Chapter 10: Rivers and Temples (Honest Adolph Volume III)

“A remote temple in the Pennsylvania mountains,” sighed Adolph.

“A somewhat unusual place to talk shop? At least, so I would have thought, if you would excuse my plainness of speech.”

For the first time in months Deborah Mona Willow’s voice ran out like a silver bell. Read more Chapter 10: Rivers and Temples (Honest Adolph Volume III)


Chapter 8: Give me Liberty, or Give Me Slumber (Honest Adolph Volume III)

Sally Thatcher sat thumbing through the book she had strangely chanced upon.

She had never darkened the door of a library in her life.

But something about the vaguely-intellectual old whiskey-guzzler had stuck inside her. Read more Chapter 8: Give me Liberty, or Give Me Slumber (Honest Adolph Volume III)


Volume II of Honest Adolph is Finally Out!

Volume II of my novel, Honest Adolph, is already out on Amazon, Google Play and Kobo. In the very near future, it will appear at Barnes & Noble (Nook), as well as Apple iBooks.

Thanks for reading so far; and thanks for all the purchases too.

Your support really does mean a lot! Read more Volume II of Honest Adolph is Finally Out!


Chapter 7: Thicker than My Father’s Arms (Honest Adolph Volume III)



Oh hey Willow, Will-Willow

Ah me Daffy-Down-Dillies!


Where I am.

Where I am.

Sing, Temple Sing!

Trink, Gunther Trink!


O, and I am not alone.


Rhiiiiiiiinegold, faaaaaalllll upooooooon the shore!

IIIIIIIII am youuuuuuuuuurs foreeeeeeevermore!

Froooooolic, freeeeeely in the mire, and never mind the meeeeeeeedia wire

That cheeeeeeeat the woooooooooorld of yooooooooour desire!


Friedman, Friedman, Wealth of the Wildly

Make of me Bridely

To the dwarf-like eniiiiiiiiiiiiiigma!


Ach! Fraulein be free,

Like char siu and tea,

Be another soft pearl buried,

Deep, deep down in the oooooooocean!





Make way for the crazy Tooooooooooooooot! DURM DURRRRRRRM


Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Schwester Mona

I am dyyyyyyyyying, now drown me now….


Ooooooo Sauuuuuuuuuuuuuul, Love!

Ooooooo Frieeeeeeeedmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan! And so it paaaaaaaaaaases…….


Fried-man! Fried-man! Friiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeed…

Fried-man! Fried-man! Friieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed


O Saul, man!

O unshackled soul….

O my dooooooooownfallllllllllllllll






Oh Willow, the trolls of cloud, they are uppling me back to shore!

Oh brother, brother, the sword, it shall yet be resheathed!

Upsingses! Uppspingers! Halt! Ach haltend Hagen!

Oh treacherous, oh treacherous!

The Ring! It is mine! O Empire of age-like beauty!

O queen-like Reich! Reich! Reich…










Adolph Adams awoke in a cold sweat.

He shook himself, tried to forget the dream.

The maidens tried to call him back.

But he was caught in some unpleasant phantasy.

Fair or foul, he must tarry until the break of day.


Chapter 6: Motherhood is Mighty (Honest Adolph Volume III)

Final day in Alaska. Yesterday’s speech was a stormer. And now this one will be the BEST SPEECH EVER!

Bubble threw the mike to his personal assistant.

‘OK, so wadawesay, boy? What are we gonna do to Russia?’ Read more Chapter 6: Motherhood is Mighty (Honest Adolph Volume III)


Honest Adolph Serial: Useful Update

Sincere apologies. I’m still having technical difficulties with the remainder of the Honest Adolph serial. Until this is resolved, this is my regular commitment to you: a post every single day about the novel, including its broader context; as well as (less often) some stuff on my other books. This will really help to bring the novel alive for you, so I hope it will at least partly compensate for the long delay! Read more Honest Adolph Serial: Useful Update


Chapter 4: China Soars, While Freedom Roars (Honest Adolph Volume III)

‘You know, Saul,’ Adolph remarked, ‘It really is such a pity we haven’t seen anything literary from you in a while.’
Saul frowned and said nothing. He was a hundred miles away.
The room was silent.
So deathly, deathly, silent. Read more Chapter 4: China Soars, While Freedom Roars (Honest Adolph Volume III)


Chapter 3: Scrapbooks and Shredded Hearts (Honest Adolph Volume III)

Deborah Willow was now free from the strains and worries of her career as a rising star in the Democratic Party. She was also not badly off for money; not at all, thanks to her uncles in Iraq, who had been shrewd enough to not put all their eggs in one basket. ‘Big Solar’ had yet to reach the heights of ‘Big Oil,’ but it certainly was far from a senseless investment. Read more Chapter 3: Scrapbooks and Shredded Hearts (Honest Adolph Volume III)


Chapter 2: Flowers in the Mirror (Honest Adolph Volume III)

Saul Friedman exited the funeral hall, still holding his messy clump of flowers.

Big Xian’s sister-in-law warmly smiled through her tears.

‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she whispered.

Saul didn’t hear her. Read more Chapter 2: Flowers in the Mirror (Honest Adolph Volume III)


Chapter 1: See-Saw, Pan-On-The-Jaw (Honest Adolph Volume III)

Another late evening.

Big Xian yawned and stretched his arms.

Good business.

All of a sudden, he jerked his head and frowned.

Surely not…


Big Xian prided himself on the cleanliness of his restaurant.

He did not have a lot in the world, but he had his dignity.

‘Where are you,’ he tutted, wagging his winger in mock irritation.

A snicker.


‘That… was not a rat,’ Big Xian whispered.

‘Yeah, he’s there.’

Big Xian gasped.

Who could possibly have sneaked into his restaurant like this? At this time?

All of a sudden, he became conscious of how cold it was.

Perhaps he had forgotten to lock up.

No, he always locked up.

Big Xian warily lifted a pan in order to defend himself. He had a bad feeling about this.

He sincerely hoped he would not have to use it. Indeed, the last time this gentle giant had had to call pest control, he had not managed to get so much as a single hour’s sleep that night.

And yet, rationally, he knew that you simply cannot run a kitchen with all these worthless vermin swarming around.

The door to the kitchen rattled.

There was only this flimsy panel of wood between him and his unknown aggressors.

‘We… are closed… closed?’ Big Xian whispered, his very breath dying in his mouth.

The door was opened.

Big Xian breathed a sigh of relief. One young man in his early twenties, the other two in their mid to late teenage years stood before him. The elder of the three had a chunky, greasy, pimply face, and an ascetic-looking head that, while primarily shaven, had a curious little remnant of sparsely nondescript fluff at the back; almost invisible until you caught him from the right perspective. His defiant smirk was a little disconcerting. The two teenagers, a boy and a girl, looked dull and largely uninterested.

‘How’s the business, old man?’ the monkish smirker sneered.

‘P… pretty good,’ muttered Big Xian, somewhat ill at ease.

‘Yeah. Thought so.’ The young man burst out laughing. The two teenagers managed a tentative ‘Ha… Ha…’

‘I… I need to finish soon,’ Big Xian said, mopping with brow in anxiety.

‘Hm! Sounds like a plan,’ was the cold and menacing reply. Big Xian sensed something sarcastic, indeed bitterly, bitterly, ironic in the petty and mean-spirited answer.

Big Xian was not at all confident, by now, that he was not indeed in danger; after all! He reached for some dumplings. ‘Here, have these, they are a little stale…’

The girl laughed. The other teenager remained impassive.

‘Well, that depends,’ the elder lad spat. ‘Are they vegetarian?’

Big Xian’s hands trembled as he placed the (really rather fresh) dumplings down again on the table.

‘I am sorry. We are out of vegetable baozi. Everyone is buying them these days.’

A despicable laugh.

‘Ha! Ha!’ the ugly scalp bobbed back and forth. ‘Tell me, Charlie, do you know why we are here?’

Big Xian, speechless, steadied himself against the wall.

His tormentor strode up, to within breathing distance.

He put one hand on Big Xian’s trembling shoulder, using this for leverage; with the other hand, he gripped the bow at the back of Big Xian’s apron, whispering here:

‘What is your position on the Tibetan issue?’

Big Xian closed his eyes, by now fearing for his life. Although he was tall, he was fearful of the pot and pans, and the cruel, heartless knives that were all within easy reach of this wicked youth.

The lad drew back.

In stony silence, his scarlet eyes pierced Big Xian with the ruthless barbarity of an age-long salt-ocean; ‘lacking the least of measures, without the very merest of betidings,’ as Poet Wu used to chant around the campfire in the days of Big Xian’s youth.

All of a sudden the lad stamped his foot.

How Big Xian jumped!

The lad burst into laughter.

Big Xian could contain himself no longer.

‘Why don’t you just go!’ he sobbed, trembling from head to foot; by now so soaked in sweat, he might as well have just come to his Trotskyite enemies (did Big Xian have enemies?!) fresh from dunking himself in the Yellow River.

‘Uh-uh-uh. You tell him, little boy!’ the bully smirked.

And so he did! The younger lad recited the following spiel, as though by rote. To the more uncharitable New Yorkers, his Southern drawl had already seemed a little out of place to some. But if such people had heard the pompous, intellectual jargon and sentimental claptrap he was about to spew out, this would only have heightened the comical effect; however subjective and ‘unscientific’ such a sentimental impression might have been!

‘Whereas, the sovereign Tibetan Nation of the Land of Snows has this long been unjustly subject unto the tyranny of the reactionary Bukharinist Bourgeois-Roaders, Deviant Deformed Worker’s Bureaucrats and Revisionist Neoliberal Plunders and Looters;

‘Whereas, the inviolable sovereignty of one single, whole, integral, undivided Tibetan soil and shadow has been denied the children of the Snow Lion, and brutally withheld without the merest shadow of cause, nor slightest pretence of an excuse:

‘Whereas, the brutal secular Peking regime is the perpetrator of wilful Cultural Genocide, Crimes Against Humanity and indeed, has not stopped short even of perpetrating Crimes Against the Holy Dharma of the Blessed Boddhisattvas of the Shangri-La, the erstwhile and yet ever-blessed holy egalitarian Eden of Celestial Tibet…

‘It is incumbent upon the children of the Dharma and their holy comrades; we, the Tibetan Worker’s Liberation Party, holding up the sacred and all-highest spiritual truths of the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha, and rightly casting forth the blessed material consolation of Trotskyist Scientific Socialism and Marx-Engels-Trotsky-Mandelian-Zia-ist Holy Doctrine and Theoretical Praxis…

‘To avenge at all costs those who trample underfoot the holy seed of the Party of Buddha, and who demean and degrade and blaspheme against the scientific truths of Marx, Engels, Trotsky, Ernest Mandel, Zia-ul-Winterson-McMillan, Bennett H. Childers, Aum Tsukarida Nichiren Tomoko Hadarachi Omedeto Hadatakawariyama Yakitomo Omega-Ichi-Ban, Humphrey Hampton Hillard Bar-El Dharmaraja, and Hattie X Hoxha and all ye blessed, sacred infants of the promise…

‘And thence, insofar as it may be appropriate and scientifically expedient, to…’

Big Xian fell to his knees, holding his hands up, clasped tightly as though in prayerful  intercession.

‘I am not a political person,’ he wept. ‘I am not a political person, I know nothing about politics, all of this, it is so far away to me, I am not a political person, I am not a political person, I swear to you, my friends, I know nothing, I am not a political person…’

The chief bully burst out laughing again. His sneering guffaws dinned upon Big Xian’s ears like the repetitive heavy blows of an ill-wielded wok.

‘Do you see? Now, do you see? ‘It is so far away to me.’ The bourgeois intellectualism of the enemies of us loyal and patriotic workers of the Coming Cosmic Motherland knows no bounds!

‘But let me tell you something, you pitiful reactionary stooge: what is ‘‘far away’’ to you is not something intellectual. Your callous liberal idiocy sees the Tibetan people as a lifeless pawn to be used in your manoeuvres. Your undialectical bourgeois mediocrity and timidity says ‘A is A,’ a slave is a slave; but not also ‘A is B,’ a slave is other than a slave…

‘The guardians of the future global proletarian revolution!’

Big Xian gazed up, tears streaming down his face.

‘I do not know Tibetans. I do not know them. I am not a political person, I know nothing about politics, I am not, not, not, no, I am not a political person…’

The thug kicked big Xian in the jaw. Big Xian screamed, as much in terror as in pain.

At least as much.

‘Who is your brother!’ the lad triumphantly declared.

Big Xian was in too much pain to answer.

‘Spit in his eye,’ the young hooligan told his comrades.

The boy slowly bent down and spat in Big Xian’s left eye.

The girl stood over him, smirked, and spat in the other one.

The chief thug roared with a truly demonic laughter, even louder than before.

‘Your brother is married to a certain woman. And who is she?’

Big Xian inwardly intoned what little he could remember of the Chinese Jewish liturgy. For at long last, he knew for certain that this was, indeed, his final hour.

Up the pan went.

A hideous pause.

All of a sudden, the girl stretched forth her arm.

‘This… it’s getting out of hand,’ she warned her comrade.

‘It is… You scared?’ the cold response.

‘Look, quit messing about, you idiot!’ she shrieked. ‘You said we were only coming here to give the guy a hard time.’

Cain Ingershill, for this was the hooligan’s name, glared at her in fury.

‘Punch her,’ he instructed Little Jip.

Little Jip frowned.

‘Punch her, Jephtha,’ he said, in a warning tone.

Little Jip was not prepared to punch his own sister, even at Cain’s say so.

‘Do… you… understand the meaning… of obedience…’ he hissed.

Little Jip spat.

‘You ain’t my leader, Cain. Y’know, this is some fuckin’ reeeaaalll stupid shit, Cain. Ain’t nothin’ in our books say nothin’ about hittin’ yer own sister!’

Cain groaned and strode towards Lisa.

‘You in? Or you out?’

Lisa took a step back.

‘I’m out.’

Cain took two steps forward, almost within punching distance of Lisa.

‘Do you know, Lisa Gray,’ he panted, his knotty freckled fists all-a-quiver, ‘what the penalty is for splitters, in our party?’

Little Jip drawled indignantly: ‘Nah, nah, nah, now just you listen here Cain, my friend! We ain’t no goddamn splitters here, now, Comrade Cain! We just all think this is some damn stupid idea ah some kooky fucked-up bullshit you askin’ me to do! Hit my sister? Lisa Gray, see her, she’s family!’

Cain roared in fury. ‘You have no family! There is no family, and no nation, and no nothing, and the workers have no-one, not a single soul on earth, but the workers!’

The normally dull-as-a-didgeridoo Little Jip finally lost his temper, which was a rare enough occurrence; God knows! ‘Hey! Hey! That shit… that… that… well hey Cain! Hey, that shit ain’t true!’ Little Jip indignantly stammered.

‘True?!’ Cain Ingershill practically shrieked. ‘Who are you to say what is true or what isn’t? Truth is merely an instrument, our sovereign and unchallengeable means to the most highest and noble of ends; it is not an end in itself.’

‘Hey! Hey! Hey! What the fuck? This ain’t true!’ Little Jip persisted, indignantly stamping his feet. ‘It just ain’t true, Cain! Nah! Nah! Nah! This shit ain’t true, Comrade Cain! Truth is truth! I mean, I mean, I don’t even know nothin’, don’t even know nothin’ at all, about what, about all this here, all this here highfalutin’ bullshit Mr Ingershill is even talkin’ about!

‘But I’m callin’ bullshit! You are just sooooooo damn stupid, Cain Ingershill, that’s what you are! There ain’t nothin’ in the book about all this here goddarn sanctified crap about hittin’ your own sister! Nah, nah Cain, I ain’t standin’ for all this here, all y’all bullshit you and, you and your, these goddarn stupid comrades are talkin’ about here!’

Cain was unsure who to punch first, he was so furious with both twins. His flailing fists caught no-one, and he ended up falling to the ground and grazing his arm.

‘Ah! Shit!’ he screamed.

Big Xian, despite the pain in his jaw, instinctively reached for some kitchen towel to press against Cain’s bleeding arm. Having grabbed the paper, he suddenly paused and realised he didn’t know what to do with it.

What was the riskier option?

Do nothing, or try to appease Cain?

In the end, a certain fearful compassion, replete with tender trepidation (which Cain would no doubt have viewed with the most stomach-churning repugnance as ‘idle, rootless bourgeois sentimentality’); well, in the end, Big Xian handed the tissue over to Cain. Cain sat and sat.

Time passed.

Eventually, Cain staggered to his feet.

‘So, here’s the deal. You are either loyal to the Revolution. Or you suffer the inexorable and excruciatingly agonizing, predestined fate of all the splitters. The power of the dialectic is beyond all human intuition and knowledge. Human karma is not the actions of mere bourgeois human individuals, but it is of the mysterious and inscrutable emanations of the void.’

Cain sinisterly intoned the following words, as though falling into a trance, and as though intending to take half the suffering, bleeding, baleful-baling Kosmos down with him.

Grimly lullabying at first, the galesome spirits of demonic torment captured him, and every corner and inch of the room rattled with the clinking rattle of his martial prance.

Oh, oh, weaver’s shuttle

Steam arises, rises still

Oh, oh, mist of dawn,

Mist of dawn on freedom’s hill


Whence do you bring your joys?

When shall my suffering cease?

Oh, oh, spider’s web

Spider’s web, so MIIIGGGHHTY!


I! Spy! Upon the clouds

Mystic dragon WEEEEEEEPING

Oh! Daddy! Where my pouch!

Tearful kisses, pleading!


Hence! All my magic foes

Terror, artsome, FLEEEEETING

When can Mama make me whole?

Crimson river, CHEEEEEATSOME!


Oh, pleasant, river, run?

Gales and sky-blue eggshells!

Mak! Chaddi! Het-Dop-Dong!

Makes my belly tum-bum-bly!


Ach! Why I sing so long!

Milk-some measures PREEEEENING

Daddy make me mourn so long

Father, chop, HO!


Big Xian committed himself to his fate.

By now, even his inward prayer was silent.

Through blood-shut eyes, he dimly perceived the shadow sweeping above his head.

He barely felt the blow.


Chapter 12: A Riddle Thickens (Honest Adolph Volume II)

Ruby Chandra de Montevideo ushered the eager, scarcely 35 year old Seamus Riddle into her office.

‘The last time anything big happened in this office,’ Ruby murmured seductive as sin, and as eternal rank benevolence, ‘it was truly something! But this will be bigger. I assume we have no reason to distrust your loyalty to The Party?’

Seamus Riddle smirked and reeled it off pat the Sibling’s Oath of the Blue Humanity Common Interest Supercaucus. So this, after all, was no myth?:

One Free and Vigorous Democratic Nation.

One Unified, Abundant and Dynamic Global Village.

One Robust Commitment to One Great, Grand Glorious and Unified Common Humanity.

We are all in this together.

The good of one is nothing, without the good of all.

The good of all will come to nothing, without the effort of all.

I ask not what I shall do for myself, but what my people shall do for my people.

Even if I were bound to harm every last individual on earth, I would still be sworn to the public good, the national interest, the global village, and the greater good of our common humanity.

Nothing for the individual, nothing against the individual, nothing in the name of the individual.

So far, so pious. But let us now see what Saul Friedman is getting up to.


‘Bastard better be here,’ Saul’s husky voice breathed. The whiskey didn’t seem to be doing him the same good. His throat ached.

He crumpled, dropped, discarded the ancient sophomore’s sophomoric satire pamphlet. His old schoolmate’s satire echoed in his head:

Hey, everybody! It’s yer best buddy Jumbo Johnson here! Everybody loves a bit of good old NON-GOVERNMENTAL Human Rights Organization shit, huh?

That’s right, bitches! Time for one damn fine bit of unpatriotic pinko analysis of the notable patriotic human rights NGO, Freedom House! Ooo, SHIT! I LIIIIKE the sounda THAT!

Well hey, baby! Everybody loves freedom, right?!

Yup! No shit, chicken! I mean, I literally can’t imagine what kind of an ignorant, bigoted asshole would hate freedom; can you???

So, here we go. Snuggle up a little here, baby, and have your cosy ol’ sneak peek at lil Jumbo here.

I hear that pathetic little Euroweenie bastard Anglo-Harry, like, I say, I hear all my jerk-ass lil vanilla-bitches be sayin’:

Hm. This rather bears, shall we say, a passing resemblance to a certain… as it were, official view being shat out over the American airwaves from time to time…

Well hey; never mind that there Pacifist-Socialist-Cultural-Marxist-Command-Economy garbage!

Can’t think of a better way to smash the old Jumbie-jumb Arab than, than to vilify and sneer at all them goddamn Russkies, and patriotically endorse the Vast Freedom-Wing Fast-Food-Ification of liberty: swift, surgically dubious, greasy, deeply satisfying (for some!) and very, VERY close to ‘free’ (as all the Big Bossmen, at least, are gonna be tellin’ ya), and leavin’ you freaks hungry again within a matter of moments, and just gaggin’ the ol’ Chief here for some more.

(After all, an Obamadronie-bonio shitstormtroopertastrophe ah innocent ‘collaterals’ takes matter of seconds, if that!)

But guess who’s been fundin’ up this damn fine institution?

(Give yer shit-credits for italicisin’ emphasis for good ol’ Jumbo here; you’d better believe it, bitches!)

According to this tiresome, hateful polemic against my National Interest, two names that ‘raise the steak’ of ol’ Jumbo here are: Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz.

Well hey, girl! Turn that grubby ol’ trout-pout west-side snout, baby! Cos, ya know, Wolfowitz, that there guy ain’t no fool! He’s a frickin’ notable American scholar, and all that jazz!

Well, hey: American Enterprise Institute, anyone?

By the way, those boys, well their motto is:

Competition of ideas is fundamental to a free society.

Or in other words: You’re either with us or against us!

Well, fuck yeah, freedom-baby!

Kein frickin’ Scheisse, Scherlocke! Freedom House.

Well, hey!

Say what?

Say, what the fuck is that, my patriotic lil cute-ass charmer?

Well, it could be many things.

An established and unshakeable foundation.

A stony edifice.

An imposing fortress A golden palace. A home of freedom. Whew! Lovely name, ain’t it?!


Ooo, shit! FREEDOM! That one gets me goin’ every time. Well, snuggle-ya-later, honeybuckles!

Ol’ Jumbo here has to make for rearrangement of his fine ol’ Jumbokin pork-platter.

Cos ya know see ol’ Jumbo here, he just loves the stench of freedom in the morning, baby!

Oh, and by the way.

If ever you’re ever be wantin’ some freedom: Believe me, good Ol’ Jumbo will be just here. Just right here where ya need me! OOO! Shit! All about the frickin’ rhetoric, baby! OOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

… Shit! Whew! Oh my frickin’ gosh, that was one HELLUVA…

Whew! Would ya just look at that!

Hm. Now, where’s that bastard, shitty little Mexican when ya need ‘im…


Adolph Adams softly intoned the words he had penned for his graduation. It grieved the orphan deeply that, at that most precious proud and precious day of in his life, his ‘big brother’ (Saul was two years younger and quite a few inches shorter) had been too angry to wish him well.

If only Saul had known how much he owed to Adams.

Their paths had diverged a great deal. Professor Friedman, as brilliant and creative as he was disorganized and clumsy, would have made a superlative Einstein. And yet as a politician, he had never quite hit the heady heights reached by Governor Adams; a former hacker and ruthless shit-stirrer who, staid and sober and plain of speech as he was, had made truly superlative achievements. Under the aegis of ‘the electric Quaker’ (Adams had no religious beliefs to speak of, or at least none that he considered worth to be publicly flaunted and dickwaved), the miracle had been achieved. Mississippi, the erstwhile ‘graveyard of liberalism,’ had been hauled into the terrifying and chaotic No Man’s Land of solid, reliable, indeed ever-and-always-dependable swing-statery.

His stubby fingers traced every drop of ink.

His heart was troubled.

His heart was ever free, anew.


My Dearest America:

An ardent and blazing ocean of love…

Upon you and amid you! We are friends, and brothers, and sisters; and we are ever far apart. But whatever our squabbles, never forget that if the USA surrenders to the tyranny of mediocrity and the mediocrity of tyranny, we in Europe have even less hope of resisting the advances of the Empire of ‘Humanity.’

There is a time to weep; and a time to let a thousand pens blaze!

We condemn your leaders not because we despise you, but because they want to destroy your heritage.

If there is no perfection on earth, the US Constitution is one of the greatest miracles of history.

The Empire of the Individual blazed forth in a broken land, when even the dazzling patriots of Paris and of France could not recognize the beauty of her splendor.

We implore you to keep your candle burning; and we in Europe will exchange with you whatever light we can. When you are at your best, we will be more free, because your nation is always the greatest when you lead by example, and not by force!

America is an impossibility; but time after time, you have triumphed over adversity, and shown that mere impossibility is no excuse for accommodating tyranny!

A day is dawning for America, just there, over there, out on the horizon. A day where the snoopers and humanitarian interventionists and rabble-rousing shills will be the Dred-Scott intellectuals and faux-enlightened slavers de ces jours-là; and never once du jour! All that is of this earth will pass away; but your dream will never pass away!

Forgive our impatience, and remember that every cord you unbind will be unbound for others also; and every knot you fasten will be fastened also upon us. As one of our own sages has proclaimed:

You have every right to mind your own business. But mind how your business affects mine!

Your business is liberty. And if we in Europe forget our business, we hope and pray with all our hearts, that you will not forget yours.

The shadows are darkening here, and you too are seeing the encroachment of ghouls and phantom bugbears.

Do not abandon us in your hour of need; but better still, do not abandon your own people!

Because you are the individualists of this world; and if the eternal throne and dominion of the individual is shaken in your precious land, what can be said for us?

We are fearful. But we fear for you; not merely because you are our best example, but because we owe you too many things to count or to even acknowledge without a blush.

Do not let the flame retreat.

For if ever there were ever a true meaning to American Exceptionalism, it must surely be this:

Power through humility.

Friendship with all peoples, cynical allyhood with none.

Seeking partnership, and never dominion.

Neither national egotism nor rootless globalism, but the common life of free individuals across the countless prairies and cityscapes of space and time, holding hands without fear, and without recrimination.

Forget thou not these tears, America.

You have given us what no-one else has given: a strong example to emulate, and not to obey.

This is an inconceivable treasure, and our pearl of great price.

Don’t trade it in for anything.

In love and eternal friendship

Europa Hawah

And everyone who will blaze aloft

The humblest, most exalted banner of the individual

And of freedom

And of liberty.


‘And do you know what I want you to do for me, Mr Riddle?

Ruby’s seductive, full red lips glistened with the crystalline longing of the finest of cognacs.

‘I am at your service, here and forever,’ Seamus breathed.

Ruby’s spotless, chubby fingers descended to the point of decision.

‘You are mine,’ the rapist murmured, overcome with a frenzy no more of this world than of hellfire.

‘Make sure you give me what I want. You are my good boy now, aren’t you? And you shall be loyal forevermore, as you are right now?’

Seamus dropped his trousers and mopped his panting brow against his Savior’s crotch.

‘The night is young. We have 17 hours until the press conference. Do you think you can satisfy me sufficiently.’

‘I must be such a potent guy,’ he moaned.

Ruby pushed away the head.

The uselessly bewildered humanitarian idiot gaped up at her in horror. At this shameless, indeed unforgivably barbaric, denial to the Universal of his No-Less-All.

‘See how you do tomorrow. There is love enough and to spare when you thrill and excite more than any other man has inspired and stimulated me; precisely 11 o’clock tomorrow night.’

Seamus burst into tears.

Ruby laughed and laughed and laughed.

Seamus staggered, woeful, on his way.

The next morning he could not remember the slightest thing.


‘It’s 5 a.m.,’ Saul croaked. ‘This piece of shit better be fuckin’ comin’. You watch out, you, you, you, you-you-you-fuckin’ piece ah…’

The ringing stopped.

So, the power disconnect was finally happening here.

Even here.

‘Ye gods, Saul muttered. ‘Whom the gods want to destroy…’

But what was this?


The other phone?

Saul dashed to grab the cellphone, setting a whole battery of pans (rank and scrubbed alike) clattering to buggery.

‘You!’ Saul almost shrieked.

‘Good morning, Saul,’ the old familiar voice… well… not rang out; but certainly resounded. After a fashion.

‘Fuck good mornin’!’ snarled Saul, overcome almost more with joy than rage. ‘Well? What are you sayin’, son?’

‘Brother Saul, I have been seriously considering your proposal. I have simply found myself entirely unable to find any peace or rest…’

‘Yeah yeah sleepness nights, the usual crap, yada yada yada,’ Saul whispered, almost suffocating in his attempts to choke back the sobs of a long-reeling hope, a single one life’s final, forlorn, most finely-forethrown dream.

‘There is a lot to be said for it. I do not see anyone else who is in a position to do it. The question…’

‘The question’ Saul almost sobbed, but the words remained tightly buckled up his throbbing, surging heart. The blood of millennia of oppression and of innumerable generations to an inner voice and never once an outer, coursed through his veins with an infinity of joy and desperate, overwhelming liberty of spirit that threatened, with a single flick of the wing o’ the dove, to cast Saul forever into the abyss of the most divine and most demonically transcendent of intoxicated madnesses.

‘The question, Saul… is not “if,” but how.’

Saul whispered something, God knows what!

And staggered away from the phone.

He remembered nothing, when he awoke the next day.

Or, almost nothing.

This is the song that Saul Friedman sang, as he rose and stood before the beauty of this great, grand, open, shining window:


There is None Good, Save One! (Hymn to the Individual)

All Hail the Individual!

Thrice Mighty is his Name

He towers above the maggots

Of empty pride and fame

His Endless throne is virtue

His courage is thy splendour

Without this burning brander’s torch

Thy soul has no defender

O Nation, Race and Species!

Cast down thy crowns of mud

Be washed away on freedom’s day

Bright harvest of our blood!

The ailing tree of liberty

Must needs be refreshed, anon

My neck, this soul, your chopping block

I offer to my throne

The piteous foes of darkness

In dusktide’s murk they chatter

But freedom’s call must summon all

Now cease your pitter patter!

The feast of glory’s rapture

Will burst upon our eyes

Whilst acolytes of ‘greater goods’

Bewail their sad demise

There is no power in time and space

In Heaven or Earth or Hell

Can e’er defile the Individual’s Brow

O tyrants! Mark ye well…


“Really, old chap? Beheaded in the very street? Well, I’ll be buggered!” Morton Megaraparthenon tutted. The Home Secretary glared at him distrustfully. The Trade Secretary squirmed anxiously, awaiting his opportunity.

A cough from somewhere.

The moment?



A thud.

The devilish Korean Gulag thug raised his club to deal one final blow to this miscarrying mother.

Michiko tried to raise her head.

But her eyes were already caked with blood.

Her spirit pierced him, nonetheless.

‘You will not win,” she spat at him, though she could no longer move a muscle.

She awaited the final blow.

The final blow never came.

Her bones did not even have a chance to rot.


Chapter 11: Hillel Against Hellfire (Honest Adolph Volume II)

Adolph Adams gasped in awe as he thumbed over the words of his warmest and bitterest best frenemy of all.

If Humanity Exists, then All is Permitted: Germany’s Recognition of the So-Called Korean Genocide is a Horrific Act of Presumption

Dr Saul Friedman, formerly of the Libertarian Party, the Classical Liberal Party, and the Republican Party.

The German government’s recent unilateral declaration of ‘Crimes Against Humanity’ in Korea is a truly horrific development. This opportunistic Realpolitik move is an utter catastrophe.

As a Jew, as an American, and most of all, as an individual and not some mere token of a type, I am 100% opposed to setting up a hierarchy among mass atrocities.

The distinction between a ‘crime against humanity’ or ‘genocide’ and a ‘mere straight-vanilla mass atrocity’ is not a scientific one, but a rhetorical and polemical one, driven by cynical, partisan Realpolitik.

It is truly horrifying to see yet another government (no less than the government of the main perpetrator of the Nazi Holocaust!) demean and trample all over the victims of all mass atrocities, by perpetuating practices of illicit privilege and hierarchy.

If they had the slightest shred of respect for people massacred in the Korean mass atrocities, or anyone else heartlessly butchered in any mass atrocity soever, they would hold their peace, and not desecrate the memory of the innocent by continuing this perpetual sacrament, this eternal mystifying mummery of self-interestedly hierarchising and privileging some mass atrocities over others, by baptising them with nonsense words cynically calculated to signify that these particular mass atrocities, and ONLY these, are of any real significance.

It is merely a power game.

Let not one fool or idle speculator be mistaken.

The ruthless and ineffably violent arms race and beggar’s pokerfest of ‘which one is a genocide?’ and ‘which one is a crime against humanity?’ is a race to the bottom, and it will inevitably corrupt and taint beyond measure all those who give in to the temptation.

This is not about justice, or decency, or commemoration, or power; it’s merely cynical, self-serving, malignant opportunism.

And who practices such opportunism?

Cynical, self-serving, malignant opportunists.


Adams paused.

‘You were right, dear friend,’ he breathed.

Saul’s half-ironic chant still resounded in his head.

‘And if I am not for myself, then who?’


Chapter 10: Reds Have More Fun (Honest Adolph Volume II)

‘The fuck? They really beheaded the guy?’ grunted Bubble.

‘Oooooooo, yeah, baby! Took that pussy round the corner and chopped his freaking limey-dimey Kopficle around the head; you’d better believe it, bitches!’ Benito Scarlett Muskogee looked as though he were about to genuinely take off like a prodigious Obamadrone, as he whirled around the ‘Special Gentleman’s Fever Cone’ of the Amber Hornet.

‘Listen, son!’ groaned the Senator. ‘I don’t have time for all this rowdy behaviour.’

‘Woo-hoooooooo! Give us a fuckin’ bump, Bubble Boy!’ Benito brimfully bubbled. ‘Ya know who my frickin’ ancestor was? Heh heh! Fuck yeah, baby! Lyndon fuckin’ Johnson, see this here boy, he’s the son of L B J, L B J, how many dicks have you washed today?’

Bubble was at the end of his tether.

‘Shut the hell up! You even sound like that liberal asshole! Everyone knows that piece of shit is overrated.’

Benito suddenly dropped to his knees and, startled at some imaginary devil, rolled over and put his hands over his face. Presently, he began to weep gently.

‘Well, well, well, Marco boy!’ was the rich and barely gushy intoning of Eva Vernon Letterman.

‘Look at this poor DC boy. Well, it does appear there is something in all this here ‘‘lead poisoning’’ talk after all.’

Marcus smirked.

‘Well, hoo-hey, chicken, maybe you’re right! Guess that flaming Jew comedian Saul Friedman…

‘Well, what is it they say? A stupid pacifist abacus counts him up correct once a day, right?’

The rich, hearty, Southern belle dame de Wyoming guffawed.

‘Hm. Marcus, I would quit this stuff right now. Don’t you be getting into the habit of insulting Eva Vernon Letterman; because you never know who you might end up with in the White House!’

Bubble’s rather poor attempt at gallantry went up in flames.

‘Hey, what the hell is that supposed to mean? Who the frickin’ hell is supposed to be choosing my people?’

Letterman smirked gaily, with a flick of her gorgeously rich and radiant curls.

‘The hand behind the throne.’

Bubble’s joie de trollerie revived immediately.

‘Whew! Tell you what, if you’ve got a good hand under the throne, there’s nothing a good president can’t handle!’

Letterman nodded in the direction of the private shower.

‘Hmm…’ Bubble grunted.

Eva slipped off her dress.

‘Hey, can I fuck with her too? I really like redhair bitches!’ groaned Benito.

Letterman leaned over and whispered in his ear.

‘Next time, honey.’

With a coy wink, Letterman strode over, raising her hand to Bubble’s cheek.

‘That poor, pitiful little freak will believe anyth…’

With one long, clumsy swipe (albeit one wholly unmistakable in its intent and its significance alike), Bubble levelled Letterman to the ground. She didn’t even have time to scream.

Bubble momentarily gazed in horror. ‘What the fuck did you say to him?’ he roared. ‘What the fuck did you say?!’

Dickie Klindel, pedantically timely as always, slunk into the Fever Cone.

‘From a purely value-free and neutral strategggic pershpectivvvvvvve,’ he slizzzhhhered, ‘it would be a rather pragmatically exshpeeeeedient devisssshe, to transport the cadaver to a less consssshhhpicuoooooussh…’

Bubble almost flattened Klindel too.

‘Oh, really? Well, you are one smart son of a Mongol!’ he spat. ‘Seriously, make yourself useful and sort this shit out. I’m not going to have people besmirching my good name.’

‘Such value-laden ethical premises are not my conssshhhern. Now, meditating merely on the purely objective and value-free given constellation of strategic constraints and opportunities, the least systemically disorderly response to the stimulus…’

Bubble grabbed Klindel by the throat and raised his chin, so that Bubble could see his eyes. Klindel’s sea-grey irises, empty of all life and the merest trace of joyful creativity and of any artistic and poetical purposes whatsoever, stared forward without any real interest or significance.

The moment passed.

Bubble let go of Klindel’s collar. Klindel righted his stance with, if not a composure or poise, at least an astonishing absence of awkwardness of anxiety.


‘The campfire is ready,’ Senator Willow murmured.

As she sat, she did not hear the owl, lamenting the loss of her eggs, stolen from her by the ill fortunes of the sun, the wind, the storm.

‘The English journalist,’ she muttered. ‘How curious. Journalists don’t dress daintily like that, I am quite sure of it.’

The newspaper fragments fluttered in the breeze.

The forlorn cadaver of Captain Cattybums, caught in a gasp of abject horror at some unmentionable evil now consigned to the security of a memory no longer accessible to we the living; for there was no more sea, no voice that could elucidate the agony of the glossy fop.

The rags and remnants were committed to the flames.

The mushroom stick was plunged into the flames.

So also the ‘scarlet letter’ of her sexual degradation.

In her heart, she reverently intoned:


In the Name of the Lesser Good.

My Interests, not the National Interest.

My Good, not the Good of Humanity.


Not one thing accomplished for Humanity.

Not one thing devoted to Humanity.

Not one person under the shameful, unbearable and thrice-damned slaver’s yoke of Humanity.


Crimes against Humanity are Victimless Crimes.

Not so crimes against the Individual.

Everything I have ever done, has been in the name of human beings, and not of humanity.


I owe Humanity nothing.

And Humanity owes me nothing.

All the good that has ever been done me…

Has been done by people.


I, for one, am not Humanity!

But what sayest thou…

To the individual?


Chapter 9: Tomorrow For the Brave (Honest Adolph, Volume II)

‘Well?’ snorted Bubble.

‘Here, sssir, is the audio and shlide show you ettshpecked,’ Klindel slithered, dribbling out of both corners of his mouth.

First, the notable humanitarian pop star and radical artistic performance artist, Klubber Bonez:

Phwoar! Mate! U S of blumming A, I tells yer! Just look ‘ere me lad, me ‘as a literally bangtabulosu future President Marcus Bubble! This lad, ‘e be a proper, proper humanitarian lad, me old son!

Hur-huuuurrrr! Gotcher! Bang-bang!


What the hell is this, Dickie? Huh? What is this… this pretentious crap?!


Hark! A-hark! And hearken well again, my dear chums! It is I, Tarquin Binnett of Albion, notable public figure and future UKIP counsellor of Little Winchester! Now do permit me, my lad, to make a most politically expedient speech upon this simply splendid young man Marcus Charlemagne Bubble. He seeks a renewed and traditional America, with nary a wop and a dago about the place!


So you got a couple of stuck-up limeys? So what else is new, Dickie? Huh?


Luv-luvvie-Bomb, Luvvie V Vedanta

In the pre-e-e-e-si-den-tial!

Ooo, girly play with me, with your bo-bo-ba-ba-ji

Or your bloody nation must be fucking mental!


‘Who even cares what the Indians think… ohhh, you…’

Senator Bubble threw an empty bottle of Karadzov Bler vodka. Damned briefing machine hadn’t a chance.

‘Well… I am mossshhht outraged!’ spat Dickie Klindel, curiously animated just this once.

‘Why don’t you get me a proper endorsement? Who the fuck are these stupid assholes? How much of our money did you wasted with this crap? Huh? You wanna play white boys and Indians, huh? You wanna play white boys and Indians, do you? Huh? Huh? I don’t want even want to be fuckin’ breathing on this campaign, if you’re still on it! Huh? Give me a FUCKIN’ ANSWER!

Dickie Klindel’s lips quivered, as Bubble’s chunkier-than-ever New Jersey fists pounded upon his motionless shoulders.

‘Do… give me leave to shussshhhpect, dear shhhir, that thish ish not merely the Dharmic conundrum and erotic dialogue comedian Luvvie Vedanta, but alshooo, the notable radical erotic performance artist and senshuuual indie chat show compère Roger Pickering, of Englandzh Bedford, home of the world-renowned English Defence League and Home Counties Finest Rick Astley tribute band, the Acid Rolls, formerly of Klubber Bonez and now the…’

Bubble threw up his greasy palms in utter horror.

‘Find me some real heroes, bitch!’ he roared.

The corners of Dickie Klindel’s lips twitched uncontrollably, like the decapitated big half of a fishing worm.

‘I am mossshht sorry, dear Shhhirrr, but Dickie izh doing zhe besht he can. Even Zgniew Brzezzzzinski, Henzzzzhy Kissssssshingggggg…’

Bubble smashed his chunky New England fists once more upon Dickie Klindel. Klindel peevishly yielded his skull for a second blow.

‘You are nothing? See these heroes? Look, there are only two Presidents in the history of our shitty, backward country worthy of the name: Lyndon Boris Johnson, Richard Milton Nixon and William Jefferson Clinton! And even these guys were fucking pussies, when the spirit took them to sell out. Who do you think I am, Dickie? Huh? Huh? Huh?!’

Klindel stood silently, too sickly and craven to even wipe the blood from his brow.

But there was not the merest tremble of his legs. A true humanitarian interventionist to the end. Such cold, emotionless monsters were hardly a rarity in the Potomac cesspool or among the notorious military-industrial complex, one rivalling even Nero’s or Caligula’s or Stalin’s or Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi’s relentless and remorseless war machines.

Or so at least, a freaking pinko traitor like Saul Friedman or…

Now wait a second, what was the other guy’s name again?


Chapter 7: Humanitarian Rape (Honest Adolph Volume 2)

Senator Bubble’s day had finally arrived.

But most of all, it was America’s day!

Wait… did I get that one the right way around?

‘Freakin’ straight on, Bubble!’ Alan roared.

Bubble cleared his throat.

He cleared his bowels, and then his throat again.

Well, might as well make an effort, huh?

‘Alright, everybody!’ Bubble roared.


Aeons and endless universes away, Otis bowed his head and scribbled like buggery.


‘For the last flamin’ time!’ the shameless pen-waver bawled. ‘It is your word against his! What the hell do you expect me to do?

‘Unless you’ve got some evidence the boy fucked with you, what the hell am I supposed to do? ‘‘Oh, by the way, Mr Judge, this Miss Willow girl says Benny Pilder (of all the goddamn unlikely people in the world, for Chrissakes!) might just have got fucking dicky with it, and y’know, maybe just, like maybe just, on the off chance, you could maybe see if there’s some truth in the story?’’’


‘Fuckin’ brown sugar,’ Cassie moanie-moaned, bobbing her head in runny-shit-ridden-ecstacy.

‘Fuckin’ brown as fuck, and goes down like a bomb.’


Let me tell you all!

Marcus is the boss!


‘Bitch! You for real? I ain’t sayin’ it’s not true. I’m just sayin’ who the fuck knows either way! Don’t you shake that fist at me, girl!

‘FFS… why do these bitches always get rowdy like this? It’s nothing personal; we just don’t have the resources to go investing speculative rape claims, of all things! I mean, who the fuck knows what’s true and what’s false?

‘Boys will be boys, they get a bit rough and shit gets messed up; I mean, it could be true, for all I  know. And if so, well hey, it’s a bit rough on you girl, I can imagine you must be pretty butthurt about it.

‘But this is the laws of economics. If we started prosecuting shit like this all the time, we wouldn’t have time for the really important stuff.

‘Anyway, it was your party that bombed that poor old bitch in Lebanon that the flamin’ Jew Ziomedia are kickin’ up shit about. Don’t you talk to me about that shit. Poor old lady probably hadn’t done shit to us here in the US, she didn’t deserve that.

‘So don’t you ever talk to me about sexism? I don’t even know what I’m going to say to you? I’m not going to say anything yet, in case you folks use it against me.

‘The police have no power in this country. And you have the damn cheek to call me an abuser of power? In this country, the politicos run the whole damn show.

‘By this point in history, I’d rather be a whining Jew or a goddamn nigger than a police boss. Just shut your…

‘Ah, forget it. I’m about done with this shit!’


Shall I read it aloud? Well, why not. Cassie, this is for you. I do hope you enjoy indulging in the white heterosexual lifestyle. In the next several months, the last of my dwindling savings will have been squandered on the medicine that is keeping me alive.

Then it will be food stamps.

Then the diagnosis.

And then…

Well, you will appreciate this little charming ditty, nonetheless.

Let me do my best to put it in character.

I hesitate to say I am ‘whited up.’

Now that… is surely none of my business.


In due course, I shall be pale enough, God knows.

I must confess to a qualm or two.

I am hardly amid my best heart’s ease at my callous dispatching of la belle cassie de cette belle maison.

But you will, perhaps, understand that reasons of the heart are not to be likened to reasons of state.

In any case, let us commence!


Alright, everybody! Now, for what it’s worth, I’ve come here pretty well prepared. I haven’t got any wingmen, that’s one thing for sure! I mean, we have a great party.

You know what, I just love our party.

I think it’s just the best.

Do you know what I’m saying?

This party. This nation.

Do you love the Republican Party?

Do you love Ameeericaaaaaaaa?

Wooooo! No shit!

Well guess what, people?

For what it’s worth, you’re not alone.

You know what?

I love America too.


Saul Friedman spat in fury.

‘It’s true! So it’s frickin’ true after all! Dickie fuckin’ Klindel and his boys have been coachin’ this bitch to get more of a, more of a frickin,’ frickin’ persona about ‘im!

‘Fuck this guy! Fuck this guy to fuckety-fuckety-fuckety-fuck-fuckers…’


If you were here, Cassie.

If you were actually here.

It might be easier.


‘Who am I to judge?’ Cassie bawled. ‘Who am I to judge? That’s what he actually told her!’

The priest she had cornered on the corner outside the police station squirmed with repugnance; a repugnance, however, that was not entirely untainted and unadulterated with some shadow of compassion and sympathy, however inauthentic and ineffably guilty such a poor admixture of better feeling may have been.

‘Woman is under the authority of man,’ the priest pronounced. ‘Only the Lord alone can tell why some few unworthy men overstep due boundaries in their guardianship of the precious sex.’

Speechless with fury, Willow pelted down the street towards the river.


‘Well hey there, our cheap-ass lil Friday special!’ Sally grunted. ‘Go and tell that Jew imbecile he oughta quieten down and quit making a fuss! Oh and yes, before you ask, you can tell from me that yes, he is indeed a Jew imbecile, and if he doesn’t like it, he knows where the fuckin’ door is!’

Jim stepped up cautiously to Saul. ‘Mr Saul,’ Jim murmured. ‘Hm! Say what?’ Saul roared, although he was already mellowing a little. ‘Mr Saul,’ Jim repeated, his knees trembling. ‘Hm! What is it? C’mon, spit it out, son!’ murmured Saul, a ghost of a smile trembling around the corner of his lips by now.

‘Mr Saul,’ said Jim. ‘Sally says that you are a Jew imbecile, and, and that, and that…’

‘Ohhh, for Chrissakes!’ spat Saul, too taken aback to really be angry.

‘And, and, and that, and that Mr Saul oughta quieten down and quit makin’ a fuss, because, because yes, Mr Saul is indeed a Jew imbecile, and if Mr Saul doesn’t like it, Mr Saul knows where the… where the… stupid door is.’

Immediately Jim’s heart sank in his chest. He burst into tears. He lied! He lied! Purely in order to spare Mr Saul’s feelings. But all that didn’t matter. He told a lie! He lied! He lied! He lied!

‘Hm. Is that so. Well, Mrs Sally Cameron can get fucked. I’m finishing this drink, and I ain’t leavin’ for shit! You can tell her that from me too? A’rite?’

All of a sudden, Saul realized that the whole time he had been saying this, Jim had been quivering in fear and guilt.

‘Ah, c’mon son!’ Saul groaned. ‘I ain’t sore at you, Jim. C’mon, uncle Saul is just fuckin’ butthurt that yer, yer frickin’ Sister Sal has been comin’ out, I mean, she’s been comin’ out with this fuckin’…

‘I lied!’ wailed Jim, running full pelt behind the bar, onto the staircase, up and up, God knows where.

Saul frowned and toyed with his Fraulein Mercer. The cinammon tasted of raw crap.

It wasn’t like that in the student bar a few decade back; that’s one thing for frickin’ sure, Adi son!

Sal walked by with a brush.

Saul didn’t see.

‘He lied? He lied?’ breathed Saul, a wondrous slumber grasping his soul, every thread by gleaming thread.

‘But isn’t that exactly what you’d expect her to say?’


‘So you sent her packing?’

‘Yeah! She was a tough one, though! I mean, they all are!’

‘Good call, dude! I mean, last year the number of failed rape prosecutions was just unreal. It’s a flaming waste of everyone’s time.

‘I mean, every man’s bitch and her sister is accusing men of rape these days! Anyone would think rape was some kind of, y’know, actual commonplace thing? I mean, most men know you don’t do that shit!

‘You look at 20th century stats, and you mean, it’s flamin’ unreal! You seriously telling me all these men were guilty? I mean, it’s just an awful historical injustice.

‘How awful all these, y’know, stupid drunk student kids and all those folks had to be shamed and ridiculed like that. It’s literally worse than slavery.

‘As far as I’m concerned, unless you actually take the bitch by the throat and shove your fuckin’ dick up her bleedin’ ass, how in the flaming fuck can that shit actually be rape? Oh, c’mon! Ohhh, please!


My love is like

A black, black dick

That’s newly sprung in NYC

My love is like an Otis Spengler


Hey! Shut the fuck up, a’right? Fuck that guy! There already way too many niggers on TV! I know we’re all fucked off our asses on heroin, but there’s nothing worse than a blue-eyed bitch that literally hates her own race!


‘So anyway, yeah! Things change, yeah?’

The monthly monitor was over.

‘They sure do change. They sure do,’ muttered Palmer Miller.

‘Well, keep it up.’

Palmer shook his head.

‘Uh… what?’

The green-eyed and greener still graduate kid dropped his tablet in horror, his eyes wide with horror.

‘You heard. This job is not for me.’

Benny Turpin gaped in horror.

‘No, no, c’mon dude! I mean, look at this shit I just wrote, I’ve given you so much, I mean the stats, they are just…’

‘Did you hear me the first time!’ Palmer Miller roared.

Benny’s specs flew off his face as he doubled back in horror. His loins blazed with fury as an ever-spreading patch of raw piss lurched across his hindquarters, hungry as the see, feel and callous as the drones of princes.

The police boss choked in fury.

‘I just had a girl in here who has been raped! Do you hear me? She was fuckin’ raped?

‘And because, and all because of flaming, stinkin’ pen pushers like you, I had to send the poor lady away and tell her there was nothin’ doin’! Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?!’

Benny burst into tears. ‘They will burn my ass if you resign. They told me if another guy…’

Incandescent with fury, Palmer Miller threw the empty bottle of Super Dew.

As unerring a shot as ever!

‘Ooooowwwwww! Fuck saaaaaakes, duuuuuude,’ moaned the arrogant little quality-dweeb, who look more repugnantly pathetic than he ever had.’

‘Haul your flaming ass out of here, boy. Right now! The Amber Hornet is only just reaching full thermometer, and by hellfire am I gonna have one damn fine lap-chasin’, boy!

‘Now get the hell out and let me attend to my proper business, by God! Alright?

‘No buts, son! You’ll damn well regret this shit, alright?’