Category Archives: Marilyn Manson



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Hello All.

Welcome to Volume Thirteen of the MixTape series: The Demise Of The Mask. –(Volume One here)__(Volume Two here)__(Volume Three here)__(Volume Four here)__(Volume Five here)__(Volume Six here)__(Volume Seven here)__(Volume Eight here)__(Volume Nine here)__(Volume Ten here)__(Volume Eleven here)__(Volume Twelve here)-

Not only is this the thirteenth volume but it is also the very last in the series. So there you now have a total of seventeen hours and seventeen minutes of music! It all together makes a great soundtrack if you have to spend a day painting the blades of grass in your backyard or something of that nature. I do hope you dig it!

Also below you’ll find an updated list of things I read (or re-read) so far since January of this year. You’ll find the more recent things towards the bottom. These are works that I truly enjoyed and/or loved. I highly recommend them all!

I do want to make special mention of two books here that I believe are real healthy for your sense of reality: Tom Waits on Tom Waits: Interviews and Encounters by Paul Maher Jr. (Editor), and The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington, with its incredible, twisted beauties like The Happy Corpse Story and How To Start A Pharmaceuticals Business!


Oh and my son and I fell in love with Marc Martin’s A River


Well I do hope you dig it all and if you dig the mix then please feel free to pass & post it along; if you dig an artist then please support them and go out and pick up some of their stuff. Oh, If you dig the blog overall there’s always the “FOLLOW BLOG VIA EMAIL” button somewhere down at the bottom

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—————–======ENJOY YOURSELF____———–

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__The Demise Of The Mask (Vol 12)__Waitin’ At The Harbor___
  • This Is I – Juan Wauters
  • – David Bowie
  • Museum Of Sex – Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus 3
  • In A Parade – Paul Simon
  • Son Of Your Father – Elton John
  • Pillow of Your Bones – Chris Cornell 
  • To Kingdom Come – The Band
  • In My Own Dream – Karen Dalton
  • The Passage of the Black Gene – Elvis Perkins
  • Cuckoo Cocoon – Genesis
  • 22 Ghosts III – Nine Inch Nails
  • Dear World, – Nine Inch Nails
  • Lonely Planet Boy – New York Dolls
  • Fundamentally Loathsome – Marilyn Manson
  • Dear Friend – Jonathan Wilson
  • Cluster Ghosts – Madlib
  • Modern Kosmology – Jane Weaver
  • I Can’t Sleep At Night – Gary Higgins
  • The Way That You Sleep – nature films
  • I Guess I Should Go To Sleep – Jack White
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[This Is I – Juan Wauters]

[★ – David Bowie (illustration by Helen Green)]

[Museum Of Sex – Robyn Hitchcock & The Venus 3]

[In A Parade – Paul Simon (art by Chuck Close)]

[Son Of Your Father – Elton John]

[Pillow of Your Bones – Chris Cornell ]

[To Kingdom Come – The Band]

[In My Own Dream – Karen Dalton]

[The Passage of the Black Gene – Elvis Perkins]

[Cuckoo Cocoon – Genesis]

[22 Ghosts III – Nine Inch Nails (photography by Phillip Graybill and Rob Sheridan )]

[Dear World, – Nine Inch Nails]

[Lonely Planet Boy – New York Dolls (art by Greg “Stainboy” Reinel)]

[Fundamentally Loathsome – Marilyn Manson (photo by Mark Seliger, 1998)]

[Dear Friend – Jonathan Wilson]

[Cluster Ghosts – Madlib]

[Modern Kosmology – Jane Weaver]

[I Can’t Sleep At Night – Gary Higgins]

[The Way That You Sleepnature films]

[I Guess I Should Go To Sleep – Jack White (art by Methane Studios)]

Umbrella Academy

The Umbrella Academy, Vol. 1: Apocalypse Suite / The Umbrella Academy, Vol. 2: Dallas by Gerard Way & Gabriel Ba


All the best to you and yours!—  –   ————-______-________ ->BOBBY CALERO[—+=-_________________If you dig the mix then please feel free to pass & post it along; if you dig an artist then please support them and go out and pick up some of their stuff. Oh, If you dig the blog overall there’s always the “FOLLOW BLOG VIA EMAIL” button somewhere down at the bottom.

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From here the album is washed over in a pixelated aurora borealis, which competes for nearly three minutes against steel brackets that attempt to contain it. This being the third song of disc two, “Press: Tattle-Tape,” the band’s tone poem musing on a culture of mass surveillance and spectacle. With a roll and quivering drone to Heath’s voice, the tune drifts along with a slush and spun mantra of:


With a yank of the wires Mireille pulled the little stereo buds from her ear canals and let them drop to the laminate table top. For the moment she felt bored by her favorite album by what was then her favorite band. While at the time she was yet to be so heavily embedded in the wireless two-way access and feed of such things, Mireille’s opinion was still much in line with those of the dominant music journalists of “Alt-Culture” at that time. Much of that year’s accolades and critical praise would be heaped upon […]Phantom Limbs[…]. Yet, even those that gave it perfect stars and the top spot on year-end review lists were sure to use the term “self-indulgent” in their opinion columns.

Coinciding with the album’s release on October 24th the prior year, deputy music editor James DePrecato wrote a piece of criticism for Turn-Turn Magazine entitled “Baroque or Bloat.” In this four out of five star review he wrote:

For all of its synthesized ornaments and gloom, Locust Mirror’s last LP, The Misshapen Pearl was still anchored in enough racket to still sell as a fairly standard rock album. Here in the substantial bulk of their new record the band has been uprooted to flail about countless styles, some pleasant, lenient, and wholly mesmerizing, others odious in their sincerity, or worse when occasionally the indulgences plunge into self parody. And yet for all its theatrical abandon, Phantom Limbs (etc. etc. etc.) is one of the finest double albums to be released on the marketplace by any artist in quite some time. Here you have a rare epic that is actually supported by its content.

From here the review careens off into some digression on former Mayor John Lindsay’s Fun City era New York, White Flight, and this quote by French poet Stéphane Mallarmé: To name an object is to suppress three-fourths of the enjoyment of the poem, which is composed of the pleasure of guessing little by little: to suggest…that is the dream. All that before concluding with: “From its sepulchral folk to the fluid-fuzz of its ambitious ballads this is the work of a group resolute in pursuing any and every artistic impulse…wherever they might lead. But above all that it is a triumph of the will and imagination.” But still it was there, “self-indulgent.”

“Well,” Mireille would later question, “what act of creation in this world couldn’t be rerouted back and subjected to that snub? Even charity. Even community. ”

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dendrites cvr 11

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(problem) – Eat the document Soundtrack

Thaeter – Marilyn Manson [art, The Golden Age (Mother 4) by Gottfried Helnwein, 2003]

Newspaper Spoons – Viet Cong

Sweet Cream Ladies, Forward March – The Box Tops

You And Whose Army? – Radiohead [art by Stanley Donwood]

Why Don’t You Believe in Me – Natalie Prass [photo by Laura D’art]

Is It Love or Desire – Betty Davis

One And One – Miles Davis

Keep On Keeping On – NF Porter

Every Planet We Reach Is Dead – Gorillaz

Learning To Live Together/The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, But It Will Be Auctioned Off On Ebay – Mushroom (with Gary Floyd)

Birdland Patti Smith (Photo by Linda Smith Bianucci)


E-Bow The Letter – R.E.M.


Fire Shed In My Bones – Boyd Rivers

I’m So Bored With The U.S.A. – The Clash [painting: The Last Rally, Mort Kunstler (1865)]

Love Me – The Phantom

Big Love – Matthew E. White

Kangaroo – Big Star

Estocadas – of Montreal

Hope – R.E.M.


When You Awake – The Band [photo by Norman Seeff, 1969]

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  • (problem) – Eat the document Soundtrack
  • Thaeter – Marilyn Manson 
  • Newspaper Spoons – Viet Cong
  • Sweet Cream Ladies, Forward March – The Box Tops
  • You And Whose Army? – Radiohead
  • Why Don’t You Believe in Me – Natalie Prass 
  • Is It Love or Desire – Betty Davis
  • One And One – Miles Davis
  • Keep On Keeping On – NF Porter
  • Every Planet We Reach Is Dead – Gorillaz
  • Learning To Live Together/The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, But It Will Be Auctioned Off On Ebay – Mushroom with Gary Floyd
  • Birdland – Patti Smith 
  • E-Bow The Letter – R.E.M.
  • Fire Shed in My Bones – Boyd Rivers
  • I’m So Bored With The U.S.A. – The Clash
  • Love Me – The Phantom
  • Big Love – Matthew E. White
  • Kangaroo – Big Star
  • Estocadas – of Montreal
  • Hope – R.E.M.
  • When You Awake – The Band 

_ _ _ __=========================================     <^>______BOBBY CALERO

If you dig the mix then please feel free to pass & post it along; if you dig a particular artist then please support them and go out and pick up some of their albums.


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Mireille was carried off through the siphon of her headphones by the maudlin tunes, prog rock, and panic attack psychedelia of the band Locust Mirror on their double LP, Empty Anodyne for The Learned Paralysis of Phantom Limbs (or just simply Phantom Limbs as it came to be called when discussed by fans and the press). Seemingly without thought she sunk into the lost-in-the-sauce lounge act that opens disc two of the album, “Now There’s Nothing So Savage As A Man Destroying Himself.” Despite the initial cabaret style of the song, it operates like burlesque in reverse. It begins with an exposed and solitary piano that adds garb as it sashays like a confused showgirl along its theatric course. Instead of feather boas and nipple tassels, however, it goes on to don a robe of sonic shrapnel that brings to one’s mind thoughts of silicon and dust mites.

The keys are fingered. At just over the two minute mark and with the arrival of what might well serve as an ersatz chorus (a wailed, “Repetition is true horror”), this song would finally acquire a rhythm section to usher it further into the froth and gauze swelling up on all sides. These knit accents and fills of bass and drums, however, come on as if composed of corroded rubber: it sure could still bounce like disco but seemed in peril of splitting open any moment now. Yet all these accouterments would have to wait to adhere to the ivory backbone of the tune until first the vocals set the melodic theme.

The emotive sphere of lead vocalist Christian Heath’s voice typically bows between something of a desperate caress seeking an empathic response, and an emphatic, stellar burst. Regardless of what side of that spectrum it leans on at any given time in any given tune, his voice seems to nearly always smear each lengthy line of the lyrics, so that they are made to meander through the arrangement as if a disembodied instrument. His voice is an intruding transmission that does not want to appear rude and so does its best to flit along. His voice is a virus that plays well with its host environment.

The results of this interplay were often as disorienting for the listener as a boat at sway, but they were frequently received as an honest thing of beauty as well. Here on this song this effect was heightened by the sporadic insertion of unintelligible chatter and laughter. Often Heath’s phrasing would tremble and stretch syllables on the verge of an exhausted falsetto that could gloss over the lack of a typical pop song’s requisite end rhyme:

I need more…

than these stillborn afternoons

of cotton entertainment

I need more…

than cartoons and iced-coffee

Grant me a marionette

I’ll dance like an idiot

under summer’s tight-throat heat

I need more…

than string theory documentaries

Give to me one dance partner

I need more…

than those oh-so elegant

collections, treats of chewed fat

I need more…

than mere adequate actors

adequate actors mewling

I need more…

than another erection

from cotton entertainment

I need more…

than a new American

American way of war

I need more…

than cartoons and iced-coffee

Grant me a marionette

I’ll dance like an idiot

under summer’s tight-throat heat


Everything is terrible

No one, no one wants to dance

—Repetition is true horror—

I need more…

than pious stone or a blip,

a blip blister of pleasure

I need more…

than an awful suckle while

waiting for the day to do…

{…what it does}—

—Repetition is true horror—

I need more…

than these nerves like old butter

waiting for the day to do…

{…what it does}—

I need more…

than resurrected majesty

mad as hungry little birds,

birds that flutter in the brain,

But it certainly would do for a day or two…

{…what it does}—

—Repetition is true horror—

O How the neighbor coughs from his window

O and how the pigeons coo

How we wretch

And how are you?

—Curtains open—

—Bled like heaven—

—Curtains close—

Beauty and grotesques

once burst from the head,

…Now, there’s a sick!…pigeon!…trapped!…—

There’s a sick pigeon in my head!

Lungs toil—

Sunlight ripples on a rooftop puddle

Lungs toil—


Lungs toil—

—Repetition is true horror—

As it maneuvers along the rolling frame of its design the song doubles back on itself. It is as if the instruments turn to find a route out and only encounter another narrow corridor and its inevitable dead-end. In lithe panic they muster up enough muscle and sinew to shrug off their somnambulant groove and about face. In the slink of their retreat they bottleneck and pile up. The whole flourishes as an aggregate of anxiety.

Soon it has nowhere else to pitch its weight. Its only option is but to hop a straight flight into the warm Mellotron swarm that has been waiting all this time like the welcoming jowls of a wolf on the other side of the door. From this arrives the square wave monologue, as if through a chewed radio:

  • […and you can’t afford another sort of paradise on this salary]
  • [No one is saying anything out there anyway]
  • [Who has been burning photographs and painting walls?]
  • [Wall-sickness and a trapped nerve]
  • [Venom in a tooth and perpetual machines hum]
  • [No one is out there saying anything anyway]
  • [Problems]
  • [Dry]
  • [Curse disease and then ease back into waste;]
  • [All while drinking iced-coffee and watching cartoons concerning our elegant universe]
  • [Wet]
  • [There’s so little love left]
  • [I love drifting off to sleep while watching television]
  • [Parasite fragments]…[I suppose that…]
  • [There’s nothing coming]
  • [And there’s nothing we can do about it]
  • [Somebody throw the baby out with the bathos]
  • [Who will wind the pocket-clocks when I’m gone?]
  • [And who will break the ice?]

Gelignite guitars detonate. It all goes up in a mushroom cloud of Moog synthesizers and found sounds. Both the circulatory and nervous systems of the song are reduced to slag and reverb circling a drain.

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dendrites 9 CVR

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Victory On The Hill – Rivers Cuomo

The Forest Awakes – David Byrne & St. Vincent

Obsequey [The Death Of Art] – Marilyn Manson [image by Gottfried Helnwein]

Whipped Cream – Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass

Thieves In The Night – Black Star

Dynamite! – The Roots

Come Around – M.I.A. (ft. Timbaland)

Sita Ram – Alice Coltrane

Strange Religion – Mark Lanegan Band (ft. Izzy Stradlin & Duff McKagan) [art by Justin Hampton]

Wildfire – John Mayer (ft. Frank Ocean)

A Place With No Name – Michael Jackson

I’m A Fool To Want You – Billie Holiday [photo by Dennis Stock, 1958]

If You See Her, Say Hello – Jeff Buckley (Dylan cover; Grace sessions outtake, 1993) [photo by Merri Cyr]

Finish What I Started – Will Butler

Alligator – Paul McCartney [painting: Bowie spewing by Paul McCartney, 1990]

Do The Tramp – The Fever [painting: Exploration of the Sources of the Orinoco River by Remedios Varo, 1959]

We Could Be So Good Together – The Doors

Strollin’ In – Lou Donaldson

Boogie Woogie Woman – B.B. King

Un Buen Día Para Morir – Calle 13 (ft. Vernon Foster)

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  • Victory On The Hill – Rivers Cuomo
  • The Forest Awakes – David Byrne & St. Vincent
  • Obsequey [The Death Of Art] – Marilyn Manson 
  • Whipped Cream – Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass
  • Thieves In The Night – Black Star (Mos Def & Talib Kweli)
  • Dynamite! – The Roots
  • Come Around – M.I.A. (ft. Timbaland)
  • Sita Ram – Alice Coltrane
  • Strange Religion – Mark Lanegan Band (ft. Izzy Stradlin & Duff McKagan)
  • Wildfire – John Mayer (ft. Frank Ocean)
  • A Place With No Name – Michael Jackson (AMOP mix)
  • I’m A Fool To Want You – Billie Holiday
  • If You See Her, Say Hello – Jeff Buckley (Dylan cover; Grace sessions outtake, 1993) 
  • Finish What I Started – Will Butler
  • Alligator – Paul McCartney
  • Do The Tramp – The Fever
  • We Could Be So Good Together – The Doors
  • Strollin’ In – Lou Donaldson
  • Boogie Woogie Woman – B.B. King
  • Un Buen Día Para Morir – Calle 13 (ft. Vernon Foster)

_ _ _ __=========================================     ______BOBBY CALERO

If you dig the mix then please feel free to pass & post it along; if you dig a particular artist then please support them and go out and pick up some of their albums.


Who will be

“How the hell should I know?” Mireille said to herself. “How could anyone, when we don’t even know what these bundles of qualities we carry and call the self is right now at this moment?” She had read somewhere “to be living is to be thinking.” This statement was made with the intention of being inclusive to all organisms on earth, and she found it beautiful in this respect. But as for herself, she often wished a way for this sentence to somehow exist as a curtailed “…to be…” and nothing more.

This wish was not a matter of numb pursuits towards some honeyed sopor; this had nothing to do with oblivious bliss or even lines. Those consoled by the style of nihilism might admire that anesthetized end as noble and offer a rhetorical, “What good was a ruin if not of your own design?” Yet Mireille did not desire to attain a life as an amputee grateful to be let loose from the distraction of limbs and their demands. She could not venerate her stumps as indicative of enlightenment. It was more to do with simply wanting to no longer consider the left foot, ponder the right—Mireille just wanted to walk.

“Whether in circles or forwards for now who really cares?”

Despite the presence of several “Top Ten Reasons To Click Here” style articles, there was nothing there on the screen that she felt was of immediate interest. After a distracted scroll down her digital profile’s wall, she logged off. Her phone was returned to its place. If you, Dear Reader, have found yourself experiencing any form of exasperation at all at this point, please explore your being for the animal’s wondrous faculty for empathy and consider just how Mireille might feel. She did not want to think about any of this.

“…to be…”

Nothing more.

Yes. All this thought, this brief foray into the clutter of ontology that she now found herself engaged in, even all this was something she considered: “fine, but just too much.” Particularly as she could foresee it as always and only an orchestra inevitably conducted through the ligaments and sieves of semantics. She did not want to live “the-movie-in-the-brain.” Mireille had grown weary of feeling that—being by biological design and perhaps some other as of yet unquantifiable element, necessarily mitigated through time-bending protein memory and sensory portals—our experience of existence had unavoidably resulted in a tape delay.

Mireille had grown weary of feeling that our experience of existence had unavoidably resulted in a tape delay.

_____________________                                 _________________                      _________________   _


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Press Play – Stone Temple Pilots

The Sparrow Looks Up At The Machine – The Flaming Lips

Too Deep – The Ghost Of A Saber Tooth Tiger

Indigo Child (Interlude)/Far Side Of The Moon – Tinashe

Fire On Your Feet – Pop Levi

Bear Witness – Dr. Octagon (aka. Kool Keith)

Montara – Madlib

So Far To Go – J Dilla (ft. Common & D’angelo)

Woo Hah!! Got You All In Check – Busta Rhymes

The Bully – Richard Swift

Owl – The Child Of Lov (Ft. MF DOOM)

The Freak Folk Drop By Dressed Up For Each Other – Mushroom

The Leopards Featuring Gardenia And The Mighty Slug – T. Rex

She’s Leaving Home – The Flaming Lips (ft. Julianna Barwick, Phantogram, Spaceface)

Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite! – The Beatles

Eht Dnarg Noisulli – Pharoahe Monch (ft. The Stepkids)

Daylight Savings – Imani Coppola

Data data – Jorge Drexler

Let It Ride – Robert Glasper Experiment (ft. Norah Jones)

Mysteries – Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Posthuman – Marilyn Manson

Dyin’ To Live – André 3000



  • Press Play – Stone Temple Pilots
  • The Sparrow Looks Up At The Machine – The Flaming Lips
  • Too Deep – The Ghost Of A Saber Tooth Tiger
  • Indigo Child (Interlude)/Far Side Of The Moon – Tinashe
  • Fire On Your Feet – Pop Levi
  • Bear Witness – Dr. Octagon (aka. Kool Keith)
  • Montara – Madlib
  • So Far To Go  – J Dilla (ft. Common & D’angelo)
  • Woo Hah!! Got You All In Check – Busta Rhymes
  • The Bully – Richard Swift
  • Owl – The Child Of Lov (Ft. MF DOOM)
  • The Freak Folk Drop By Dressed Up For Each Other – Mushroom
  • The Leopards Featuring Gardenia And The Mighty Slug – T. Rex
  • She’s Leaving Home – The Flaming Lips (ft. Julianna Barwick, Phantogram, Spaceface)
  • Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite! – The Beatles
  • Eht Dnarg Noisulli – Pharoahe Monch (ft. The Stepkids)
  • Daylight Savings – Imani Coppola
  • Data data – Jorge Drexler
  • Let It Ride – Robert Glasper Experiment (ft. Norah Jones)
  • Mysteries – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
  • Posthuman – Marilyn Manson
  • Dyin’ To Live – André 3000

———————–BOBBY CALERO——————————-


Hello all and welcome to the new MixTape: At Play Beside The Tower. This one features such brilliant artists as Erykah Badu, St. Vincent, J Dilla, and many more! For those that are interested, both the title and some inserted text read by Lyn Gerry come from Charles Eisenstein’s great book, The Ascent of Humanity. (You can read or listen to it yourself for free over at this site.)

As always, if you enjoy any of these tunes I urge you to seek out and purchase more work to support these artists.

Thanks for stopping by and lending me your ear–



At Play Beside The Tower_CVR


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Blind Man Can See It (Extended) – James Brown

Didn’t Cha Know – Erykah Badu

Reception/Group therapy – Broadcast & The Focus Group

About Nothing – Scott Weiland

Any Colour You Like – Flaming Lips [art by Martin Ansin]

Huey Newton – St. Vincent

Who Will Lead Us – Priestbird

Sugar Storm/At Play Beside the Tower – Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross/Charles Eisenstein (AMOP edit)

Workinonit [edit] – J Dilla 

Slave Only Dreams To Be King – Marilyn Manson

The Reptilian Agenda – B. Dolan

Sugar Storm (Reprise) – Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross

Gobstopper – J Dilla

Cthulu – EMA

Anchors – Stone Gossard

& Eveline – Elvis Perkins

Sirens Of Your Toxic Spirit – of Montreal

The Ideal Husband – Father John Misty

Urban Ease/Slide Machine – Parquet Courts (13th Floor Elevators cover)

1st Time/Freak You – Cooly G

Ordinary Morning – Sheryl Crow


  • Blind Man Can See It – James Brown
  • Didn’t Cha Know – Erykah Badu
  • Reception/Group therapy – Broadcast & The Focus Group
  • About Nothing – Scott Weiland
  • Any Colour You Like – Flaming Lips
  • Huey Newton – St. Vincent
  • Who Will Lead Us – Priestbird
  • Sugar Storm/At Play Beside the Tower – Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross/Charles Eisenstein (AMOP edit)
  • Workinonit – J Dilla
  • Slave Only Dreams To Be King – Marilyn Manson
  • The Reptilian Agenda – B. Dolan
  • Sugar Storm (Reprise) – Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross
  • Gobstopper – J Dilla
  • Cthulu – EMA
  • Anchors – Stone Gossard
  • & Eveline – Elvis Perkins
  • Sirens Of Your Toxic Spirit – of Montreal
  • The Ideal Husband – Father John Misty
  • Urban Ease/Slide Machine – Parquet Courts
  • 1st Time/Freak You – Cooly G
  • Ordinary Morning – Sheryl Crow
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———————–BOBBY CALERO——————————-


Hello All,

If you’re anything like me then you like to let music marinate in your guts for a bit before finding a place for it on the shelf. So, even though I feel that this might be a bit premature on my part but with the year of 2013 rapidly approaching its conclusion, I’d like to present a MixTape that collects many of my favorite tunes from 2012.

Oh, and I’m sure that it might seem like an oversight on my part but this mix does not include the trackAbove My Ground” by Landlady, even though I stated before that it was just about the best new song I heard that year. Seeing as it has already been featured in its very own post I figured I’d give some other choice tunes a chance to shine here on this mixtape.

However, here’s the video for what is still my favorite song of 2012:

I must say, however, that I believe my top 3 albums for that year are:

Fear Fun by Father John Misty

Tempest by Bob Dylan

The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do by Fiona Apple

—Enjoy Yourself

2012 AMOP


A Mouthful Of Pennies Presents: 2 01 2

  • Daredevil – Fiona Apple
  • Reel to Reel – Damien Jurado (feat. Richard Swift)
  • No One Ever Sleeps – The Walkmen
  • I Guess I Should Go To Sleep – Jack White
  • I Just Started Hating Some People Today – Beck (Feat. Jack White)
  • Well They’re Gone – The Dandy Warhols
  • Walking Up To Hand Grenades – The Brian Jonestown Massacre
  • Who’s Gonna Lite It Up – Cornershop (feat. Izzy Lindqwister)
  • I’m Writing A Novel – Father John Misty
  • Early Roman Kings – Bob Dylan
  • Eleggua – Dr. John
  • Dirt, Money & Friends – BLKHRTS
  • Feedin’ Birds – Gonjasufi
  • Slo-Mo-Tion/Overneath The Path Of Misery [snippet]- Marilyn Manson
  • Express Yourself – Diplo (feat. Nicky Da B)
  • Default – Atoms for Peace
  • Terrifying [Starlight & Wonder Version] – Pop Levi
  • A Queens Story – Nas
  • Montauk – Rufus Wainwright
  • I Am What I Am – Spiritualized
  • I Only Have Eyes For You [snippet] – Beck

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Daredevil – Fiona Apple

Reel to Reel – Damien Jurado (feat. Richard Swift)

No One Ever Sleeps – The Walkmen

I Guess I Should Go To Sleep – Jack White

I Just Started Hating Some People Today – Beck (feat. Jack White)

Well They’re Gone – The Dandy Warhols

Walking Up To Hand Grenades – The Brian Jonestown Massacre

Who’s Gonna Lite It Up – Cornershop (feat. Izzy Lindqwister)

I’m Writing A Novel – Father John Misty

Early Roman Kings – Bob Dylan

Eleggua – Dr. John

Dirt, Money & Friends – BLKHRTS

Feedin’ Birds – Gonjasufi

Slo-Mo-Tion/Overneath The Path Of Misery [snippet]- Marilyn Manson

Express Yourself – Diplo (feat. Nicky Da B)

Default – Atoms for Peace

Terrifying [Starlight & Wonder Version] – Pop Levi

A Queens Story – Nas

Montauk – Rufus Wainwright

I Am What I Am – Spiritualized

I Only Have Eyes For You [snippet] – Beck

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Hello All,

I’ve got a few treats here for you today to help you creep into the Halloween spirit!

  • First up, there’s quite a MixTape—October Creep—mostly pulled together from various soundtracks and other odds & ends. Now, it’s certainly not the type of mix your going to bump on regular rotation but give it a whirl and I’m sure it’ll give you the appropriate amount of heebie-jeebies this month demands. Oh, and I highly recommend watching the flicks these songs were featured in! They are definitely some of the best films of the horror genre.
  • Up next is both the “book trailer” my friend Rich Stambolian and I put together, and the review I wrote for Rick Yancey’s The Monstrumologist. This novel and the subsequent ones in the series truly are some of the greatest and smartest horror stories I have read in quite some time. So be sure to check it out.
  • And to conclude, I present a short story—All’s Hollow—which I wrote last Halloween for my own amusement. I hope you enjoy, so scroll on down to the end, and as always,

—Enjoy yourself!

Happy Halloween!

October Creep


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A Mouthful Of Pennies Presents:


• “The Horror, The Horror” Colonel Kurtz (Marlon Brando)

Ghosts 11Nine Inch Nails

Zombi (The Living Dead’s Voices!) – Goblin

“As You Walk In Forever” – Charles Manson

Halloween II Theme – John Carpenter & Alan Howarth

Guest Room – Priestbird

Horrorscope – Ralph Lundsten And The Andromeda All Stars

Suspiria – Goblin

The Lords Theme – John 5 & Griffin Boice

A Suite For Strings – Bernard Herrmann

The Purpose Of Existence Is? – Ray Manzarek

Walk Me Home -  Memory Tapes

Walk Me HomeMemory Tapes

Hellraiser – Christopher Young

“The Man in the Black Coat Had…” (The Graveyard Book) – Neil Gaiman

BabyDamaged Tape

• “Look Out There’s A Monster Coming” – The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band

The Pink Room – David Lynch & Fox Bat Strategy

Poltergeist Theme Song-Carol AnneJerry Goldsmith

Ai Margini Della Follia – Goblin

•  “…They’re All Messed Up” – Night of The Living Dead

“The House of Pain” – The Island of Doctor Moreau

Cherchez La Ghost – El Michels Affair

The Isle of Blood: chapt. 7 (The Monstrumologist #3) – Rick Yancey

The Curse of Margaret Morgan – John 5 & Griffin Boice

Cannibal Hunt – Damaged Tape

“Every Time I Met Him He Was Somebody Else” – Charles Manson (portrait by Joe Colemen, 1988).

Man That You Fear – Marilyn Manson

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Yancey, Rick. The Monstrumologist. Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing, 2009. 448 p. $17.99. 978-1-4169-8448-1

“Of Wolves & Worms: a review of Rick Yancey’s The Monstrumologist”

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

While never explicitly stated, the sentiments behind the above quotation from the concluding stanza of William Blake’s 1794 Poem “The Tyger” run central to the elements of true terror in Rick Yancey’s The Monstrumologist. This “young adult” novel seamlessly knits the ominous tones of American gothic authors such as H. P. Lovecraft and Flannery O’Connor with the grotesque visuals of modern horror cinema. Despite the fact that graphic descriptions of the blood-and-guts variety are featured prominently throughout this book, these details are not given for the purpose of mere sensationalism. Through his apparent dexterity of craft when concerning the English language and narrative forms, Yancey has written a carefully constructed story of intellectual horror.

“These are the secrets I have kept. This is the trust I never betrayed. But he is dead now and has been for more than forty years, the one who gave me his trust, the one for whom I kept these secrets. The one who saved me…and the one who cursed me.”

These opening statements of protagonist Will Henry’s memoir sets a macabre mood that is subsequently maintained by the horrific events that occur throughout the novel. The details concerning a fire serves as a tragic, if subtle mystery in regards to the reader’s grasp upon the two main characters’ histories and the dynamic of their relationship; this fire has left young Will Henry an orphan now in the care of Dr. Pellinore Warthrop, under who he toils as an assistant. Dr. Warthrop, whose vocation provides the novel with its title, is an exacting man who is fanatically dedicated to his scientific pursuits, although, these investigations tend to be a bit more esoteric than those commonly associated with the average scientist. His discipline is in monstrumology: a supposed turn of the century field of study that today would likely be labeled cryptozoology.

This tale is set in 1888 within a New England city (where, as anyone who has visited Massachusetts, or Maine knows that a story of horror such as this must take place) called New Jerusalem. This is a city whose hours seem to perpetually alternate between dusk and the dead of night. In fact it is late one night that the adventure begins as a withered grave robber arrives at the Doctor’s door with a horrific discovery he has made while performing the duties of his ghoulish profession. The recently buried corpse of a young woman is hauled into Dr. Warthrop’s basement laboratory. Dead, but still clutching this cadaver with barbed fingernails is a monstrous creature with no head, a black lidless eye upon each muscular shoulder, and row upon row of sharp teeth set within a rictus that gapes open at its abdomen. This creature is Anthropophagi: a man-eater.

The awful unearthing of this beast is made worse by evidence that it was in the process of breeding as it choked to death upon a pearl necklace that adorned the young woman’s body as he devoured her flesh. These monsters are granted a certain depth through the author’s use of both literary and historical references to their existence by presenting quotations from Shakespeare, Herodotus, and Sir Walter Raleigh. It soon becomes apparent that New Jerusalem is to endure an infestation of these monstrous carnivores.

Yancey’s settings create as much tension as his monsters do. One particularly disturbing scene takes place within the oppressive confines of a mental institution, where Warthrop and his assistant investigate how the Anthropophagi—indigenous to West Africa—have come to arrive on the shores of the New World. The account of their journey reads like a thrilling novella of all its own, and is reminiscent to Bram Stoker’s portrayal of Dracula’s voyage by ship from the Carpathian Mountains to the coast of England; although, in terms of language, Yancey accomplishes this with a bit more brute force. The Novel’s climax situated within New Jerusalem’s cemetery is equally powerful and unsettling.

The author’s narrative techniques are a sophisticated element that ultimately keeps the reader tethered to these pages until their conclusion. Through the eyes of a modern writer (which, I assume to be Yancey himself) we are reading the memoirs of a man who purportedly died at one hundred and thirty-one years old, who is recounting his life at the age of twelve. These narrative layers add a texture to the work that serves to lure in the reader, just as Joseph Conrad had accomplished with Heart of Darkness.

The Science of monstrumology is presented along with other methods of critical thinking and scientific disciplines that were emerging around the turn of the century, such as the works of Nietzche and the study of eugenics. The callous outlooks often associated with these theories are presented through Dr. John Kearns, the monster-hunter who declares: “The only truth is the truth of the now;” “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so;” and “There is no morality […] but the morality of the moment.”  In fact, it is this scientific approach to the villains that makes this a truly engaging book. Dr. Warthrop and his colleague Kearns consider these man-eaters to be just as monstrous as wolves and worms. They are simply part of the natural order of things. In terms of the predator/prey dynamic Homo sapiens just happen to fall under the rubric of the latter when concerning the Anthropophagi. Mature in its conceits, this book becomes all the more terrifying when the reader comprehends just how plausible these “monsters” truly are. As Kearns states, “ We do work ourselves into a tizzy about creatures like the Anthropophagi, but the world is chock-full of things that want to eat us.”

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The downpour had gone on for hours. As the afternoon lumbered on into evening and then further on into night, however, the storm had dwindled down to a steady drizzle, which served as a relentlessly irritating and tactile traveling companion to the bitter cold front that had suddenly swept through the city. That morning—after three pleasant weeks of abnormally warm weather—the temperature had abruptly plummeted. Terrence and Martin had both been waiting an inordinate amount of time for the bus—stepping side-to-side with the other damp commuters trying to get home but trapped by circumstance in the long line, moaning under tongue or sighing through the nostrils, periodically peering over their shoulders through wet, frizzy hair, down the long block in frustrated anticipation. More minutes passed. More minutes passed. More minutes passed. Each exhale was visible as a condensed mist, which made the curbside line resemble some human locomotive coming to rest at a train yard.

More minutes passed.

        When the bus finally arrived with an asthmatic whistle and dusty whine of the brakes, everyone shuffled forward and boarded one-by-one. Terrence could feel the itch of violence in his brain as the diminutive Guyanese woman in front of him paid the fare with a methodical toss of individual nickels and dimes fished out from the deep pockets of her blue raincoat. The diamond stud of her nose-ring glistened as she watched the final two coins slowly roll from her palm into the slot. Terrence and Martin squeezed their way to the back, past the obstacle course tangle of jagged umbrellas, obnoxiously large bags, and sodden people who would not move. The bus was redolent of wet, longhaired dogs and steamed broccoli-infused flatulence. They took the only two vacant seats, which faced each other.

Once it seemed that the bus was full and ready to go, they sat idling at the curbside. The driver emerged from the crowd at the back of the bus and inserted a key into the panel that operates the lift designed for wheelchair access. Many of the passengers permitted a plaintive “Shit! You gotta be kiddin’ me?” to resound within the polite confines of their minds, but not Terrence. He said it aloud. Other than a chuckle from Martin, no one reacted.

The hydraulic lift delivered an obese woman in her mid-forties. She had sweat and rainwater dripping as one solution from her short, sandy hair, rolling past her temples and down the curve of her ballooned cheeks. Dark stains where sweat had saturated the salmon colored fabric of her blouse adumbrated her fat breasts. Dragging her aluminum walker over to the three—now vacant—priority seats left her gasping for oxygen. The blue, plastic seats gave a creak of complaint beneath her girth. With a look of slack-jawed bewilderment and disdain Terrence turned to Martin, who was preoccupied with rearranging the sideswipe of his black bangs.

“Y’know Marty, this fuckin’ city…all it takes to totally ruin public transportation is a little bit of rain and fuckin’ fat people.”

Martin sucked his lips inward and raised his eyebrows, glancing over at the subject matter. She did not seem to notice.

        “Can you imagine,” Terrence continued with a grin, “what a man could do with an army of the obese?” He envisioned himself astride a black stallion with the cruel posture of some conquering Hannibal. Before the hooves of his steed, whip-driven hordes of corpulent soldiers with identical down-syndrome faces and imperial Roman armor waddled forward through a burning landscape.

Terrence laughed to himself as Martin said, “The entire campaign would have to be fueled on the promise of more sausages. A nitrate war!”

“Yeah, isn’t there some saying about how more important than any general in the army is the cook?”

Martin giggled out, “Isn’t that from a Steven Seagal flick?”

With a sudden jerk the bus lurched into traffic. The subject changed and they spoke idly of what programs they had watched on television the evening prior.

“…and then that pituitary retard goes back out with her…”

“…no idea why I still watch it. It’s like the eighth season and it’s terrible…”

“…she’s pregnant with a monster, so the black guy with the hammer…”

“…then he says, ‘I just work here, now let’s warm those bones of yours…”


Eventually they arrived at Terrence’s stop where they said goodbye with a finger-snapping pound.

“Aight, see you tomorrow,” Martin said as he fished through his bookbag for a magazine that detailed the newest releases in electronic entertainment.

        Terrence maneuvered awkwardly through the crowd to the stiff air-assisted doors. They slapped closed behind him as he hopped to the curb. Tightening the collar of his jacket against his nape in a futile attempt to ward off the cold and slow-descending haze, Terrence walked off through the wet, empty streets. They were hedged in on either side by brick row houses and community drives; the vapor overhead alternately lit by the red, green, yellow of traffic lights changing within their set routine—locked in an obstinate cycle of transformation which paid no regard to the uselessness of their own color-coded symbols along this desolate avenue.

After several blocks Terrence decided that he should stop to pick up a boil bag of ramen noodles to eat for dinner, as he knew that—other than an assortment of condiments, a wilted bag of lettuce, and an outpost for a burgeoning mold colony—the shelves of his refrigerator were bare. He turned left at the next corner and walked uphill. After turning down two more blocks he arrived at a bodega that was cattycornered off the street in an old stone building that seemed as if it had once been a bank or perhaps a movie theater, but now had been sectioned off and sold to comprise this corner store deli, a locksmith, a Korean nail salon, and a business whose primary means of income was creating t-shirts for children’s sports teams.

As Terrence pushed the door a small bell tinkled to announce his arrival. He dragged his feet across the mat and ran his fingernails along his scalp, through the wet kinks of his short blonde hair. He stepped forward into the seemingly empty store, and that little urgent voice that inhabits our nerve endings and pulls strings within our intestines, vertebrae, and the muscles of our jaws screamed for Terrence to get out, turn around, run! It was not that Terrence did not notice. However, as there was no reason, this shiver of instinct was not allowed to register. The modern world had reduced that voice—which once ruled us like  lightning—into a polite if uneasy guest attempting to get a word in to a busy host.

There was no one behind the counter, atop which sat a solitary pack of Newport cigarettes and a white book of matches. He walked down the aisle where he knew he could find the plastic packages of dehydrated sodium he planned on having for dinner. There was a whisper, followed by a whimper. At this point (with little intellectual recognition but a flicker of the hypothalamus and an ensuing spasm and squeeze of his sympathetic nervous system and adrenal-cortical system) Terrence turned on his heels and began to walk swiftly back down the aisle, past the pale and wilted vegetables, towards the exit.

“…fuck you goin’, muthafucka?”

        With nervous civility, Terrence turned to ask, “Excuse me?” He was staring down the barrel of a shotgun. It was a 12 gauge from Mossberg’s 500 series. Terrence did not know this. Nor did he truly observe the figure pointing it his way: other than the caramel complexion around the wide eyes, the facial features were obscured below a black hood and a paisley patterned blue bandana; the tall frame rendered somewhat shapeless by a dark-grey trench coat stained with ash, mud, and rain; black, leather gloves gripped the shotgun. All Terrence did know was that a big gun was aimed at his face.

Slowly, Terrence stepped backwards—inch-by-inch. His palms raised, the mechanisms of his jaw worked with determined, but imbecilic repetition: open, close, open, and close. No words were formed: only a low and broken yammering. Coming around the corner of the aisle, from behind soft blue and green packages of sanitary pads, a small man stepped up to Terrence and abruptly slapped him across the face. Terrence was nothing more than a rigid doll when this assailant gripped the two halves of his open collar and yanked him towards his partner with the shotgun.

“Getch yer ass over there, whiteboy!” Although the small man’s grey complexion was certainly much paler than his own, Terrence could not at that moment find any humor in this irony, nor a point worth investigating dialectically. With a voice that was muffled beneath the bandana, the man with the shotgun ordered the other to “go get more duct tape.” Before the small man disappeared down the aisle he slammed a knife flat on the counter alongside the pack of Newports. The blade was a dull slate-grey. Terrence’s face stung and there was a red welt swelling over his pale, freckled cheek.

“Let’s go, Barney Rubble.” Palming Terrence’s nape with his free hand, the man with the shotgun marched him towards the rear of the store. Urged forward, Terrence focused on each clomp-clomp of the man’s brown Timberland boots against the uneven linoleum tiles. The bandana about this man’s mouth had grown moist from breath, and he appeared rather uncomfortable as he wiped sweat from his eye with the back of his glove.

At the rear wall, someone was slumped in the corner between a red plastic rack containing various greeting cards and a glass-front fridge stocked with forty ounce bottles of malt liquor. Terrence recognized the slim, huddled figure as the Bangladeshi man who worked there. He looked up from under his blue turban with sodden eyes, his crooked, nicotine stained teeth jutting outwards as he gasped with anxiety. He appeared to have been beaten somewhat, as there was a trace film of blood and snot about a nostril as well as speckled on the black, curled whiskers of his thick beard and his teal polo shirt. Bound at the wrists with grey duct tape, he pressed his balled hands against his own ribs and sobbed, “please.”

Terrence averted his eyes and focused in on one of the greeting cards. It featured a cartoon bear in blue, denim overalls clutching a tangle of colorful balloons. The word bubble above its round, fluffy head read “I’m sorry that you’re not feeling well right now.” Just as the small man announced his return with the sharp, rupture sound of tape being peeled from the roll, Terrence was shoved to the floor alongside the employee. To others, Terrence had always referred to this man—or, for that matter, anyone who happened to be manning the store at any particular time—as his mugabi-guy; as in, “I went to my mugabi-guy for a cup of coffee this morning.” Under the menacing eyes of the man with the shotgun, the small man bent low and wound the tape violently about Terrence’s wrists and forearms. Terrence noticed that this small man’s limbs and fingers had a slight twitch to their movements, reminiscent of an insect’s. This likeness was particularly so when he occasionally swiped with a crooked index finger at the thin, disparate hairs of his moustache, which did little to conceal the scar that formed after enduring corrective surgery on a harelip.

“Aight,” the taller man spoke in his muffled tone, “let’s put these niggas in the basement, finish up ‘n’ get the fuck up outta here!”

        At this, the employee began to bellow and plead, “Please, no! No, please! Don’t put me in the basement! Don’t lock me in there! Please!” This plea’s rapid delivery, compounded by spittle and the odd angles his dense accent imposed upon the syllables, made one pause briefly before comprehension. He was panicked and attempted to scramble to his feet. For this he received the small man’s shell-toe between his ribs. He coughed, doubled over, and wheezed for breath. He continued with his entreaty, however, but now with only a shudder and a rolling whimper. Duct tape was placed over the employee’s mouth before the man with the shotgun hauled him up by the elbow while barking “Get up! Le’s go Papa Smurf!”

The small man opened the thick metal door that led to the basement and with a spastic wave of his hand motioned for Terrence to go down the steps. Terrence obliged, his head hung low and slick with perspiration. Behind him, the employee had to be dragged. He was flailing wildly and pawing desperately with sweaty palms at the wooden banister. Despite his mouth being sealed over, you still knew what his stifled, rough guttural moans concerned.

As he wiggled desperately under his captor’s grip, they both slipped. The man with the shotgun’s heel skidded and bounced off the edge of two steps before they both bowled forward and landed in a heap on the solid floor. Terrence slid down and remained still, pressing his back against the cold, cement wall of the basement.

It was dark down there; too dark to even begin to guess the room’s dimensions. The only light was that which descended from the open door above, and that served to illuminate the narrow steps and the desperate scene being enacted at their bottom and no more. Terrence was aware of the small man’s silhouette above as he shouted, “Yo D, you aight?” However, Terrence could not look away from the two men crouched before him at the cast light’s edge, where its periphery dissipated into the black: one, pleading with his hands raised, tears and saliva beginning to undo the adhesive gag; the other, rising, the bandana pulled free to reveal high cheekbones chiseled down to a scowling mouth, thick lips twisted with anger.

Sweeping his hands blindly along the floor, “D” retrieved his shotgun, raised the barrel high and slammed the thick butt into the forehead of the mewling supplicant at his knees. The employee’s neck and torso twisted hard before he slumped back with a wet smack to the floor. D paused, glancing over his shoulder into the palpable expanse of negative space. In an instant he whirled back to repeatedly batter the shotgun’s butt down against the prostrate employee’s skull. Each thrust was accompanied with a heaving grunt as viscous fluids splattered along the shotgun’s stock and across the cold ground.

Terrence could hear the moment when something solid cracked, splintered, and went wet. Even though that moment had come and gone, the grunts and thrusts continued. Eventually, with a final lunge and cracked growl, D stopped and allowed his arms to fall slack at his sides as his breath collapsed into a pant.

“Yo, D!”

The gunman turned his back to Terrence and appeared to be watching something in the opaque distance.


No. He was listening to something.

“D! C’mon nigga!”

        D turned around and calmly walked past Terrence and up the steps with the measured stride of a somnambulist. His eyes did not once flit in Terrence’s direction; nor did they seem to even notice the broken mess sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, spilling out within the shadows. Above, the door slammed, followed by the abrupt, metallic click of the lock.

Abandoned in the dark, Terrence sighed with a spasm to the muscles of his abdomen. His lungs felt constricted by his ribcage. Attempting to swallow the lump in his throat, he tasted the salt of his own tears, which rolled liberally from his blind eyes. Unaccompanied by the typical theatrics of weeping, Terrence was crying without making a sound, without moving a muscle. He felt cold.

Terrence heard something in the distance. A whisper? There was a clatter, as if a block of wood had been rolled along the floor at some far end of the room. Another whisper. Hushed and distorted through cracked static…a reply. Pointlessly, Terrence pressed his spine harder to the wall, as if there were a way through—a place safe.

He heard the clomp-clomp of heavy boots approaching, but they ceased inexplicably. No; they didn’t so much stop as they faded. Something lightly fingered at his ankle; or to be more precise, nothing lightly fingered at his ankle, for when he swatted down his bound limbs made contact only with the chilled slab of a concrete floor. Faint voices broken by a hiss. A nauseating gurgle, like a large cat gagging on a broken television. Inside, he felt cold; inside, he felt hollow.

With the brief, sharp jangle of a bell, the two thieves stepped to the sidewalk and began to walk briskly up the block. Although the drizzle still fell as an aimless haze, the cool, night air was welcomed. The small man swung a black, thirty-gallon trash bag over his shoulder as his little legs jerked forward towards their parked car—orange rust creeping up from around the wheel wells.  The bag was entirely too big for the little that it held.

As he pulled the keys from the pocket of his loose, wrinkled jeans, the small man noticed a young couple passing across the street. The woman was dressed as a slutty Little Red Riding Hood: her red-checked skirt ending abruptly to reveal the pink of thick, goose-pimpled thighs; knees peeking out from white nylons, which descended into little black shoes; her breasts ludicrously pressed up towards her chin. From her gait you could tell both that she had more than a few drinks and that her feet hurt. The man beside her was draped in a loose-fitting approximation of a foppish pirate. His oversized tri-cornered hat, warped with rainwater, sagged over the black patch that covered his right eye. Huddled within each other’s arms, they continued down the street engaged in drunken flirtation.

It took the police two weeks to tie the missing person’s report with the young man seen being accosted on the bodega’s security camera. However, as the footage obtained was of poor-quality and set at a limited angle, it provided little in the way of clues as to what had occurred. The body of Zubayer Rahman was discovered the morning of November 1st. His face had been reduced to an unrecognizable, pulpy mass, and there were numerous scratches of various length and depth all along his torso. The whereabouts of Terrence Hughes remain unknown.


————–(BOBBY CALERO)————

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