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#25

Finally:

New post is up.

Looking at Street Fighter V and how we got here:

Cheers.


#26

This is so old!

THE ONANIST

ext. STRETCH OF RURAL ROAD
A nondescript sedan, its hazard lights on. Standing beside it, THE MAN, almost ascetically thin. Gray suit, black tie. A metal briefcase at his feet. He is a few steps from the car, distinct from it. This space around him, this sense of isolation.

Cars streak by, now and again, without stopping.

The man stands impassive.

Finally, a car slows to a stop.

Int. CAR
A woman at the wheel. Young, pretty.

The man in the passenger’s seat. The case in his lap.

TIGHT ON
the man’s hands, flat on the casetop, fingers together, thumbs open, respective index fingers and thumbs touching. that leaf shape, in the void, which shifts slightly with a lurch of the car then regains its symmetry.

The girl watches the road, as does the man. He seems oblivious to her, while she sometimes glances over at him. Silence but for the sound of the car rushing along the road.

A phone vibrates.

The girl raises herself slightly off the seat, twisting her hips to dig the phone out of her pocket.

The man glances aside to take in the movement, zeroing in on the curve of her hip before his gaze reverts back to the road.

She looks at the caller ID.

GIRL
My mom. Should I tell her I’m picking up strange men from the side of the road?

The half-smile.

He gives no indication that he’s heard the joke.

The phone continues to vibrate in her hand.

A beat. She answers the call.

GIRL
Yeah, mom. I’m driving.

They hit a rough patch of road. The car begins to jostle more heavily.

TIGHT ON
the mans hands, now moving slightly with the vibrations of the car, skewing the symmetry of the shape his fingers form. In the background, the girl’s muffled voice.

EXT. CHEAP HOTEL, evening

The car pulls up, stops.

The man gets out.

The car drives off.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
All the usual trappings. The only light from the bedside lamp.

The man–in his pants, socks, belt, and undershirt–lays down, on his back, atop the blanket.

His shirt, tie, suit jacket hung neatly.

His shoes, set beside the bed, toes toward the door.

The case, laying beside him, unlatched, at his right hand. Also, a travel pack of kleenex, opened.

He stares off into space.

The door locks, locked.

His hands, moving from his sides and onto his stomach. Thumbs and index fingers together, forming that spade.

He takes deep, regular breaths, as if he’s doing some exercise. This continues for some time, until

He reaches over to shut off the lamp.

The dark room, illumination from the the hotel’s exterior lights, shining in through the winsow.

The view of that window, its open curtains. A form passes by outside.

INT. HOTEL ROOM, MORNING

The curtains are now closed.

Breathing again, but with exertion.

The man does push-ups.

The man does sit-ups.

The man does squat-thrusts. The resonate loudly against the floor.

Pounding on the door, as if to complain about the noise. The man continues his stolid exercise, as if he does not hear.

INT. SHOWER
the man staring all stern and impassive at the blank tile wall while the water pounds around him.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
the man sits naked on the bed, cross-legged, staring at the wall, his expression unchanging.

Deep breaths again. Hands on his thighs.

Case at his knee.

Kleenex pack atop the case.

His hand strays into his crotch. He begins to masturbate.

Focus on his face, its careful control. His body still, but for his hand. His shoulders barely move.

INT. HOTEL BATHROOM
The toilet bowl. Three wadded-up tissues, being flushed.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
The man dresses himself, smooth and precise.

He opens the case. We do not see the case’s interior as he pulls out a featureless envelope, then shuts the case.

Pulls a piece of paper from the envelope. A name: KRAUTHAMMER

An address.

INT. HOTEL BATHROOM
The paper and the envelope, torn into thumbnail-sized pieces, dropped into the bowl. The handle depressed. The paper swirls around and around.

EXT. STREETS
The man walks. The man walks until he approaches…

EXT. CHEAP HOTEL
The man eyeballs things and nonsense.

He goes up the stairs, he approaches a door.

He eyeballs it, sternly.

One hand in his jacket.

The other knocks.

A beat.

The door opens a few inches, stops on the chain.

MAN
Krauthammer.

A beat.

a woman’s VOICE
Johnson.

MAN
Lyndon.

Another beat.

VOICE
The vehicle?

MAN
Broke down.

VOICE
Replacement?

MAN
It doesn’t matter.

VOICE
What about getting away?

MAN
It doesn’t matter.

Beat.

A manila envelope, heavy, awkwardly weighted, slides half out of the doorway.

The man takes the envelope, holds it down at his side, tightens his fingers around the end, wrinkling it.

VOICE
Only the target. No one secondary.

MAN
No one secondary.

VOICE
The vehicle?

MAN
It doesn’t matter.

A beat.

VOICE
We’re trusting you. We’ve heard nothing but good things about you.

The man says nothing.

VOICE
The vehicle?

INT. CAFE LATE MID-MORNING

The man sits in a back corner booth, hands on the table before him. The envelope beside him, on the wall side, leaning against his thigh.

His hands on the tabletop, fingers together just so. He does not look at them, his gaze roving around the room, watching exits, the few other patrons, yet somehow he still misses the approach of THE WAITRESS.

WAITRESS (cheerful)
And how are you doing this morning?

He looks at her sharply. It appears to be the same young woman who gave a ride the day before.

A beat.

MAN
Excuse me?

WAITRESS
I said how are you this morning, sir?

Another beat.

MAN
Fine, thank you.

Another beat. She tilts her head, a little nonplussed, then lays a menu down in front of him.

WAITRESS
Good, good. Can I start you off with anything to drink?

MAN
Coffee. And a water.

WAITRESS (murmuring, as she writes it down)
Coffee, and…a water. OK, I’ll be right back to take your order.

He nods. She smiles, professional. Leaves him.

He does not open the menu.

After a moment, he straightens it, aligning it with the edge of the table.

The waitress returns with his beverages. Sets them down, near the edge of the table.

The man looks at them.

The waitress stands, expectant.

A beat.

WAITRESS
Are you ready to order sir?

He looks up.

MAN
No, I don’t…I mean, I won’t be ordering.

He nods at the beverages.

MAN (cont)
That will be all.

She eyes him dubiously.

WAITRESS
Are you sure?

MAN
(who has gone back to looking at the cups)
Yes, quite.

She frowns.

WAITRESS
You look like you could use a few squares to me, but…

She leans down; he leans back, turning his gaze toward her but not, quite, his head. as if there’s something about the proximity that–

WAITRESS
If you say so.

She smiles.

She moves away.

After a moment, he slides the water, then the coffee to his right side, arranging them just so.

He withdraws his hand, rests it on the tabletop.

After a moment, he turns the coffee handle toward him.

INT. HOTEL ROOM DAY

The curtains are closed again.

The man studies a photograph, which we do not see the face of. Focus on his unflinching eyes as goes through a series of them, then some papers.

He is at the table.

He takes the open envelope that he received from VOICE and gingerly upends it.

Out slides a small derringer, and a tiny plastic sack, taped shut containing 2 .22LR cartridges.

He slides the documents back into the envelope and sets it aside before picking up the ammunition with his fingertips.

The tips of the bullets crudely daubed with red paint.

He sets them aside

Picks up the gun (it is tiny in his hand). Snaps it open.

Checks the bore, it is empty. Holds the barrels up to the light to look down them, squinting as he studies the rifling.

Snaps it open, then shut again, experimentally, as it getting the feel.

Tries the trigger. Click. Click.

Opens it again, watches the firing pin as he dry-fires once more.

Snaps it shut.

Brings it to bear, sighting down it, adjusts his grip a few times.

He frowns, but he’s usually on the verge of frowning.

Sets it aside, on top of the envelope. Squares everything with where he’s sitting, of course.

He opens the case, which we still don’t see inside, and pulls out an oily cloth. He spreads it on the table, smooths it, before pulling out his personal gun, a full-size 1911 automatic pistol.

Feels it weight in his hand.

Lays it down on the cloth, looking at it for a moment.

We see it contrasted with the smaller gun.

He picks it up, pulls out the magazine, empties the chamber, sets them aside, nice and neat

And begins to field-strip it.

INT. HOTEL ROOM

All the parts of the gun laid out. Small bottles of oil, solvent. An neat little pile of cleaning patches. And other neat little pile of crumpled patches, all of them clean, he must do this every day, whether he shoots it or not.

He is affixing a patch to the end of his cleaning rod. Dabbing oil on it from the bottle in precise, practiced motions. He picks up the barrel in his left hand, holds it up to the light, looks down it.

The light’s play on the rifling.

He slides the oiled patch inside and blots it out.

INT. HOTEL ROOM NIGHT

He is on his back, in the pants/undershirt/socks ensemble. The breathing routine again; the whole ritual. He turns off the light.

After a pause, the sound of his fly being undone, a shifting of weight, the deepening and quickening of breath.

His shadowed left hand in the light from the window moving up and down with increasing rapidity.

INT. HOTEL ROOM MORNING

The closed curtains. He works out again.

He takes another shower.

He jerks off, once again sitting up, staring at the wall, as he did the previous morning.

INT. HOTEL BATHROOM
The three tissues being flushed, again.

EXT. CHEAP HOTEL

The man exits, case in hand, locks the door behind him, and walks out to the sidewalk, where he pauses a few beats, looking up and down the road.

Something to the right catches his eye.

After a moment, two men enter the frame, walking bikes. Early twenties; suits; ties; cuffs tucked into their socks; black backpacks. Mormon missionaries. They smile.

MISSIONARY 1
Afternoon.

The man nods.

The missionaries slow to a halt.

MISSIONARY 2
Anything we can help you with?

A pause. Then the man shakes his head.

MAN
No, I don’t think so.

MISSIONARY 1 (smiling, insistent)
You sure sir? You look a little lost.

MAN (after another, requisite pause)
I think I’ll get it figured out.

He forces a smile

MAN (cont)
Thanks.

MISSIONARY 1
Well alright.

They hesitate, look between themselves, then shrug and move on.

MISSIONARY 2
You take care now.

The man nods.

The missionaries leave the frame. The man’s head turns to follow them and, after a moment, he walks after them.

EXT. CITY STREET
The man is on a bike, pedaling, his case held somewhat awkwardly, dangling from one hand.

EXT. SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD
A nice place; quiet; well-manicured; sedate. The man pulls up outside a home on the bike, stops, stares across the street at it.

Two cars visible through the garage window.

EXT. FRONT WALK
Walking the bike now, he approaches the door. Hesitates, leans the bike against the wall/railing/whatever, takes a step away from it.

Pauses.

Steps back, turns the bike around, so it’s facing away from the door.

Lets it go.

Frowns.

Adjusts it again.

Stares a moment.

Shrugs, moves onto the door, at which he knocks.

After a moment, a man opens it. Thirties, professional, suit-and-tie. He looks a bit dubiously at his caller.

OTHER MAN
May I help you?

MAN (forcing a smile)
Actually, I was hoping I could help you, sir.

A pause. The other man does not reply, so he continues.

MAN
I was hoping I could talk to you.

A beat.

MAN (cont)
About the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Something dawns in the other man’s face, a smile flickers before–

A woman appears behind him,beside him. A familiar hand laid on his upper arm as she looks past her husband at the stranger.

She is young, pretty, and very similar to the girl who gave him the ride, the waitress.

WOMAN
Of course, we’d love to.

She and the Other Man exchange a look.

WOMAN
Come in.

INT KITCHEN
The man is standing, stiff, but for his neck, as he looks around the space, and out the exits, getting a sense of the space. The woman, who also appears to be dressed for Work, sits at a table, with a child of about one, trying to feed it.

He looks at the baby, not at the woman, then away.

His grip shifts on the case handle.

In the other hand, an untouched glass of juice.

The other man is folding the paper he had been reading before there was a knock on the door. They seem to have forgotten about the stranger they invited into their house, until.

OTHER MAN
So I’ve never seen him at temple, have you dear?

WOMAN
I’ve been trying to place him, but.

A beat.

MAN
Excuse me?

OTHER MAN (with a grin)
We’re already believers, see.

MAN
Oh, I…

WOMAN
But we thought, or I think…I know you guys don’t eat that well, always…

MAN
Us guys?

WOMAN
The missionaries, you’re really dependent on us, I mean…

OTHER MAN
On the community, she means.

A pause.

WOMAN
You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat?

MAN
I’m fine, thank you.

OTHER MAN
Anyway, you can’t have been around long, can you? I thought I…

WOMAN
We thought we knew the missionaries?

A pause.

The man looks around. Out the window. At the baby.

MAN
Well, you see…I’m not exactly local, I mean…not exactly a missionary.

Raised eyebrows, expectant looks.

MAN (cont)
I’m actually a salesman it’s just…in my off time, since I’m always in strange towns, I like to… spread the word."

A beat.

OTHER MAN
They still have those?

MAN
Excuse me, those?

OTHER MAN
Travelling salesmen, I didn’t know they were common. Anymore.

Beat.

MAN
They’re not.

He makes himself smile.

MAN(cont)
You’ll find I’m quite uncommon sir.

O.S. the doorbell rings.

The other man checks his watch, raises.

OTHER MAN
That’ll be her. About time.

He leaves the room. The woman looks at the man, smiles.

WOMAN
The nanny.

EXT. WALKWAY
The man collects his bike, walking out past the garage as the garage door opens, the two vehicles idling inside. Rhythm of the break lights as they ease out in staggered rhythm, as if jockeying for who gets to leave first.

He checks his watch.

Then, one of the engines dies.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
He is masturbating again, as is his habit, gaze fixed on the blank wall.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
Now he is at his table, cleaning his guns. Everything laid out, just so.

The case is open. For the first time, we see the interior: foam, cut with spaces for everything: the pistol, two spare magazines, the cleaning rod and brush; bottles of oil and solvent.

All of these dominate the right side.

On the left side is another series of cut-outs, but these are uniform, square. They form a grid of neat, travel-sized packages of kleenex.

He reassembles the gun, hefts it, looks down the familiar sights.

Loads it. Puts it back in the case, snaps it shut.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
He masturbates again.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
He does push-ups.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
He stares at the wall, hands folded in his lap, forming the spade.

CLOSE
Subtle twitches in his fingers.

He takes a breath, lets it out slowly.

He stands up.

INT. BAR
Some cheap and dingy place. Not a lot of people, but the music is loud and you can see how it makes him uncomfortable, how much harder he’s LOOKING at everything as he approaches the bar, the end of the bar, the better to be close to a corner, and looks around at the room he just crossed.

The bartender approaches.

The man leans close to order something, inaudible.

The bartender walks away, comes back with a glass, sets it down. The man hands money.

A glance around the room, no one is close to him.

Allows himself to relax, leans over the drink, as if it’s something to study, something mechanical like the gun.

A hand on his shoulder.He stiffens at the touch, drawing back, stilling as he recognizes her, but not relaxing.

Yes, the same girl as before. She’s not wearing much, and is maybe approaching drunk.

GIRL (shouting over the music)
You.

MAN
Me.

EXT. HOTEL NIGHT
The man, alone, opening his door.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
He closes the door, locks it.

Walks to the table where he’s left the case, opens it.

Inside, the envelope, laid over everything else. He moves it out of the way so he can place the pistol he takes out of his jacket inside. Removes one packet of kleenex from the grid, the one already open.

He undresses slowly, to the point he always does. Hangs everything up. Makes a ritual of.

Turns on the bedside light, turns off the light proper.

Lays down.

Does the breathing thing.

Turns the light out.

The sound of his fly opening.

A shadow passes by the window.

Quickening breath.

A beat.

A knock at the door.

His breath catches, he is still.

A beat. Then the knock again. Tentative.

He sits up. Slow. Easy. Fastens his fly.

Now, he is at the door. He looks through the peephole.

CLOSE
His eye narrowing in the sliver of light from the aperture.

He hits the light switch, looks down at the pistol clenched in his hand.

Notices his undershirt is half-untucked in front, frowns.

Takes the gun back to the case, puts it inside, closes it, latches it.

Retucks his shirt.

Walks to the door and opens it.

There stands the girl, from earlier. Still in her rather spare out-on-the-town clothes.

He stares at her, says nothing.

He swallows.

She cocks her head.

A beat.

GIRL
Are you Mormon?

MAN
What?

She’s trying to see past him, into the room. He moves slightly, purses his lips, seems to will something inside of himself to move. Opens the door a little more, as if he does not care, though he does.

GIRL
I just…I mean, it’s cool if you are, you just…

MAN
Seemed Mormon?

GIRL
Yeah.

She smiles.

INT. HOTEL ROOM

The man sits on the side of the bed. The girl, in the chair, turned away from the table. The silent room.

The space between them.

GIRL
So, not a Mormon, huh?

MAN
Afraid not.

GIRL
Well.

MAN
Well.

She smiles, as if it will change something.

CLOSE
The man’s shifting hands, in his lap.

GIRL
How’s your car?

He had been looking at his hands, he looks up.

MAN
My…? Oh.

Pause.

MAN
It doesn’t matter.

GIRL
I guess not.

A beat. She stands.

She walks across the gap between them, and he watches her. her movements slow, from the alcohol.

His eyes slide down.

CLOSE
Her eyes.

Her breasts.

Her hips.

Then slide past the hip, to the case on the table behind her, until she obstructs his view, and he looks up again.

GIRL
So if you’re not a Mormon…

She puts her hands on his shoulders.

GIRL (cont)
What do you do? I mean…

She leans down. He tilts his head up. He stiff, as always.

She kisses him, once.

His hands part, and slide out of his lap.

GIRL
It doesn’t matter, I guess.

His face seems to strain toward her while his body pulls back, into the bed. It is a moment before he speaks

MAN
It doesn’t matter.

They kiss again.

His hands reach out, they grasp her hips.

The kissing intensifies. For a moment, it seems as if he’s about to relax into it.

The moment passes, and he panics.

For the first time, he is visibly out of control. He shoves her violently away and we stay with her as she falls onto the ground and he makes a loose-limbed, flailing lunge straight for the bathroom door, tripping over the corner of the bed as he does and slamming it shut behind him.

A beat.

The door opens. He ignores the still-stunned girl on the floor, walking to his case, picking it up, then retreating again.

She stares at the door.

After a long moment, she stands up, and approaches the door.

GIRL (tentative)
Hey.

INT. BATHROOM
Pants falling down around ankles.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
She knocks lightly.

GIRL
Hey, are you OK?

Heavy, regular breathing from behind the door.

INT. BATHROOM

CLOSE ON
The case, open on the counter.

The breathing louder, now that we’re in the same room as it.

INT. HOTEL ROOM
She knocks again, a little louder. No response.

She presses her cheek against the door.

Muffled sounds of our hero jerkin’ it.

GIRL
What are you doing?

INT. BATHROOM
He does not look at the door, the voice. He stares into his own eyes, in the mirror.

MAN
I understand that ejaculating regularly helps prevent prostate cancer.

INT. HOTEL ROOM MORNING
The man goes through his morning ritual.

The workout.

The jerkoff.

The flushing of tissues.

We see him in the shower, this the final step today.

We see him dress.

We see him open the case. He takes out the envelope, removes the derringer once more, checks it.

Removes the bullets from their packaging.

CLOSE
He slides the tiny cartridges into the barrels.

Snaps the derringer shut.

Tucks it into his jacket pocket.

Now, the full-size pistol. He does a brass check, a safety check, tucks it into the little inside-the-waist sleeve holster, at the back of his waistband.

CLOSE
His hands, tearing apart the documents that were in the envelope. The papers first, then the photographs.

Most of the photos are of the Mormon couple’s baby. One of them, together.

INT. BATHROOM
The shreds of paper, swirling around and around in the toilet bowl.

He studies himself in the mirror, turning this way and that, checking to be certain his guns aren’t evident.

EXT. SUBURBAN NEIGHBORHOOD
He’s riding his bike. He checks the watch on his wrist, checks his speed.

He approaches the house.

Right on time, the garage door opens.

We watch with the man, from a distance, as a single vehicle pulls out, presenting it’s tail to us, then drives away.

Both parents were in the vehicle.

He stops across from the house and studies it.

He can see the nanny, through the front windows, settling down in front of the television, apparently alone.

EXT. WALKWAY

He walks his bike up, turns it to face out, and rests it against the wall. Sets down his case beside it.

He walks up to the door, waits a beat, then tries the knob.

It turns, he eases it open.

The empty entryway, and empty hallway beyond. The sound of the television, filtering from the living room, to the right.

He steps inside.

INT. HALLWAY

…and closes the door, almost, not letting it latch.

The pause, to make certain it stays that way.

Then he heads down the hall.

Looks through the entrance to the living room. Sees the back of the nanny’s head, watching morning talk shows.

No sign of the kid.

He moves on.

He glides through the house, glancing through the kitchen, the bedrooms, etc., until he reaches the back, where a half-ajar door promises…

A nursery.

He finishes opening the door.

INT. NURSERY
The child, left alone, lays on the floor, swatting at blocks. A pacifier.

The child looks up as the man comes in. It can’t walk yet, but it tries to move toward him.

CLOSE
The man’s stern, impassive face.

He reaches into his pocket.

CLOSE
The kid.

He pulls out the derringer, looks at it, frowns.

Looks around the room.

Eventually, his eyes settle on the pillows they’ve mounded up in, around the crib.

He slides the derringer back into his pocket.

Takes a step.

The child looks at him expectantly.

WOMAN’S VOICE (O.S.)
Just who in the he–

He turns.

In the hallway, behind him, The Nanny, who, yes, looks just like the woman who had the terrible experience in his hotel room the night before, and the mother, and the everything.

As soon as he turns the nanny shuts up, because, automatically, he’s pulled his pistol, the proper one, and it’s pointed at her.

The sound of the garage door opening.

The man looks confused. Maybe he registers the resemblance(s).

A door opening, deeper in the house.

OTHER MAN (O.S.)
Lynn?

The Nanny opens her mouth, then closes it. She doesn’t look at him, she looks at the gun.

After a few moments, the other man comes up behind her.

OTHER MAN
Kelly forgot her–

Then he sees the man. He stops, confused.

Then he looks down, and sees the gun.

Then, the man raises the gun, brings his other hand for a proper shooting stance, and gives them both two in the sternum, just so.

As they fall, he stares. Sudden, deafening silence after the roar of the gunshots in the narrow hall.

A beat, he stares at the bodies.

A slamming door O.S., running feet.

The wife stumbles in.

Stares, in shock at the bodies.

The moment she looks up, at him, he shoots her too.

He lowers the gun.

CLOSE
His crotch, the smoking barrel limp against his thigh.

His breath is ragged, he looks shaken.

The women, they are not the woman he saw them as, when they were alive.

Then, the baby begins to cry. Muted, like it can’t quite get past the pacifier.

He turns, brings up his gun, fires.

Low shot, it’s the poster for Man Bites Dog: he’s staring down, blood flies up into the frame. With the blood, a pacifier.

EXT. CITY STREET
The man on his bike.

EXT. PAY PHONE
The man pulls up, gets out

He puts in a coin. Dials a number, from memory.

MAN
Complications.

VOICE (the same as the voice from the doorway, earlier)
Complications?

MAN
I had to kill the parents, the nanny.

A beat.

VOICE
There’s no point without the parents.

MAN
They came back, they weren’t supposed to come back, they–

VOICE (agitated)
They weren’t supposed to come back? I gave you the assignment WHEN? And you think you’ve–

The man hangs up the phone.

EXT. ANOTHER CRAPPY HOTEL
The man pedals on up.

INT. ANOTHER CRAPPY HOTEL ROOM
He locks the door behind him.

His gaze travels around the room. Ours travels with it, P.O.V. Just another crappy hotel room, like the one before.

He lays the case down on the bed, then he checks all the drawers. He checks the bathroom. The windows.

Takes off his suit jacket, hangs it up.

He sits on the edge of the bed, next to the case.

He seems more calm now, collected. No longer shaken.

He stares off into space.

Focus on the door, the locks.

After a moment, he gets up.

Moves the case to the table, opens it, pulls his cleaning supplies out: the cloth; the bottles; the cleaning rod; the patches; lays it all out neatly.

Pulls his gun out of his waistband.

Strips it.

Cleans it. This time, patches come up dirty.

CLOSE ON
The little pile, streaked with powder residue.

A patch, coming out soiled, plucked off the cleaning rod, replaced with another until one finally comes out clean.

He reassembles the gun.

He oils the gun.

A fresh magazine. The spares, one full and one empty, in their places in the case.

CLOSE ON
The case being closed, everything in place but the pistol, and one tissue packet.

He sits down on the edge of the bed again, the gun in his right hand, the packet of tissues in his left. He sets the tissues by his thigh.

Staring at the door.

He chambers a round, then sets the safety, before his left hand begins to loosen his tie.

Then, he is naked. We see him from the back, the slight wobbling of his shoulders body as he masturbates with his left hand, the door looming before him, in the background. His right hand is clenched on the handle of the gun.

CLOSE ON
The gun beside his hairy thigh.His finger along the side, not on the trigger, (because gun safety.)

His breath is tight, controlled, but rapid.

Some shadows pass behind the curtain.

A knock on the door.

CLOSE ON
His head and shoulders. Push in as voices are raised, muddy and indinstinct through the door, and in his head.

He grits his teeth.

He raises the gun.

Back behind him again, but slowly pushing in, the door the center of the shot as something hits it from behind.

Splintering sounds.

He raises the gun.

His hand works faster.

The hand holding the gun; his wrist.

His flexed bicep, bulging from effort.

Now, his face again, his shoulders. He is approaching it, the moment of orgasm.

Another impact, off screen.

He undoes the safety.

Another impact.

He levels the gun at the door. Somehow, his hand doesn’t quaver, even as his head and shoulders bob with the persistent force of his jerking.

Another sound of impact, and he’s there, he is coming, you can see the change in his eyes as the door bursts inward,and there is shouting, and as he ejaculates he begins to fire his gun even as his naked torso is ripped by bullets.

FIN

Fuckin’ A man.

CIA man?

I definitely make it clear he’s jerking hard WAY TOO EARLY ¯_(ツ)_/¯


#27

Got a new post up.

Looking at life, games, VR, and love:

Cheers.


#28

New poem up.

Cheers.


#29

New poem this week:

Cheers.


#30

Happy World Poetry Day.

Got a new poem up.

Enjoy the day.

Write something.

Cheers.


#31

Got a piece on Dark Souls’ dragon covenant in the latest Unwinnable Monthly. If you don’t want to pay for it or a subscription for financial reasons and/or you’re just interested in my article, you can download a PDF of it here.


#32

New post up.

A commentary on The Division & the lens of its ideological reception.

Cheers.


#33

New poem up.

Cheers.


#34

New poem.

Cheers.


#35

new poem up.

this is my 50th poem.

today is the sixth anniversary of my blog. it’s been a long, difficult road.

I will edit and rewrite them & hope to compile them into a single, self-published volume soon.

thank you for reading.


#36

I need to set aside some time to read these.


#37

Oh, the piece I wrote on Dark Souls’ dragon covenant is available to read as a separate article now.


#38

new post up.

on Videoball.

cheers.


#39

gorgeous


#40

im gonna start my blog curation again
look forward to posts I guess…


#41

My book is done. Here’s the first two chapters: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B42KwTxlQ5iLMWhvMG9NeHM1NzA/view. If you want to read the more, PM me your email!

Synopsis:

The year is 2052 and America is held together by flaming duct tape. Decades of expensive domestic security programs, dwindling education budgets and rampant overmedication have left our nation poor, stupid and too placated to notice the encroaching Orwellian state.

At the heart of the wreckage stands our teenage protagonist, a nameless loser, victim of a tragic car wreck which stole all memory of his childhood (along with most of his social skills). His best friend Greg is a reckless dreamer, a wannabe-revolutionary with a dangerous affinity for gunpowder. With a power-mad celebrity preparing to assume the presidential throne and bring about World War III, these two kids find they may be the only ones capable of derailing his campaign and preventing the end of the world.


#42

Hey I read that long post you put up on Fbook (which showed up in my feed since you tagged Tim) and I just wanted to say I probably would have watched your goofy public access shit and showed up to your pizza parties


#43

Some of our public access stuff has maybe been lost forever, but there are some later things which I hope we can someday archive on the internet. As is, all I can find is “bag head” which is horrifyingly bad.


#44

Article about Street Fighter’s music and the industry’s increasing westernization.