FTMISSUE 3

Free the Marquee was realized by observing an absence of a strong sense of community in the local art culture. Free the Marquee will make the undiscovered accessible in the hopes of tapping into the vein of San Diego. This goal will manifest itself through a blend of music, stories, paintings, photography, poetry, and any other form of art you can imagine... All broadcasted through the convenience of magazines, social media, video broadcasting, and organized events.

Contact us at freethemarquee@gmail.com

ISSUE 3SPRING 2014

FRONT COVER: WolfstacheBACK COVER: AJ RomeroBACK INSIDE SPREAD: Yvette DibosDRAWINGS (EXCEPT SALLY): Caitlin Petersen

Wolfstache is a mixed media artist whose work addresses severe themes like isolation, loss and nostalgia with undercurrents of humor and wit. While living and attending school in Los Angeles, he worked for pho-tographer/artist David LaChapelle while being mentored by British collage artist Graham Moore. After attending a design course at the Royal College of Art in London, Wolfstache returned to San Diego to graduate from San Diego State with honors and distinction earning a degree in Multimedia where he now works in advertising developing brands and doing commission work.

Andrew McGranahan is a Graphic Artist based in Northern California. Working primarily in the medium of collage (both analogue and digi-tal) and illustration, his works range from lush, neo-futuristic scenes to minimal surrealist art pieces. As well as designing numerous show posters and album covers, his work has been featured on Collage Collective Co., on the cover of Tape Op Magazine and on the Photography & Fine Art website Mammoth & Company, where prints of selected works are also available.

Katie Howard: The role of an artist is to offer people an escape, assistance in retreating into their imagination. I like to use collage to create surreal-istic visuals.

A BIG THANKS to our collage artists:

A LOOK INSIDE:

Recently at the moustache bar in Tijuana some friends and I saw local bands PL DVNA and Perihelios open for Mexico City-based Todd Clouser and A Love Electric. While we were there we drank beer, and after the show we ate tacos. I was fulfilled.

The beer was Negra Modelo on tap, served in litre-ish paper cups—very refreshing. The first band to play was PL DVNA (‘Piel Divina’), a five-piecer minimalist psychedelic rock outfit who assaulted the audience with a wall of sound for about 45 minutes. The spacey vibes the group put out made me wish that I had taken some LSD so that I could properly take it all in, but later happenings would prove my choice of abstaining to be prudent. (Just kidding, it was a super-chill night.)

Perihelios came on a bit after PL DVNA finished and had a great set. Even though the bands share a keys/synth player, Perihelios’ sound is

quite different—more simple and compact, yet with complex movements flirting with symphonic depths. Watch for their EP coming out at the end of May (see facebook for details). While you’re there, surf around and check out the myriad projects interwoven with Perihelios, PL DVNA, and their members.

Todd Clouser and his two expatriate buddies finished up the show with a style very distinct from the opening acts. Hard bluesy riffs with a driving tempo and poetic lyrics (in English, which was merciful to the tragically monolingual such as myself) got the crowd riled up and really movin’, which was great. . . until after the music stopped and the Man swept through the starry courtyard and cleared it.

But I hold no grudge, for that was when our meandering party stumbled upon the humble taco cart, whose scent had burned in our collective memory since the last trip south. . . Fulfillment.

2/28/14:

On the way down to The Griffin Friday night, we speculated about the future of that bar, feeling pessimistic about the prospects for local bands to keep playing in the area. It was the first I’d heard about the bar changing hands and the rumored “restructuring.” The loss of any such accessible venue would be a blow for San Diego musicians and fans alike, due to the sparseness of such places here.

As we walked inside, my thoughts were drawn back from the future by more pressing matters—namely, the music we were there to see. The show was put on by the City Beat as an accompaniment to their

annual Local Music Issue. I was surprised to hear electronic dance music, but more surprised that I didn’t make a sour face and head for the back of the bar. We Are Sirens, who bill themselves as “electro-alternative,” had a sound I could dig, lacing guitar through the typical synth sounds and drum kit background. Some of the novelty wore off when I saw that their guitarist was only present through a computer, but for someone who normally doesn’t go for that type of music, the set was still enjoyable.

The next “local music” group was Idyll Wild who, as I managed to dig up though intensive research, are from Idyllwild, CA. Their complex, droning psychedelic sound was welcome after the relatively tedious com-bination of singer/DJ plus drums duo. Idyll Wild utilizes the synthesizer as well, but in a much subtler way that intertwines with the other four parts. Plus it shares time with the keyboard and guitar in the hands of Jade Martz. [Ed.: If you’re looking for something to do with your old tape deck, pick up Smolk & Bones at one of their frequent San Diego shows and shove that in there.]

Playing third was Ed Ghost Tucker, the only band of the night that had a mention in the Local Music Issue. In fact, they got more than a mention: a full-page interview that was both more schmoozy and less boozy than the one featured in Vol I of this publication. Back around the Vol I days, I was seeing those guys a lot, but since that time they seem to have made a quantum leap in their portfolio. They played quite a few new songs, and some familiar tunes made unfamiliar (in a good way). Their new sound was a little more nuanced, as well as extremely coherent. They were a perfect bridge between Idyll Wild and Heavy Guilt, providing the connection between spacey psychedelica and simpler folksy soul.

As the night got older, the crowd got smaller and the music got better. San Diego is weird. Heavy Guilt was awesome. I had never seen them before. . . . I was drunk then and I’m drunk now . —definitely check them out if you get the chance. Soundcloud Bandcamp whatever you know the drill; pick your poison. That goes for everyone.

After the bands played I asked the bartender about the ownership-change rumors. She confirmed the bar’s changing hands, but she said that is all

that is changing. So that’s cool. Am I done with this article yet? Jesus!

My first local music-going experiences in early high school were at Ground Zero in Rancho San Diego, a crucial epicenter for me and many of my kin out in desolate East County. Like every teenager, I thought I was a particularly unique individual, who had a peculiar and rich taste in music, and I would stick my nose up at anything I felt subpar. And even then, I seldom saw bands that struck me as having a finger on the pulse of their times and surroundings. With the exception of stand-out bands from that time and place like Pistolita, Get Back Loretta, and Scarlet Symphony, I can’t recall the usual acts. Not many of them seemed memorable... But some music and performances just won’t leave you, no matter how much time passes.

Kera and the Lesbians are one of those gems. They are so raw and genuine; K&L don’t just convince you they’re the real thing, they turn you upside down and shake you for lunch money first, and when you end up face first in a trash can, you’ll know they’re the real thing.

Kera and the Lesbians, an eclectic punky, folky, gypsy band hailing from San Diego currently reside in Los Angeles, though they still have a soft spot for SD. They’ve been playing the Southern California circuit for several years and have gained the rep as a solid act in both San Diego and Los Angeles. Since moving to LA, they picked up a residency at the Echo, a venue located on the Sunset Strip. They also released a new album called Year 23, recorded by Wyatt Blair at Lolipop Records in Los Angeles.

Alex: Kera and the Lesbians have been around for a few years, Kera was 18 when the band formed. At that age, do you feel you were still coming into your own? Do you feel the band has grown with you?

K&L: I hear past recordings, and I definitely feel I have become a better

Year 23 album cover

singer and the band has gotten tighter. Each member has evolved and only gotten better, and has been able to create a character/voice. I have such a talented group of gentlemen that I consider myself lucky to play with.

Alex: Quick! What’s your fondest memory of a gig in the past year or so?

K&L: We were playing Echo Park Rising this past year, and this time it was going to be at The Echo. It was our first time playing there, and we were receiving a lot of hype from it. At the time, Mikey and Phil lived in SD and were driving up for the show. The 405 was shut down, and it took Michael four hours to get to LA. He almost didn’t make the show, and by the time it was the third song, we accepted our fate. Who shows up right then? MIKEY! Best show ever and great, receptive audience.

Alex: Kera and the Lesbians have a great backwoodsy sound that’s mashed in with this Iggy Pop thing. I don’t know whether to light up a corncob pipe on the back porch or to destroy something. How do you think your style came about?

K&L: I am just a vessel that music comes from. I can’t tell you where it originates, but I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Alex: Do you feel now that the band has some years under the belt that you have become a tighter group, maybe even like a family?

K&L: We are the best of buds! We’ve had to let members go in the past because of their negativity, and have been lucky to have Eamon and Brandon join us on stage. Michael and Phil are two of my best buddies in the whole wide world and I look forward to each moment we get to play music or just hang out. I can’t wait for tour when we all get to be together again for a long span of time!

Alex: What should everyone in San Diego know about Kera and the Lesbians right now? What’s new with the band?

K&L: We haven’t forgot about SD and always enjoy playing there. Listen to the new EP “YEAR 23!”

Alex: What should we expect from you in the future?

K&L: I don’t like to ruin any surprises, but I will say we are on the rise for greater things. Stay Tuned! Expect nothing and we will surprise you!

Image taken from

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It took a while to find Dolan Stearns. I discovered his portrait illustrations featuring his signature style; surrealistic details such as multiple facial features and mountains for foreheads. He laughed and asked me how long it took me to figure out his real name. Dolan was born in Lake Elsinore and originally gained an audience because of his skateboarding ca-reer, as a 21 year old sponsored by Brixton and Lurkville Skateboards. For such a young cutie this guy is doing well, and can only get better with his work having so much street cred as an artist and skater. He was included in two of the most exciting shows San Diego held in 2013. Warehouse shows: Parachute Factory and Warehouse 1425. Both featured local mural artists taking over warehouse walls and attracting hundreds of viewers lining the blocks to get in. I emailed Dolan two times with questions about his work and with every reply I was excited. His first reaction to reading my emails of admiration was, “Super rad lets do it,” Adorable. Unlike other dead end inquiries I have sent to artist and musicians to interview, it’s rare to find a sweet reply. When I asked Dolan how it feels to be friend and assistant of two years to contemporary artist, associated with RVCA, and com-

plete hottie, Kelsey Brookes; he simply replied that he was lucky to be his friend, that he is a really genius human being, and that he enjoys painting stuff for him. In all my curiosity of what he may have learned from assisting such a pres-tigious artist, I giggled when the only insight I got was;” I learned a lot of gallery stuff and stuff.” Recently I have been diggin the stick and poke tattoos that Dolan has been doing around town. He began tattooing with a traditional gun, but was introduced to stick and pokes from a friend in San Francisco two years ago and has been practicing ever since. Something about the process was more romantic he says, and he has become more serious about it. His stick and poke tattoos are extreme-ly detailed and identical to his illus-trations which I find impressive. I’m excited to see what Stearns has for the world in his upcoming years of artistry.

Check it out on Instagram: Sorry_Entertainer

It had just occurred to Jim that I might be a cop. An

undercover. That or some punk, some city brat with lousy friends

and a downright stupid concept of a worthwhile Saturday night.

Either way I was a stranger. An outsider. One of Them.

“Tell you what, boy. Person’s gotta be a real fool to come lookin’ for trouble around here,” said Jim, great white mustachioed Jim with boots on table, sparking a cigarette in the dark.

It was well past sunset and the big-head figurine of Hank Williams Jr. – free born man! - was barely visible on the shelf behind

Jim’s smoking silhouette, forever trapped between verses of corn-pone wisdom which never would be uttered from that foot-tall polypropylene caricature.

That was the first thing I’d noticed in there hours earlier when I’d wandered in off of Highway 94 - that giant Hank Williams Jr. head. I had bicycled out to Potrero beneath a brutal midday sun, twenty-some miles east of Jamul with a substantial elevation gain, and in my exhaustion the Head had assumed a surreal personage.

Within that roadside storage shed supplying the only general store in town, amongst the sacks of goat feed and hay pellets, bulk dog chow and surplus plastic pirate swords, the Head seemed elevated - a resident elite. Somehow…in charge of things.

The Head called the shots - nay, was God!

The Head had leered from behind black lenses the moment I walked in and struck up conversation with Jim. The Head had indulged me patiently, cool-as-you-please, as I told of my encounter with what appeared to be a meth-addled redneck down the street who had found my tent beneath an oak tree in the bed of Potrero creek and roosted me out with loud promises of shotguns and shackles.

The Head had observed me with a smug certainty – country boy can survive! – while Jim recounted the Harris fire of ’07 which destroyed at least 1,500 homes, burned over 500,000 acres of land, and forced the evacuation of over a million San Diego residents – the largest evacuation in American history.

“My mother-in-law’s was the first place to go,” said Jim. “Fire started right up the road. They told us to evacuate, but boy, you can bet we stayed right here and fought that thing. None of these buildings would be here today if we didn’t.”

He studied my reaction for a moment and continued.

“This is the country, boy – God’s country! – and out here we got to take matters into our own hands. The fire department was busy fighting

outside fronts. We had nobody to rely on, and that was just fine. We stood right here, flames bigger ‘an you ever seen, boy, keeping down them hot spots and keeping an eye on that wind.”

But his pride quickly shifted to resentment when I asked about how the whole thing had started in the first place.

“Officially, the source is unknown. But, boy, everyone here knows that fire was started by them illegals up on the hill, cooking some damn thing and not tending to their fire.”

Jim’s thoughts went far-off for a moment.

“Damn shame,” he said finally, voice lower now. “Damn shame.”

I switched the subject, then, to other things. We smoked a few more cigarettes. Jim’s nephew brought us each a plate of fish and rice and we ate in the dark of the shed while Jim’s pit bull pretended not to be completely obsessed with the desire to devour everything.

They were good people, this family operating the only store in a town of maybe a thousand residents. I could see that they were strong, capable people, who worked on their own terms and took care of their own, who weren’t so keen on the idea of taking any sort of flack from anybody, whose biggest problem was always one of Them, someone from Out There, some stranger who goes to cook a can of grub one night and ends up burning down half the county, or a state undercover who parks in a beat-up mini-van by the post office and just waits for one of the locals to do something weird. They didn’t need that. That’s why they were out here, in Potrero, really nowhere, for that exact reason.

To get away from things like that.

Jim considered these things as we ate - how you can always try to get away from that mess, all that mess that nobody needs, really, but it doesn’t matter how far you go, how bad you just want to be left in peace, that stranger outsider not-us-but-Them mess creeps right on in anyway and before you know it that mess’s sitting down in your shed eating a plate of fish and rice - your fish and rice! – and making dumb doggie talk

to your monster pit bull who would rip that kid’s face off at one word and…

The Head looked on disapprovingly.

His countenance betrayed a different mood, now, a decisive severity, as Jim outlined the community’s sentiments towards trouble makers. Outsiders. The Head scrutinized my reaction, his immortal lenses – saying, be careful about the stones you throw, boy! - penetrating to the very core of me.

Sweet Lord, I realized. This giant synthetic Hank Williams Jr. God head object is judging me!

“You got a hell of a place out here Jim,” I said, both honestly and out of the desire to appease my plastic persecutor. “And it’s obvious you guys don’t need to be bothered by people who don’t call this place home. I’d better be finding a place to camp now. Thanks for the talk and the grub.”

There was a long silence. Jim looked at me. Hank looked at me. The dog looked at the empty plate in my hand.

“Ya know what, boy? Don’t you bother about that. Out here we believe in helping people. We got an extra trailer you can sleep in for the night if you want. You’re welcome to it.”

I was shocked. What had happened? Was there a tear in ole Hank’s beer? Had I passed?

It was a genuinely kind gesture and I thanked Jim for it. I was, after all, one of Them. The outsiders. That heck of a mess.

“Don’t you worry, boy,” Jim responded as he put out the night’s last cigarette. “Did I forgot to mention? This here, this is God’s country.”

1

It was hard to tell if Sally’s hair was blond or white she kept it so short. Picture a round little face and round little bottom, pale-blue eyes and skin like vanilla ice cream with a fire-engine red slash for a mouth and you have Sally.

Sally’s lips challenged you to ignore their invitation and walk away. It’s like those African women who stretch their lips and put plates in them. They’re beautiful to young men of the tribe looking for a wife.

Not that Sally was a slut. Don’t get that idea, because she was nice and sweet as a barmaid could be in a roadhouse full of rednecks, wetbacks, and air force rejects. She brought us drinks, she was one of us, we appreciated her. Especially the Mexicans. Because she’d let them sleep on the floor at her place when they got drunk.

One night two big dudes walk in like they own the joint and get a couple beers at the bar. The shorter man is wearing a cowboy hat that made him look taller. Maybe a Stetson.

2

Everything goes along fine for a while. Then the taller guy wearing a camouflage shirt with the sleeves ripped off so you could see his prison tats grabs Sally’s wrist, not letting go. He says she can use those lips on him for something other than a smile. Said it loud. The room got quiet. The Big Tough Guy drags Sally to the door, yanking her hard.

Uncle Dan the bartender pipes up, “That’s six bucks for the beer, pal. Leave the money on the bar, take your hands off the waitress, and get outta here.”

Big Tough Guy sneers. “I don’t pay for women or beer.” He drags Sally out to the parking lot.

I was sitting by the window watching. Before I got riled up enough to make a move the Mexicans spill out the door right behind the guy. He glares at the posse, snorts and throws a body block knocking half of them down. The Stetson guy hangs back. Big Tough Guy gets up and throws another sideways block. But this time the Mexicans grab him before he can get up. They drag him into the shadow of an old oak tree.

Now I don’t know if you ever heard anything about dirty Mexicans, but if you have you can forget it. Mexicans are clean. They dress neat. They like clean white shirts and polished black pointy-toed shoes. Always black. Always pointy-toed.

3

I’m watching the Stetson guy slink around the corner in the dark. Ten little Mexicans are kicking Big Tough Guy in the gut. When he stops squirming the Mexicans drift away like smoke in the wind. Big Tough Guy lies there for a few minutes until an ambulance wheels in. He stands and tries to walk, but collapses like a load of bricks. He dies that night.

Gary Winters is the author of the multicultural novel The Deer Dancer, winner of four awards. It is in the San Diego County Library catalog. Drawings by: Katie Howard

Two men sit. An older man and the Other, younger. Now they speak. They speak because one is dying and the Other is not. When the Other walks in, the Elder has lost color. And saliva eases its way down the side of his mouth like a dog at rest. It will dry up soon and whiten the outlining of his jaw. The Elder won’t notice, until the Other wipes his face with cloth. And in between breaths you could hear the murmurs of lost words, thank you. And points to his upper lip.

What is it? Asks the Younger.

The Elder points to where a moustache used to be. The Other knew what had happened. Before the Elder had been confounded to the bed, he said that when death came, he would like to keep facial hair. But the women from hospice didn’t know this, so they shaved him clean. And before too long he would pass. And there was no comfort for the Elder.

It’ll grow back, don’t worry. You’ve still got time for it to grow back. You just have to make sure they don’t try to shave it off again.

The Elder remained quiet.

But they both knew that there was little time. They knew because amongst friends, certain things go unspoken. One of those being death. And while they were of different age, both left death to sit and rot beside them. And their mortality sat festering like an open wound. But still it had gone unspoken. This deafening silence, like that of a gray wind, whose touch was dry. But this time was different, because now this hush had croaked and sat groaning in to the face of an elder, and another. It no longer spoke to those of acquaintance, or distance, but of themselves. So they choose to speak of it. And with these words came echos of tears gone unspilt. All flooding drip by drip formulating into words.

            Are you afraid of it? The Elder’s eyes remained shut.

            It’s not death I fear, its dying. 

            So why is it you close your eyes?

            Because, I don’t want to see anymore. If I don’t see it, maybe it won’t see me. I don’t want to go.

We were young, but now things change. Now, open your eyes, or you’ll leave with regret.

This isn’t how I choose.

But it’s not for us to choose.

The Other reached for the Elder’s hand. Men find comfort in their lives by saying they have no regrets. But the Elder was different. He didn’t shy. And he knew he feared death. He was man in its most simplistic, most innately disposed form. But he must leave now. The man nodded his head: No, I will not leave this way.

This is the only way.

I want you to take me. Or I’ll  take myself.

Do you know who I am? The Elder sat quiet.

I’m nothing, I’m not enough to take you, and I can’t prevent it.

But you’re here. You’re with me.

The Elder would die with his clothes on. He would rest in the same house that both his parents and grandparents left. He took some pride in this. An unworldly connection shot out through the generations reminding him of what hope was like. He had lost faith for no reason and it was on this day where he wished once more for his naivety. For his friends and youth. And he wanted to cry, but there was no strength left in his body. So instead his face shriveled with silent madness.  And breath now, heavier. But there was nobody to pity on him, and the Elder felt more alone more then ever. He thought that maybe it would happen now. Waiting, and silence, but no. It was not to be. He could feel the Other sitting beside.

I never cried, really ever, until these last years.

Really?

Seeing everyone I love vanish, to nothing right before my eyes, and hands. When I was a boy I knew this. So I wanted to die as a child on my seventh birthday. And again when I was twelve. Because I didn’t want

to lose my mother or father.

What do you want now?

If you had asked me this question a year ago, I would have asked to leave then. Because I didn’t want Lynn to leave me.

What about today?

Today is different. I don’t want to leave. And I don’t want my feet to not touch the ground. I don’t want just me.

What do you want?

If it is not my choice to live, then I want rope.

The Elder then felt pity for himself. His mother would be disap-pointed with these words. How a man of age could want this now was beyond both himself and her. Quiet came over now, and both hesitated to speak. But an unspoken compromise was made, and out shot the ghouls of ancient burials unrecognized and tradition unkept. Now he knew fate was no more, and the Elder prayed forgiveness. And now he prayed to himself. Because the universe was him, and good and bad was himself. Within rope the Elder became God, and lashed his own back. So if he were to awake, by himself almighty he would lash once more.  And for what? he would say, because to loath was to lash, and to lash was to love. This Elder loved nothing more now.

Would you like it to happen now?

No, not yet. Not until I’m ready.

Are you comfortable?

No.

Would you like something?

He nodded, no.

Even though I don’t believe in heaven, I feel I will see Lynn again.

Well then it will happen.

She left me, and I need her. And I’m alone. I don’t know why, but I know we’ll meet. Maybe it won’t be in heaven. Maybe I’ll just wake up and see her.

So he thought of seeing her again. But her face would not come. He imagined waking up to her, but it was something else. A face, but not hers. He was incompetent of even thought now. The harder he tried to bring her face back the more she was lost. His history was nothing now.He could find no references. Nothing came back to him, no songs, or memories, or feelings. Inside of his mind, only death sat. Slowly tearing the walls away from within. Until the jeers of isolation slowly made their way out the hallow wound of mind. He heard nothing. Faces and places, drowning and laying flat upon one another. Everything is unrecognizable.

  Now he has turned. The Elder will die soon, now he will pray. Or he’ll speak to something that he doesn’t know. He’s spoke to this on cer-tain occasions. Once when he was eight, and flew on a plane for the first time. Another, when Lynn died. This time, the last. He clasped his hands, in a way that felt foreign.

I don’t believe in you, but please let it be quick. I hope I don’t feel anything. And I hope that I wake up. Because if I don’t…. I don’t know. Maybe it’s like waking up. And I’ll open my eyes again and I’ll be some-thing else. Or maybe it’ll restart, and I wont remember a thing.

His head turned.

You know, I have to tell you something. The Other faced him.

 I thought I would know more by now. My children would look to me as though I were, something, something more then I really am. They forget that I’m dying, that they’re better then me. Would you mind grabbing me a towel, so I can wash.

The Other stood, and walked to a cabinet where white clothes would be, and he dampened it with cool water. It was too cool, because when it touched the neck of the Elder, he shivered. But he said nothing. Arms, legs, and face now clean.

Thank you.

  What’s wrong with wanting to live?

Nothing, but everyone has their time.

But if living is what I want, why shouldn’t I get it?

He pointed to the closet, where a stepladder was. He motioned for it. So now he would die. The stepladder was near him, and when it was firmly planted up against the side of his bed, the Elders eyes opened.  His face, shining bright with hopes of a future, and a past that never was. And when touch reached out to it’s metallic goodness, both the Elder and the ladder felt cold. A silent humming buzzed just around the corner of the elder’s ears. Singing sweet praise, lullabies of youth. He gripped it.

How would you like this to be done? The Younger asked.

Rip these from me, and tighten a noose, he said as he motioned his arms in a clinching fashion that was both intentional and reserved. The Other took the strange wires from the elders arms, so that now he was to himself. A makeshift noose was tied, and the Elder hung his head. It slipped on with an uncomfortable ease. As though the rope had known it all along, that no life was too precious to be given the liberty of a death whose arrival was that of mutual concession. And upon the crowning of neck, the Elder felt a weight that stiffened every fiber, muscle, thought. The loop rung him. Its subtlety pierced him.

His arms planted against the rests of the light-blue and white sheet covered womb, and with some assistance he climbed onto the second from- the -top step. The Other tossed the opposite end of the wire over a light fixture that blinded him during the night.

You’ll need to take a step up. There’s very little slack.

Turn away after I do.

The Elder took a step up to the top. Looking out, he thought of the careful strokes that comforted his shoulder in times of want. Maybe he would feel touch once again.

The Elder looked down.

Now, the Other said, you Fall.

Quentin was a fine hunter and an even better taxidermist at that. He had killed and stuffed over a hundred animals and now he felt like he could finally take a moment to sit back and admire his work. Quentin kicked his feet up onto his desk. “Ahhh... My little franken-critters! How are we this evening?” he

said to the room of marble eyes. The animals stared back but said

nothing. One of the gators appeared particularly bemused. “My, my,

MY-- aren’t you some sexy critters!” said Quentin, as

he gently stroked the squirrel sitting on his desk.

The sun had recently set and the barn was almost

completely dark except for the candlelit chande-lier made of deer antlers,

which hung above the foy-er. Quentin picked up the

squirrel and ran his beard over its wiry tail; back and forth,

back and forth. “Mmmmmmm...”

hummed Quentin. Still holding the squirrel with his left

hand, he reached for

the fly of his Carthartts with his right. The marble eyes gazed on. “What’s that, Squirrel?,” said Quentin. “You like the taste of nuts, now do yeh, boy? Well ta’days yer lucky day ‘cause I’ve got a big ol’ heap-a-nuts for you!” The marble eyes watched as the taxidermist vigorously rubbed the rodent over his testicles; back and forth, back and forth. Across the room, the gator’s teeth glinted.

When Quentin had finished satisfying himself, he immediately dozed off without cleaning up his mess. And when he awoke from his slumber he was still in his desk chair, legs up on the desk. But when he tried to move, he couldn’t, for his arms were tied behind his back. Quen-tin looked up to find the squirrel he had sodomized standing before him, alive and well. “Surely, I must be dreaming...” Quentin mumbled. “G’mornin’, squirrel fucker!” said the squirrel, as he dove for the man’s testicles. “AAAAaaaaAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” shrieked Quentin, as he toppled backwards over in his chair. “You were right, ya ol’ hillbilly-- I do like nuts!” cackled the squir-rel, jumping off Quentin’s lap and onto the floor. Blood oozed from Quentin’s ballsack. He looked at his upside down surroundings and saw that the room of marble eyes was no more. Instead, what hovered over him was a pack of menacing franken-critters, all growling and hissing and snarling with hate. “What do you want from me!?!” cried Quentin. But he already knew what they wanted. And there was nothing else that could be done. “Oh God!” Quentin could feel the urine escape him. Still, the ani-mals advanced. The alligator smiled. Even the deer with the solemn eyes looked pleased. Quentin continued to shriek. “Please! Don’t hurt me!” he cried. “Hurt you? We’re not going to hurt you,” said the squirrel, glanc-ing around at his furry friends. “We’re going to make you sexy, like us” the squirrel assured, nod-ding to the alligator. And with that, the alligator leapt up and severed the man’s head.

What The ­ FUCK?

Now for the fun category, although I am a bit partial for making fun of pretty durnk bitches, now we can look into the first date. {is a server it is painstakingly hi—