Crazytown

GOING FOR SLASH - PART III

Anello DeVolta's further adventures through time, alternate universes, and an ever-changing doomsday. 
By David Cocco (Writer)

Anello waited in the rusty station wagon for Lengua to show himself. The file had a layout of his schedule, as well as usual hangouts. Anello usually tried to keep his time to twelve hours. He had already burned two of them driving from western Massachusetts to an alley in Cambridge. Wilson Lengua was on his way down from the lab to buy more Sour Patch Kids from the 711.

The picture in his file showed a prim young man. He looked like a future business leader of America, from back when that was a thing. The bleary-eyed fool Anello saw now was a disheveled mess of cow-licked hair and wrinkled clothes with high fructose corn syrup and aspartame in his veins. It was almost like he was putting him out of his misery. Anello was thankful for that.

While the dead man walked into the store and selected his last meal, Anello got into position. He was dressed in rags and looked about like your average vagrant. He heard a bell clatter against the doorframe and watched Lengua walk out of the store, making his way past the mouth of the alley as Anello waited in darkness. He raised his pistol and put two shells behind the young programmer’s ear. Anello did Lengua the favor of killing him after he had a chance to eat one of his gummies. He felt that was important.

He dragged the lifeless body into the dark of the alley. He rifled through his pockets and took the cash out of the young man’s wallet, even though the last 4 times he returned to 2152 cash was useless. Still, it was important to uphold the fantasy. No time-traveling assassin here, just a robbery gone wrong…

 

GOING FOR SLASH - PART II

Anello DeVolta's further adventures through time, alternate universes, and an ever-changing doomsday. 
By David Cocco

Anello stepped into the briefing room and found McKresky seated at the table.

“Sir.” Anello saluted McKresky.

He returned the salute. “At ease, boyo.” He shook Anello’s hand. “Good work on that last one.”

“Nothing to it, sir.”

“Well I’m glad you don’t think so. Going for slash on the next one, eh?”

“It’s a big day.”

“You got that right. I’ll be honest, Volt, this’ll be your hardest job yet.”

“Where to this time?”

“You’re to be deployed to 2038. This is wet work.” McKresky handed the file to Anello. “Tough one. Two targets. The first is Russell Stevens, head of Willowbrook Security. The second is Wilson Lengua, a programmer in the Health and Science Tech branch of MIT”

“What do they have to do with this shit show?” asked Anello.

A LOSS OF INNOCENCE

How not to teach your children about genitals.
By David Cocco (Writer)

Not many people know this, but I was something of a child prodigy. I was born to make great art. Even as a child of 5, I was influenced by the Renaissance masters, Michelangelo, Botticelli, the like. Perhaps this led to one of my most influential pieces. It was a picture I drew of my family, my mother, father, sister, and myself. The proportions weren't quite right, we were just circles with legs and arms and vaguely representative hairstyles... but there was something there... a certain je ne sais quoi. Wait, sorry. I know what it was.

Dicks.

I drew my entire family with dicks. I left out the necks, the torsos, all that other stuff. We were meatballs with dicks. My teacher called my family, concerned and slightly incredulous.

My mom and dad sat me down and, I presume, asked me what I was thinking. I'm sure I was invoking imagery from the Birth of Venus or something, but great art is never understood in its time. Later someone pointed out the flaw in my masterpiece.

My Inspiration

 

"Not everyone has a penis," they told me.

To which I responded, "say no more! There's no chance this will lead to a further embarrassing misunderstanding." Clearly I was one of the chosen few born with a penis. I didn't know what that meant, what kind of mystical power it held, but I figured I would find out one day.

 

ON FAILURE

Let's talk about fucking up.
By David Cocco (Writer)

You may have seen my last couple of posts up here detailing my journey through Hell. Believe it or not, I had a really great story line in my head. The whole thing was going to be a serialized Odyssey through the Nether-realm that was going to leave people laughing, then crying, then laughing again. Then something happened; something very familiar. I lost my nerve. The plot points, the character, all of it started to lose focus from this perfectly formed idea. That's because ideas are the only things in this world that are perfect. Once you start bringing your hands into the equation, it's curtains.

I, for one, am great at ideas and not so much on follow-through. I've wrestled with plot points before. I've won and lost, but you people (you, lovely reader, sitting there in your nice shirt) deserve more than watching me flounder around in a story for the next 5 weeks in the hopes that it works out well. So instead, you get this, a lesson in failure.

Failure is probably the most important subject I know about. Yes, even more important than my thoughts on the Lethal Weapon franchise^[1] or who makes the best fast-food chicken sandwich^[2]. I'm well-acquainted with failure, or at least the feeling of it. I've crawled into failure like a tauntaun and sniffed its wreaking insides. Even though it was awful, it's helped me survive in the long run. So here it is, the four things I know about failure.

It's okay, accept your shortcomings

 

PRIVATE HELL, PART II: MY DESCRIPTIVE SKILLS AT WORK

My 9-5 grind in the Nether-realm.
By David Cocco (Writer)

I don't know how long I've been staring at the screen. The office strobe lights makes it impossible to get this work done. When I was first placed here I made a complaint about it to HR, just to see what I was dealing with. I was made to fill out a formal complaint spelling out my issues in detail, filled out in triplicate. After waiting for my union delegate to get out of his bi-weekly fire-branding I was told that I was at fault. As such I would be demoted to an interpreter on Level 2. After my daily check-in email about company goals, that is where I head. I finally write my email and hop to it.

"Today I will do my best to accomplish my job without getting set on fire."

Picture day at the office

Level 2 is where the lustful are deposited for their penance. The story, up above at least, was that the lustful were blown about by harsh winds without the hope of rest, much as their passions blew them hither, thither, and yon in their corporeal form. After a few recent focus groups, it was discovered that the punishment was a bit too heavy on symbolism. Some adjustments were made. From that point on, anyone born after the dot-com revolution received a new punishment. They were made to read their private internet search history (as well as any and all sexts) to the person in their lives who would be most devastated. Seven out of ten times, it was Grandma.

As an interpreter, it is my job to describe (in graphic detail) any and all sex acts to the confused or blind Grandmothers who come through our doors.

PRIVATE HELL, PART I: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE

Inspired by Robert Olen Butler's book, HELL, which you should read.
By David Cocco (Writer)

The temperature in my '87 Acura hatchback is a balmy 121 degrees, and yet there I sit, stewing in my juices. My thick khaki pants are caked in sweat, hugging my thighs like a toddler with abandonment issues. The itchy Cosby sweater is the most maddening part (on a strictly textural level).

I have to shit. I'm queasy. Someone has left a rotting swordfish in my trunk, and the stench is so profound that "getting used to it" is a pipe dream. I know this game. If I try to just accept my fate and release, nothing will come. He's brilliant that way. I clench and swallow and try to make it through.

The parking lot spreads out for miles, until the supermarket sign is a vanishing point on the edge of the horizon. I can't be sure how long I've been here. The sun has been stuck in the same position for as long as I can remember. Each open space is scooped up by a Nissan Cube or a Pontiac Aztec. Hundreds... thousands of Aztecs and Cubes spread out for miles in the baking sun. My Acura is the lone detractor. The second furthest space from the entrance is open. I park. He knows that the loss of my optimism will hurt most if it's a slow decay.

 

"Could be worse," I assure myself, though this is purely lip service at this point.

As I begin the walk toward the entrance, it starts... a slow high hat beat and grooving bass rises out of the ether.

TRUE DETECTIVE, JURASSIC WORLD, AND THE CULTURE OF THE THREE R’S

In a system that spits out an endless array of sequels, prequels, and reboots, where is the line between plagiarism and homage?
By David Cocco (Writer)

I recently went with a couple of friends to see Jurassic World. On the way to the theater we started discussing the first season of True Detective. There have apparently been several think pieces written about the first season and whether or not you can consider it plagiarized. There are certainly bits of dialogue lifted directly out of the Alan Moore comic Top Ten, and the occult underbelly exposed through the mystery is inspired (or stolen, depending on your opinion) from The King in Yellow, by Robert W. Chambers. Additionally, Rust Cohle’s dark, nihilist ramblings are supposedly heavily inspired by Thomas Ligotti.

 

I have only read one of these. Top Ten is very good if you ever see a copy at your local comic shop, but I had to take my friends’ word on the others. The conversation lingered in the back of my mind as we sat down for the movie. 

Although thousands have seen Jurassic World at this point, it’s still a relatively new movie, so I will warn that there are spoilers ahead. The first of which is this: 

Jurassic World is the most transcendently stupid movie I have seen so far this year. It is so brain numbingly idiotic that I experienced a strange sort of cinematic delight. It’s like doing a whip-it when you’re 15. It produces euphoria while simultaneously killing your brain cells/any chance of you becoming a Nobel Prize winning physicist. 

ON BEING A HUSBAND (FROM A GUY WHO ISN'T ONE)

...In which I wax philosophical about how love works, as if anyone could actually know such a thing.

By David Cocco (Writer)

 

Unless you currently live in a cave where you have practiced playing drums for the past week, you've probably heard that marriage equality is the law of the land here in the USA. The verdict came on June 26th, a day I'm certain I'll remember for the rest of my life. Not because of the historic ruling that made our country a bit freer. I'm far too selfish for that, though I applaud that majority on the right side of history. I will remember that day because (in an extreme case of coincidence) I had planned for a month and a half to propose to my girlfriend of 8 years. Her name is Julie. She's my fiancé now.

 

If you are thinking to yourself, "Congratulations! You must be over the moon," thank you. Yes, I am. If you're thinking "8 years? That seems like a long time," quiet down. I've heard it. The truth is, I've known since before she deemed me worthy of a date that she was the girl for me. I just wasn't ready to be a husband. To me, asking someone to build a life with you when you have nothing to bring to the table is a little like inviting them to dinner and having no pots or pans. Sure, you may muddle through, you've got a microwave after all. But it won't be as good as if you put it off and actually go get some pots and pans.

ON BEING NEUROTIC IN A SCREWED UP WORLD

The struggle is real.
By David Cocco

One time I was watching TV with a friend of mine when the cable went out, followed quickly by the power. My first assumption was that it signaled the beginning of the zombie apocalypse.

Another time I went into the ER for a sinus infection. Somehow while waiting to see a doctor I managed to convince myself I had cancer and went through the 5 stages of grief, all before they showed up to test my blood pressure. Thank you again, WebMD.

Bearing these instances in mind, you can imagine my reaction this past weekend as I took a gander at the news during a commercial break while catching up on Hannibal. In this instance, I'm not talking about what happened in South Carolina, though, if for some reason you'd like to know my thoughts, here they are.

What struck me was a little news story, tucked away unassumingly in the Science section. Apparently we're in the midst of the 6th mass extinction in our planet's history. Not only that, but the report being cited did not seem to be written by a scientist willing to risk his last $5 that we would be among the survivors.

I put down my phone and took a deep breath in time to watch Mads Mikkelsen preparing a severed forearm like an Iberico ham.

Artist's Rendering of My Reaction

5 THINGS I'M PRETTY SURE I KNOW: A COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS

If you know any graduates bound for the gnashing, gaping maw of adulthood, send these tips their way. They make up a philosophy born of spectacular successes/failures.
By David Cocco (Writer)

(Adulthood)

• I was watching an episode of Planet Earth, which usually fills me with majesty and wonder at the breathtaking world we inhabit. However, I was watching an episode on Caves, which fills me with untold horror. In this episode there is one cave where the roof is covered with bats, and the floor of the cave is completely covered in bat droppings. The bat droppings are covered with a writhing, wiggling ocean of cockroaches. The documentary series shows a bat that has fallen into said droppings and is eaten alive by the cockroaches, which brings us to the first universal truth: it could be worse. I have heard of some bad days, but no one I know has had a “struggle to escape a mound of your own feces, only to get eaten alive by cockroaches” type of day.