Arthur Graham

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 4, 2016

Tragedy struck today when Bob Dylan, Lady Gaga, and Morrissey were simultaneously killed in a three-car pileup on Interstate 405, thus effectively BREAKING THE INTERNET FOREVER.

Immediately upon hearing the news, billions logged onto social media to mourn the loss of this perfect trifecta of musical icons, Baby-Boomers, Gen-Xers, and Millennials joining forces to render the whole entire Internet one big indecipherable shitpost of frivolous feelz and conspicuous consumption. As of press time, the experts all agree that so many songs, quotations, condolences, cries for help, concerns over who’s next, and completely cynical way-too-soon jokes have already been posted, there is simply no way that the Internet will ever be able to recover.

From Facebook to Twitter and even Goodreads, where only book snobs troll, we regret to inform you that the Internet has fully ceased to funct—

—in other news, local writing person masterfully beats the shit out of several dead horses

“Feminism Will Prevail” by Michael Marrotti

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 2, 2016

  Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he’s not writing, he’s volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man’s work, please check out his for his latest poetry and short stories.

    The weather in Pittsburgh couldn’t be any better on this hot summer day. Birds are chirping, people are smiling, the girls are wearing next to nothing and I don’t see a single cloud in the sky. It’s the kinda day I can embrace without drugs, and still manage to have a pleasant time with.
On my way to the store for energy drinks (thinking this will be the antidote to the hangover I’m inflicted with) I come across a group of feminists protesting outside the Presbyterian church on West  Liberty avenue. You could smell them from across the street. A mixture of body odor and bloody tampons permeated the air around them. They all have the gutter punk image going on which consists of slutty tight clothing a couple dress sizes too small, equipped with studs, short spikey hair, tattoos, piercings, and punk rock memorabilia.
Their signs say: Women can be pastor’s too, you sexist bastards! Who’s paying attention to those signs when their hairy armpits are stealing the limelight? This spectacle makes no sense to me. The only thing they’ve proved is how feeble minded they are.
Amongst this grotesque display of contention is something more beautiful than I have seen in any revolt. Her blue eyes and sexy curves demand attention. Bleach blonde hair, shaved arm pits and smooth tender thighs. Black converse all stars, no bra and a pierced lip. Tattoos in all the right places, I wanna be the one to call her my own.
I cross the street to make an introduction only to come close to my demise. Fucking Subaru. It’s always the assholes in the Subaru who never consider the pedestrians wearing blue Chuck Taylor Allstars.
“We want equal rights! You’re not better than us!” Is the mantra of the day by these hairy women with picket signs. It’s becoming louder with each step I take. I’m getting closer now. The possibility of this backfiring is a possibility. Already, I’m having second thoughts. They’re aggressive, and I’m hungover.
“Hi, honey. I’m all for your cause. It’s about time the church caught up with the 21st century.”
She drops her picket sign along with her mouth. Looking rather star struck.
“Oh, shit! You’re Manic Mike! The lead singer of Manic Mike & The Mood Stabilizers! I fucking adore you guys! The last show you played at Wilkies was phenomenal!”
“Cool. Yeah, we went vigorous at Wilkies last time we played there. We always receive a warm reception by that particular crowd. I’m grateful. Seriously, I couldn’t ask for much more besides your name.”
“I’m Stefanie!”
If I play my cards right, I can avoid this bullshit feminist conversation. It’s too early for drama.
“It’s nice to meet you Stefanie.”
She hugs me like I’m a long lost friend. Dude, I’m in. She smells clean, and feels firm and fit. Just the way I like them.
“I’m so hungover. I gotta go get an energy drink, then I’m gonna pack a bong. Care to join me?”
“Fuck yeah, man. I think my girls can handle the rest of this protest without me.”
We’re walking side by side, I’m thinking everything is kosher. Then out of the blue her hairy dike friend had to impede on my latest conquest.
“Stefanie! What are you doing? I thought this meant a lot to you. It means a lot to us, and you’re leaving with the enemy!”
“Whoa,” I say. “I’m not a Christian, honey. Easy with with the slander.”
“Yeah, take it easy Sammy. He’s not the problem. He’s Manic Mike!”
“He has a fucking penis, Stefanie. He’s part of the problem!”
This is why nobody takes the feminist movement seriously. It’s run by disgruntled dikes out to debase men at any cost. They’re right and we’re wrong. It’s more like a fascist movement, if you ask me.
“Sammy, this is the lead singer of Manic Mike & The Mood Stabilizers! Please, show him the respect he rightfully deserves. All you’re doing right now is making us look like guy bashing fascists! I refuse to sit by and answer for your actions when I vehemently disagree with them!
“Whatever, Stefanie! Go ahead and leave with the enemy, you fucking renegade. I’m voting you out, bitch! You hear me? Enjoy that piece of dick cause it’s all you have left. You’re out!”
“Fuck you, Sammy! Maybe if you traded in your fractured dildo for a real cock you wouldn’t be such a miserable bitch. Bye!”
And here I thought I was gonna have to lose my temper, say some hurtful things and lose the girl I want as bad as Motrin.
I hold the door open for Stefanie at the convenience store. All eyes are on her, and rightfully so. She’s smoking hot. The clerk is distracted, and I’m determined to steal a candy bar on principle alone. If you’re going to charge me almost two bucks for a regular size candy bar, don’t be surprised if it comes up missing. I managed to fit two in my pocket by the time I approach the clerk with an energy drink.
On the walk back to my place a couple blocks away from the protest, Stefanie discloses why she joined the feminist movement. She tells me it’s all about equality. I tell her gender is the main contradiction in Marxism. She says women should be paid as much as men, and be able to do whatever they choose. If they wanna be a pastor or the president, it should be a possibility. I agree with her points, but also bring up affirmative action. Then I bring up the real problem when it comes to religion and women’s rights: Islam.
“Personally, I think the feminist movement should be protesting outside the mosque. Sharia law is deplorable and fascist. They treat their women like subhumans. Plus, they only care about their own. At least Christianity is beneficial to mankind. They feed the poor regardless of race, creed or gender.”
“Those are significant points. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re wasting our time outside the church.”
I’m overwhelmed with embarrassment the minute we step foot inside my apartment. This place is a disaster. If I was expecting company like this I would’ve cleaned up. Empty cans of iron city beer are all over the coffee table. Cigarette butts are cram packed in the ash tray. A couple of my guitars are on the floor with broken guitar strings, and it still smells like a pool hall in here because of the chain smoking, and hard drinking the night before.
“Sorry about the mess, honey. It was a long night.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse.”
I walk into my bedroom to retrieve the four foot glass bong. When I come back to the trashy living room I see Stefanie cleaning up the mess. I thought the feminist movement found house work to be offensive.
“Thanks, Stefanie! It’s looking great in here. Come on over have a seat. I’m gonna pack this bong.”
“Ok. Gimme one more minute. I’m almost done.”
By the time she’s done I have the bong packed with a gram worth of primo grass. I reach in my pocket, grab my blue bic and ignite. After five seconds of inhaling, I choke out a massive cloud that fills up half the room. I can feel the depletion of my hangover.
“Here you go, honey.”
“You need a light?”
“Actually, I do. Thanks.”
Stefanie sucks away for ten seconds. Her hit is twice the size of mine. I’m thinking perverse things, and slowly working myself up. She doesn’t even choke.
“I can’t believe I’m hanging out with you.”
“Honey, the feelings mutual.”
“Oh, come on. I’m just some crazy feminist girl with a picket sign. You’re the one and only Manic Mike! I love that song you guy’s do. It’s called ‘Still never fucked a fat bitch’. Every time I hear it I laugh my ass off!”
“Of all the songs we’ve done, you bring up that one. Don’t you find it offensive since you’re a feminist?”
“Feminism isn’t gonna come between me and my sense of humor. I’m not a tight ass.”
“Good! Honestly, that’s what it’s all about for me when I write. I’m out to help other people expunge their emotional turmoil through rhythm and humor. What’s beneficial to me has the potential to benefit others. I use my creative talent as a form of therapy.”
“That’s so sweet! Maybe you’ll get the recognition you deserve in a couple years. You just gotta keep playing live. You’re good enough to get signed in my opinion. Then the money will start rolling in.”
“I’m not doing this for the material incentive. It’s all about helping other people. This is a benevolent endeavor. I’ll take the fame, though. The more people I reach, the more of a positive mark I can make.”
“I love the way you think! You wanna fuck?”
Three minutes later my cums all over the floor. Her pussy is so tight and moist. I couldn’t control myself. To make matters worse, she’s crying!
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“You don’t like me. All I want is for you to like me.”
“Jesus fucking Christ! Honey, I want you more than anything!”
“Why didn’t you cum on my face then? If you really like me you would’ve done that.”
“Honey, I’m gonna go get a cup of water. After that the cum will be splattered all over your pretty face. I’ll prove how much you mean to me.”
This is contemporary feminism. Cum included.
I fucked her again (mainly from the back) for a good twenty minutes this time around. I swear this is the best pussy my dick has ever been wrapped around. I pull out at the precise moment, jerk my dick with my right hand and let her have it. I managed to cover both her eyes, give her a healthy taste on her tongue plus I shot some up her left nostril. My god! It’s a pleasant orgasm. She jumped up afterwards to give me a high five. This is a woman I could love.
I woke up two hours later. Stefanie’s still sleeping. I pack my last bong, choke my ass off and call Kim for some more grass.
“Kimmy, I’m in need of some service.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Dormont, at my house.”
“Cool. I’m on Illinois avenue at Doug’s place. Stop on by.”
“I’ll see you in a minute.”
I wake up my new sexy girlfriend, and tell her the plan. She gets dressed up, then we start our mission.
We hold hands down West Liberty avenue as we shoot the shit. The horny drunks of Dormont go out of their way to get a glimpse of the remarkable ass I recently mounted. Rob’s Diner is on our right, the vapor shop is on the left. Two blocks down marks the location of my choice. Let’s see what Kimmy has for sale.
I met Kimmy here at Doug’s house last year, and I’ve been buying grass off her ever since. I noticed a brief increase in prices within the past six months. She’s turning out to be a typical greedy Pittsburgh dealer. It’s the last thing we need in this town. If she sold dirt weed and habitually misled me, I would’ve cut all ties. At least she has those two things going for her.
Doug had a little neighborhood party awhile back. Most of the indigenous drunks made an appearance. It was good times for the most part. Plenty of cheap vodka, mid grade grass and pussy. The party didn’t last long because of some big mouth jerkoff who had the misfortune of crossing my path. I bumped into him by accident, made an apology and went on with my day. This wasn’t good enough for him. He took the pussy way out. Fucker sucker punched me. Had he hit like a man, I would’ve been knocked out. Fortunately for me that just wasn’t the case. I threw punches back, connected with every one. He tried to do some wrestling move out of desperation, but that only got him thrown through the screen door. Doug had enough after that, and asked everyone to please go home. People scattered. Party’s over. Doug won’t admit it, but he’s still holding a grudge over what happened. He’s another one who doesn’t know how to accept an apology.
I knock on the door. A few seconds later Doug answers, and tells us to come on in. I introduce sexy Stefanie to Doug and Kimmy, then we clear off the clutter that’s taking up seats on his old squeaky couch. Ok. We can finally sit. This place is in dire need of a feminist with cleaning products, and forty eight hours to spare.
“Mike, did you read the latest Dave Grouhl interview?”
“No I haven’t, Doug.”
“He’s all about his fan base.”
“No, he’s all about a dollar.”
“What? Why would you say something like that?”
“Dude, I don’t see him doing charity concerts. If he was all about his fan base, wouldn’t he give a little something back to show how grateful he is? I didn’t notice his latest album on the internet with a free download option. He’s just another greedy fuck who obviously can’t get enough revenue. How much is enough?”
“Hey you can’t blame him,” says Kimmy. “There’s all this wonderful stuff to buy. Have you seen the latest iPhone? I own it! Check out those rims I bought. I guarantee their the nicest ones in Dormont!”
Fuck. Already I’m getting a headache. I take a look at Stefanie who’s looking rather bored. Maybe I should get us the fuck out of here before I have another episode.
“Ok. Great. Kimmy, I need an eighth, please.”
“Sure thing. Check this stuff out. It’s called ‘black bumbleberry’. You’ll never taste quality weed like this again, unless you call me back that is. Haha.”
I open up the bag to take a sniff. Wow. It smells fruity as fuck. Nice big fluffy buds equipped with black hairs. I can’t wait to pack a bong.
“Fuck yeah. I want it. How much?”
“This stuff goes for eighty bucks an eighth.”
“What? Are you kidding me? The last bag I bought off you was only fifty. I think you’re being unreasonable, Kimmy.”
“Sorry Mike, but I gotta make that money.”
“At who’s expense?”
I stand up and lift my shirt up enough to show this greedy bitch I’m wearing a belt.
“I’m sorry, Mike. Why are you lifting your shirt up? I don’t get it.”
“Of course you don’t. A materialistic person like you is incapable of focusing on anything besides their own financial gain. Bitch, I’m clearly showing you my belt. If I planned on getting fucked, I would’ve left it at home. Look, you’re gonna sell me this shit at a reasonable price or there’s gonna be a problem!”
“Mike, calm down,” says Doug.
“This doesn’t concern you, Doug. Go clean your fucking house. Worry about that.”
“Dude, get the fuck out.”
“Fuck you! I’m not leaving until this greedy bitch comes to her senses!”
Stefanie is looking nervous. Hopefully this doesn’t scare her off, but if it does, fuck it. I gotta take a stand against greedy fucks like this.
“Mike, don’t ever call me again you crazy asshole,” says Kimmy.
I gave her a choice. It’s not my fault she refused to take it. I put the bag of weed in my pocket. Then I go over and snatch her purse. I dump it out on the filthy floor, grab the ounce of weed and make for the door with Stefanie by my side. Kimmy jumps on my back and starts digging her fake nails into my face. I shrug the bitch off, then I grab her by the hair and throw her through the screen door.
Doug runs out swinging at me like a maniac. I duck and weave until he’s wide open, then I strike. One left hook to the chin sends him flying right back into the screen door I just busted. After that Stefanie and I take off running.
“Holy fuck, Mike. That Kimmy bitch scratched you up bad. And what the fuck? Do you always manhandle women, and take you want?”
“No, Stefanie. I’ve never put my hands on a woman before. I’m not proud of my actions, but I gotta take a stand against greedy dealers like her.”
“You’re a taker!”
“Wrong. I create. What does creation do? It gives. So technically I’m a giver. I told you I’m not out to prosper from my creations, I’m out to help. People like Kimmy are part of the problem. Please don’t hate me for my actions.”
“Mike, I understand where you’re coming from. It’s just a shame it had to be a woman. What about the cops? I’m an accomplice!”
“It’s drug related. We’re fine. Don’t worry.”
“Thank god! Come over here. Lemme clean up your mangled face.”
I slide my fingers down her pants as she cleans up my bloody face. Finding her clit was no problem. I flick it back and forth, up and down. She’s moaning, and sticking her tongue down my mouth. Her vagina is soaking wet. I’m more than aroused. Her soft delicate fingers are loosening my belt, pulling my pants down. She’s stroking my cock. Precum is seeping out. Now she’s down on her knees giving me the most passionate blow job of all time. My erection is bulging in the warmth of her mouth. I go to cum and she takes it out her mouth, jerks it up and down, and I scream out in ecstasy as I cum all over her beautiful face.
Afterwards, Stefanie and I smoke a bong. Our stomachs are rumbling so I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Now we have twenty minutes to kill. I’m looking through my modest collection of movies, and I come across one of my favorite director’s of all time: Woody Allen.
“Stefanie, what do think about Woody Allen?”
“I think he’s witty! I’ve seen most of his films, and I have yet to see one that disappoints.”
All I wanted was someone to watch Woody Allen movies with, and now I’ve found one!
“He’s one of the most prolific story tellers of all time. He’s averaged one film a year since the early seventies. Plus, there’s always something to learn from his stories. The only people who aren’t fans of his work are the assholes who cover their food in ranch dressing.”
“Honey, you took the words right out of my mouth.”
We enjoy our frozen pizza together as we watch ‘Blue Jasmine’ (the pinnacle of his work so far for the 21st century). Shortly after that Stefanie passes out.
I lay awake obsessing over my latest loss of self control. What could be the repercussion of attacking two people who live a couple blocks away from my house? This could easily turn out to be terrible for me and my latest conquest, Stefanie. Still, I’m willing to make that sacrifice. I can’t live in a world where the consumer is constantly raped, financially. I’ll stick up for my beliefs, no matter what the cost or die trying.
The following day Stefanie wakes me up around noon with news of her latest endeavor.
“Mike, I gotta get to Carnegie. I made a call to Sammy. All is forgiven. I told her about what you said in regards to Islam. We’re gonna go rally outside the mosque.”
“What’s the cause, honey?”
“Free the nipple!”
“Hahaha! I’m an advocate. I love nipples!”
“I bet you do. Well, I gotta leave immediately. Can I stop by afterwards?”
“Look, I know we’re at the infantile stage of this relationship, but I’m already addicted to you. I hope this doesn’t freak you out. Stefanie, I want you to move in with me.”
Her pretty blue eyes light up. A perfect pearly white smile appears on her pretty face. She jumps on top of me, hugging me with everything in her.
“Oh my god, Mike! Of course I’ll move in with you!”
She starts kissing me. Her hand goes down slowly from my scratched up face, to my urine erection. I undress her perfect body. She’s on top, inserting me inside her moist vagina. Morning sex is better than coffee.
The sight of topless women outside the mosque is already drawing a crowd. Horny guy’s are cheering them on. The picket signs say: Mohammed loves nipples as much as my bisexual girlfriend does! Stefanie and her feminist friends are all chanting in unison: “Free the nipple! It’s our bodies! It’s our choice!”
More than a dozen angry Muslims storm out the mosque. They’re all screaming, “You’re enemies of God! Leave this place, now!”
The feminists refuse to back down. Things are becoming volatile. They’re still chanting, “Free the nipple! Free the nipple!”
A tall dark Muslim wearing an angry face comes out from the back of the mosque equipped with a bucket full of stones. All the Muslims gather around him. Islamic fingers reach for stones and begin the onslaught against the shirtless feminists.
Stefanie is the first one to sustain a direct hit to the chest. She tumbles over in agony. Two other feminists are stoned as well.
The guy’s who were egging on the feminists are now attacking the Muslims. Who knows? This could be the opportunity they needed to get between those thighs.
Sammy helps Stefanie to her feet. They use their picket signs as weapons. Things aren’t looking good for the religious zealots. They’re outnumbered, and taking a beating.
Stefanie reaches in her purse, grabs a can of pink spray paint and paints on the mosque door, ‘Free your mind, think for yourself’.
The Carnegie police show up ready for war. Pepper spray, tazers and attack dogs will remedy this hostile situation. Stefanie and Sammy make a run for it. Somehow, someway, they accomplished their goals and managed to escape. As for the rest of the crowd along with the remaining feminists, luck wasn’t on their side. Off to county jail they go after a strong case of police brutality.

I’m on my way to Marrotti’s coffee shop when I get the call. I’m distraught by the news. I can’t believe some Muslim scum bag hit my girlfriend with a fucking rock! I’m so glad I wasn’t there for that. I’d be facing homicide charges right now. What’s wrong with these fucking people? You don’t see the Christians or Jews behaving like that.
I order a coffee as I try to calm down, and get it together. My drummer is supposed to here so we can discuss working on the new album. But just like always, he’s late. I take a seat by the window as I watch the drunks of Dormont stagger on by. There’s no set time for these people to indulge in what they do best. Me on the other hand, I usually never crack open a bottle until the sun goes down. I’m too busy reading or writing. Alcohol effects my creativity, and my determination to learn so I stay away from the stuff for the most part.
Marco is my drummer. I met him in this coffee shop a couple years ago. He’s an ugly fuck with crooked teeth. My first impression of him was wow, this dude needs an dentist and an adequate toothbrush. His attire matched his grotesque appearance. Faded cut off jean shorts, a raggedy plain black tee shirt with cigarettes holes and a pair of worn out converse all stars held together with duck tape. His long dark hair was pulled back into a pony tail. You are the company you keep, but I’m far from being white trash.
I was sipping my coffee, reading Mein Kampf. I felt someone looking at me. I looked up and Marco said he’s heard about this book, but never got around to reading it. I told him how fascinating it is to be able to read an autobiography by someone as brutal as Hitler.(I was ready serve the fatherland after reading Mein Kampf. Hitler really is that good of a speaker). He agreed, next thing I know we’re talking about history, then music.
I expressed how banal music has become in the 21st century. We had all these genres and sub genres, now it seems there’s no place left to go. Every avenue has been exploited to no end. Music in my opinion died with a shotgun blast at 1994. Social media has opened the door to countless band’s all strumming the same chord. Originality doesn’t stand a chance when all I hear is a mixture of the past stamped with a new band name. Marco aggreed and told me his last band was a blatant rip off of Agnostic Front. That’s why he put the drum sticks down. Drummers in Pittsburgh are scarce. This must be my lucky day. I told him I have over an album worth of ‘original’ music. All I need is a drummer. I invited him over to hear my stuff, plus I kinda bribed him with bong hits. Fortunately, he took me up on my offer. After two songs he was sold. We’ve been jamming together ever since.
I met my bassist Paul through Marco. They were in a band together years ago, and still jammed periodically. He’s the polar opposite of Marco. An amiable kid, but he’s flakey. He’ll be the first to say, music is my life. Then the little shit will miss band practice due to his obsession with online gaming. The first couple times it happened, I let it go. After that I let him have it. This only caused more turbulence between us.
Being in a band can be rewarding at times. There’s the thrill of playing live, the gift of vagina. Creating music with others is one of the best ways to spend your time. Expressing your philosophy, and message is the best thing if you’re an idealist like myself. For awhile there, I felt like I was making a difference. People are understanding my point, they’re thinking. I can change the world.
Two albums later, I’m struggling to keep us together playing live and recording new music. Being dependent on two other people is strenuous on my mental health. If I tell someone about their playing, they get all emotional like a little cunt. People hate the truth, musicians are not excluded. The bass lines have gotten worse. My drummer is losing stamina. I’m losing patience, and I’m sick of them never showing up on time. It feels like I’m the only one who’s taking this seriously.
Marco still hasn’t shown up. He’s officially ten minutes late, and I might snap out once he finally decides to show up. As I impatiently wait, I reminisce of our glory day’s touring all over Pittsburgh. We were the breathe of fresh air needed to a dying scene of bland punk rockers with nothing new to bring to the table. Hits like ‘Sluts In Dormont’ and ‘Be Yourself’ brought forth the accolades and vagina we were more than willing to except. The band was tight a year ago. Everyone was on key, and enthusiastic. It’s amazing the difference a year can make. Marco can go fuck himself. I’m leaving after I stink up the bathroom.
The minute I leave Marrotti’s coffee shop is the minute I get a courtesy call from that asshole, Marco. I hit the fuck off button as I continue my walk down Potomac avenue. Rain begins to fall as I pass the mediocre pizza shop with a fake Italian name. The resentment I feel for my fuck up band mates quickly turns into anxiety over the well being of Stefanie. I pass the business district of Dormont and make a right on West Liberty avenue.
A half a block up is the public library. I send Stefanie a text asking when she’ll arrive. Every person I walk past avoids eye contact with me. It must be the hideous scratches on my face they find to be intimidating. I cough up a hocker and reach for my cigarettes.
As soon as I walk through the library door I receive dirty looks by the fat bitch librarian. She makes a point to swiftly look away the second I acknowledge her.  I’m not appreciating the appearance of my face at this point. I walk past a couple of dorks in this less than modest sized library, and approach the new age/religion section. I bend down to start on the bottom, then I work my way up, and there it is, the Koran. I’m not an ignorant asshole. I have all the time in the world to study my enemy, know my enemy, and conquer my enemy. The self check out comes in handy when dealing with judgemental librarians. I’m out the door.
I have ample time to read about the religion of peace before Stefanie arrives. I take this time to study immensely. It’s just as hateful and boring as I thought it would be. This book treats the reader like an idiot with undiagnosed attention deficit disorder. Every other page is a repeat or reminder of the previous entry.
By the time Stefanie arrives I’m relieved to know she’s ok and also relieved to no longer be reading this paradoxical religious book of bullshit. More time is spent on the non believer than anything else, plus it constantly threats violence and terror on the infidel. So much for giving peace a chance. This religion will make you a busy body, when what it needs most is a lesson on minding your own business. I’m disgusted.
After I pamper Stefanie I discuss what I’ve learned so far from the Koran. My feelings of disgust are mutual between the both of us. After further studies we’re both proud to be infidels. It’s way better than being a slave to an unrewarding religion that teaches intolerance, violence and hate. The only people who would partake in Islam in my opinion are those who are intellectually bankrupt.
Stefanie says how ridiculous it is for Muslim women to come to America and be forced to wear full body suits (burqa). What’s the point of coming to the land of the free if emancipation isn’t an option? I guess the men don’t care how hot it gets at the summer time. It’s better to submit (Islam means submission) and get a heat stroke than deny Allah.
I’d rather be naked and fornicating than persist in a theological conversation that’s only giving me a headache. I offer Stefanie a couple Tylenol and swallow two myself. We’re both battered and in pain. Being idealistic is strenuous on both the mind and body.
We spend the rest of the night playing the in an out game, watching Woody Allen movies and eating tv dinners. Tomorrow will mark the beginning of a new struggle. Neither one of us can tolerate the world we currently live in.
I’m woken up by a phone call at 11:00 in the morning. Stefanie’s on the couch reading the Koran. I’m talking to that asshole Marco, and life is worth living in this particular moment in time.
“Stefanie, I talked to my drummer Marco finally, and we’re getting together for band practice. He went out of his way to book us a gig this Thursday at Wilkies.”
“Wow! That’s awesome, Mike! I’m so happy for you. Your band is the best thing to come out of Pittsburgh. I love the philosophical lyrics, and the overall sound is fresh. I’ll be your groupie!”
“Haha! You already are, honey!”
“I’m gonna go get some of my things while you’re busy at band practice. Don’t worry, I don’t have much. I’m a minimalist like you. But I do have around eighty pounds of books.”
“Cool. I live to learn. I’m looking forward to checking out your books. We’re gonna have to get a  book shelf or two between the two of us. We might actually exceed the amount of books they have at the Dormont library.”
“Yeah, it won’t take much with how big that library is.”
“I’ll see you soon, honey!”
“Bye, Mike!”
I’m half tempted to tell her how I feel. Proclaim my love, but it’s too soon. She might be freaked out by it. Oh, well. This feeling isn’t going anywhere. It’ll only get stronger as we discover more commonalities. The girl of my dreams is the girl in my apartment.

On the other side of Dormont is Marco’s house. We lucked out with his place. It’s a typical bachelor pad, but it has a basement, perfect for rehearsing and recording. It’s a five minute walk right off of West Liberty avenue.
My face is still wounded, and people must think I’m nothing but trouble judging by the dirty looks I’m still getting. For fuck sake people, I took a shower. I’m clean! I progress upwards only to be profiled by the Dormont police. What’s next, a broken guitar string? This is ridiculous. One block away is Marco’s house. That’s when I’m spotted by greedy Kimmy. She has a look of hatred in her eyes. The cunt pulls her car over and runs her materialistic mouth.
“Fuck you asshole,” screams Kimmy. “Don’t think you’re gonna get away with what you did! I know people who know people. You’re going down, motherfucker!”
“Kimmy, do me a favor and get lost already. I’ll consider your words of endearment while I smoke that primo weed you were kind enough to give me.”
I point at her and laugh after my comical comments. She’s all red faced, screaming obscenities at me. I just keep laughing, and make my turn onto Marco’s block. Fuck that cunt. She had it coming with prices like that. I wish they’d legalize marijuana in Pennsylvania. Greedy fucks like Kimmy would be where they rightfully belong; working at Burger King.
“Check out these new drum sticks, Mike. Their the best money can bye.”
They look like a typical pair of drum sticks to me.
“Nice, bro. You think they’ll improve your playing?”
“Is there something wrong with how I play?”
See, this is what I’m talking about. You make a single logical comment, next thing you know feelings are fractured. I hate musicians.
“Marco, I didn’t mean it like that. It just sounded to me like they’ll improve your skills, bro. That’s all. Fuck. Break out the bong. Let’s get stoned before we jam.”
“Fuck yeah, man! Sounds good to me.”
I pack up the bong, break out the bic and take a blast.
“Here you go, dude. What times Paul supposed to be here?”
Marco takes a massive hit, exhales and chokes his ass off for a minute. He passes me the glass bong and I take a hit.
“Yeah, man, Paul was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. I told him to be here a half an hour before you since he’s chronically late.”
“What the fuck is his problem? He doesn’t take his position in this band seriously. The next bassist I meet will be his replacement. I’m tired of this shit.”
“I know, man. Paul’s more concerned with online gaming, but you gotta admit, he’s a good bassist and bass players aren’t easy to come by in Pittsburgh.”
“He used to be a good bassist. The fucker rarely practices and it’s effecting the integrity of this band.”
“Don’t worry, man. It’ll work out.”
Paul shows up an hour later with an energy drink. We both greet him warmly like nothings wrong, and begin rehearsing.
There’s a total of seven songs on the set list. We play each one a total of three times each. Paul’s missing notes on his black bass guitar, Marco’s lagging behind with his brand new worthless drum sticks and I’m straining my vocals chords as I thrash away on my blue guitar. It’s not sounding too good. We have a gig in a couple day’s, and we sound like we’re at the infantile stage of playing together. Meanwhile, we’ve been doing this for three years. If I could fire these bastards right now I would. I’m at my witts end over here. If it wasn’t for the weed we just smoked, I’d probably be cussing out both of them. It’s times like these I consider the possibilities of moving to Seattle in a quest for worthy musicians. Pittsburgh doesn’t have much to offer in the liberal arts field so I have no choice. I’m lucky to even have band mates in the city that spawned Andy Warhol.
“Alright fellas, looks like this goodbye. Honestly, we have plenty of work to do if we’re gonna leave an impression at our next gig.”
“What’s that mean,” asks Paul. “I thought we sounded good today.”
“Well, Paul, maybe you should get your fucking hearing fixed.”
“Are you trying to tell me something, Mike?”
“Yeah, I am. Put down the God damn video games, and pick up the bass guitar. Your bullshit obsession is detrimental to your playing! I’m looking to make a mark and spread philosophy to the masses, not be a fucking laughing stock because my bassist keeps hitting the wrong notes!”
“Fuck you, Mike!”
I run over and shove him right into Marco’s drum set.
“Dude, what the fuck, Mike? That’s my drum set, man!”
Paul gets to his feet and shuts his big mouth.
“Marco, I’m sorry. I lost control of myself again, but this fucking asshole is ruining everything I worked so hard for!”
Marco’s holding me back from destroying Paul. All I want right now is to stomp the fuck out of him.
“Mike, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’ve been fucking up and I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. The last thing I want is to be kicked out of the band. Music is my life. I’ll practice non stop this week in preparation for our gig. I promise.”
“Good enough, bro. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. I’m sorry, too.”
We all shake hands and leave on good terms. There’s hope after all!

Meanwhile, in a flop house over Allentown, Stefanie is hanging out with her best friend Sammy gathering the few belongings she has left to bring over to Mike’s house. The smile on her face is synonymous with love.
“Are you going to tell me how big your boyfriend’s cock is or what?”
“What do you care, Sammy? I thought you were contemptuous of the male reproductive organ since you’ve never had one that got you off.”
“I still am, bitch, but I’m curious?”
“Let’s put it like this, Sammy. It’s big enough to make me cum, repeatedly!”
“Girl, you sound happy! I’m glad you met someone who makes you feel the way you should.”
“Awww, thanks, Sammy! It means a lot to me!”
“Have you told him what you do for a living?”
“Actually, it’s funny you said that. We’ve discussed so many different things, but somehow we managed to skip the financial part. I guess it’s because we’re both so against the monetary system.”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“Later today for sure.”
“Aren’t you worried? Most guy’s would be appalled by what you do, Stefanie.”
“He’s not most guys, he’s Manic Mike! He’s my Manic Mike! He’s also very liberal, so I’m not in the least bit concerned.”
“Ok, Stefanie. If you say so. I hope the best for you.”
Sammy and Stefanie stop by Mr. Pizza for a couple cuts before they hop on the trolley. Two guy’s are seated by the door waiting for their order. The feminists catch their eyes.
“Ewww. You really wanna eat here, Stefanie? It smells like old fryer oil and Bosnian refugees.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. It beats eating romen noodles, and that’s all we have left at the flop house.”
“Yeah. Good point.”
The tall filthy owner equipped with a pot belly and eastern European accent asks what they’d like to order.
“We’d like a large pepperoni pizza. Light sauce and light cheese. We’re trying to keep our sexy figures for all the hot ladies out there.”
“Jeez, Sammy. Is that necessary?”
“Yes, yes,” says the proprietor. “I bet you like large, don’t you? Real big, yes?”
“Christ! Next time I’ll place the order, Sammy. I don’t need this shit.”
“Relax, Stefanie. I’ll handle this. Hey, look here you dirty male pig. Fuck you, and your fucking pizza! You’re the reason I suck pussy instead of dick, asshole!”
“Fuck you, fucking bitch,” screams the proprietor. “You take hairy legs and slut friend with you! Get out!”
“Fuck you, dirtball!”
The two male patrons follow them out the door.
“Ladies, hold on! We wanna talk to you!”
“Oh Jesus fucking Christ! Can’t you fucking idiotic men get the hint,” asks Sammy.
“But we only”
Sammy cuts them off.
“But nothing! We’re not interested in the inadequate size of your penis!”
“Do kiss your mother with that mouth,” asks the one guy who’s gonna go home and jerk off.
“No, bitch! Only your mothers,” says Sammy.
The feminists walk down to the trolley, hungrier than ever not saying a word until Stefanie says, “Feminism is hard work. I always thought having a vagina would open up doors. Fuck, now we need a crowbar.”
Sammy begins her typical rant that Stefanie’s heard plenty of times before about how women shouldn’t be so dependent on their sex appeal, and more dependent on their intellect to get things accomplished.
“Persistence is key,” Sammy says, “in completing goals for the betterment of our kind. It’s all about posterity. Our struggle will pave the way, as long as other women put on respectable clothes and demand satisfaction! We want equality!”
“Sammy, I am sitting right next to you, scantily dressed.”
“And that’s why I’m saying this. Hopefully, you’ll catch on.”
“Well, feminism for me is doing whatever you want, and not being judged for it.”
They debate furthermore until the trolley arrives.
Sammy pays her fair, and takes a seat. The trolley driver is aroused by Stefanie’s attire, and tells her not to worry about the fair. Stefanie takes offence and demands to pay her fair share. She tells the trolley driver that just because she’s a women doesn’t mean she gets a free ride.
“This goes against everything I believe in.”
The trolley driver indignantly says, “Whatever” and continues his route.
“I hate men,” says Sammy. “The only thing they ever think about is sex. It’s disturbing.”
“Let’s focus on the primary problem at hand, Sammy. There’s men, and there’s Muslim men.”
“I’d rather fuck a bishop or a pastor. I’d even fuck a toothless Bosnian refugee before I’d defile myself with the likes of those misogynistic throw backs!”
“If you really wanna get back at them what you do is fuck them ‘literally’ and have an orgasm. It’s not only humiliating, but also the viliest form of disrespect a Muslim man could sustain.”
“Yuck! Give me fire, give me death, give me anything but that!”

I don’t wanna be fifty years old stuck on the couch, in dire need of a hip replacement by the time the revolution finally comes around. I’m ready now, but I’m still waiting for others to catch on to what I’m preaching. It’s looking grim at this point. I almost annihilated my dumb shit band mate. Fate intervened and kept us together, the stage is still mine to spread the message. Are they willing listen?
Stefanie showed up a few hours after the fiasco at Marco’s house. A leak in the roof began dripping onto the coffee table, ironically damaging the Koran. I phoned my landlord who said he’d be over as soon as he stops at the pharmacy to get a refill on his xanax.
Immediately after I hang up the phone, I take my aggression out on Stefanie’s vagina. I banged that pussy the fuck out. Then, I feed her my seed because she’s hungry, and she’s grateful. It worked. I felt the relief I needed.
I rarely talk about my dead end job, so it’s no wonder why Stefanie had to sit down and inquire about what it is I do for a living. It’s mundane, and it’s beneath me. I tell her I’m a part time cook at Rob’s Diner, and leave it at that. Then it dawned on me I never asked her what she does for a living. That’s when I get a knock on my door by my miserable landlord, who’s all fucked up on xanax.
He’s staggering around mumbling to himself, bitching and complaining. It’s always something he says. I agree with him, but there’s a price to pay if you wanna be a big shot. The title ‘landlord’ can be costly on the pocket, and damaging to hair. All the head an shoulders in the world isn’t gonna bring back his fading hairline.
“Mike, I’m a stripper.”
“Haha! That’s funny, Stefanie. A feminist stripper. No seriously, what do you do for a living?”
“Mike, I’m a fucking stripper! I work at G Spot, downtown. Please, don’t be mad at me. I only do it a couple days a week, and the money’s great for the amount of hours I put in.”
My landlord is licking his lips, asking what day’s she works. Stefanie picks up the soaking wet Koran, and hits him upside his head with it. He runs out the door spilling xanax everywhere. I pick up one of the fallen xanax, chew it up and process the news I’ve been told.
We come to an understanding and I happen to be fine with her choice of profession. She tells me feminism for her is doing whatever it is you choose, and not being judged for it. I can dig that. Plus I find to be flattering having a stripper girlfriend everyone wants to fuck, but only my penis is blessed with a ticket to ride.
The following day Stefanie says she can’t make it to my gig due to her work schedule. I tell her it’s probably for the best. We’re not the same band we were a year ago, and her not being there could save me the embarrassment which could very well follow.
So here I am on time like usual for our show and my band mates are nowhere in sight. Typical bullshit behavior. But I do happen to see Doug and Kimmy outside the venue giving me dirty looks. This is already turning out to be a wonderful day. I better go see what this is all about.
“What the fuck are you assholes doing here?”
“We’re here to ruin your piece of shit life, fucker!”
I punch Doug right in his big mouth, then I put him in a headlock and start swinging him around as I pound the fuck out of him. Domestic cars equipped with drunk drivers are beeping their horns, screaming at me to hit him again. Kimmy the greedy cunt starts punching me in the kidneys. I’m ready to drop when the new bouncer of Wilkies bar comes rushing out the front door. He kicks Kimmy directly in the cunt. She screams out like someone gave her a death blow. Doug and I stop fighting, and instead focus on the agony Kimmy is going through. She’s  sprawled out on the ground weeping. Her face is blue, projectile vomit is spewing from her mouth onto the warm concrete. I can’t help but marvel at this lovely sight. Some asshole drives by and screams out his window, Manic Mike is a fucking fag! That’s when the bouncer does the same exact thing to Doug. It’s a replica of what just happened. I snap out of my fixation to explain to him that I’m the victim here and that I’m also the lead singer of Manic Mike & The Mood Stabilizers. The bouncer swiftly brings me in the bar and demands an autograph. I feel famous!
Now I’m shooting the shit with Bobby the bouncer, taking shots of bourbon and cracking Jewish jokes when my fuck up band mates finally appear.
I jump off my bar stole with clenched fists, approach the slackers and say, “What the fuck is the problem with you assholes? We’re going on in ten fucking minutes! Am I expecting too much from my own band mates or what?”
“Dude, chill. We’re here, bro.”
“Don’t you tell me to fucking chill! I’m sick of this shit! The only thing you fuckers take seriously is online gaming! The revolution waits for no one!”
“Mike, I’m not gonna take this verbal abuse from you!”
That’s when open hand smack, Paul, right in his delusional mouth. The entire bar becomes silent until Bobby the bouncer busts ass. Paul looks like he’s about to cry. Marco looks like he’s expecting to be next. I tell them with rage in my eyes to go set up if they know what’s good for them. They follow their orders, and I take one more shot of bourbon.
By the time we’re set up and ready to play, the bar is cram packed with punk rock guy’s and scantily dressed sluts. I’ve never played for an audience of this proportion. I’m feeling nervous for the first time in years. I look down at my feet only to see a giant water bug run across the stage. Great. Time to face my phobia and conquer this estranged case of stage fright all in a single serving. Neither of my band mates appear to be happy or enthusiastic. I’ll make it up to them later. I promise.
We start off the set with our hit song ‘Sluts In Dormont’. Who would’ve thought three out of tune chords could make such an impact. I look out at the mostly female audience and I’m greeted with tits. I’m singing the song with a hard on. The audience is singing right along with me. Marco’s missing beats, and Paul’s missing notes. I know for a fact we’ve sounded better in the past. It’s a good thing the audience doesn’t seem to notice or care.
Next song on the set list is ‘Be Yourself’. I wrote this song for all the self loathing white people who’ve adopted ghetto culture as their own in the hopes of being cool. It’s a vile trend I hope to destroy through punk rock music and uplifting rhetoric. By the time I get to the chorus there’s a small circle pit forming.  Bouncing titties, tattoos and tight asses are displayed in front of me. What more could I ask?
We play track after track. Half naked women tell me they love. Pink and blue panties are covering the stage, some cute punk rock girl with pierced nipples is threatening to suck my dick. I’d love to focus on all this positive attention, but I’ve never heard my band mates play this bad before. I’ve had enough of this shit. I didn’t come here to play a gig and be agitated the entire time.
Our last song to ever be played live is ‘Pittsburgh Pride’. The crowd doesn’t seem to be as enthusiastic as they were a couple songs ago, and I can’t blame them. These worthless assholes are fucking up every single song. I put down my guitar towards the middle of the track, walk over to Paul and throw him into the drum set. The crowd goes wild screaming for more. Paul’s face down on the floor holding his rib cage, at one with the roaches where he rightfully belongs. Marco’s motherfucking me. I pick up my guitar and swing it at Marco, knocking him right back into his drum set. That’s when I announce to the audience, Manic Mike & The Mood Stabilizers are no more. Now I have Bobby the bouncer to contend with.
I’m getting the fuck beat out of me and permanently expelled from Wilkies bar as Stefanie’s shaking her little pussy around, earning more money in one night than I’d earn all week. It’s a good thing to, cause I’m gonna need some serious grass after this beating.
Breaking my band up was the best thing that ever happened to me. I feel cleansed, stress free, emancipated. The following week I told my manager to go fuck his mother. Stefanie doesn’t mind being the bread winner. She only work eight day’s out of the month and it’s more than enough to sustain our modest lifestyle.
After this final goal, Stefanie and I are retiring from a life of revolutionary resolve.
We’re dressed in all black. I have two gallons of gas, and Stefanie has a dozen empty bottles along with an old black flag tee shirt. Together we scope out the mosque until the time is right. It’s now four in the morning, and nobody is awake. We fornicate in the back of the mosque, I fire the cum of an infidel all over the fascist house of suppression. We use team work to cum, we use team work to burn this fucker down. We’re like lucifer, the bringer of light. Welcome to America, motherfucker! The home of the brave have set you free.


Arturo Desimone

April 30, 2016

  Arturo Desimone was born and raised on the island Aruba in the Caribbean to a family of Argentinian and Polish-Russian immigrant origins. He is currently based between the Netherlands and Argentina. His poems and short fiction have appeared in Hamilton Stone Review, Unlikely Stories, Drunken Boat #22 (, the Acentos Review, New Orleans Review, […]

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April 29, 2016

HST Catches up with Stay True for a quick interview between painting galv’s naked and running from the law –     HST: You have a very committed yet dynamic long term relationship with bunny, how long have you guys been together? ST:  B and I have been together for four years. We have […]

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Alex Raddon

April 28, 2016

Alex Raddon is a masochistic kid who creates shit occasionally. Some of said shit will go here. Thankyou.  —   “Fistfulls”   He watches me His eyes travel over my body Every inch met Every curve studied It should be flattering, I guess Except he does this to every woman he meets (Including my mother) […]

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Arthur Graham ~ Cracker-Ass Honky Blues

April 27, 2016

Cracker-Ass Honky Blues ~  IS OUT NOW   Arthur Graham returns with yet another chapbook of shorts and miscellany, this one featuring a nude photo of him taken while really drunk on its cover.This book is not for sale on Amazon, nor is it available for purchase from anywhere else besides the […]

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