The Transvestite, The Dealer, and The Chambermaid

“Jesus Christ Frank; what the hell happened to you?”

The large group of friends turned and stared at Frank Slates black and blue face with cut marks, as he started to explain, “Well I…”

“Did you get into a fight?”

“No, I…”

“You walked into a train?”

“Or an industrial sized fan?”

“Th…the power went off abruptly a-as you were going down an escalator?”

“Imaginative Jack, but no.”

“I have a guess!”

“Calm down, Rizzo!”

“I know what happened,” said the silhouette of a leather capped young man, standing confidently with one foot on The Rock, and lighting a Tijuana Small cigar, looking away, out onto the Brandywine River. “You paid a hooker for some rough sex. She tied you up to the bed, pulled your shirt up, your pants down, then circled the bed like a shark while pounding your body with a soap on a rope. The soap finally broke off and flew across the room; she sat on top of your ankles and went down for a while, bringing you to the brink of orgasm.”

“So far, you’re pretty close.”

“She stopped, stared at you, and laughed sadistically. You wanted to come but you were tied up and there was nothing you could do. She sat on your stomach and slapped you silly on either side of the face with rough open hands. It was then it hit you just how very strong she was for a woman. Then, as if confirming your anxious suspicion, she stood up and pulled her pants down, revealing the largest cock you’d ever seen, and dangled it tauntingly above your head.”

“Ahh, no……that didn’t happen.”

“Yes it did, and furthermore, you still wanted to come; you didn’t care how. So you focused only on her…his…..its…long beautiful blonde hair and smooth tan complexion, an angel from the neck up. You were mesmerized by its beauty to the point where you didn’t even mind the cock now jarrming in and out of your mouth. That’s right, you sucked the monstrosity in total bewildering admiration, but you were not sure why.”

“I’m not sure why you’re saying all this.”

“Maybe it was the irresistible cleavage, the smooth hairless legs and firm buttocks, or, perhaps it was just about it all being the largest cock you had ever seen, and you didn’t mind…didn’t mind at all…She….it…did the work for you as it stood on the bed with its hands on its sides thrusting its pelvis, shoving itself in and out of your mouth as the back of your head hit the wall violently, over and over and over again until the thing laughed hysterically and came on your face.”


“Yes, just like that …………… were confused…”

“You’re confused; you know that?”

“…humiliated. He ….she… up to leave, but you were angry, and, finally managing to break free of the Hoover vacuum belts that had you bound to the bed, you lunged at it with intent to kill…her…him…it….whatever….but you forgot that your pants were still on, down by your ankles at this point, and you tripped and fell, smashing your head through the glass coffee table.”

“Now that part really happened, sort of.”

“Eeeww. Frank, you’re disgusting.”

“You lay on the floor helpless, as the thing looked down on you in seductive victory.” Mahdakis took a drag off his Tijuana. “Then it got weird.”


(inhale-exhale) “Here we go.”

“The beautiful transvestite walked over to the bed-stand and, with all its brute strength, ripped the clock radio out of the wall and tore the cord out from the insides of the device. It then began to whip you with the electrical cord, laughing sardonically as it pulled out a copy of Gideon’s’ Bible and recited passages from Leviticus 18. It finally dawned on you that coming here was probably a bad idea……You defecated yourself and began crying for your mother, and then… a phantom, she exited the room, presumably leaving you for dead…or worse………. alone…to die in your own excrement, blood, and semen.”

“None of that ever happened! This isn’t true,” Frank pleaded for a moment of sanity.

“Then…..” the silhouetted figure continued.

“There’s even more?” –Bobble-bobble-bobble “Someone shut him the fuck up, will ya.”

“The chamber maid came in.”

“Now we’re talkin’. Ha-ha.”

“Goiter, shut up and stop rubbing your palms together,” a voice said. “That’s very disturbing.”

“Shut up! I wanna hear how it ends.”

“….But it wasn’t really a chamber maid. It was an FBI agent who had been working undercover as a chamber maid for the better part of six months, trying to bust up a heroin ring, headed by the owner of the hotel. Frank wasn’t part of the plan, just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I wasn’t at any place at any time. Where you getting’ all this from?”

“….And the FBI agent, well, he was just being a chamber maid.”


“Yes…he was undercover as a she, and he saw you lying there, Frank; bleeding and helpless. But there was no time. The agent had just been made by one of the dealers. He needed to get out of the building…..and fast! So he swapped clothes with you, taking his wig off his head and putting it on yours, then he boogied out of the room, and ultimately, the building.”

“Is that it?”



“The dealer busted into the room and saw you lying on the floor in a wig and a chamber maid outfit and smashed the butt end of his rifle against your ear before realizing that he had the wrong cross-dresser……

“I’m not a cross-dresser.”

“….But, being one to always seize the moment, the drug dealer eagerly unbuttoned his pants. He pulled out his…….”

“Alright….we get it!”

“Fuckin’ aye, dude. Take a valium.”

“And THAT is what happened to Frank.” Mahdakis puffed on his cigar.

“That was my guess,” Rizzo said, “I was going to say the same thing.”


© 2012 Mark Rogers

Crimes Seen Front Cover

 Crimes Seen

(Book II)


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All Tomorrow’s Parties

What the fuck man, let me in!” Jason demanded, standing on the third stair from the top, pushing on the door to Snowy’s room, which was above his grandparent’s garage. “Stop horsing around, Snowy, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll…..”

“You’ll suck my dick! What the fuck are you doing here anyway? You’re supposed to be here tomorrow,” Snowy said, pushing back on the door from the other side.

“Tomorrow? Yeah, right. But the real party is going on tonight. Good thing I got my ear to the ground.”

“And I’m gonna put your face to the ground, with it, if you don’t stop pushing this fuckin’ door! Now, come back tomorrow.”

“What the fuck is this? Come back tomorrow? Are you joking around or something?”

“Does it look like I’m joking?” Snowy said, grabbing a broom and shooing him away, like an oversized rodent. “Now get down the stairs motherfucker, and come back tomorrow! This is the only way I could do it. You’re ruining everything!”

“I’m ruining everything? What’s tomorrow? Get that thing away from me.”

“There’s not much room in here, Jason, so I had to throw the party in shifts. One group of friends tonight, and one tomorrow; all different people; one’s that you and I know from way back.”

“But, why can’t I just stay here now and not come tomorrow?”

“Because, there will be too many people up here.”

“So what?”

“So, the Fire Marshall may come and shut us down, or something.”

“Shut you down? Fire Marshall? Have you lost your mind?”

“No. Besides, if you don’t come tomorrow, like I asked, I won’t have any one cool to hang out with?”

“Why did you invite un-cool people to begin with?”

“I was gonna ask the same thing,” said Rizzo, from inside the room.

“Rizzo!” Boodles yelled walking through the door and past Snowy, without a problem.

“So, I have to hang out with the un-cool people?”

“Stop your sobbin’ before I snap you in half.”

“Yeah, right. C’mon, man. Rizzo’s here.”

“Yeah, and do you know why she’s here? Because I asked her to come tonight, like I asked you to come tomorrow night. You don’t see her showing up last night at my house do you, slim? No, she show’s up when she’s asked because that’s the respectful thing to do, and not show up unannounced like a Kirby fuckin’ vacuum salesman!”

“Fine. Sorry about that. I’ll come tomorrow so you have someone cool to hang with. But I’m here now, so let’s hang now, as well.”

“Hey, can we come again tomorrow?” Pablo asked in an instigating manner.

Snowy got into Jason’s face and said, “See what you’re doing? If you come both days, then he’s gonna wanna come both days, and Rizzo will have to come both days, then everyone’s gonna wanna come both days, and pretty soon it’ll be fuckin’ anarchy. Look at these people in here, you’re getting them all riled up.” Jason looked in at Pablo, Rizzo, Cannoli, and Jack sitting peacefully and talking softly among themselves. “You’re about to incite a riot. If you don’t go, I’ll be forced to call the authorities!”

“Ha! What are you gonna tell ’em, ‘Hey officer, there’s this crazy guy at my cocaine party, and he won’t leave.’ Huh? Fine……Boodles, let’s go.”

“I wanna stay,” she yelled from inside.

“We can’t! The Grand Pooh-Bah of Parties is kicking us out.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Boodles whined.

“You’re fine,” Snowy assured. “HE has to go, though.”

“Say what? She’s fine? She can stay but I can’t? She wasn’t even invited. How much of that shit have you had so far?”

“But she was your ride, right?”

“Of course!”

“That’s fine. I allotted for most people to come with a person who would be their ride. But she can’t come tomorrow, too. You’ll have to drive yourself tomorrow or find someone else to take you, someone who isn’t here tonight.”

Jason stared in disbelief and poked his finger hard on Snowy’s chest. “Fine, but this is some fucked up shit, and I’m not going to forget it. Boods! C’mon, I need a ride back to my house, apparently.”

“Take Dakota if you’re leaving, unless you can find a ride later.” Snowy looked at the saucy longhaired brunette in the tight jeans.

“I’m coming back,” Boodles informed him.

“No you’re not. Once you leave you can’t come back.”

“Say what? Why not?”

“Because you’re HIS ride, and that’s the only reason you’re allowed to stay, and she wasn’t invited without Carl, so she has to leave with you, unless someone gives you a ride later on.” He looked at Dakota.

“Okay. I can get a ride later. Pumpkinhead is coming, right?”

“Far as I know.”

“I’m staying,” Dakota said confidently, walking into the room, and plopping herself and her purse down, next to Cannoli and Jack Carrot.

“Well, I don’t wanna go,” said Boodles, as Pumpkinhead came walking up the stairs, behind Jason.

“Okay, stay here,” Snowy said, pushing her back in and addressing Pumpkinhead with his eyes. “Dude, stay right there.”

“Yeah, what’s up man?”

“Can you give Jason a ride back home? He’s not feeling himself tonight.”

“Ahh man, what a rash. I just got here, dude. Can’t we chill for a minute?”

“No,” said Jason sarcastically, “because once you’re in, you can’t leave and come back…those are the rules.”

Goiter, who had been standing behind Pumpkinhead laughed and said, “Can’t we get some sort of ticket stub? Ha-ha-ha.”

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

“Say what?”

“I thought you were coming alone.”

“I saw him hitchhiking on the road. He had nothing to do.”

“So why does he have to do nothing here? Why couldn’t he do nothing somewhere else?” (inhale-exhale) “You just don’t know when to leave well enough alone, do you, Pumpkinhead?”

“What the fuck, man?”

“Fine.” (exhale) “But you’ll have to stand outside, under the tree. There’s no more room for anyone in here.”

“There’s only five people in there!”

“Can you give this joker a ride back, or not? Dude, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What are you going to do,” asked Goiter, “give him a blow job? Ha-ha-ha.”

“I’m gonna crack you in the fuckin’ head, is what I’m gonna do!”

“Alright man, let’s go.” Pumpkinhead motioned to Jason.

“Hang on…Boodles, come here for a minute.”

“C’mon man, let’s go.” Pumpkinhead said impatiently. “You wanna come, Goiter?”

“Might as well, I’m in no big hurry to start standing under a tree all night.”

© 2012 Mark Rogers

Crimes Seen Front Cover

 Crimes Seen

(Book II)


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(we are) The Road Crew

“This is bullshit, Frank! What the fuck do we need Carl and Floyd for, anyway? Huh? Wanna tell me that?”

“I dunno, I’m just tellin’ you what I heard from Floyd. I guess your brother feels sorry for them and wants to give them some sort of a job by lettin’ them help out with the band.”

“Fuck ‘em! We are the road crew! Not them!”

“I thought you and Floyd were really tight these days.”

“Not when the prick’s cutting in on my action, yo! Christ, neither of them even owns a vehicle.”

“I know.”

“So what’s that gonna do? We got just as much stuff to carry around in the same number of cars, and two more people to find room for!”

“Yep. I know. I think maybe he just feels sorry for them you know, living out on the streets and whatnot.”

“Bullshit, man! Floyd slept at my house last week while my brother slept out on the street with Carl. What the hell’s he talking about?”

Frank took a chug of Budweiser. “I don’t know about that. Floyd says they haven’t seen Mahdakis much this past week.”

“Well, he sure the hell ain’t stayin’ down at Pock’s and Dakota’s.”

“Dakota’s not even staying at Pock’s and Dakota’s. Huh-huh-huh-huh. Hey, ya know…that’s right. We been there every night, and ain’t seen him but for rehearsal.”

Pumpkinhead took a big long drag off a joint. “Haven’t seen him once, dude.”

“Well where is he, then?”

Pumpkinhead exhaled with exaggeration, “I don’t know. He’s into girls, I know that.”

“And what are you into?”

“I am too, asshole! But he likes to play house, if you get my drift!”

“That’s kind a gay. But you know what? You got an attitude problem. What’s with being so hyper all the time?”

“I’m not! I’m just an expressive person!”

“Well, express the fuck down, then.”

Pumpkinhead took another long hit and scrunched his eyebrows together. “Where the fuck is he staying at night, I wonder.”

“Someone said they saw him walking in Old Norford, the other night.”

“Ah no.”

“You think he’s back with Jezebel?”

“It would explain his presence there….Copper Tom lives there too, but I doubt he’d be visiting him.”

“Why does Mahdakis hate him so much?”

“Probably because Copper Tom’s a fuckin’ asshole, that’s why!”

“He wouldn’t be such an asshole if your brother wasn’t always yelling at him.”


“Don’t fuckin’ yell at me. I’ll pick you up by that giraffe neck of yours and fling you into the river.”

“I’ll mess you up, dude!”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha! I’ll squish that pumpkin head of yours until your brains fall out your eye sockets!”

“Yeah, you wish.”

“Huh-huh-huh-huh. That’s it? That’s all you got?”

“For now.”

“For now,” Frank repeated, “oh well, you know what?”


“At least it’s better than sleeping on the streets with Carl and Floyd.”

“What is?”

“Your brother…..with Jezebel, or whoever he’s with.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s her, dude. She really pissed him off last time. He was real hurt and shit, but hey, fuck him and Carl and Floyd! What’s up with that? Why the hell don’t they just go home and sleep?”

“Because they’re not allowed to. Huh-huh, Remember?”

“That’s a bunch of shit, dude. My female-birth-giver’s always crying at night because that asshole won’t come home half the time, or call to say where he is. Carl and Floyd, same thing. Ask Kim if you don’t believe me. They just want people to think that they’re on hard times so they have justification to be idiots. All it is, is a way of validating their own laziness and lack of motivation, thereby giving them an excuse to accomplish nothing.”

“Wow. That’s a concept, right there,” Frank said, staring out at the Brandywine River, “I mean, that’s pretty ingenious.”

“Ingenious? Are you smoking crack?”

“No. I’m the same way as them, but I have no excuse for the way I am…….Wish I had thought of that. Huh.”

“Frank,” Pumpkinhead said cautiously, “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything, but you’re a little……slow….sometimes, brother. You don’t need an excuse.”

Frank turned his head towards Pumpkinhead and the two of them sat on The Rock staring at one another until Frank started laughing uncontrollably. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-! Ha-ha! That’s what I want people to think! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Huh? Are you serious? Why?”

“I guess to validate my uh, lazy…….whatever it is you said. Huh-huh-huh. And to get people to feel sorry for me sometimes. Girls dig it, too.”

“Oh.” Pumpkinhead sat stupefied. “So you’ve no reason to feel envious of them, Frank. You got your own gig going on.”

“That’s right.” Frank lit up a Marlboro and took a long drag. “Now…….let’s talk about this accident that Carl and Floyd are going to have.”


© 2012 Mark Rogers

Crimes Seen Front Cover

 Crimes Seen

(Book II)


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Refer All Inquiries To God

“Smells like love on her breath,” Rad said, kissing her. The woman began to scream and Muffin Man gagged her with her own panties and bungee-corded her wrists and ankles to either side doors. Paralyzed with confusion and panic, the woman ceased feeling human anymore. She was a caged animal and the most horrific moment of her life was about to begin with the grim realization that she was no more significant than a slice of holiday ham.

“I got her ass,” exclaimed Muffin Man.

“I want that nice little mouth of hers!”

“I’ll take care of the dude!”

“Wait, I changed my mind. I want her mouth,” Muffin Man reneged.

“Well, big boys go first. So, take a back seat,” Rad barked.

“Fine. I’ll get to that when I’m done.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a minute! Hold everything.” Captain H interrupted. “Done with what? You still plan on fucking her up the ass?”


The woman tried to scream.

“And then coming in her mouth?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You can’t do that! You understand, Irish man? There’s an order ya gotta to do these things in, and you’re in reverse. I mean, sweet Mary of Jesus, we don’t go sticking things in people’s mouths that have been up their own ass. That’s just not ethical.”

“Who gives a shit?”

“I do!” Captain H began slapping Muffin Man’s face to the rhythm of his pronunciation, “Just-be-cause this is-a-rape, doesn’t mean-we-can’t-be civil-ized.”

“And remember,” noted Rad, “good oral hygiene is essential to the development of healthy teeth and gums.”

“You wouldn’t do this sort of thing at home, would you?”

“I live with my mother!”

“Just answer the question.”

The woman was starting to get antsy and impatient. Whatever they were going to do, she wished they’d do it and get it over with so she could begin the healing process more sooner than later.

While everyone was arguing over their piece of the pie, Floyd had inched his way to the end of the street. He looked in both directions of the cross street once, then twice, then again. He was making sure they were in the clear.

Floyd hadn’t planned on this night unfolding like it was. He liked to make an extra buck or two helping Captain H hot wire cars, steal radios or crack safes and whatnot. Whatever. It was fun work. It was money and replaceable goods. Insured goods. The woman in the truck was irreplaceable. Floyd knew this. What bothered him more was that, he knew the other three knew this, too. That made them even worse. Worse than the idiots who don’t know any better. They knew they were doing harm. They just didn’t care. The naked woman reminded him of his own female-birth-giver, who was also in her thirties and very sexy. He wondered if the woman in the truck had family or maybe even kids his own age that he knew in school.

“Okay, how ‘bout I fuck her in the ass and then cum in his mouth. Is that okay?”

“Now that would be a chuckle.”

“It would, now wouldn’t it,” agreed Captain H. “Shit, why don’t we just work the dude over. To hell with her.”

“What are we, a bunch of queers here or something?”

“If you have to ask – ”

“She’s hot! You know…for her age. Let’s fuck her, man.”


“Why not?”

“Because,” explained Rad, “it wouldn’t have the same comedic impact as violating this semi-unconscious dude every which way, now, would it?”

“When did we become the three stooges of sexual assault?”

“Just shut up and stick it to him.”

The woman was growing more offended with each passing moment. It was demoralizing enough to be the rape victim of three young men. It was another altogether to, then, be denied any sort of attention from those three young men and passed over for an ugly forty-five-year-old man. And, all of this coming after they had thoroughly inspected her goods. The ‘for her age’ remark wasn’t sitting well with her either. She was almost pouting, but still relieved, as she stared down admiring her own breast and flat stomach. She watched on with a perverse jealousy as the twisted event unfolded for the salesman.

“Five-O, Five-O! Run! Run!” Floyd shouted running towards them. He was flailing his arms all over to get their attention and then ducked out of sight, running like mad through backyards and hopping fences, over and onto other blocks. He was gone.

While he was doing that, the others wasted no time in getting their asses out of there. “Shit! The cops! Move it! Move it!” Captain H ordered. Muffin Man and Rad kicked the man’s naked bleeding ass under the truck and made their way back to the Benz. Fun was fun, but Grand Larceny and Rape were another matter. And if they didn’t get the car to where it had to be, for whatever reason, well that was another form of Hell they’d rather not think about either. They sped out like lightning and never looked back.

The woman, still naked, was too gripped with fear to cover herself before the cops came. She just sat in the front seat crying; stripped of dignity, independence, and self-worth. Another minute passed and she found strength to put some clothes on. A minute after that, she stood up and looked around the street bewildered.

Except for the sobs of the injured salesman under the truck, it was quiet. Very quiet. And, she was not hurt. Not really.

There were no police.

She puzzled a moment and suddenly remembered the odd look Floyd shot at her and started crying tears of joy. She closed her eyes and gripped her customized vanity diamond crucifix against her bare chest, and uttered, “Thank-you, God, thank-you. I’ll never be a bad girl again. I promise.”

She was lying.


Insert Extraneous Footnote Here:

Overtime, the head salesman began frequenting gay bars and S & M clubs as he now found difficulty maintaining an erection without the aid of some bizarre roll play or the presence of another penis. Alone, defeated, ashamed and unable to come to grips with what the whole experience had made of him, he murdered himself.

The authorities found him in his garage with the car running. He was naked except for one of those black and orange ‘FOR SALE’ signs hanging around his neck. Written in the rectangular white space of the sign, in ruby red lipstick, were the words ‘Refer all inquiries to God’.


© 2011, 2014 Mark Rogers

Covers for In Case You Werer Too Stoned to Remember...

In Case You Were Too Stoned To Remember…..


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Blue Morning, Blue Day


“God is an evil, demented, son of a bitch!”

“Oh my.”

“And I’ll tell you why Robin, you wanna know why?”

“Of course I do; who wouldn’t?……..But I’m afraid to ask.”

“I’ll ask.”

“Okay Fred, go ahead. Ask.”

“Fine. Howard, why, as you so gracefully put it, is God an evil, demented son of a Bitch?”

“Because he gave me the smallest penis on the planet!”

“Aaahhh, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Oh, come on, you have to be exaggerating.”

“Robin….when I’m naked, it looks as though I have two belly buttons.”

“I think God compensated for it though with that nose. Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

“Yeah, go ahead and laugh jokeman, laugh away; Laugh while your wife is having sex with black men on the front lawn, in broad daylight.”

“Hey, I didn’t write that joke! Fred handed that to me. Hee-hee-hee-hee! I wish I did, though. Hee-hee-hee-hee!”

“I knew I didn’t want to ask.”

 The clock radio, sitting on the soiled shag-carpeted floor, blares out the syndicated morning radio show on WYSP. A listless right arm falls on top of it slamming the button down. The hand attached to the arm fumbles about and finds a half empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon leaning against the radiator. Mahdakis takes a pungent gulp and opens his eyes, acknowledging the dawn of another hapless, miserable day on this wretched, grey planet.

It is past eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning. The birth-givers and his younger brother, Pumpkinhead, have long gone to work…as most responsible adults have.

Our hero stumbles downstairs groggily, and turns the TV on as he begins to fix breakfast, a vegetable omelet with an abundance of cheese; enough so to scorch the frying pan beyond color recognition. The cartoon, Inspector Gadget is on; he watches with mild curiosity as he seats himself at the lonely cedar kitchen table wondering if anyone ever thought of making a porno version of Gadget, “Go, go gadget penis!” But his happiness is quickly subsided, as he is once again smacked in the heart with reality, and reminded that for the first time in four years, he is with the absence of true love in his life. For whatever reason, he liked being in love and having a girlfriend. Was it insecurity, or just an overwhelming need to possess another person’s affections? It was good that Jezebel was out of his life. But now he had no one else to blame for his problems…and he hated that.

Lying on the table, to the right of where he is eating, is a yellow note pad with writing on it. It is a song that he had started the day before yesterday. There are only four lines written on it:


‘Lovers may go but new ones will show

As the faces change and the years go by.

But I’m too weak to smile

And I’m too strong to cry…’


He gives pause as he considers adding another line. In the background he hears the desperate plea of a foiled bank robber being captured by Inspector Gadget, who had used his Gadget legs to extend up into the air another twenty feet, thus allowing him to walk over traffic. Mahdakis thinks for a moment how that would really come in handy…as long as everyone else didn’t have the same capability. Because then, you’d have the same problem with traffic congestion, but just twenty feet higher above the ground.

The twenty-year-old peels a pen up off the floor. The pen is covered in some unidentifiable goo (most likely something Pumpkinhead spilled on it last night while making dinner for himself at one in the morning while stoned off his ass). Mahdakis adds six more lines to the would-be song:


‘As destiny pulls me away

Towards a much more cloudy day

And there’s nothing more to say…

 ..But to face the truth and realize

That it’s time to break these emotional ties

That keep me locked up behind cold eyes.’



His work was done for the day. Still chewing his food, he gets up from the table, walks to the kitchen and dumps the plate into the sink. ‘Someone will clean this up, they always do. Every day I put dirty plates in here and the next day they’re gone.’ He turns off the TV and heads upstairs to rub one out and take a shower.

It is almost ten o’clock by the time he is dressed.


Two hours killed without too much thinking. But how to destroy the rest of the day? His birth-givers told him he’d best find a job soon…..‘or else’. He didn’t know what ‘or else’ meant, but it didn’t sound promising. He had come to appreciate the comforts of a real home (warmth, electricity, his own room, a toilet), and was in no hurry to return to the lifestyle of living under bridges, in friends’ cars, and in laundry mats as he had done with Carl and Floyd only a year ago. He walked to his upstairs bedroom window and stared outside, deep in thought, trying to remember the events of the night before……

Photo: “I have got a crush on you,” by Tor Alden
Art: “The Burnouts” by Liz Aikler

© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)


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My tree stands alone

In the midst of a

Vast grassy field.


Allow me to introduce to you,

A place where time and reason

Both must yield.


I come here often

In my mind

When my heart is weak of feeling

Towards mankind.


It is my one and only

True salvation.

But, we are taught,

A shameful destination.




Ecstasy at a stand still.

The stories this tree could tell.


The dream is the same

Time and time again…

I emerge on to the scene

Hypnotically focused upon my tree.


The tree………………


The root of all my evil.

It awaits me;

And as I draw near,

In my state of slumber

I can hear

My girls’ voice

Beckoning with fear.


“I won’t be coming home dear.”


I’d ask you to join me for a picnic ’neath my tree—

Cool in the shade.

But I know you are timid and frail

And one must not be afraid.


Color, creed and status

Lay defenseless

Here or anywhere

Around the aura

Of this wilderness cathedral.


For the tree is my stage

And each blade of grass, a spectator

Filled with curious envy


The sun is my spotlight

Beaming down hard

upon my every move.


My subconscious directs

And northeastern winds supply a subtle groove.

Ahh, placid animosity.


Peace and tranquility

Stem from this tree.

I must have some,

I must take a leave…


So I climb the tree

And give it my all.

And the rope around my neck

Breaks my fall.


And now I see

And now I crawl

Upon dirt floors

….in an ancient hall.


© 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

Placid Animosity

Placid Animosity


Click here for further barbaric use of the English language.


Pumpkinhead’s Theory of Anti-Prosperity

Pumpkinhead spun around at the foot of the bed to face his older brother, Mahdakis, “So here’s how it works; every Friday at the end of the month, you go up to NYU.”
“The one in New York?”
“The same.”
“But what if the last day of the month doesn’t fall on a Friday?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just go on the last Friday of every month!”
“How long are you going to be locked in this asylum?”
“Not much longer so you’ll probably only be doing this one time. But you gotta unload the shit for me.”
“You’ll go to the Rubin dorm or Rubin Hall; something like that. It’s on Fifth Ave. Ask for Black Tom. He knows to look out for you. He’s really cool and mellow.”
“And black?”
“And black. Now, he’s gonna sell you the shit. You’re going to buy a pound of bud. Make sure it’s good bud and not shake. Black Tom won’t jerk you around and he usually gets nice stuff, but just make sure.”
“What if it’s not?”
“Not bud? Then don’t buy.”
“Alright. So far so good.”
“You’ll need about twelve hundred dollars.”
“Say what? Where the fuck am I going to get that kind of money?”
“Jesus Christ! Calm the fuck down, man. Don’t you have a job or something?”
“Yeah, I got a job, but my money’s pretty much tied up.”
“Well un-fuckin’ tie it because you have to understand that while twelve-hundred may sound like a lot, you’ll be selling ounces at two-hundred dollars!”
“So wait…..a pound, right?
“And there’s …uh….sixteen ounces in a pound?”
“Last time I checked.”
“So that’s thirty-two hundred dollars?”
“Yeah man, like a two-thousand dollar profit if you don’t use any yourself. You have the capacity to make even more by selling it in small nickel and dime quantities.”
“You must be rolling in the dough by now.”
“Not really man, I got the car payments and the insurance…”
“That’s it though. You got nothing else. Where’s all your money?”
“It’s rough man because we spend twelve or fifteen hundred on a pound sometimes and then end up selling just about the same amount. We break even more times than not.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. You should be making an extra two thousand or so off each deal.”
“Right. But then we need to set aside twelve more for the next buy.”
“So you should have two thousand in your hand.”
“Black Tom and I smoke a lot of it.”
“You smoke all your profits?”
Mahdakis stood staring at his brother in disbelief, “What’s the matter with you, man? You were always so good with money.”
“I am good with money. I’m just not good with pot.”
“Hey man, stop raggin’ on me dude. It pays for itself and the gas to get to and from places, man.”
“So you and Black Tom smoke a half pound in a month? You smoke half your investment?”
“What if you bought twice as much? Two pounds instead of one?”
“What good would that do?”
“Then you’d be able to have another pound and a half while still having the other half pound for recreation.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because it’s two pounds instead of one.”
“But we smoke up half of it.”
“Half of two pounds is one pound. We’d be smoking an entire pound instead of just half.”
“But you wouldn’t have to!”
“Sure we would!”
“Because we smoke half. That’s how it goes!”
“But don’t smoke half!”
“But that’s what we do! You said so yourself. If we didn’t smoke half then we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. All buying two pounds is gonna do is create more for us to smoke and generate more of a profit loss!”

 © 2013  Mark Rogers

Benevolence & Betrayal (Book III)


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Slow and languid, the train of thought

which still insists passion be bought

under hazel skies children are taught

to worship God………….so greedily sought.


© 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

Placid Animosity

Placid Animosity


Click here for further barbaric use of the English language.


Remember Tomorrow

“The only good thing about today is it’s still young and there’s still hope we will die before it’s over with.”
“That’s the spirit. What do you have against waking up tomorrow, anyway?”
“Tomorrow’s the reason I wanna get it over with today! Tomorrow we have to do this bullshit all over again!”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because I am.”
“Because tomorrow is the day we pay for our wasted yesterday.”
“Which is actually today.”
“But it hasn’t been wasted.”
“Not yet. But it will. And all we can pray for is that today–”
“Or yesterday tomorrow.”
“–stops right here before tomorrow settles in.”
“The day after tomorrow, yesterday.”
“Right.” Continue reading

Close Encounters Of An Absurd Kind

“Okay, okay…sit down.” As Pumpkinhead sat down at a corner table in the coffee shop, Captain H threw his sandwich on the plastic tray and continued, “How do I communicate with the little green men?”
“Little green men?”
“Hey dude, did Jezebel sell you some of that liquid acid? That’s to be taken in small doses, you know. I hope you didn’t slurp that down.”
“Don’t be coy.”
“Coy?” Pumpkinhead picked at his hash browns. “You sure you mean coy?”
“Yeah I mean coy; you know like a wise-ass.” He took another bite of his sandwich.
“A wise-ass is just a wise-ass. If you’re coy, then you’re a bashful, or a shy wise-ass.”
“But you’re still a wise-ass!”
“Only if you use that particular adjective in there, otherwise you’re just a demure person.”
“Stupid….a stupid person. Like, ‘that guy skipping across the street is acting a bit demurely’.”
“Because he’s demure, he’s stupid?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Being demure has nothing to do with stupidity. Did we go to school in the same country?”


Continue reading

Paradise In Purgatory

Remember when we had no deadlines, no responsibilities, no self-respect, no goals, and no motivation to execute any of them even if we did,?

Ah……back then things were simpler and more confused….


© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)


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Go Fuck Yourself

“Go fuck yourself.”


It’s more than a request.

It’s a demand

And at best,

A command

That would suggest

Temporary discord

with one who stands

Before the matter at hand.


But, can this be done?

And why would someone

In the midst of a

Mad verbal spasm,

Wish upon you

A healthy orgasm?


If the answer’s gray

Then why bother to say

And or express

Such ignorance

Of grammar, body and flesh?


What about something different?

Why not something intelligent?

How about something like:


 “May an aids-infected,

acne faced,


basket case

of a foreign race,

penetrate you

in a tight place.”


 Ha-ha.           What?         “No good”      you say?

Go fuck yourself!


© 2001, 2012, 2016 Mark Rogers

Placid Animosity

Placid Animosity


Click here for further barbaric use of the English language.


God Is Everywhere

“It’s God’s way. You have to accept it and embrace it if you believe in God. God wants us to endure a good ass fucking from time to time. It’s just the way he is. I think he likes to watch, too.”

“You got problems,” Rizzo huffed, stomping away.

“It sounds like you got problems; not the least of which being, your subconscious struggles with faith.” He puffed on a Tijuana Small cigar. “You know, I just love how when something goes well, you fuckin’ people thank God for everything. Thank yourselves. You’re the ones who pulled through. It makes me laugh when people pray aloud; thanking God for all they have and exclaiming how God has shined his light down upon them for their self-righteous efforts. Well, by saying that, you’re inadvertently saying that God hates all the other unlucky motherfuckers in this world. The ones who live in backwards countries and are starving to death, or the ones who lose their homes to a fire. It must be because God hates those particular families and races of people. What about natural disasters? Were the victims of those disasters all heathens? That’s what people who thank God for all the joy in their lives are saying. Otherwise, why wouldn’t God give joy and happiness to everyone? He has the capacity to do so, right? I mean, he is the Almighty. Right?”

“That’s a good question.”

“You want the answer?”

“Probably not.”

“It’s because, number one, there is no God and this is all one blind crap shoot or, number two, there is a God but he’s dumb as a wall, which means that our creation was probably nothing more than a freak accident he had while making a pot of coffee. Or, number three, there is a God and he works in partnership with Satan to preserve the balance of good and evil. I mean, what would God mean without Satan?”

“I really don’t wanna believe that God is evil, if there is one.”

“You know in a community fish tank, when one fish gets really sick, it is best to take it out of the water and let it die slowly, rather than spread the disease. That fish didn’t do anything wrong. He was just minding his own business when he got sick but it is for the good of the whole community that he expires. It’s just a responsibility that the owner of the tank, or in this case, God, must take care of whether we like it or not.” Mahdakis held her hand, lovingly, and stared back at the night stars.

© 2011 Mark Rogers

Front Cover for Driftwood (book 1)

Driftwood (Book I)


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Pasta Affair

After finally securing her right leg to the bedpost with a towel, Tony went to the dresser drawer, pulled out a roll of duct tape, and proceeded to cut off a seven-inch piece, “I’m tired of your mouth, already. Try this, you bitch!”
Tony walked over to the bed where Nicki was screaming, “No! No! No! Don’t! Please, No! I can’t breathe! I’ll hyper ventilate!”
“Too bad, bitch!” Tony quickly applied the tape over her mouth.
Nicki lay on the bed flailing her naked flabby body around; her left leg trying to kick him away, “Mmm! Mmm! Mm-mmmmmm!!”
The smoke alarm started going off, “Shit!” Tony quickly cuffed her left leg to the post, “I forgot about the pasta on the stove. I’ll be back!”
“Mm-mm?” she mumbled as Tony turned and ran downstairs to the smoky kitchen.

Tony returned, holding a large pot of steaming lasagna noodles, which he set down on the dresser, “I hope you like butter,” he said, taking one of the hot noodles out of the pot and dangling it in the air, allowing the hot butter to drip on her naked body.
“Yeah, Mm-mm…yummy, right?”
“Okay. Okay, I won’t make you wait any longer. Here, take this,” and then Tony thrashed her several times with the hot, wet, buttery lasagna noodle on her torso.
“Mmm!!! Mmm! Mmm!!!!”
“Yeah…mm-mm. You want some more, huh?” Tony walked over to the steaming pot and yanked out another noodle in which to torture her with.
“Yeah…..I know…You got an appetite for sausage too. I haven’t forgotten.” Tony began yanking on his penis while he whipped her with the noodle on her inner thigh and the sides of her ass, butter splashing everywhere upon impact of her body . Nicki tried to scream through the duct tape as he whipped her with more noodles, over and over again; all the while frantically masturbating.

As if all this wasn’t enough for the helpless young woman, she was to be further traumatized when five police officers came crashing through the bedroom door, as she lay on the bed with her glory wide open for all to see, and watched them tackle Tony Ravioli. “FREEZE YOU FUCKER!”
“I GOT HIM, JOE. I GOT HIM! CHRIST THIS FUCKER’S HAIRY….YUCK!” the uniformed officer yelled, spitting something out of his mouth.
Officer Roy drew his weapon and pointed it at Tony, “Don’t move. You’re under arrest for kidnapping, sexual assault, stalking, endangerment, vandalism, trespassing, and all kinds of odious charges.”
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you ……”

© 2011, 2014 Mark Rogers

Covers for In Case You Werer Too Stoned to Remember...

In Case You Were Too Stoned To Remember…..


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The Passenger….

The dark, unassuming vehicle pulled over to the side of the highway. The driver leaned over and rolled the passenger window down. “Where you headed?”

“That way,” Goiter said, pointing north without making eye contact.

“That way? Huh, what a coincidence, I’m going that way. Get in.”

The man behind the wheel was Curtis Bolio, originally from Ohio. He was a decent looking, clean-cut white man in his late thirties or possibly mid-forties. It was hard to tell because he was a gym enthusiast and took extremely good care of his body. Curtis had a wife and kids back in Cincinnati, but they weren’t missing him. They weren’t missing him because they were dead; dead because he killed them after raping his son’s buddy in the middle of the night during a sleepover and then stabbing his wife and son to death when they discovered what he had done. It was of no consequence to Curtis Bolio however. He had done this before when he was much younger, to another young lad long before he was married…..before the days of the institution…..and he was eager to do it again….maybe with Goiter, maybe not. Goiter was a bit older than his usual prey, but perhaps he would be a willing participant in gratifying his needs so that Curtis would not have to kill him. He didn’t look forward to the killing aspect of it all, but sometimes it was a necessity in order to keep him out of jail. He did enjoy the raping however; he loved the way they screamed and squirmed and tried to fight back. It aroused him tremendously. In his mind, it was the same tough love that his father had enforced upon him when he was younger; enforced so Curtis would grow up and be tough. Tough enough anyway to hold down a young boy while riding his backside. What an absolutely delicious treat he thought it was, to be rewarded with such a well-deserved pleasure after a usually well-fought battle. The battle of course being the boy’s struggle to get away. And it was the struggle that made it all such great fun; It was the struggle that gave Curtis Bolio the rush of exhilaration he so desired on a daily basis. But how nice it would be if he could just find someone to play the rape game with him on a regular basis so he wouldn’t have to go through the killing process afterward. Curtis Bolio had boys like that but he grew tired of them after a while and had to ‘set them free’. “So what do you say we both go that way together?” he smiled and looked over at Goiter.

“Wherever. I don’t care. Just get me out of here.”

“Going through a bad spell?” The man looked over at Goiter and eyeballed his crotch, raising his eyebrows happily as he did. “Growing up isn’t easy, especially when you’re different than everyone else. And that’s the core of it all, isn’t it? You’re different and they don’t understand how to play with you; right?”

“Something like that,” Goiter nodded his head. “How’d you know?”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Know one what?”

Ignoring his question, the man continued, “But every once in a while we get sent a reminder from God that….you believe in God, don’t you?”

“Sure…why not? Sounds good.”

“No why nots about it. He’s here……and he’s queer.”

“Ha-ha-ha….Huh? Say what?’

“Never mind.”

“You were saying something before though.”

“Right…every once in a while God drops us little reminders to let us know that we’re not alone in our suffering. That there are others who share similar pains and doubts about who we really are and where we’re going. If nothing else, it’s comforting to know that we are never alone in our loneliness.”

“That’s deep. I know a guy in Norford who talks like that.”


“He’s a poet…or a rock musician….or something. Ha! Actually, right now he’s just a drunk. Ha-ha-ha-ha.”

“You like to laugh. That’s good; it’s good to have a sense of humor. Hold on to it, you’ll need it.”

“How so?”

“Hmm.” The man once again ignored his question and stared at the highway ahead, pretending to be thinking long and hard. “You wanna play a game?”

“A game? Hey man, I ain’t funny like that.”

“Oh I assure you this isn’t funny.”

“Oh okay; alright, lay it on me then.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)


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Hello, Yellow Brick Road

While they were only twenty, they felt like, and came off like, thirty-five year olds. They felt they had already lived a full life, and while some felt that the time had come to get serious, most were too afraid to let go and leave sight of the youth that hard living had stolen from them. They were determined to take it back, or hold on to, the insanity that was now their life so that the phantom feelings of it would never fade.

And without noticing, he had let a very significant door in his life slam shut behind him while unconsciously stumbling through another; the door behind him sealing off the negative background noise that for so many years had plagued his heart terribly. The door behind him also shutting out expired friendships and fruitless romantic endeavors. More remarkably, escaping such a life unscathed, a life that had been riddled with hostility, crime, deceit, betrayal, and over all ill fate. This was the wrong place for him to be. Either he had fooled himself into thinking he was something he was not, or he had simply outgrown whatever he was. Perhaps his senses were warning him to change course, or maybe he was just finally beginning to listen to them……..


© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)


Click here for more inane drivel and lascivious behavior – brought to you exclusively by The B.U.R.N.O.U.T.S. Chronicles™


Skid Marks

Mahdakis stepped into the laundry mat, that Floyd and Carl had recently made their temporary sleeping quarters since being kicked out of their homes. “A little conspicuously bright for sleep, wouldn’t you say, Carl?”

“Yeah? Go back outside then.”

“It’s freezing out there.”

“Right, but in here?”

“It’s like a sauna, quite frankly.”

“We got half the dryers going, that’s why,” Carl said proudly. “Brain power.”

“I see.”

Floyd spoke from the rear of the mat where he stood folding clothes on a table, “I won thirty dollars in change playing poker with Squid,”

“Ah. And why not sleep here, instead of getting one of those rooms at the Motor Inn for nineteen ninety-nine, and having a few bucks to spare, right?”

“We didn’t want anyone to think we were gay,” Floyd said, placing a lace negligee on a hanger.”

“You’re still hell bent on keeping it a secret, are you?” Mahdakis looked at Floyd, who swiftly moved on to folding some silk panties,

Carl, finally noticing what Floyd was doing in the back of the laundry mat said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like, Johnny-Boy? Folding clothes.”

“Where did you find them? And cut the shit with that Johnny-Boy crap.”

“Whose are they?” Mahdakis asked.

“I don’t know. They were just sitting in here.” Floyd motioned to the dryer.

“So you’re folding them?”

“Well…..yeah……they’re gonna wrinkle otherwise.” Then, mumbling to himself, Floyd uttered, “Ooh, that spot’s not coming out.”

So dude, where you been?” Carl said to Mahdakis.

“Hee-hee-hee-hee!” Floyd laughed from the rear of the mat. “Jesus Christ, will ya look at these?”

“Ahh! Man!” was Carl’s reaction to the pair of skid marked encrusted cotton underwear that Floyd held in the air like a trophy.

“I didn’t think women did this sort of thing. Hee-hee-hee-hee. These things are ruined. Why even bother. Fuck it.” Floyd threw them into the trash basin.

“Fuck this; let’s go grab a bite to eat.”

“Cool,” Floyd said, and placed the basket gently back down on the bench, as he then began scribbling something on a napkin. “Just give me a minute here. I’m gonna leave this person a note.”

“To let ’em know you make house calls?”

“Nah, nothin’ like that……Okay, let’s go,” Floyd said, laying the note on top of her basket and rushing out the door just behind Carl and Mahdakis. He paused for a moment and looked over his shoulder. “You got to wonder what kind of person just throws a load of clothes in a dryer in the middle of the night and leaves them there.”

Kelly Pierce was that kind of person. And she filed a report with the police, which, in turn, spawned an investigation by the Norford Police Department, spearheaded by Police Commissioner Stromboli.

Floyd's Note Revised

Commissioner Stromboli re-read the last part of the letter aloud, “Floyd……..Floyd…..What do you suppose that means, Darryl?”

“Arr. You don’t tink it’s just his name?”

“Hell no! No one is that stupid. This is code for something, an acronym of some sort. Something gang related or………maybe having to do with the mafia!” The Commissioner rubbed his chin. “What was that guy’s name in The Godfather?….Hmm, never the mind, we have to figure out what this FLOYD thing stands for. It’s our only clue.”

“Found Loitering On Your Doorstep?”

“Don’t be daft! What kind of nonsense is that? Besides, isn’t Doorstep two words?”

“I do believe it’s one, sir.”

“Fetch a dictionary.”

“Sir!” a voice yelled coming up the precinct stairwell. “Commissioner!”

Commissioner Stromboli and Officer Darryl turned to see Officer Roy scurrying, up the stairs with Rookie Rick. “Officer Roy, what’s the trouble?”

Roy looked at the rookie cop. “Tell him what you heard.”

“Well, this morning I overheard John, the night watchman, talking to one of the construction workers on the job site. Apparently, every Thursday night before work, John stops around the corner at Cassel’s Wash & Dry on Third, and throws his laundry in the machine. Then, on his break, throws it into the dryer. He goes back to his post, works the rest of his shift, and picks it up in the morning on his way home. But this time when he returned to the mat…”

“Don’t tell me………..his clothes were folded!”

“Not only that, sir. But someone left him a note.”

“Jiminy Cricket, sir!”

“What kind of note?”

Roy pulled the note from his breast pocket, and unfolded it. “It just says, ‘You owe me, Johnny-Boy.’.”


“Meaning the Night Watchman, John.”

The Commissioner looked puzzled and frightened for a moment as he stared at his reflection in the sparkling clean, precinct floor and gave thought. “Did he sign the note, Roy?”

“Nope. Not this time. And so far as we can tell, there’s no relation to either of the victims.”

The commissioner whipped off his glasses. “Dear God in heaven! Twice in three days; what kind of diabolical, twisted malcontent are we dealing with, here?”

“I don’t know commissioner, but anyone sick enough to go through other people’s clothes, well…”

“They’re capable of anything……Roy? Darryl? I want you two to add an extra cruiser at night and start canvassing areas near any laundry mats. Start within the vicinity of these last two.”

“Yes sir.”

“We’ll find this demented, clothes-folding son of a bitch sicko if it’s the last thing we do.”


© 2012 Mark Rogers

Crimes Seen Front Cover

 Crimes Seen

(Book II)


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EZ Come, EZ Go….

Two weeks into the rehearsals, Nigel made an announcement following the ending of a song, “Dudes.” He made sure to have everyone’s attention. “Guess what?  I got us a real cool second guitar player. His name’s Mike; I met him at Avenues over the weekend.” Avenues was a popular night club in Philadelphia where all the best F.A.G.G. Metal bands played. If you were playing Avenues, then you had arrived. More importantly, Avenues was where you went to get laid by the anorexic F.A.G.G. Metal sperm dumpsters with pancake makeup, hair teased to the moon, and boobs sticking out like rockets. How could a growing boy resist all that? “What do you think? You wanna try him out?”

“I guess.”

“Have you heard him play?”

“Yeah, how do you know he’s any good?”

“Dudes.” Nigel made a cutting motion with his hand onto his lower back, “he’s got hair down to here!”


It was true; Mike did have hair down to ‘here’, and looked like a fine piece of ass from behind. That is to say, he looked like a chick….but with a dick, as did many of these hardcore F.A.G.G.’s. But hey, it’s what the girls of that time were in to; squatting on mirrors with a dildo. (Think about it awhile)

Mike was indeed all of that and a horrible guitar player to boot. After one try out, in which he couldn’t follow the most basic of progressions or even stay in tune, he was gone. And as Mike pulled out of the driveway never to return again, Nigel said. “I don’t know what happened, he looked so cool.”


© 2016 Mark Rogers

Book Cover for Paradise in Purgatory

Paradise In Purgatory

(Vol. IV)


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Hand Jive

“He needs a job.”
“But, he has no skills.”
“Maybe he could  give hand jobs down at the bus depot.”
“It’s steady work.”
“I hear it’s pretty much up and down.”
“It’s something he’d enjoy.”
“What kind of man would want a hand job from Pock? What kind of twisted malcontents are we dealing with out there?” Continue reading