Welcome to The Dark Side, a place where the brilliance of other independent authors casts a weird, grim and sometimes terrifying shadow. This is a place where your hopes and dreams must be left tethered outside, it’s a place of screaming emptiness that will try to drown the essence of your very soul and where marriage to an accountant might begin to feel like a good idea. This is not for the young and immature, it’s not for the weak or the fearful and it’s not for those who still believe in hope. Enjoy.

Honor the Dead

T.W. Reidy.

As a writer, there is one place I would like to see a real upgrade in the quality of what gets published. Every day we read this drivel.

It’s all the same… seventeen sappy sentences… about, “What a great guy dad was”… how “Grandma Schnellenberger was always… the life of the party” and “will be missed by all”.

Bullshit! Everybody has some less than Prozac friendly memories of their dead relatives. And quite a few people were complete assholes most of the time. Let’s admit it.

I want to see some real words and effort go into the goddamned obituaries. I mean, it’s the final fucking send off, the capsulation of your whole life, how you left your big muddy mark on this world. And all you get is a list of relatives and a few of those same seventeen sentences that fill every damned obit?

I want to hear a funny story about how dad always wanted mom to give him a Blumpkin, and how for years he wouldn’t stop hinting and offhandedly asking for one. Until finally, well into their metamucil years, when dear old mom was going through a post-menopause, what-the-fuck stage in her life, she decides to surprise the old man and give him his Blumpkin… for breakfast.

Well, it happens to be a Saturday morning in July.

You stop by with kids and wife… all on your way to summer fun… hiking out to waterfalls.

You just need to drop off a few things at your folk’s house on the way… say hi to your parents.

And, well… the kids need to use a bathroom… it’s a long ride to the foothills for a hike to water falling adventures…so you drop by yer parent’s house… the home you grew up in.

“Sure kids, you can use the bathroom at yer grandma ‘n grandpa’s.”

You walk in. I mean, you don’t really knock; maybe a “Hellooo” as you and your tribe pile into the house. The tv is on. You smell fresh coffee… the paper is there on the kitchen table with some breakfast just started.

As you follow your son and daughter down the hall to the bathroom, you holler again, “Mom? Dad? Hey it’s us. Just stopped by on our way out for the day. Where you guys at?”

When your 13-year-old daughter and 8-year-old son squabble over who gets to use the bathroom first, you don’t really have to mention, “Knock first kids,” do you? At this age? They know good manners, right?

And so… it happens.

A knob slowly turns. The door widens back… dreamlike… with almost magical precision.

Like THE vault door in Fort Knox… that last gate out of Joliet State Prison as you are released back into surveillance state freedom.

As this door widens… your son and daughter try to shove their way in… you are two feet behind them… about to say, “Hey! Kids! Show some manners at your grandparent’s house!”

Then… with three of you… there… in the open doorway… a family bondage moment occurs… so powerful… it will be long years of unsuccessful therapy… P.T.S.D’s… most substances… and much, much more… before full impact is realized… if ever it truly is.

In a slow-motion so slow you remember exactly the way your son’s hair flips as he turns his head… how your daughter’s eyes grow… like inflating balloons… in the realization it is FIVE… NOT THREE… members of your family in that bathroom.

In that single brief moment… still stretching back to 1973… while simultaneously acquiring as much real estate from your future as possible… the 13-year-old’s… your only daughter’s… entire sex education… for which you and your wife have spent… years… carefully laying… a solid… sensible foundation… is horribly maligned.

Like… a Honda… motorcycle… too fast… faster… straight no stop… into… giant oak trees.

Irreversible… unrecognizable… frightening… damage.

“Totaled”… as they say.

In one of the longest moments ever experienced in any family history… your 8 year old son instantly places deviant behavior… wanton criminal activity… heavy in-school abuse… of heavier narcotics… distilled spirits… classmates… into a much sooner than later future.

With the possibility for avoiding this high-octane freight-train wreck… as likely as changing his blood type.

Poor little guy… is fucked.

You stand there.

Frozen.

Beyond words.

Beyond thoughts.

Your.…no longer ‘children’… offspring’s lives… degenerate by milli-seconds. Like standing in the airport terminal… waiting for your wife’s flight to return from your vacation… watching through the big windows… as her airplane… crash>land>explodes>into>instant>jet-fueled>hell-fire>raging death flames>melting fleshbone ‘n metal>into>tarmac.

Or meeting… John Lennon… in an empty laundromat… at 3:12am.

All three of you… beyond speechless… beyond speech.

So instantly twisted… into unknowns… unwanteds… unavoidables…that each of you just kind of drools… in stupefied awe… as… there… they… are.

Your mom and dad.

Grandma ‘n grandpa.

Him on the toilet… with pants down around his ankles.…and that look on his face… like he was squeezing Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin… out his ass… so full of wild pain… fear… excitement.

With a stank of his old man rotten morning shits… heavy ‘n wet… peeling the wallpaper off the walls.

Then… mom.

Grandmamma.

Right there… on her knees.

You love blowjobs as much as any other guy… The excitement… The spontaneity… with your wife… girlfriend… lover… strange-quick-thrill chemistry bubbling up in alleyways… against parked cars… sudden hummers from total strangers…

But now… the sight… of your mother… your kid’s dear granny… her old lady cheeks… stuffed full of dad’s cock… she massages his balls… working him pretty good… suddenly… No.!.!.!

Unavoidable > a split-second > hard-rush > turn-on > by the quality blow job she’s giving him.!.!.!

Then > even faster yet > nothing… time > places > people > thoughts > gone before… eternity is only the infinite hollow… not even blackness is… Kurtz… in an end… Only you… moaning… “The Horror.!.!.! > The Horror.!.!.!”… the words shrivel ever fainter whispers through the infinite hollow cone of never… no…thing… only Kurtz in the Cambodian jungle, moaning… “The Horror… The Horror…”

All five of you…stuffed in there together… the most improbable… impossible… unwanted… unforgettable… unspeakable moment of any family history.

Your dad’s face full of twisted joy and pain seemingly explodes as you actually hear the wet bubbly “Schluuuuuttthhhing” noise… like sausage squeeze-bursting from out the skin casing.

Then… a very different sound… “plop” and “splash.”

You are forced to notice your father’s eyes… bathed now in warm, soft innocence… you’ve never seen his eyes… ever look anything like this before.

The look from his eyes… at birth.

Utterly helpless… glorious.…and delivered… to new & beautiful places.

Your son… confused… afraid… excited… suddenly aware… of something… he doesn’t quite understand… happening inches from everywhere around him… is first to declare… in the hair-flip-quick glance he conveys it to you.

But the last part… of grandpa… dropping a huge shit… he understands all too well.

While inches away, your daughter’s eyes could not stop the horrible perversion she was locked into with granny’s eyes, who looked like a deer that’s been struck with an arrow looks at you, helpless as to what is happening, not prepared for it all to happen.

That look a woman has as she’s sucking her husband’s cock in the bathroom at 9:16 a.m. on a Saturday in July while he fulfills a lifetime fantasy of shooting a load while he drops a load, the most revered and repulsed of sexual acts, the Blumpkin.

And as grandpa’s heinous smelling dead snake drops from his quivering ass into the tidy bowl water, he simultaneously let go with a hot bubbly load of what could have been your brother or sister, right down granny’s throat. Only she hasn’t swallowed since 1978, so she gags and your family DNA is wet dripping across her face and out of the corners of her lips as she (your dear mom) and your daughter are locked in a visual beartrap that is so beyond words or dreams or Freud or Jung or anything short of blocking it out from your memory, rejecting the very truth that was happening, as your daughter learns everything and so much more she or you could have ever wanted to know about sex.

You realize right then, that for the rest of your lives, your two kids were now somehow your elders, and that you can never discipline, or even really tell them what to do with any authority ever again.

And so, in less time than it takes for your wife to be the last one out of the car and into the house and start coming around the corner, IT’S OVER. Your dad’s deepest private fantasy since his prepubescent youth sixty some years ago, was now fulfilled with an impact suddenly so much more than he could have ever dreamed of.

The five of you look around. Dad on the shitter, literally spent from both ends, the tearful relief of an enormous shit pushed over his prostrate and through his now swollen rectum, mixed with the orgasmic calm of the blowjob he has been waiting his entire life for, just given to him by his loving wife with a skill and care and enthusiasm you just can’t buy. The old man literally almost collapses into the toilet from sheer exhaustion.

Grandma then pulls herself up, wiping little sticky blobs from her mouth, with her eyes still locked in a primal connection with her granddaughter, somehow trying to convey some of the love and passion and personal affection between grandpa and herself that allowed for this thing to have occurred. In all it’s wild, unexpected glory, grandma tries to share with her 13-year-old granddaughter something good, almost like there was a beautiful thing to be understood here. Which is strange. But, maybe okay for your daughter.

But not for you. You cannot go anywhere beautiful or affectionate. No fucking way. Not with mom. This thing was over, but it now began the even more powerful effect it would have, for the rest of your life. The moment that is still stretching, back through the centuries. It would go on forever, to the eternal sunset. You will die, your children and great-grandchildren will die, long before that moment ends.

Here comes your wife. You instinctively pull your kids by their collars and back out of the bathroom, shutting the door as you back out. Your wife is a few feet away. The kids don’t need to be told. They slide away, down the hall in silence. “Ah… dad is in the bathroom” you say, as you walk past your wife and down the hall, following the kids. She looks at the door, prepares to knock, hesitates…looks at you and the kids walking away in silence, looks back at the door, pulls her knock back and follows you down the hall.

There is a seismic shift in your family inter-workings that day. Innocence has not been lost. Innocence has been swallowed.

Your wife couldn’t quite figure out what had changed, or what exactly was different. Nothing out of the day-to-day routine was ever mentioned, but her daughter seemingly became a woman overnight. Not physically, but in more complex, more impressive ways. She was patient beyond her years. She helped out around the house. She was bored with her friends talking about boys, or trying to show off what new clothes they had. She went from always fighting with her little brother, to watching over him with a fierce loyalty. She began to call mom and dad by their first names. Nothing bad, exactly, about her daughter’s behavior… but… unexpected… to say the least.

And your 8-year-old boy went from annoying his older sister, to getting suspended for five days from the 3’rd grade… for arranging Meghan Villheiney to lift her skirt and show her underwear to a long line of 2’nd graders, one boy at a time, during lunch, for 75 cents a look. He gave Meghan 25 cents for each one. By Thursday, when he was ratted out by some sniveling kid, he had made $42.00 and was teaching Meghan how to smoke.

At the parent–teacher-principle-disciplinary conference, your wife noticed that you didn’t really say anything, and didn’t seem interested in any kind of punishment for your suddenly wayward son.

So, the next time you get to highlight a dead person’s entire life in a paragraph or two, for the whole world to see and a handful of people to actually read, dig deep and let us know that grandpa’s biggest achievement was not being named president of the Kiwanis two terms in a row, and that grandma Schnellenberger really WAS the life of the party.

Let us know, just who exactly Mortimer Rayburn was. What a cheap asshole he was. How he never went after the one girl he ever really loved as a young man, and the rest of his life was dim and uninspired because of it. Just don’t say, “What a great guy he was”, or how “We will be sorely missed.” His kids cashed the insurance check before the discount coffin hit dirt. He will not be missed by anyone. We have a right to know that.

 

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