Oh, and WordPress fucking sucks because I used their tool to add a link (I’m looking at their html right now) and there’s no link. Here it is. click away: http://www.amazon.com/Love-You-Pulp-CS-DeWildt-ebook/dp/B00TLB35II/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1424367856&sr=8-1&keywords=love+you+to+a+pulp
Another wonderful writer I know has taken me up on my “YouTube video writing prompt challenge.” Here’s another micro piece by the one and only Bill Baber.
by Bill Baber
Damn, I knew better that to try and score from that dreadlock wearin’ punk. Wasn’t askin’ him to front neither. Just that Keisha was suckin’ on my dick talkin’ about how she wanted to get high ‘fore she gave it up.
Tried callin’ my main man Ty but couldn’t reach him. Tried some of his crew but they didn’t know where the brother was. Tried talkin’ sense to Keisha but she wasn’t hearin’ it.
Never been tight with De Wayne. He sells reefer and acts all gangsta about it. Wears them dreads like he a Jamaican. Shit, closest that fool ever been to Jamaica was right here in Queens. Thinks he gonna fuck wit’ people cuz he sell some green.
If I wasn’t at Keisha’s crib, woulda took my piece with me. Ain’t gonna take shit from that punk ass little bitch.
I knock, his boy Jethro opens.
“The fuck you want here?” he says.
“Just lookin’ to cop, bro.”
Then DeWayne is all up in my grill.
“Motherfucker, how I know you ain’t wit’ 5-0?”
“Nah, man. It ain’t like that. Can’t find my go to. Just wanna get high. You don’t wanna deal. I’m gone.”
I turn for the door. I told you he was a punk. He sucker punched me, knocked me to the ground. I start gettin’ up. He starts kickin.
I ain’t hurt cuz DeWayne ain’t bad. Now Jethro, that’s another thing.
But I ain’t gonna let DeWayne go on kickin’ my ass.
After a bit I get to my feet. Drill that bitch, blood pours from his busted nose.
That’s when Jethro jumps in. They got me down, They fuckin’ me up.
I think about two things- how I should had my piece cuz I woulda wasted these two chumps.
And, Keisha’s fine brown ass.
I am a horrible blogger. Just look around this site and tell me I’m not. I rarely update, I don’t have much to say when I do (other than the occasional piece of news about my own writing), and most of the traffic I get is when people are looking for pornography and are mistakenly directed to my site.
So today, in an effort to get back into this whole blogging thing (I have a book coming out very soon that will need all the promotion it can get), I’m doing something different: I am playing publisher. I am NOT a publisher, so perhaps we could equate this experiment to some kind of kinky role-play (safety phrase is “don’t stop doing that no matter what I say”).
This experiment involves one of my favorite activities, finding videos of people beating the shit out of each other on YouTube. While watching a particular video this past weekend (below) I was completely mesmerized. The title is clear enough, though it wasn’t the fight that engaged me so fully, but the cameraman’s commentary. From his staircase perch he looked over the scene like a ghetto Dr. Eckleburg. His commentary was not only a scary reminder of the violence some people witness and participate in almost daily, but also the voice of reason when the antagonist wouldn’t do the intelligent thing: Just get the fuck out of this dude’s house when he had the chance.
That’s just a little background on what’s to follow. I posted the video to Facebook for my crime writing homies and suggested that they write a first act for the video. I wanted to know what led up to the first frame in which our stubborn, visiting pugilist was already in a headlock. Enter Hector D Junior, he stepped up and wrote a killer intro to the video, which again is below. Read Hector’s words and then watch the rest of the scene unfold via video. Do I need to warn you that it’s violent? No. I don’t.
by Hector D Junior
Tone’s been with Daz’s sister for close to a month now. Nothing crazy, just kicking it, getting to know one another. Nichelle ain’t like the hood rats round the corner.
Tone always calls when he needs to re-up. When Daz tells him to ride through and pick his shit up for the next month, Tone says, “Nigga, I’m strapped right now. Call you when I got something to give you.”
“Damn, nigga, what you take me for? Some kinda gold diggin’ bitch? Ride through and we’ll hit a big ass blunt. Quick, Ty’s orderin’ pizza.”
Tone hangs up. Daz doesn’t give time for an answer. He doesn’t show up and they’d be on his ass too, maybe even give Nichelle shit. Nah, he best ride through, keep up appearances. They’re gonna jump his ass for sure, no doubt.
Fuck, he didn’t feel like getting into a fight. Not when things going so good with Nichelle. It’s weird how brothers and sisters can be different like that. That’s what he likes about her so much. She ain’t one of these long-nailed, horse-hair hood rats say mother fucker every other word. Some got stretch marks they show with those lil ass tank tops with no bras, titties out for all the other niggas to see. Tone ain’t about to fuck around with hoes gonna have him a dad in less than a year, livin’ in the hood rest of his life. If Tone don’t fight, Tone stays. Probably Nichelle too.
He straightens his shit out right before knocking, tells himself if mother fuckers are gonna jump him, he’s takin’ them down. They ain’t keeping him and Nichelle here forever.
Pleased to report that my novel Love You to a Pulp has been picked up by the fine folks over at All Due Respect Books. Stay tuned…
Originally posted on Mike Monson:
Untitled psycho noir:
Killing her was easy.
The killing was always the easy part. Want to kill a bitch? No problem. It’s just a couple simple steps. Get a real sharp knife, come up behind her, pull her head back by her hair and then, well, commit. Fully commit to making a deep, long, ear-to-ear cut.
That’ll do it. Every time.
Next, just drop Helen or Amber or Nadine or whoever the fuck, and walk away. Just let go. If you’ve done it right, if you’ve actually fully committed, by the time you’ve walked to the nearest sink and cleaned off your knife, the little cutie will either be slowly bleeding out, or be dead already from lack of oxygen due to a severed trachea.
This is what Lancaster Messier had just done to Florence Hanratty. She never made a sound, which was satisfying because it gave Lancaster…
View original 1,956 more words
New micro piece is up at the wonderful literary site Digging Through the Fat. It’s called Patsy Cline Over and Over and Over and it’s the typical upbeat stuff you’ve come to expect from me.
Some editors have told me they hate bar stories, they see too many of them. Here’s another one I guess.