Introduction From Hell

Fuck me. I'm really going to do this. I have to, but not because it will help anything. I don't expect the hatred and rage and anger inside of me to magically go away just because I admit to the world that I've been beaten, stabbed, locked away, starved, raped, homeless, among other things. Or that these things have made me one mean motherfucker. And I am exactly that. I am a mean motherfucker and I will attack. I'm a fucking pit-bull. You think I got jokes? Let's have a sit down and a smile one day. Insult me. Take my three warnings. Go beyond and see if you don't end up spitting foamy blood. You wouldn't be the first. Am I scaring you off? Maybe I ought to. Maybe you shouldn't read this. I'd hate to destroy your cozy world view. Once again, fuck me. I'm really doing this. And for free, no less. How fucked up is that? What idiot would spill his viscera without getting paid to do it?

This idiot. This crude moron. This complete and total bastard, born in Rockford, IL, at Swedish American Hospital on August 8th, 1977. This violent, drug-addled lunatic, somehow married and mostly sober now, 36 years old and terrified that nothing will ever change. Twenty-two years of playing guitar for people didn't change things, and not because I sucked, unless everyone was lying because they were frightened (which I doubt very highly). Trying to break into the movie business with that traitorous cunt Chuck Breuckmann did not do it, although to listen to him Sid Haig liked my movie--and it was mine because Chuck was more interested in Susan Borowitz's tits and eating her out than he was in turning my script into celluloid reality before running off to who knows where--and thus far writing has not done it. My few credits have amounted to small change.

Marriage hasn't done it, although my wife is the most beautiful person on earth, to me. She is the antithesis of me. I don't know how I found her. God? I don't know. As far as I'm concerned God is nothing but a comic in the sky with such a love of war I cannot deny His make in the image of man.

Shit. I know I've fucked my karma regardless of the people who drove me from being a cute straight A student into a whirling dervish of fists and boots and absolute fury--I'm not sure there's a word for the amount of hatred living inside this body. I struggle against not becoming a serial killer, and I have thought hard about it and studied much on the subject. I would not be one of those Ted Bundy pricks because I refuse to lay hands on women, or an Ed Gein because I have no impulse to wear skin, or a Dahmer since I am not interested in the taste of human flesh or homosexual and I really do not give a half a tin-pin shit whether people leave me or not. People, as far as I'm concerned, can either piss off and leave me alone or stick around and enjoy the ride.

This account is not going to be fun, pretty, or even linear. I'm writing it for free not just due to idiotic hubris or something like that, I'm doing it for free because I fucking feel like it and that's it.

However convoluted my logic or behavior is, I am fully capable of thanks. Therefore, I will get those out of the way. John Bruni, for being my teacher, betrayor, mentor, and most cherished friend. Jessica Tannahill-Walker, for marrying me and putting up with my evident psychosis and stopping me from actually killing someone. Dianne McGlothlin, for birthing me even though I did not want to be born; I spent an extra month in the womb because it was cozy and safe, and for her faith in me despite my many trips to jail and court for drugs and violence and unsavory behavior. To my father who tortured me and helped me down my path to fearlessness, and to my sister for thinking everything I have ever done has been nothing but a complete joke. To my lovely niece and nephew, both of whom I cannot believe came from my sister's womb because Cheyenne is brilliant and fastiduous where April is lazy and pitiful and basically a complete waste of human flesh and Shane who is bright eyed and rambunctious and just a whole lot of fun, especially when I can get him to say things like "Pee!" Finally, to my inspirations--Poe, Layne Staley, Lovecraft, Nick Cave, Stephen King, Faulkner, Jack Ketchum, and last but not least, Brian Keene. If not for the first few pages of "Girl on the Glider" I don't think I'd be sitting here at damn near four in the morning cutting my innards out via type. And also, to April Telek who reminded me of my wickedness.

Bitch, I needed that. I wish you well and hope you become the most famous plastic sexless whore this country has ever seen.

Finally, to God, who I cannot wait to wrestle. I intend to make Jacob look like a punk. And now I hear laughter, far off yet so close. Or maybe it is only my heartbeat.

Well. Enough introduction. Let's get on with our little peek into Hell, shall we? I assure you--this is one demon who will deliver. Trust me or piss off. I have nothing to lose and hence, everything to gain.