THE BEDDING OF BOYS (Chapter Excerpt)

(This excerpt is not from the final version of the book. Please refrain from quoting passages until you can check against the final version. Thank you.)

bedding pb



by Edward Lorn

The ghost in the passenger seat seemed restless. Perhaps neither of them knew why the other was here.
Regina Corsi drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Waiting. Outside, her hazard lights pulsed yellow. Headlights swung in behind her. She opened the door and stepped out. Shielding her eyes from the glare, she approached the car. She passed out of the glow of the new arrival’s headlights and stood by the truck’s front fender. An older man with silver hair and kind eyes got out. He offered her a broad smile. She returned it.
“Car trouble?” he asked in a deep voice coarse with age.
“Someone’s on their way. Thanks for stopping, though. I truly appreciate it.”
His smile melted into a frown. He glanced around, as if the boogeyman, one only he could protect her from, might be hidden in the trees on either side of the road. Perhaps ravenous wolves lay in wait for them. Her would-be savior looked concerned to a comedic extreme. Pretty woman like her. All alone. Lord only knew what kinda trouble she could get into.
“You sure?” he asked.
“I’m positive. Super sweet of you, though. Thanks.”
She turned and walked back to her car. His gaze followed her the whole way. The acupuncture-needle poke of his eyes pestered her. She dipped into the car to grab her smokes, shook one out of the soft pack, lit the tip, and tossed her lighter into the cup holder behind the gear shift.
The man in the truck drove away. She waved to him. In the dark, without the aid of his headlights, she couldn’t tell if he waved back or not. Her legs ached with inactivity. How long had she waited for someone to come along? An hour? Two? Likely it was a much shorter passing of time, but when you have nothing to do, time creeps.
She smoked two full cigarettes before the next Good Samaritan arrived. She hoped this was who she’d been waiting for.
The gravel on the side of the road crunched under her shoes as she went to meet the new contestant.
The guy who got out of the minivan wasn’t as thrilled to be out here in the middle of the night as the last guy had been. This guy looked withered, as if he’d not slept in days. A quick glance at the concerned woman in the passenger seat and the young boy in the back was reasoning enough. Likely wifey here had directed her hubby to pull over and offer the poor stranded motorist help and he’d begrudgingly complied. Maybe he’d been on the road for days, and now here he was, having been made to stop to help some stranger. Screw her for possibly needing assistance.
“You need some help?” he said. She expected his eyes to roam her body, as most men’s gazes did, but he didn’t. This one was well-trained.
She smiled at the woman in the passenger seat and eyed the boy in the back. In her peripheral vision, she saw the ghost slip into the woods and out of sight. These folks must be the reason she was out here. The boy in the back, especially. Her new friend the ghost was going to come in handy.
She asked the man, “Could you come look at the engine? It just cut off.”
“You got a flashlight?”
“A what?”
That was too much. She knew it was too much as soon as the words passed over her lips.
He squinted at her as if he could read her mind. She sure as hell hoped not.
“A flashlight?”
“Oh. Sorry. I misheard you. No. I don’t have one. Do you?”
“Yeah. Gimme a sec and I’ll meet you at the car.”
In other words, lady, go back to your vehicle and let’s get this over with, so I can go home and plow my wife. Or sleep. Likely sleep. The guy looked like he needed it more than he needed food and oxygen. Regina had to remind herself that not everyone was thinking about sex all the time. Not everyone was like her. Not everyone was insatiable.
She returned to her car, dipped into the foot well, popped the hood. Leaving the driver’s side door open and the dome light on, she went around to the front of the car, reached into the crack, slid the latch to the side, raised the hood and anchored the support pole.
Gravel crunched, like someone chewing popcorn, signaling the approach of her hero. He swept the flashlight up, angled it down and into the engine block.
“What’s it doing or not doing?” he asked.
She said, “Look at me.”
He did as requested. The flashlight’s beam bounced back off the open hood, lighting his face enough to give her a target. She slid the boning knife from the sheath on her belt. Swung upward. The knife pierced the skin under the man’s chin. He jerked too late to save himself the wound but quickly enough that the blade slid easily through his gums and out the side of his cheek. She retracted the blade and threw her arm like a boxer going in for a hook. He tried to block with the hand holding the flashlight but she was far too quick for that. The knife sliced into his temple and exited out through his eye. Odd angle and far from deadly. The flashlight dropped into the engine compartment. She grabbed a handful of his hair, yanked up, and slid the knife deeply across his neck, lacerating both carotids. Blood spurted onto her shirt. Splattered her face.
With no blood to his brain, he’d be unconscious in a minute or less. Just had to keep him out of sight until then.
He fell backward, almost into view of his wife and son. She tugged him forward by his hair before he was viewable. She shoved him on top of the engine. His right leg kicked out. For a brief instant she thought he was still fighting but realized it was just his body’s reaction to a quick, unexpected death.
She rounded the car, moving swiftly, the hand holding the knife behind her right hip, out of sight. She came to the passenger side door, feigning a shortage of breath. Huffing and puffing she pulled the woman’s door open. The wife or lover, or whatever her relationship was to the dead man resting on Regina’s engine block, glared up at her in a state of confusion. The woman in the passenger seat registered the blood and started to ask what had happened when the knife slid into her tear duct like a lobotomy spike. Her body jerked rigid. Her knees shoved into the glove box and her feet dug into the floorboard. Her arms, stiff at her sides, twitched. Fingers bit into upholstery.
The boy asked what was going on. Regina assumed he couldn’t see much from where he was seated. For all he knew, the strange woman had simply reached into the car.
He didn’t sound any older than ten, his voice lacking the crack of puberty and the tenor of adulthood. She shivered in anticipation as she yanked the blade from the woman’s eye. A single, worm-thick tear of blood trundled down the woman’s cheek as she slid sideways into the center console.
“Mom?” the boy said. He sounded confused now. The kind of confusion that preludes fear. She couldn’t wait to comfort him.
“Oh, honey,” she purred. “I’ll be your mommy.”
She climbed into the car, over the dead mother, and snaked between the front seats into the back. The boy caught glimpse of the knife’s blade glimmering in the dome light and lost his mind. He kicked and screamed and managed to catch her under the chin with his shoe. She bit her lip, drawing blood. She licked a gory tongue across red lipstick and stabbed downward, into the boy’s thigh. He screamed at the knife as if it could help him. Then he looked up and screamed in her face.
So young. So beautiful.
God, she wanted him.
“Come to mommy,” she said.
She giggled as she slipped the knife from his thigh. She hiked her skirt and threw a leg over his lap, straddling him. She lay the blade against his tender neck and applied slight pressure. In his haste to be as far away from the knife as possible, he jerked his head back and forth causing the blade to saw at the flesh where an Adam’s apple might one day sprout.
“Be still. Mommy doesn’t wanna hurt you,” she lied. She wanted to hurt him very, very badly. But first she wanted to fuck him.
He wouldn’t look at her. Instead he stared wide-eyed out of the side window, tears having not yet grown fat enough to fall glistening in his eyes. He drew back, blinked, and clear trails barreled down his cheeks. But he’d stopped moving, and that’s all that mattered. Leaving the knife pressed against his carotid, she leaned in and attempted to lick the blood from his neck. Her bitten lip only served to further bloody the boy’s flesh. He looked the part of a vampire victim. She supposed that wasn’t far from the truth of the matter.
She reached down with her free hand and massaged between her legs.
She moaned. “I’m gonna—I’m gonna unbuckle you—and you’re—you’re gonna lie down and let Mommy show you how much she loves you. Come on, now. Do as Mommy says.”
“You’re not my mom,” he managed. He sounded older now. Tougher. That wouldn’t do.
She head-butted his brow. The flesh split and blood poured into his eye, the lid fluttering to keep the warm fluid from blinding him.
“You’re gonna do as Mommy says or you’re going to watch me cut off your little dick. Mommy doesn’t want to hurt you, but she will. Boys like you need to be taught, is all. The good and the bad. But the bad, oh baby, they get it so much worse. Now, I’m going to unbuckle you and you’re going to lie down. Right?”
Sobbing, the boy nodded. She undid his buckle and twisted with him as he turned and laid himself out on the back seat. She worked his belt free and told him to pull down his pants.
“Have you had your first erection?”
“What?” he said in a tremulous voice.
She flicked a finger at his limp penis. “Has this gotten hard yet? Do you play with it?”
Quaking all over, he nodded.
“How old are you?”
She shoved up his shirt and drew the cold steel of the knife’s tip down his chest and stomach. She watched the skin react under the dome light. The flesh quivered and drew away from the knife’s edge as if the blade were white-hot.
“Oh, you’re just right.”
She worked at him with her hand. When that didn’t work, she used her mouth, threatening him with the blade any time he protested. She’d not tried to arouse someone under duress before, and this boy obviously was not having it. Maybe he didn’t like girls? No telling.
One thing was certain—she’d wasted enough time here.
“You’ve disappointed me,” she said.
She drove the knife into the side of his neck and tore it vertically, as she had with his father, opening his throat, baring his windpipe, as if his throat were a purse and the knife a zipper. Blood burbled from his open neck. He wasn’t long dying.
She placed her ear to his chest and listened to his heartbeat. Faint and ever-lessening, the space between each beat growing further and further apart. Shock was a wonderful thing. It eased the worst of pain and numbed the body to prepare for the passing of the soul. The evacuation of that soul, to her, was the most beautiful thing in all of existence. She reached up and ran her gory fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
“You can go now, honey. I’m done with you.”
His heart beat twice more, thirty seconds or so apart, and then it ceased to beat at all.
She sat up, twisted around, and opened the back door. She slipped out and tugged the boy by the ankle. He flopped onto the gravel.
She glanced around. Her new friend was nowhere to be found.
“Hey! Come and get it!’
She scanned the trees. Nothing.
Well, this was awkward.
She nudged the boy’s corpse with the toe of her flats. “You got me out here. Come and take care of this.”
No answer.
What was she going to do now?
She dragged the boy by his hands to the rear of her car. Leaving him behind the car, she walked around and pressed the button that released the trunk latch. She returned to the trunk and pulled out a folded tarp. She lay out the nylon sheet and rolled the body onto it. Wrapped to her liking, she hefted the boy’s corpse up and into the trunk.
From the shadows of the tree line and into the corner of her vision drifted a figure in a white sheet. The ghost was no more than three-feet tall and draped with a white sheet. Had this been a simple Halloween costume, there might have been eyeholes cut into the fabric. Her friend didn’t seem to need eyeholes. Somehow it saw well enough to navigate obstacles without them.
“Where the hell’ve you been?”
No answer.
She pointed into the trunk. “What am I supposed to do with him?”
The ghost didn’t appear to be the least bit interested in the corpse.
Obviously, the boy wasn’t part of tonight’s menu. She’d have to dispose of him herself. Not a huge problem. She’d gotten along just fine before her friend in the sheet had come into her life, and if the thing quit her now, she’d continue to be fine. She hoped so, anyway.
She loosed a sigh. “Did you at least get rid of the dad? Clean up the engine?”
Ghost—for she lacked a better name for the thing in the sheet—remained silent. It had not spoken to date so she had no idea why she always tried to engage it in conversation. Its presence was as unexplainable as her lust for deviant and murderous behavior. If this was a haunting, she didn’t know by whom. None of her victims had been this small. She preferred her boys to be near-puberty, if not just slightly over the line.
She shook her head in exasperation as Ghost drifted back into the tree line and out of sight.
“Fine. Be that way. I didn’t want to talk to your ass anyway.”
She went back to the business at hand.
She dragged the woman from the car. The mother seemed heavier than Regina might be able to manage. Why were the dead always so much heavier than the living? Perhaps guilt at not being able to save her son had weighed the dead woman down. For a time, Regina gazed at the mother. Who would have thought this beautiful little family of three would end how it had ended? Somehow, that chaos, that unexpected ending, made life all the more gorgeous to Regina. Knowing this existence could end in an instant, that it was so insanely fragile, brought a tear to her eye. Ghost drifted from the shadows, floating less than an inch off the ground, its passing not so much as stirring the fallen leaves and twigs dotting the forest floor. It hovered beside the murdered woman, as if waiting.
Regina turned to leave but a presence on her shoulder stopped her. She faced Ghost once more. A tendril of sheet wiped her face clean. Then it wiped down the rest of her, supernaturally removing every speck and splatter of blood from her skin and sucking the blood from her clothing. Thus were the talents of Ghost and what made him such a good friend.
She’d forgotten what a mess she’d been. If she had been pulled over in the state she’d been in…
When Ghost was done with her, she left her friend to its business.
As she headed back to the car, the sound of static hissed to life. The sound didn’t come from any radio or television. It came from Ghost. It was the only noise the thing made, and it only made it when it disposed of her victims. She didn’t concern herself with what Ghost did with the bodies. That the bodies were never found was the only thing that mattered.
She locked and closed the family’s minivan and returned to her car to close the hood. Ghost had done his part here. The father was gone and there was not a speck of blood to be found. Not that she could see much in the backsplash of her headlights.
She drove into town by way of Highway 607, passing Hunter’s Point and the Welcome to Bay’s End sign at quarter to three in the morning. What kind of parents had their twelve-year-old son out at such a time? She didn’t like looking a gift horse in the mouth, but sometimes she wondered if maybe there wasn’t something supernatural at work. The thing in the sheet helped her to some degree. To what end, she didn’t know. Ghost never required anything more from her other than time with the corpses. He would spit and hiss like a static-y television and the bodies would make like a tree and leave. She couldn’t lie; the thing in the sheet had its uses. She’d come to enjoy being haunted, as nutty as that sounded.
She stopped at the car wash next door to the old insurance building—the insurance salesman who’d owned the place had disappeared a few years back, but the building still stood with his name on it. She parked in a stall at the hand-wash and got out. She spent half an hour scrubbing her car and using the high-pressure hose to blast clean her engine block. You know. Just in case any one looked inside or under the hood. The cleaning wouldn’t hold up to forensic testing, but if things got that far, she’d have more to worry about than blood residue on her engine.
After all, Ghost had failed to remove the boy. Therefore he might have missed something.
Whatever power watched over her saw that no one came along while she worked. Small towns were good for such courtesies, and Bay’s End was nothing if not a small town. Three thousand residents couldn’t be bothered to leave their houses after midnight unless it was the weekend. It was Wednesday, Hump Day, and here she was, short one hump. The streets were as barren as her womb.


This concludes an excerpt of The Bedding of Boys, by Edward Lorn. The paperback will be live the same day as the digital copy, with an audiobook to follow. The ebook will be $4.99 upon release, but you can pre-order the book at a discount here:

Thank you for you continued support!

bedding pb

Starry Eyes Movie Review

This will more than likely make some kind of Best of 2015 list, at least where I’m concerned. I love stories about the seedy side of Hollywood. I fucking adore films that do not give up all their secrets within the first ten minutes. And I dig the shit out of slow burns that go from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. Starry Eyes is all this and more.

Hot damn, but I had a load of fun with this film. First, it will make you dreadfully uncomfortable. I’m not talking about Bad Grampa/Jackass-awkward kind of uncomfortable, but that kind of uncomfortable where you grope for your significant other while chomping the nails of your other hand. Starry Eyes has atmosphere, it has a story, it has a wide variety of believable, three-dimensional characters, even if some are cliches. It has one of the fiercest, goriest, cringe-inducing denouements in recent memory. And when shit starts going wrong, it goes horribly, terribly wrong.

I didn’t quite understand the very last death scene. Not sure what happened or how a certain person died, but oh well. The rest of the film makes up for any small problems I might have had.

In summation: The only word of warning I’d give you I have already stated. This is a slow burn. Hang in there. It all pays off.

Final Judgment: A star is born.

Preservation Movie Mini-Review

The mo-cap actor from 2011’s Game of the Year L.A. Noire, his Lucille Ball-impersonator wife, and some guy doing a cosplay of Shane from The Walking Dead go into the woods where they are hunted down. The film then turns into a piss-poor revenge flick that takes a big sturdy turd on logic. Probably the stupidest well-shot movie I’ve seen this year. I don’t understand how shit like this gets a budget, or how obviously talented filmmakers and actors come together over such a clusterfuck of a script.

In summation: The only way out is to climb over a crumbling rock face, but somehow the killers make it there no problem on their mountain bikes. Fuck you, Movie.

Final Judgment: R. Kelly wouldn’t piss on this.

Today in GREAT SHIT! #3

If you’re anything like me, you hate BAD SHIT. Nowadays, loads of BAD SHIT is searchable on the internet and plastered all over the news. These are you’re empty-headed-egotist celebs and your infomercials for products that make straining spaghetti in a colander look like bloody rocket science. BAD SHIT – Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Do you like animals and SHIT? Conservation is GREAT SHIT. Poaching and hunting for sport is BAD SHIT. Gotta feed your family? Kill a deer and eat for a year. Need a trophy? Take up hockey!

We haven’t seen a new baby bison in almost two hundred years. That is UNTIL NOW! Chi-town is in the news today because they be birthing bison, yo! (Translation: The Nature Conservatory in Chicago has confirmed the birth of the first baby bison since 1830.) That’s some GREAT SHIT, lemme tell ya.

Hugs and high fives!


Today in GREAT SHIT! #2

If you’re anything like me, you hate BAD SHIT. Nowadays, loads of BAD SHIT is searchable on the internet and plastered all over the news. These are you’re empty-headed-egotist celebs and your infomercials for products that make straining spaghetti in a colander look like bloody rocket science. BAD SHIT – Ain’t nobody got time for that!

When I’m down in the dumps, I read about GREAT SHIT. GREAT SHIT reminds me that little shit is only that. Little shit. Today’s GREAT SHIT is inspired by great people doing great things.

Chris Pratt has helped to raise $90,000 for a boy with brain cancer. Cancer is some HORRIBLE SHIT, and I don’t like it. You don’t like it. People that have that HORRIBLE SHIT certainly don’t like it. So read the article and maybe buy a T-shirt. Spread that GREAT SHIT around.

Hugs and high fives!


Fuck Facebook

All throughout my school years, from elementary to high school, I had to deal with gossip and public shaming. I’d walk by a group of girls and they would snicker and point because EGADS! I’M FAT!!! I’d walk by a group of guys and they’d holler “Tubby!” and “Wankenstein!” (I was once caught pissing behind the gym because the bathrooms were locked, and the guy who caught me told everyone I was jacking off; however, I never did get the Frankenstein reference). I actually thought those days were over.

That’s how Facebook makes me feel. I see other people talking about me, and there’s nothing I can do about it, lest I’m labeled a bully or a BBA or whatever the fuck. I’m not the bad guy because I refused to sit around and watch someone lie about me. This shit happened last year when Spare Ammo and her crew threatened me because I outed Gavin’s Twitter bullshit. Oh, you forgot about that, didn’t you? Spare Ammo’s been liking my posts and commenting and being as friendly as she wants to be, but she threatened me with the BBA Blacklist for exposing the same stuff she she claims to expose everyday. She called my posts self-congratulatory and other nonsense. Now look. She likes my shit! I survived that onslaught, and I’ll survive this shit.

I’m a grown up with a wife and kids and I still have to deal with this shit? Nope. I don’t. Fuck that place, man. It makes me feel like shit and I don’t want to be there anymore. Fuck my author page. Fuck immature children and their opinions. Fuck sociopaths and author spam and vaguebooking and kitten pics (okay, kittens pics are awesome, my bad). But mostly, fuck Facebook overall. That place is a literal detriment to society, where friendships are like playing Jenga with a Parkinson’s patient and the points don’t fucking matter.

This isn’t an attention grab. I don’t give a single fuck if you comment with “Awww, E. you not a wankenstein!” That’s not what this is about. It’s about not feeling fucking worthless based on the goddamn speculation of others. This is not high school. I can choose not to go. I can choose not to participate. And that’s what I’m doing. I’m taking my motherfucking ball and going home. Laugh at someone else, you bunch of stooges.

Mostly this tirade/meltdown/bit of career suicide is about letting people know I’m no longer on Facebook. So yeah, I’m not there anymore. Stop messaging me with what other people are saying about me. I know how cruel and ignorant little kids can be. This is not my first rodeo.

And I cannot stress this enough. I don’t want the pats on the back and the well wishes and the comments about how you know what I’m going through. I only want people to stop asking me why the fuck I left. So here’s your public service announcement.

Now, can I please be left alone?

Now, can I please be left alone?

Today in GREAT SHIT!

If you’re anything like me, you hate BAD SHIT. Nowadays, loads of BAD SHIT is searchable on the internet and plastered all over the news. These are you’re empty-headed-egotist celebs and your infomercials for products that make straining spaghetti in a colander look like bloody rocket science. BAD SHIT – Ain’t nobody got time for that!

As of this day, Tax Day, April 15th, Year of Our Lord Tom Cruise Two Thousand One and Five, a day notorious for BAD SHIT, I give you lovely beshitted shittlings some GREAT SHIT to dish upon.

SAFE PASSAGE is some GREAT SHIT where veterans ensure that children who have to walk through Chicago’s roughest neighborhoods just to get to school do so in safety. Keep up that GREAT SHIT, vets. You rock!

This has been some GREAT SHIT.

Hugs and high fives,


Netflix: Marvel’s Daredevil Episode Two

Imagine someone’s pissing in your face. When this someone stops pissing in your face, you appreciate that you’re not longer being pissed on. That is this show. It’s never really good, but it does stop pissing in your face every once and a while.

It’s painfully obvious at this point that I’m going to have to forcibly suspend all disbelief if I am to continue on with Marvel’s Daredevil. Truth be told, I’m only carrying on because of the fight scenes. The action is swell, even if the rest of the show is utterly illogical.

Direct quote from Facebook regarding my reaction to the opening scenes of this episode:

“Who the fuck in New York City (Hell’s Kitchen especially), or anywhere else for that matter, pulls a bleeding stranger out of a goddamn dumpster and takes them into their home so they can nurse them back to health? Anybody, and I mean ANYBODY, else would have either called 911 or left him to die. The logic of this show is nonexistent.”

Well, they tried to explain why, and that only made me dislike this show more.

I’m notorious for hating all things coincidental in fiction if coincidence is the thing the entire plot depends on. In this second episode, Rosario Dawson’s character Clare is jammed into the storyline thusly: Daredevil, beaten and bloody, ends up in a dumpster located just outside of Clare’s apartment building. Clare just so happens to be a nurse. Clare also just so happens to be the same nurse who worked on the guys Daredevil beat up in the first episode. She also just so fucking happens (do you see a pattern yet?) to be the nurse who helped a girl that Daredevil saved…

*bashes head against keyboard*


I want to like this. All my friends like it. All my discerning friends like it. I’m trying my damnedest to give it the benefit of the doubt. I will watch up until Episode Four before quitting because a friend told me there might be something at the end of that episode that I’ll enjoy.

By the way, Daredevil doesn’t have superhuman healing powers. He can just take a lot of punishment without so much as a bruise the next day… or, you know, whatever. Also, Clare fixes his collapsed lung with a goddamn IV cannula and he’s all better in under an hour. So much so that he can go all Oldboy on a group of child smugglers.

This fucking show is stupid. But the action is fun. It’s the superhero movie Michael Bay would direct if he didn’t have the budget for explosions.

Oh, and I did dig the ode to Oldboy. That scene in the hallway was impressively shot. If it wasn’t all one take, the editor needs some kind of fucking award.

In summation: No logic was harmed during the filming of this show because it was absent during the writing of the script.

Final Judgment: Are we sure this isn’t a DC Comic’s property?

Netflix: Marvel’s Daredevil First Impression

Along comes a series to wipe out the detriment to society that was 2003’s Daredevil, which starred the uber-jawed Ben Affleck in the titular role, and I gotta say, this new Daredevil is… meh. In comparison, Marvel’s Daredevil is Citizen Kane to Affleck’s Toxic Avenger, but that doesn’t make it good. I think a lot of people will love this simply because it doesn’t star Bennifer Part Deux, and that’s really too bad.

Let’s get the personal shit out of the way. I hate the actor who plays Foggy. He’s got the acting chops of Rodin’s Thinker, and I kept wishing that his mother would come out of the shadows to wash his fucking hair. Every time he had a “serious” scene he looked like he wanted to burst out laughing, as if he kept making up the funniest shit in his head and didn’t bother sharing it with anyone else. It was annoying and distracting, and I disliked every scene with him in it. He also has a punchable face, at least for me he does. One of those mugs that simply makes me want to do violence. And I’m a pretty amiable motherfucker.

Personal shit out of the way, there’s problems with the actual show. Unfortunately, the biggest problem being Daredevil’s Wolverine-like self-healing capabilities. I never read the comic books. If this is a thing that exists (him being able to completely heal all facial wounds just by sleeping through the night), my bad. If this is never explained in the show, shame on them. Because Daredevil gets the brakes beaten off him and is no worse for wear come the next day. At one point he’s literally spitting blood into a rain puddle, but the next day he doesn’t have so much as a split lip. This, more so than even Foggy’s shit performance, kinda ruined things for me.

Furthermore, I do not want a league of Daredevil fanboys befalling me, screaming their arguments of “He can heal himself in the comics!” because I don’t give a fuck. I have not read the comics, so the show should explain this. Fugoff!

Will I continue watching? Yeah. Overall, I don’t hate it , only Foggy. I dug the fight scenes. They were stylistic while being somewhat believable, and I like the cat who plays Murdock. He’s just the right mix of cocky and humble.

In summation: I’m hoping this series will grow on me as it shuffles through its growing pains. I hope that Foggy dies a brutal death at the hands of sexual deviants, and that the Pepper Pots wannabe becomes more than just a damsel-in-distress character, ’cause, for real, the actress who plays her is great, but the character herself is kinda one note.

Final Judgement: Unexplainably punchable with self-healing capabilities.

Flash Fiction Friday: VEGLAND

Yesterday, I put the call out for ideas. I thought it would be fun to let my friends on BookLikes choose the topic of my first Flash Fiction Friday post. People responded awesomely. You’ll find their ideas at the bottom of this post. If I didn’t use your suggestions, no worries. There’s always next Friday.

Oh, and some of your suggestions are sprinkled throughout. I know there was one suggestion with four parts, so I had to chop it up to make it work.



by Edward Lorn

My name’s Tiger and I find things for people.

I’ve lived a strange life. When I was fifteen, a two-hundred-pound ape carcass crashed through the roof of my suburban home. Dad was pissed. Mom was indifferent.

The next week, my mother ran off with a robot cult because Christianity didn’t rotate her gears anymore. These cultists are the people who got the amusement park in town closed down because of how the animatronics were being treated.

I suppose that’s why I picked the career I did. Meaning, not much shocks me. So when Charlene called up asking me to find her flesh-eating corn cob, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.

This ain’t some dime-store pulp paperback. I ain’t going to bore you with how this dame walked in and begged me to take her case, because it didn’t happen like that.

Charlene called me, told me her story, and asked if I’d find her corn. I agreed.

Money’s money unless it’s funny.

As with most cases, I wound up at the local library. Librarian’s name is Gregor. He’s a cool cat, if a little weird. He likes to tell how he lost his virginity, you know, if you’re old enough to hear such a thing. It involves a goat, so you gotta have a strong stomach, too.

You’ve been to a library before. I ain’t going to tell you what it looks like.

I was back in the stacks, researching fleshing-eating starches, when I heard a rather manly scream followed by the low tick and hum of machinery. I tucked my research materials under my arm and made for the checkout desk.

Gregor was dead. He had a goat hanging half-in and half-out of his backside. I guess what comes around goes around.

I wasn’t shocked.

(Remember the ape that fell through my roof?)

I called the local PD and let them deal with it.

I don’t know why, but death makes me hungry. Seeing Gregor, all half-fulla goat like he was, gave me a hankering for Greek. I headed across town to Athena’s.

There ain’t much of shit I can eat these days, allergies being what they are. Athena’s is run by a beefy broad named Paula who knows what I can eat and fixes me up nicely whenever I drop by.

I laid my research materials on the bar as Paula slid a plate of lamb and cucumber in front of me.

You’ve seen a beefy broad with humungous boobs before. I ain’t gonna tell you what Paula looks like.

“Ut’s dat?” she asked, and scratched under one heavy breast.

“New case.”

“Cannibal veg?”

“Technically, no. Flesh eating veg. Cannibal would mean they eat other veg.”


I ate in silence while Paula flipped through a scrapbook. She’d acquired amnesia after falling off a ladder the year before. She’d been reaching for a tub of yogurt in the cooler when she slipped, fell, and bashed her head on a shelf. The scrapbook was her way of remembering the past. I didn’t have the heart to tell her all the photos were stock, so, whenever she asked, I lied: “Sure, that looks like you.”

I read through my materials. Flesh-eating veg were a product of genetic experiments first conducted by Dr. Ralph King. Dr. King also went on to be leader of a cult. The same cult that owned the closed down amusement park in town. They’d won it in a court battle over animatronics’ rights.

VegLand was all the rage in the 1980s. Ride the Cucumber Coaster! Twirl on the Cauliflower Carts! Terrorize yourself on the Tobacco Train, sponsored by Marlboro.

Hey, money’s money unless it’s funny.

It was full dark by the time I parked in the weedy lot and got out.

Flashlight in hand, I squeezed through the rusty gate.

You’ve seen pictures of rundown carnivals at night. I ain’t going to tell you what VegLand looked like.

I found my mother on the carousel. She was spread-eagle atop one of the horses, pleasuring herself with a corn cob. At least that was what I thought was happening.

Truth of the matter was, Mom was dead. Had been for at least an hour. The corn cob had eaten most of her lady bits. The way her stomach was caved in, I’m guessing it had snacked on half her insides, too.

“Lovely, ain’t it?” Dr. King asked from the shadows. “My creation devouring my follower. Poetic, don’t you think.”

I’m a private dick, not a cop. The only weapon I own was limp in my shorts.

“I suppose this is where I monologue,” said Dr. King. “My robot cult was responsible for shooting down that plane full of apes when you were a kid. Your mother, of course, knew this. Seeing our cause as righteous, she joined.”

“Hold on, space cadet. What’s any of this have to do with anamatronics’ rights?”

“Those monkeys would have put our fellow animatronics out of jobs. They wanted to turn VegLand into a zoo! Even after we killed a great percentage of the animals on that plane, they still meant to buy more!”

“Why’d Gregor have to die?”

“I lost my library book. Didn’t want to pay the fine.”



“Fine. What about the corn? Why are you stealing your own invention?”

“Nobody stole anything, Tiger. Charlene works for us.”

You’ve seen a twist before. I ain’t going to tell you why this was one.

“Tell me, Tiger… are you allergic to corn, too?”

I am, but he didn’t need to know that.

Dr. King chuckled as he produced a small device and began pressing buttons. The fleshing-eating corn cob stopping eating my mother, flopped down from the horse, and came at me, end-over-end.

I punted it. Hard.

Dr. King got a mouthful.

His head snapped back as the cob first devoured his tongue and then worked its way down his throat.

You’ve seen a corny ending before. I ain’t going to tell why you this is one.

Suggestions used:

Brainycat’s Occaisonal Reviews

MC has severe food allergies, but has to travel and can’t find anything to eat amidst a huge selection of unknown foods. CHECK

Soze Says

And then it turns out some of the food might actually be eyeing the MC as something for it to eat! CHECK


A library, a lost book, a scream, and a lie. CHECK

Paul Read or Dead

Lorn writes Porn with a devilish twist in an abandoned theme park. Half-CHECK

Grimlock. Stronger, faster, studlier.

Robot cult. Because the book I read that had it had all this hardcore Christianity in it so I couldn’t get past that part, and I still want to see what a robot cult looks like. CHECK

It’s a Mad Mad World

Someone in the book has amnesia… CHECK

Gregor Xane

An ape carcass falls from the sky and through the roof of a suburban home. CHECK

Andreya’s Asylum

Gregor’s first time, when baah-ad things happen to good animals. CHECK

Char’s Horror Corner

My suggestion is Corn porn! CHECK