The Regular

A man walks into a bar.

He has a face like a Mr. Potato head if you were to somehow shove a brick up its ass and make it really angry looking all the time.

Sauntering up to the bartender, he slams a canned-ham fist full of dollars down and mumbles something incoherently low in a voice like broken glass.

The barkeep nods and takes the waded lump of cash gingerly to the register.

“Drinks on the house!” The meat man bellows, to the astonished delight of the surrounding patrons.

The room quickly empties in an avalanche of drunken flailing limbs, all scrambling for the stairs leading to the roof.

“Works every time.” Says the grizzly man, sliding into his favorite booth.

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Write Hard:

Write every single day.
Write when you’re on the toilet.
Write when you’re bored.
Write until your fingers swell and your eyes bleed.
Write novels, novellas, short stories, flash, micro, chapbooks, zines, articles, blogs, longhand, and on beer coasters.
Write in public, or in private.
Write to live.
Just write.

A Year & A Day, and one Thing more:

  I noticed her immediately.

  She was nude, except for the multitude of octopi, and other less savory cephalopods clinging to her supple flesh. Their protean bodies pulsating against her sex as she writhed in barely restrained pleasure. Her slightly parted lips and heavy breathing suggesting unspeakable things.

  Nightmarish things made manifest as a particularly bulbous octopus birthed itself from between her slick, gaping thighs.

  She glided down the roughly hewn steps, held aloft by dozens of slimy tentacles. the sight was as awe inspiring as it was nauseating.

  She solicited me then, parting giant, bat-like wings to expose her wares. My eyes filled with tears of barely restrained rapture.

  How she got a hold of a mint condition copy of Action Comics #1, I simply do not know. But I could barely take my weeping eyes off it’s lustrous vacuum sealed casing. You’d think that the various Rolex watches (Made In Hong Kong), unpronounceable exotic perfume knockoffs, and poorly bootlegged Pog collections would have tipped me off, but I was simply enthralled by the comic’s hypnotic color palette of yellows, reds, and blues.

  I reached into my pocket for that (Completely worth it) three point one million dollars; to my despair only discovering a family of mothballs, a slightly used condom, and a horribly scarred inner child.

  This would not do, said she. A trade instead, one measly testicle (And measly they were, dear friends. Many much measles), and my immortal soul. In exchange for a year and a day of pure white glove wearing, sealed in a hermetic chamber with shadey breathing apparatus, sweating profusely inside my bright purple hazmat suit, Superman reading bliss.

  Challenge excepted.