everything up. I scrubbed down the Airconditioner and looked in the wiring and calmed my mind down.

I noticed the cord had been frayed because the fucking rats had been chewing on it. And then I took the wooden mallet, the meat tenderizer, from the kitchen that had become my weapon of choice against the rats, and I squatted by the Airconditioner and resolved to make a paste of anything that so much as squeaked in its direction.

The day went on and it got to be about noon. The others came and hid in the cold room with me. We all sat with our bloodied rat smashing weapons. We just sat and we looked at the floor or the ceiling or the walls or at anything other than each other and we just existed, existed in a room that was cold enough to exist in without melting our flesh.

Even then it was too hot to talk. It stank something awful with all of our BOs. And even Wen, the cute little girl, she stank something awful because she was now afraid to shower. Even with Sigfredo protecting her. Afraid of Jacques or afraid of the rats. Or afraid of some memory of whatever had happened to her at the shelter.

Jacques rolled his head around, eyes still red as blood, and occasionally chuckled. And then occasionally he would just stare, stare right at Wen, stare right at Wen and Sigfredo and chuckle his evil little laughs.

I decided right then and there that I hoped they all killed each other, that Jacques made some kind of move at Wen, and Sigfredo slashed him with the butcher knife he'd been using to butcher the rats, and then Jacques hit him in the head with the baseball bat, and Wen died of fright, and I could shove all their bodies out the window, into the sewer, into the river of sludge oozing past our apartment, and be rid of all of them once and for all.

I decided that I didn't care if they lived or if they died. Actually, I did. That actually I preferred that they all be dead. Or at least gone. Or maybe I could leave their bodies in Catherine's old room and the rats would feast on their bones. But then maybe the rats would make nests in their corpses and I'd have more rats to deal with down the line. So I discarded that idea, even though it wasn't so much of an idea to be truly considered and discarded but some deranged fantasy born from the demons of the heat and the sweat and the moist sultry death that permeated every breath and wriggled into our pores and spurted out with the beads of sweat, those longing cum drops of ocean inside us longing to merge with the ocean that the air had become without, within and without, within and without.

We were all just ocean. An ocean of blood, an ocean of mud, an ocean of shit. And always to be sailed and colonized by fleets of rats.

Well, then the signals came back all at once, and all our phones pinged, and we all got the same text from the landlord reminding us that the rent would be due in three days, regardless of any interruptions. And that just about knocked us out of our murderous stupor, and we all started to laugh, except for Wen.

Sigfredo laughed so hard the tears ran out of his eyes, and I laughed and rubbed my belly, and Jacques laughed and laughed and cackled, and he kept laughing after it stopped being funny and started to be obnoxious, and still he laughed, and Sigfredo gave me a meaningful look, and I nodded. And in that look we knew and we understood that he was a fucking liability and he had to go sooner rather than later.

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