tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63461969299816909972024-03-13T23:19:35.983-07:00A Finnean Nilsen ProjectOk, here’s your fucking disclaimer:
This is a Finnean Nilsen Project.
And that means there’s adult stuff in here, so if you ain't 18, stay the hell out.
This blog is where we post our original story ideas, thoughts, rants, and generally whatever the fuck we want.
When you get offended, and you will, don’t forget to tell your friends so they can come be offended too. Don’t worry, we’ll offend them. And they will visit the site, because they all think you’re a prudish homo anyway.Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-79394796557608983852014-05-19T20:14:00.001-07:002014-05-20T09:42:50.053-07:00It's here...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
RL: *pssst* Over here! I have something to show you. It's... *looks over his shoulder* Big, and massive, and huge (and those are all the same thing, really). You wanna know what it is? You wanna see it, right? Okay, let me just reach down here and take it out...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgS4p6CsE3JL-0LGonN52wR7PcQXfgs8nKnrbi6VHqDuIUXoSWsleuTXNiIkUlr8ebxNAcPuB8p_8rHF7SIZHcz6R6Gvkedilwagik-D2cxjQTdXoTZ0vZghamsz5J3NUujWTVRu12_es/s1600/Outpost+1+3D.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgS4p6CsE3JL-0LGonN52wR7PcQXfgs8nKnrbi6VHqDuIUXoSWsleuTXNiIkUlr8ebxNAcPuB8p_8rHF7SIZHcz6R6Gvkedilwagik-D2cxjQTdXoTZ0vZghamsz5J3NUujWTVRu12_es/s1600/Outpost+1+3D.png" height="640" width="444" /></a></div>
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It's not what you thought it was, was it?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce the new face of Outpost Season One. Available as of today as a paperback or ebook, for the exceptionally low price of $3.99. If you're wondering why you paid less for the <i>Box Set</i> (which is the same thing, actually) it's because you got a great fucking deal, Homes, when we were releasing Season Two. If you're nearly weeping at the injustice of it all: Don't Worry.</div>
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Part Two:</div>
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We are now offering review copies of Outpost One to anyone (literally, I offered one to the homeless guy on my way into work today) in exchange for honest reviews (pan us, praise us, we don't care, just be honest). If you purchased Outpost One but not Two (which was a very silly decision if you actually made it) we would be happy to offer you Season Two free of charge in exchange for an honest review. If you are a Super Fan (and you all know who you are) you have earned the Platinum Package (which does not, unfortunately, guarantee a happy ending) and we'd love to send you advanced copies of Outpost Three (which is in production but should be coming soon - to you, first, months before its actual release).</div>
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And one more little teaser for you: The new face of Outpost One is only the first in an entire new roll out of the Outpost franchise, culminating in the release of Outpost Three and something very special we're working on. A small off-shoot project that exists within the Outpost Universe.</div>
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It's called: "Phillip Craig: #1"...</div>
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Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-73582714522392399682014-05-10T19:20:00.001-07:002014-05-10T19:20:11.583-07:00Big Things!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
RL: Hey everyone! Big...<br />
TK: Huge.<br />
RL: What?<br />
TK: Not big, huge.<br />
RL: What's the difference?<br />
TK: The <i>scope</i>. Big is... *shrugs* but huge is massive.<br />
RL: So 'huge' and 'massive' are the same thing?<br />
TK: Roughly.<br />
RL: But 'huge' and 'massive' and 'big' are different?<br />
TK: Considerably.<br />
RL: Really? Because I'm pretty sure if I looked them all up in a thesaurus they're fucking synonyms.<br />
TK: Look, I'm not trying to get into a semantic argument...<br />
RL: That's <i>exactly</i> what you're doing. You're arguing whether or not 'big' is the same as 'massive' or 'huge' when they're exactly the same. And you're interrupting my big...<br />
TK: Huge.<br />
RL: For fuck's... Really?<br />
TK: Just tell them.<br />
RL: Tell them what?<br />
TK: What you were going to say. Just say it.<br />
RL: I'm trying to fucking say it, but you keep interrupting me.<br />
TK: Who's interrupting you? I just said 'huge.'"<br />
RL: When I was talking.<br />
TK: Only because you were saying it wrong.<br />
RL: Fuck it. <i>You</i> tell them.<br />
TK: But it's your announcement. That's what you called it.<br />
RL: Then I'm calling it 'big.'"<br />
TK: I'm just saying, if you'd spent the fucking money on it, you'd call it 'huge' not 'big.'"<br />RL: Technically I <i>did</i>, it's a joint account!<br />
TK: Tell that to my fucking wife!<br />
RL: Are you done? Because I really feel like we should make the announcement already.<br />
TK: Who's stopping you?<br />
RL: *sighs* <i>Alright</i> everyone. There's...<br />
TK: Huge...<br />
RL: ...things coming from the Brothers Finn. Keep your eyes on this space (you looked away! Don't <i>do</i> that!) for the new roll out.<br />
TK: It took you that long to say that?<br />
RL: You really need to air this shit publicly, don't you...?</div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-91826484949878308202014-03-06T15:23:00.000-08:002014-03-10T16:09:35.531-07:00Cockney's VS Zombies - Movie Review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As Outpost Season Two nears its explosive season finale, all of us at Finnean Nilsen Projects have been working overtime to ensure the season is unveiled flawlessly. Couple that with interviews for <a href="http://www.terror4fun.com/Downloads/Zombie%20Times%20-%20March%202014.pdf" target="_blank">Terror4Fun</a>, <a href="http://drunkenzombie.com/2014/03/interview-brothers-finn-authors-camp-417/" target="_blank">DrunkenZombie</a>, Historical Tapestry and Historical Fiction Obsessed (some being released in the near future - we'll update links as they arrive) and we've been working our gifted little fingers to the bone trying to keep the world in blissful zombie awesomeness.<br />
But every once in a while you have to neglect to tell your friends and family that you have a night off, put the kids to bed early, pour yourself a ridiculously generous adult beverage, and catch a flick. Which leads me to:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtcUNvh0b3CS4YceITBAzqrIKOe9AKQR4ThG6qDAC_k2KqUxGHXPdl7z6LgmcqBSVdhgbOENy133uLqYm40oHyMpuk_0UGL8L4XY_veVmI5c8Z82L42_0OM0xi2uKzQBHk6WIiZV9p1I/s1600/cockneys-vs-zombies-banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtcUNvh0b3CS4YceITBAzqrIKOe9AKQR4ThG6qDAC_k2KqUxGHXPdl7z6LgmcqBSVdhgbOENy133uLqYm40oHyMpuk_0UGL8L4XY_veVmI5c8Z82L42_0OM0xi2uKzQBHk6WIiZV9p1I/s1600/cockneys-vs-zombies-banner.jpg" height="392" width="640" /></a></div>
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Let's be realistic, here. With a name like this there were only ever two possibilities:</div>
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1. It was going to suck more balls than a pitching machine, or:</div>
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2. It was going to renew my faith in humanity, specifically its ability to make a halfway decent movie (as Hollywood is currently incapable of doing). </div>
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First of all (and this has almost no bearing on the plot of the film) I'm pretty sure Michelle Ryan is my soul mate. When she came on the screen I had to run and get a fire extinguisher to ensure my TV didn't melt. In HD she was almost too much, and I thought my eyes might start bleeding. I'm sorry, Billie Piper, but you are no longer the sole temptation for me to rescind my American citizenship and return to the Old Country. Michelle, if you're reading this, call me. No, scratch that: Marry me. I'm a good cook, I'm (mostly) monogamous and I even tied my own shoes last week (my mother was very proud).</div>
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As far as the movie goes (just look at her! She's like an angel, dressed in black leather, hanging off of a trolley car, shooting zombies...) its nearly non-stop profanity, extreme violence and gore, and almost unintelligible dialogue has moved this into one of my all-time favorite British films. But the most important thing I look for in any zombie movie is, does it do <i>anything</i> unique? </div>
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That's where Cockneys VS Zombies actually, amazingly and shockingly for the title and premise, succeeds. There's two or three really original ideas, many of them almost treated as throwaway scenes but they make the movie. Alan Ford plays himself in yet another role, and once again he's perfect for the part. Harry Treadaway and Rasmus Hardiker have good chemistry as the brother team trying to keep everyone alive and in the money, Ashley Thomas provides probably the best scene in the entire movie, Georgia King is the cutest thing in her flowered blouse you'll ever see tied to a pole, and if you don't think you could ever be turned on by an 89 year old woman, wait til you see Honor Blackman sporting an AK and mowing down the undead.</div>
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All in all, this is a movie I'll be watching again. And did I mention Michelle Ryan wearing leather (seriously, I'm on my knees right now singing Marry Me from Train...)?</div>
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Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-67880317133829865312014-01-24T19:22:00.001-08:002014-01-24T19:22:58.207-08:00Outpost Season Two<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Coming January 30th...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP92HISHVVhMaBBJfM5ZGz7szw1mscV94i5JAFEABilvPrpyNpPwh6FaLW8P3J_Pdfhx4qgpn0_Tn-nHzslUHBAPo4cMDZjyTKxbmBAt37EbVrUzTY_BqZjuM3l1wH7ap3Fqjgr5aeRo/s1600/Outpost+Two+Ep+1(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP92HISHVVhMaBBJfM5ZGz7szw1mscV94i5JAFEABilvPrpyNpPwh6FaLW8P3J_Pdfhx4qgpn0_Tn-nHzslUHBAPo4cMDZjyTKxbmBAt37EbVrUzTY_BqZjuM3l1wH7ap3Fqjgr5aeRo/s1600/Outpost+Two+Ep+1(2).jpg" height="320" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Byron
Sutherland didn’t want to fucking die.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He knew
this instinctively, without the necessity of it being taught.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Byron
wasn’t a bad guy, his only real problem was he didn’t like prison. Well, his <i>first</i> problem had been that he didn’t
like jail. So, when he found himself there for the first time, he left. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was
only logical; he told the judge when they found him. This was </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">, in </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> if you
ended up in a place you didn’t like, you found a way out. The judge said he
didn’t see it that way. He said what Byron <i>really</i>
needed was two years in prison, to give him some perspective on how </span><st1:country-region><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> was a
nation of laws; and that if you didn’t respect those laws, you couldn’t plan on
them respecting you back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Byron
thought about trying to adjust to prison, but it just wouldn’t take. So, he
left that, too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was
a mistake, he had sworn when they dragged him back in front of the judge. He had never heard of this Byron Sutherland
guy. His name was Tom Raskin and he was a real estate developer who did <i>not</i> like being treated like a criminal.
And, if they wouldn’t drop the charges, his lawyer was already drafting the
lawsuit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But
they didn’t buy it. They knew it was him. By some marvel of modern
investigation, they had no doubt at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Ten
years, Maximum Security.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">That
really put a fucking cramp on him for the four and a half months until he
crawled his way out of that hell hole. Made it six months on stolen
identification and scams that paid cash. Until some douche bag cop decided to
flash his blues just because Byron had been coked out of his mind for a week
and half and couldn’t remember what side of the road he was supposed to drive
on – “Is it <i>their</i> right or <i>my</i> right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It was
a misunderstanding, he explained when they finally spiked his tires. He was fully planning on sobering up once he
got where he was going. Even though he had no idea how to get there. But he
wasn’t worried: He figured he’d know </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Tijuana</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> when
he saw it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">But
they wouldn’t listen. The three county high speed chase had royally pissed them
off. And if that hadn’t done it, the
State Police car that had crashed into a pole and exploded into flames—killing both
troopers inside—had made them completely unreasonable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">They
didn’t even offer him a plea this time, which he thought was probably
unconstitutional. Instead, in under an hour he was found guilty, given life,
and stuck on a bus heading for D-Block, Brennick Maximum Security Prison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Byron
jumped back as another zombie threw itself at the bars to his cell. Gnashing
its teeth. Trying to get through the thick steel and at Byron and his cellmate.
Trying to get to food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Behind
him, his cellmate, Vince Stone, said, “Buddy, if you’ve got another break out
in you, now would be the time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-40659734122502990662014-01-06T18:53:00.003-08:002014-01-06T18:53:51.292-08:00Greetings!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
From Finnean Nilsen Projects! We're very proud to announce that shooting finished on Outpost Season Two today! So, we're doing what we do best: Getting fucking <i>hammered</i>.<br />
But, tomorrow we'll wake up slightly reduced versions of ourselves, and get to work on the final leg of a journey that is long, sordid and somewhat interesting. A little overview of how this process happened, where it goes from here, and then... I forgot what, but I'm sure it was brilliant...<br />
Outpost Season Two took three months to write originally. At a certain point, it became obvious to us that it was not the right way to go with either the series, or the season. We halted production completely. Spent no less than six months rewriting it in its entirety. And have finally finished the season the way it should be.<br />
But that doesn't mean the original is lost to the ages. When Season Two has been fully released, we will be releasing the Season Two Box Set - which will include the entire first draft!<br />
It will also include tons of special content - as usual.<br />
Now, to where it goes from here:<br />
Season Two has been passed to our incredible editing staff, where it is currently being polished into a gem like the world has never seen before (since our last book came back, anyway). Covers will need to be made for each of the eight individual episodes. And then another for the Box Set. The books have to be type set. They'll be copy edited. And finally, every Thursday beginning January 30th will see a new, original episode of Outpost Season Two...<br />
We'll keep you updated as each new cover is designed and each episode is released. Until then, we're drinking our asses off tonight, because we don't foresee a hell of a lot of sleeping in the future!<br />
- The Brothers Finn</div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-85888855400698813972013-12-14T15:23:00.001-08:002013-12-17T09:07:07.189-08:00Camp 417: Where the Dead Live<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Be honest: Is that not the greatest title/subtitle combo you've ever heard? I'm being modest here: it fucking rocks. "Where the what live? The dead... Live? That doesn't make any sense!"<br />
<i>Exactly!</i><br />
It's brilliant in every conceivable way and I take full credit for it. But, there's more to this awesome story then just the awesome story itself (which is, if you didn't catch it, awesome):<br />
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<b>Every end has a beginning: </b></div>
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Austria, 1945... </div>
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</div>
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<b>Every legend, its source: </b></div>
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Cut off, surrounded and alone, twenty men must turn the tide... </div>
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</div>
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<b>Evil is alive:</b> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the feeding has begun... </div>
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</div>
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<b>Camp 417:</b> </div>
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Where the Dead Live</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That noise you just heard was your mind exploding like the birth of a universe. But, as mentioned, there's a great story behind it: Namely, how it came to be released as a paperback, hardcover, and interactive ebook experience. And it goes a little something like this (you should imagine me doing a very feminine voice there and then the screen washes to a flashback):</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>FLASHBACK:</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Some time ago, as a young, dashing brotherly duo (I was young, my brother has always been old and decrepit. <i>Always</i>) we found a website that was very clearly set up to be the most revolutionary thing to hit the publishing world since the hieroglyph. It billed itself as a "sort of American Idol for writers" but it wasn't (isn't - this is modern me talking now, it wasn't and still isn't, it's much better than that). Instead, it's actually a community where writers can collaborate, read, rate and eventually publish their books (modern me again, at the time you couldn't eventually publish your books there, it's just now... I'll just tell the story). And it wasn't (isn't) a standard vote for or against set up like American Idol. Say you come across one of our books (and you're likely to), you don't vote no on ours and yes on another. You don't text the vote in and you certainly don't make your children give you their facebook log in information so you can use their account to vote for Ruben Studdard five more times (sorry Ma!). No. You rate it on a scale, anonymously, without knowing it is in fact our book you're reading.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Pretty cool, right?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That's what the incredibly sexy younger (but not by much) me and my (older and less attractive) brother thought. And we were (are) right (terminally) because it's a pretty sexy beast. There are also several layers to it: There's the voting, monthly challenges, projects where you can read and review and critique, groups where you can hang with friends, forums where you can discuss topics and get into drunken brawls, ect.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
All in all it's just a great place to be. And now we come back to....</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PRESENT:</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And get your book noticed, published and hopefully sell a bundle. And that leads me to another cool part of the story, illustrated here:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mbqR6SqQfLW1_czdpoPIhENMMVpEG1WaYyIPh6ynHwoxu67kpJOMP9Yi2VuFwtCtQZtUxxMJYmnRaIU_3Q8QXFwfQKyHxVJFd1KfhYPg_51GVgxVhVKl4Cq6_DPTwGMiCr5GXFa-jxk/s1600/cover+page.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0mbqR6SqQfLW1_czdpoPIhENMMVpEG1WaYyIPh6ynHwoxu67kpJOMP9Yi2VuFwtCtQZtUxxMJYmnRaIU_3Q8QXFwfQKyHxVJFd1KfhYPg_51GVgxVhVKl4Cq6_DPTwGMiCr5GXFa-jxk/s320/cover+page.png" width="202" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.webook.com/" target="_blank">WEbook </a>- the name of the aforementioned fantastic place - has published Camp 417, the Prequeal to Outpost Season One. Now, I don't want to make it seem like, because of my flashback, that it takes years and years for this all to happen. No. We've been putting books out for the better part of two and a half years. And we've been members of WEbook for that entire time. So, when they began actively seeking to change the game up by releasing members titles (the best of them) it was a natural partnership for us.</div>
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And we're a hell of a lot more active over there than we are here. So, check us out, join the revolution and find something great to read.</div>
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Furthermore, there are a lot of fun, interesting a groundbreaking features to Camp 417 - it's not just how it was published. Camp 417 (which is awesome) also features groundbreaking ebook button technology which the picture below:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSOtAHi78SyAMBTLEnLtirVWhHqc4uR0MhG2SXiV8LOAjdgjXIVvnfJJSSkzawWa_OXekNhKB9l_ptFZHZvrlrd10R8dfmDxd_yPqU6c7_Vfvoky0MnaXxVWj6u5BI2J0sYYK3gpu-b4/s1600/menu.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJSOtAHi78SyAMBTLEnLtirVWhHqc4uR0MhG2SXiV8LOAjdgjXIVvnfJJSSkzawWa_OXekNhKB9l_ptFZHZvrlrd10R8dfmDxd_yPqU6c7_Vfvoky0MnaXxVWj6u5BI2J0sYYK3gpu-b4/s320/menu.png" width="296" /></a></div>
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does not do justice to. These buttons are throughout the ebook, at select locations where you may choose a place you would like to visit. These include any of the seven amazing episodes that make up the explosive, blockbuster Camp 417. <i>Plus!</i> Deleted Scenes, Creator Commentary, the first episode of Outpost Season One (<i>free!</i>), a never before released Brothers Finn short story, Gottleib's Journal, and more!</div>
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It's its very own sexy, sexy beast. When I look at it it makes me wonder if I like ebooks as much as I do women. Maybe not <i>as</i> much... I mean, I <i>do</i> sleep with the ebook occasionally, but only because I fall asleep with it in my hands.</div>
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Okay, stop looking at it, you're starting to scare the children!</div>
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Sorry. </div>
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So check it out. It's well worth the necessary donation to the Brothers Finn Alcohol Abuse Fund, or as my accountant likes to call it: Our "Business Account" - whatever the hell that means...</div>
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Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-71072523736506726272013-12-14T14:19:00.001-08:002013-12-14T14:19:20.000-08:00Holy FinNilPro.com, Batman!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This goes to the whole, we've been doing things but not talking about them thing:<br />
<a href="http://www.finnilpro.com/" target="_blank">FinNilPro.com</a><br />
Not only is it a Finnean Nilsen Project - read: It Kicks Ass - but it also <i>kicks ass.</i> You can see the trailer for Outpost Season One, some tidbits and a teaser for Camp 417 (which did indeed get written and released - more on that in the next post) and more. And even though it went live like eight months ago, consider it a personal Christmas gift to you...</div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-78545231798921524492013-12-14T14:09:00.004-08:002013-12-14T14:09:48.110-08:00Welcome Back!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been...<br />
Shit, has it been years?<br />
Okay, so, have you ever told a friend you'd call them back and forgotten about it? But you don't want to call a week later and admit to being such a dick. So you just kind of put it off, and the longer you put it off the more of an asshole you look like when you don't call? And then seventy years later, on your death bed, the most important thing you wish you had done was just call the bastard back and apologized? But then you think, "Fuck him, he could have called too!" and die angry.<br />
Well, that's basically what happened with us and our blog. Except for we're not on our death beds and blogger.com couldn't really have called (although a Christmas card would have been nice) and really that analogy makes little to no sense, but...<br />
Where was I?<br />
Right. We're back. And we're not going anywhere this time. We'll be posting events as they unfold, and if they do <i>not </i>actually unfold, we'll simply make them up. So watch this space for updates.<br />
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P.S. Like, we'll call you right back...</div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-49096052861680357032012-12-10T12:14:00.003-08:002012-12-10T12:35:54.831-08:00Merry Christmas from Finnean Nilsen Projects<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Brothers Finn would like to let you know that everyone at Finnean Nilsen Porjects is working hard this Christmas Season, and hope to bring you the Outpost Pilot Episode free soon on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Apple Store. Until then, you can download it free <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/259055">here</a>. Also, we'll be starting the new year in a big way, with the Outpost Season One Prequel: Camp 417 (which is, to put it modestly, the greatest thing to happen to the zombie genre since our last book) going live the first Thursday in January.<br />
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We'll pop back and fill you in soon, but remember: when all the holiday shit has you down, when the kids are fighting and your in-laws' fat asses are crowding your couch, and you're finally considering the easy way out, sit back and reflect on this timeless truth:</div>
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There are some people in this world who don't have any alcohol at all...</div>
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Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-18173120611155277252012-10-30T10:58:00.001-07:002012-10-30T16:46:48.381-07:00What to Do When a Disaster Hits<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hurricane Sandy is yet another reminder of just how close to total zombie-collapse we are as a nation. A simple storm has knocked out much of what we as Americans rely on to survive. And so, we at Finnean Nilsen Projects have the seven things you need to remember when the world ends:<br />
7. Old habits don't die, they kill.<br />
No more smoking, drinking, and jacking off. There's no time for that now. Heroin addiction? Read: Sedated when torn apart. Alcoholic? We'll see how long that "disease" lasts when you have to be able to run in a straight line for an hour without falling over. Smoker? That just means you'll die out of breath. Weakness will not be tolerated. Victims do not receive a check in the mail. Victims die. Only the strong survive.<br />
6. Canned food saves lives.<br />
Forget everything you read about how the aluminum in canned foods is hazardous. The simple fact is: if canned food was so terrible it never would have been invented. Canned food lasts, and it lasts a long time. You have to think long term now. Sure, that organic turkey bacon probably keeps you thin and keeps the arteries from clogging, but you might want them at least a bit clogged now, in case some creeper happens to open one up on you. Less blood flow means less blood loss. And, when the dam breaks down and the refrigeration ends, what the hell do you think you'll be left with? Canned foods. Eat it and like it.<br />
5. It's never too late to say Yes.<br />
Even if its never said, it still counts. The world has ended, and the human race needs to survive. So, it's important that everyone does their part in seeing that it does. Things like attraction and love, shit like that, don't count anymore. It is of utmost importance that you knock up every female you find in your travels. Then you leave. See rule number 4.<br />
4. You have no friends. <br />
The people you used to know and love are gone, and if they are still alive they can't help you. If you find them, they will most likely become an albatross you'll need to rid yourself of. Remember, every living, breathing person requires food and water to survive. Those are the same things <i>you </i>will need to survive. I don't care how much you think you love your kids, you survived all your life before they were born, and you can live without them now. Besides, if they're meant to survive, they'll survive. That's why it's called Survival of the Fittest. And when this shit has blown over, if they didn't make it, you can just make a few more of them. Stronger ones this time. See rule number 5.<br />
3. Violence is always the answer.<br />
With the loss of any civil society, the important thing is to shoot first, shoot second, shoot some more, and then when everyone but you is dead, ask: "Is there anything these dead bodies have that I may need?" Then take whatever you can carry and leave the corpses for the birds. Literally. Unless your hungry, in which case you might take the time to build a fire and eat up. They won't mind, they're already fucking dead. But who isn't? You. The important thing is to keep it that way.<br />
2. Don't be a hero.<br />
You remember that guy that won the Medal of Freedom for saving ten people from a burning building? No. You don't. Why? Because he's fucking dead, that's why. No one is worth saving but yourself. See rules 3 and 4.<br />
1. Morals are for amateurs.<br />
You might be seeing a theme here: Survive. It doesn't matter if you have to do something that will follow you to the grave, so long as whatever it was keeps you <i>away</i> from the grave for another split second. No one is going to judge you, because no one will be alive who hasn't done some nasty shit to stay that way.<br />
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But, most importantly, stay the fuck away from us. For your own safety. Because every one of us will be employing these rules, which means if you get anywhere near us you will be robbed, raped, killed and eaten. But guess who won't be? <br />
This guy...</div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-815947056403157552012-10-27T14:36:00.000-07:002012-10-27T14:36:15.751-07:00Happy Halloween <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We often give our opinion on things (notice how I didn't say "People often <i>ask</i> our opinion on things") and with Halloween just around the corner, the instinct was to come on here and rail against the yearly holly roller reminding us that this is a pagan holiday and the work of <i>the devil!</i><br />
Luckily, I put the fucking kibosh on that shit right away. Halloween is all about fun, and there's nothing more fun than some never-before-released zombie killing action from the world of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Outpost-Pilot-Episode-Season-ebook/dp/B008MOHGDK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1351357544&sr=1-1&keywords=finnean+nilsen+projects">Outpost</a>. And so, for your enjoyment, here is the charming coming of age story of Lance:<br />
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Sorry.</div>
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It seems the story of Lance is not going to be posted here because once we started hashing out the idea for the short story, we realized it's too long (ten pages and just getting started). So... No spooky story for Halloween. This is the problem with being writers: sometimes a story starts short and lasts a long time. The good news is: Setting aside Outpost Season Two and Camp 417 and a tentative offshoot currently called the Island in our minds, we now have another installment that will be taking place in the Outpost World. So, there you have it. I don't know why I'm typing this, we have work to do...</div>
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... Oh yeah: Happy Halloween!</div>
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Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-64280169574746611622012-10-12T10:34:00.000-07:002012-10-12T10:34:04.351-07:00"It's the Havasu Zombie Pub Crawl"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRogroVUpA_e1vKcIW3_wbE2veWQOSksiPq45cgV5AkHXZ_kobNWU6Q0j1Rspjdk-bn0IBZvCcWpWCmmX883hEDdBzn0QBoNYsaXeKKWRTM3gLJIN3hEvPW3FpPSyY7JNxyIlz1WqRsdU/s1600/havasu+zombie+crawl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRogroVUpA_e1vKcIW3_wbE2veWQOSksiPq45cgV5AkHXZ_kobNWU6Q0j1Rspjdk-bn0IBZvCcWpWCmmX883hEDdBzn0QBoNYsaXeKKWRTM3gLJIN3hEvPW3FpPSyY7JNxyIlz1WqRsdU/s320/havasu+zombie+crawl.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
No, really, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/havasuzombiepubcrawl">it </a>is. And unfortunately, we're going to miss it this year. Scheduling conflicts, you understand. But that doesn't mean we're not celebrating. Starting today, the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Outpost-Pilot-Episode-Season-ebook/dp/B008MOHGDK/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1350060278&sr=1-1&keywords=finnean+nilsen+projects">Outpost Pilot Episode</a> will be free for four days. Totally free. Seriously, no charge at all. Nothing. Free (our second favorite four letter word starting with F). We're not kidding. Just click on the title. You'll see. Just one click. Do it. I dare you...<br />
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Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-8567188428439372892012-09-25T13:15:00.000-07:002012-09-25T13:15:34.495-07:00Why I Love Football So Much (But Possibly Not Enough)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There are few things that hurt a Patriots fan as much as actually losing. You become so immune to the concept that it can actually happen, that when it does it's devastating. It's really not fair of them to their fans to win all the time. But they do. So when (for the second time) that little rat shit Eli beats us in the Super Bowl, it's not uncommon to see Pats fans literally suicidal. But there's something even worse than that, I'm finding:<br />
Actually feeling like you'd be better off as a Cardinals fan. <br />
A quick digression:<br />
I remember the first time Satan (Eli) beat us in the Super Bowl (on a fucking fluke. Both times. In fact, I'm no longer going to say Eli beat us, because he is not, and will never be, Tom Brady). I sat in stunned silence, staring at the television, unable to understand what the "Super Bowl Champions" T-shirts were doing on the wrong team. Then, once it had begun to sink in, I became enraged. This had to be a mistake. There was no way. I searched for that one thing that ruined it: my son had been allowed to stay up and watch the whole game - for the first time. That wretched little bastard had jinxed us! Then, just before my hands closed around his neck, I remembered how fond I am of him, and stopped. Finally was the call to my dad, to ask if anything this traumatic had ever happened to him. He explained to me that it was just a game. I told him it wasn't just a game. It was <i>eighteen </i>games, and couldn't he understand that? Or was he just stupid? <br />
If I hadn't been heavily intoxicated, I think what I would have said was: "How could they do this to <i>me</i>?"<br />
Because that's what is so wonderful about sports, and so terrible about me: it's really all about me.<br />
Fast forward to a few years later, much of that time spent on the west coast. They rarely ever play Patriots games on the west coast. Sure, I could invest the Mustang in a football package so I could see every game, jack myself into the stream like it was using me as a battery, and let it flow. I could smoke Red Zone and sit on my couch, eyes bleeding from the constant snap back and forth between games, trying to give a quarter of a shit about any BUT the Pats game. I could do those things, but I just never have. Instead I tuned most of it out, because I didn't get to follow my team.<br />
And it's all about me. (I think I mentioned that, but I put it in there anyway because I never get tired of talking about me.)<br />
In fact, it's so bad that I went to the Chargers' game on Saturday, and I didn't even watch <i>that</i> game (thank God. It was a bad joke). I just kind of hung out with thirty thousand other people, drinking beer. I don't know who they played. I think I screamed in joy twice - both times the cheerleaders were on the field, not the players.<br />
But, check it: My step brother wrangled me into Fantasy Football this year. Because he needed the teams and I thought: "Hey, I can make football about me again!" (This would partially explain the Chargers' game. See, throughout the amazing spectacle around me, I spent most of my time refreshing the scoreboard on my phone, watching my fantasy team.)<br />
And so, I created my team (Whiskey Joe's Pigskin Pros) and got to work. But something was off, because these guys really love football. They know everything about the players, the teams, everything. And not just their teams, but <i>every</i> team. We were doing the draft and they're going "Why would you get him? He's injured" or "Shit man, never pick a wide receiver in the first round!"<br />
Stuff like that. So now I'm losing my shirt, and I'm all pissed off. And I'm talking to my cousin at the Chargers' game (refresh) and I look over at the scoreboard and they're listing all of the scores and I see the fucking Cardinals have <i>dominated </i>again. After beating the Patriots in week two. (If you must know: AZ 3 - 0 NE 1 - 2) And I'm like "Mother <i>fucker</i>!"<br />
God damn.<br />
Am I going to have to become a Cardinals fan? I mean, I live in Arizona. But I grew up in New England. Can I? Should I switch allegiance?<br />
I don't think I can. But I can do two things: One, I'm going to draft Kolb onto my fantasy team. Whiskey Joe's Pigskin Pros are getting that fantastic fucker if it's the last thing we do. And two: I'm going to get back in to football. I'm going to immerse myself in all of it. Everything. <br />
I'm going to <i>love</i> it again.<br />
Maybe, just a little less than I love me. </div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-73597032665601311862012-09-13T10:10:00.000-07:002012-09-13T10:23:17.041-07:00A Conversation With A Character<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
To celebrate the closing of Outpost Season One with the release of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Outpost-Episode-Vengeance-Season-ebook/dp/B0099RQLXU/ref=sr_1_11?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1347552621&sr=1-11&keywords=finnean+nilsen+projects">Part Two</a> of the Finale, I sat down with one of the breakout characters in the franchise, Phillip Craig:<br />
DW: Hey, Phil, how's it going?<br />
PC: Good, Damien, how's it?<br />
DW: Pretty good. I can't remember the last time the excitement around Finnean Nilsen Projects was this high. Everyone's really pumped to have the first season out there, working hard on putting the box set together, and preparing to dive in to the prequel, Camp 417. I wanted to ask you some questions and try to give the readers a bit more insight into you and the part you play in Season One and maybe what's in store for you in Season Two.<br />
PC: You can ask and I'll do my best to answer, but believe me, man, these white devils don't tell me shit.<br />
DW: You're white.<br />
PC: Yeah.<br />
DW: So... Why would you call them "white devils"?<br />
PC: I've always wanted to use that line. Besides, just because I'm white doesn't make them any less pasty pale or demonic.<br />
DW: Gotcha. Alright, let's get started. You're introduced in Episode Two. When were you first signed to be a part of this series?<br />
PC: They recruited me as cannon fodder about a week before the production of the Pilot started. They called me in and said, "We'd be interested in working with you on a zombie project we're producing." I held up my hand and said I was in. Man, I didn't give a shit what else they had to say, I had heard all I needed to hear: zombie. Done. I was sold.<br />
DW: But you say you were "cannon fodder," how did it happen that you're still around, now going into Season Two?<br />
PC: The beauty and the fun of working with these guys is that you never know what's going to happen next. They recruited me as a throwaway character, just the guy to be standing next to Chris when he was delivering a line. Somewhere, as we went through, they decided to keep me around. Honestly, man, every week I would go into it expecting to get my intestines shown to me. It just never happened. And there's still a few guys that <i>did</i> get the long goodbye and are still walking around here, so I'm not sure they ever let us out of our series-long contract.<br />
DW: You say there's still guys walking around that got killed? Are they zombies?<br />
PC: I probably already said too much. The last thing I want to do is piss these fuckers off.<br />
DW: Okay. How has your life changed since becoming such an integral part of a major series release?<br />
PC: I'm getting a lot more ass, for starters. But, still, for me it's all about the zombies. Zombie killing is my first love, man, and you never really lose your first love. If by some quirk of fate I end up settling down and my little lady pops out a little Romero or Mikami...<br />
DW: Romero? Mikami?<br />
PC: First born Romero. Second Mikami...<br />
DW: Again, Mikami?<br />
PC: He made Resident Evil. Third Tallahassee. Fourth... Probably Phil Jr.<br />
DW: You plan on having four boys?<br />
PC: Who the fuck said anything about them all being boys? Anyway, even if that happened, I'd just call us the Craig Kill Clan and we'd travel the world killing zombies. It's what I do. It's who I am. And you can't hide from who you are, Joey.<br />
DW: My name's Damien.<br />
PC: Noted.<br />
DW: Alright, that reminds me: Do you think video games, movies and television have desensitized you to the violence you've seen in Season One?<br />
PC: I think it <i>prepared</i> me for the violence. Honestly, man, do you think I'd be here today if I didn't have a copy of Max Brooks' book stuffed down my pants? I don't go anywhere without it, and it's saved my life more time than you can count. <br />
DW: But some critics have said that you go beyond surviving. Some have even called you sadistic.<br />
PC: Some critics have called for your book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Contagion-Turner-Technologies-Techno-Thriller-ebook/dp/B0074D5HBI/ref=sr_1_8?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1347552621&sr=1-8&keywords=finnean+nilsen+projects">the Contagion</a> to be burned, man, and pointed out that the kindle's search function maxed out at a hundred uses of the word "fuck" two thirds in.<br />
DW: On a different subject...<br />
PC: I'm not complaining, man, I'm just saying. I thought it was fucking awesome.<br />
DW: PETA has released a statement...<br />
PC: Man, fuck PETA. It was <i>one </i>cat. I swear to God. You save an entire prison, and kill one cat, they call for your head. I've got enough to worry about without you bringing up PETA. In fact, fuck this interview.<br />
DW: Just one last question, and then I'll let you go: can you give us anything, any hint at all as to what the prequel, Camp 417, will be?<br />
PC: Again, man, they don't tell me shit. But, I can tell you two things I picked up around the office: 1. It's gonna be fucking epic. Ryan said, and I quote: "We're going to mind fuck this entire genre." And 2. I've been seeing a lot of Nazis walking around...<br />
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Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-3547618984985340602012-09-08T10:31:00.002-07:002012-09-08T10:31:54.175-07:00Let Stupid People Die<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hi.<br />
How have you been? <br />
Sorry it's been so long since I checked in, but I've been busy. We've got this new episodic ebook series out called Outpost. The first season is almost in the bag, with the Season Finale this Thursday. But soon after we'll have the entire first season out in a box set with some damn cool special features. Thanks, we worked pretty hard on it. Trying to get a new Damien Wright book out, but the bastard's been dragging his feet. So, yeah, how about you?<br />
I'm sorry?<br />
No, I get it, it's been a long time. I wasn't looking for a fucking guilt trip. Jesus. I just checked in to say Hi and talk about something I'm passionate about:<br />
It's called Let Stupid People Die.<br />
Every summer here starts the same. The Parker Float. This is where tens of thousands of people get together, get in the water, get drunk and float for a few hours. And every year (basically) some asshole gets himself drowned. And every year (basically) it's the same story: John Q. Dumbass went on the float. Got trashed. Decided to swim <i>across</i> the river - the Colorado Fucking River - to see some of his friends over there. Yeah. Smart. Did he where a life jacket? Of course not. Only sailors where life jackets, baby. His flotation device of choice is a premixed bag of margaritas. <br />
I have nothing against premixed margaritas, please understand, but when I'm in the middle of the Colorado Fucking River and I'm <i>drowning</i> more fluid would seem to me to be a bit redundant.<br />
And then we get the news stories. Everyone ringing their hands: "Oh, poor, poor thing. You know he had kids? A wife and four kids. Poor, poor family, now without a father. Why do we do this every year when people keep dying?"<br />
My response is always the same: "Shit! He had <i>four</i> fucking kids? Couldn't he have done the world a solid and died <i>before</i> having kids? Now we're going to have to deal with their stupid asses and then their kids and so on. One day, I'm going to driving down the road, and I'm going to see some fucking retard driving the wrong way on the highway and say 'What a fucking idiot!' and it's going to be his little carpet munchers, all grown up."<br />
It's like a fucking plague of stupidity, and it's spreading like wild fire. And we encourage this. We legislate for it. We spend millions of dollars every year on warnings and ad campaigns: "Make sure little Joey wears his helmet. That's a choking hazard. Oh, that toy has lead paint!"<br />
There was a time when people believed in Natural Selection. If the parent was dumb enough to give the kid - who sticks everything in his mouth - a marble the size of a jaw breaker, when the little shit choked to death we all sighed a collective sigh of relief: "That fucker shouldn't have had kids anyway. We just got saved from seventy years of dealing with that little moron."<br />
Now the parents sue, and the company goes out of business. And then no other idiot's children die, and then twenty years later one of them makes a left from the right lane and takes out a family of brain surgeons. And then everyone says "Oh, what a terrible, tragic accident..."<br />
It wasn't an accident, it was an act of God. It was God or Allah or Mother fucking Nature or whoever reminding us that we really never needed that vapid waste of fucking space anyway. That's why I don't see why abortions cost money. If the person has enough money to pay for an abortion, they're doing something right. Rich people do something to get that way. In fact, the way it should be is: if you can afford an abortion, you can't have one. Only poor people get to kill their kids. Poor people do something to get that way, too. The world doesn't need less rich people. They should be passing out birth control to poor people like fucking skittles. I'm not arguing against upward mobility, I'm saying: once they make it out of the ghetto, take the birth control away. They're keepers. Every pregnancy test should be accompanied by an IQ Test.<br />
If you fail either, we have a problem. <br />
Clear out the stragglers. <br />
Trim the fat. <br />
And, for fuck's sake, if we mess up and let one be born: Please, Let Stupid People Die...<br />
<br /></div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-11337998307388428762011-12-18T09:55:00.000-08:002011-12-18T09:56:26.097-08:00A Single Light<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">A single light. In a string of fifteen thousand fucking lights, it only takes one to put the whole string out of commission. Of course, they don't make strings of fifteen thousand, but if they did it would only take one burning out and the entire God Damned thing would go black. But it wasn't fifteen thousand black that Christmas eve, it was just two-hundred and fifty. Two hundred and fifty lights just gone out at <st1:time hour="11" minute="55">eleven fifty-five</st1:time> on Christmas eve - the middle string - the ones that draped over the eves in front of the door.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Honey," Eileen said, "honey it's very important to the kids that all the lights are up."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I looked through the window at the small patch of darkness and watched snowflakes slowly dance their way to the ground. It wasn't like I cared. Why should I? We had plenty of lights on the house. We had plenty of presents inside the house. We had plenty of everything and Eileen could never see that it was because of me. I had bought it. I had worked for it. I had built it all. But she would never admit that.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Eileen, Sugar, it's one string, okay? I'll take them all down after the holidays, and next year when I take them out I just won't put up that string. Simple. I'm really not interested in going out in freezing weather to fix one damned burned out light bulb."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "They're LED."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "What?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "They're LED lights," she explained, "they're expensive. We're not throwing away a whole string just because you're lazy."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "So now I'm lazy?" I sighed. "Fine, I'm lazy. But I'm still not going out on that ladder and trying to fix one bulb in two hundred and fifty. I spent the last six hours building the doll house for Samantha. I'm not going out in that." I waved an open palm at the window. Eileen looked at me.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The ladder was cold and so was I. Let me rephrase that: The ladder was colder than I was, so it wouldn't give me back my hand after I placed it under the eve. I pulled on it - even though I knew better - and ripped a small patch off my hand as the skin gave way before the frost.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Stupid," I muttered.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "What was that?" Eileen asked. She had her hands wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa, steam billowing up from it, her body covered in fur.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I said this is stupid," I told her. "It's utterly, and completely, ridiculous." I stormed up the ladder. "If you think the kids are going to notice that one batch of lights is out, tomorrow, when they've got a damned mortgage payment's worth of gifts, you're nuttier than your mother's fruit cake."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I don't think there's any reason to bring my mother into this."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I think there's every reason to bring your mother into this."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Oh?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Oh, yeah." I yanked a bulb out and looked through it. Seemed fine so I put it back. "Because you're her. You've become her."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I looked over my shoulder and caught a flash of her eyes and saw her suck her cheeks in against her gums, which two years ago would have meant I had hit a cord and we wouldn't be sleeping together. That night it just meant we were back into our old groove of not sleeping together.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Just like her."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "And you're just like your father," she told me.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I thought you liked my old man."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I pretended to." She dug a furry toe into the powder covering the grass. "For you."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Well." I plucked another tiny piece of glass and peered through it. I didn't know what I was looking for, but I was hoping I'd know when I found it. "Luckily we don't have to pretend any more."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "This entire night has been pretend." She straightened her spine, her eyes flashing silver in the light. "We pretended we loved each other."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "And the Oscar Nomination goes to..."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You're not fucking funny."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I used to be."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I pretended you were..."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "A lot of pretending, Eileen."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Would you just fix the stupid light so I can go inside! It's cold as anything out here."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "So go in." <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Not with you on that ladder," she scolded me. Kicked more snow. "If you fell no one would know til morning."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "What do you care?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and she stared at me. I felt so small that she could have squashed me with her tiny rubber sole.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I just care, okay?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Okay, fine." I yanked a new bulb and studied it intently. Clear as anything. Put it back. "I'm just wondering. You've got a life insurance policy on me, right?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You're such a piece of shit, you know that?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You've told me before."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "And I meant it."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I believe you." I sighed away from her, into the darkness. I glanced back and saw her standing there, the cocoa cold now, no steam. Her hands were still wrapped around it for warmth, but none was provided by the mug . My hands were frozen stiff and the spot without flesh was sore and pulsing as I moved from light to light. But, still, she looked great. I couldn't put my finger on why, but she reminded me of the first Christmas we spent together.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> We were just out of college, and she and I had rented a house at a ski resort because she wanted to have a white Christmas. We had laid in bed for hours, watching the snow slowly flutter its way to the ground, playing in the breeze and kissing each individual flake as they made their way together towards earth. We had gone outside to eat the small crystalline drops, and then we had thrown snow balls at each other and I had chased her down, kissed her, and we had made Samantha, our oldest.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I checked another light - I was almost ten percent through the string - and looked at her again. Long ago I had decided this marriage was over. I hadn't decided it as much as it had been beaten into me. <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I was told: "face the facts, man, your marriage is over." "Look, this is as an outside observer, as your friend. You have to move on." "It's already a foregone conclusion, the only question is: who pulls the plug, and when." All good advice, I guess.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> But up on that ladder I felt the familiar pang in my stomach at the thought of losing her. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't really mine. It was a cycle we had drifted in to. The cycle where every single time I wanted to say I was sorry, she wanted to fight, and by the time she came around to talk, I didn't have anything left to say. <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> That old, recycled cycle.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I checked the next light and saw a tiny fleck of soot inside it. I shook it a minute, and looked again. One small burn mark, just above the base.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Found it." I flicked it at her and fished in my pocket for the spare. Found it. Plugged it in. Instantly the string came to life. "See, no big deal."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "That wasn't nice."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "What?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Throwing the light at me."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Oh, come on, it was a joke."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You're not funny," she said again.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I turned away from her and sighed again. My breath flowed out gray in the cold.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Jesus Christ, Eli, what do you want from me?" I turned back to her as I asked and I caught a flash of white before snow slapped hard against my cheek and I lost my balance. Crashed to the pavement and felt my bones rattle as my muscle softened the blow.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Holy shit!" Eileen burst. "Are you okay?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I stayed limp until I felt her body close to mine, then snapped forward and grabbed her arms. Saw the look of abject terror on her face as I tossed her into the snow bank to my right. Then I hopped up and started piling snow onto her head.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> She burst from the bank in a flurry of powder and flailing limbs, and I turned as fast as I could and jetted back into the house. She followed me with a snow ball in each hand.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You're not funny!" She lobbed one at my head but it was far right and it splattered against the wall.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Yes I am." I cut around the couch and watched her. "I'm the funniest man you ever met. Remember? You love me so much because I always know how to make you laugh."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "That was six years ago." She arched her arm for another rocket, but held it. "Now you're just a pain in my ass that I can't get rid of without losing my house and half my time with the kids."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> My stomach knotted and my eyes flushed with water. I let my eyes bore into hers.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "So that's how it is," I croaked.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Sorry, babe," she didn't look sorry, "but that's how it is."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I rocked back against the wall and stared at her. The snow was melting in her hand and small droplets of liquid were falling down to the carpet. I couldn't believe I had let it get this far. I couldn't believe she was really that done with me. <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I took my ring off. Crossed around the couch and set it lightly on the coffee table.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Then we'll file the paperwork on Monday," I told her. "I'm sick of making you miserable. I'm sick of being miserable. I'm sick of fighting with someone I used to love so fucking much."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I left her there, holding what was left of the projectile, and went upstairs. <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The shower water was hot and it turned my skin red as the blood my broken heart still pumped. The bare part of my hand burned as the water cleansed it. I couldn't be sure but I thought I tasted something salty as the water swept over my eyes and ran down to my mouth. <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Eileen wasn't my first love, but she had always been my love. I don't believe in love at first sight, but I believe in love, and I love Eileen. I always have, and I always would. The truth that hit me so hard as I let the scalding mix of hydrogen and oxygen flow over my body was that I was being totally consumed with fear.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I wasn't afraid of a divorce. I wasn't afraid of the legal fight. I knew Eli wouldn't take me apart too bad. And I wanted her to have the house, we could split the time with the kids, and I would take care of her, money was never a problem.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I was afraid of losing her.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> As I stood there, tears washing away under the flow of the shower-head, I realized that any life with her was better than a life without her. Even if it meant fighting every single night. Even if it meant I was miserable for the rest of eternity, I would always be happier with her than I would be alone.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Right?<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I got out of the shower and toweled off. Dragged my palm across the mirror to clear the dew and looked at the reflection. I wasn't impressed. The man looking back at me was broken. Not even a man.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I left the bathroom and stopped halfway past the threshold. <u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I'm not ready for this to be over," Eileen said. She stood in the middle of the room, mascara tracking down her face in odd angles, twisting my ring between her long, thin fingers. "Can we talk?"<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "No snow balls?" I asked, regretted it. She was trembling, and so was I.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "No snow balls."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Sure, let's talk."<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I mean really talk." I watched a drop of fluid fall from her eyes and drizzle down her cheek. It hung on her chin for a moment, before dropping to the carpet.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> I crossed the room and took my ring out her hand. Brought it over to the dresser - where my coat was laid over the top - and fished out a fresh bulb from the pocket. I held it up to her.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "It only takes one," I told her, "to light it all up again." I smiled at her, and winked.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You're still not funny." Her voice broke as she spoke.<u1:p></u1:p><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I know," I said, "I'll work on it. Promise."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-87317876612387290342011-12-10T10:02:00.000-08:002011-12-11T19:22:51.955-08:00The Death of Christmas - By Bill Pryst<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 9.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 9.0pt;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 9.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 9.0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Christmas Reed drew hard on his cigar and spit a bit of tobacco juice, letting it dribble down his chin and hang there, gelatinous, before wiping it off with his sleeve. The stubble made tearing noises as it was dragged over the rough canvas.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Got damned injuns," he swore, "if I could I'd kill e'ery one of em."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Well, you can't," Kid Krinard reminded him. Kid was about sixty, with a bulbous stomach and a back that had to be set every time he lifted something heavier than his rifle. But he was a sure shot with his <st1:city><st1:place>Winchester</st1:place></st1:city> and that was good enough for Christmas. "We ain't here ta worry bout no damned injuns, neither, we're here to do a job. Now let's do it."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Who made you king of this here operation?" Christmas asked. He was short as an elf and named accordingly, but he was the meanest, most sadistic killer the <st1:place><st1:placename>Arizona</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Territory</st1:placetype></st1:place> had ever seen. And he was so fast with his peacemakers his victims were full of lead before they heard the leather on his holster move. "I know what we came for, and I know what we're gonna do."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "All right, Christmas, didn't mean no harm."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Before them the town BitterBrew unfurled like a bad case of the Shivs. Indians and freed slaves and whores and gamblers and cut throats, all vying for their piece of the vice. It was the kinda place Christmas would love to get lost for a few days, but he knew he couldn't. Within the hour there'd be a man dead, and he was going to kill him, and even in BitterBrew there was laws against killing a man without due cause. Laws that said two hundred dollars wasn't good enough cause, neither.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> He looked up at the Kid, and winced. He was gonna enjoy putting a bullet in the old bastard's head. Enjoy it something fierce. Specially since he knew the man was waiting for his chance to end Christmas, and keep the whole bounty.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Let's get this over with." Christmas spit some more bile into the dusty, rock strewn street and started the long walk to the saloon. A tumble weed the size of an oxen rolled slowly across the path. Eye's watched the pair as they closed the gap, and then calmly pressed through the double-hinged doors and entered the saloon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The place was packed to the rafters with blacks, whites and reds, men, boys, women and more men. A feral dog scampered about, stealing men's half-turned mule meat as they hit on big busted women who slipped their hands through their pockets looking for loose change. <br />
Christmas sauntered up to the bar, climbed a few feet until he reached the top of the stool, and dropped a silver on the counter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Whiskey," he said.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Mister, that'll buy you a whole lotta whiskey."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Keep it, I'm lookin for someone."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Who's that?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Man called 'the Sandman.'"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "An who should I tell him's lookin'?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Christmas."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Silence enveloped the saloon like a weight. The talking stopped. The laughing stopped. A Mexican stopped drinking half through his shot. The dog took the opportunity to scram with a half a chicken in his jowls, ducking under the doors and leaving a rooster tail of dust as he made his escape. The only sounds were from Krinard's <st1:city><st1:place>Winchester</st1:place></st1:city> as he jacked in a shell, and movement from the second story, just above the men's heads.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Mister Christmas..."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Just Christmas."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Christmas, sir, I don't want no trouble."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You ain't got no trouble, Sandman does. If I was here for you, you'da known it when I put a bullet between your eyes. Now," he leaned forward, "where's the Sandman?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "He's upstairs," the barkeep caught on his words, "upstairs with one of the ladies, but..."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Good," Christmas cut him off, "then I have time for that whiskey."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Let's get this done now," Krinard said from behind him. "We ain't got all day."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Christmas spun around, now able to look him in the eye. "I may be goin to hell, Kid, but I'm not so low as to keep a man from enjoying his last taste of a woman before I plug him. Now sit down an have a drink with me. We'll get to killin jus' as soon as I say."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You're the man, Christmas," Krinard grumbled.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I know."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The bartender brought over two glasses, cleaned them with his towel, and poured the whiskey. He slid the silver back to his guest.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "On the house, Christmas, sir."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Keep it," Christmas said again, "for the damages."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The barkeep tucked the silver into his pocket and disappeared. Christmas tossed back the shot and lit his cigar. Behind him the patrons had either shuffled out, or gone back to drinking. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "How long do we give him?" Krinard fussed. "I wanna get outta here and get my money."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You'll get your money. Let's give him a minute. Some men take longer than a few seconds, you know?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Funny."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "I hear there's somebody lookin' for me," a voice came from behind them. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> Krinard snapped around, his rifle held ready. Christmas calmly leaned over and took the Kid's full glass of whiskey. Downed it. Then turned and looked at the speaker.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The Sandman was young, younger than Christmas imagined a man who'd killed twenty could possibly be. He might be thirteen. Maybe sixteen. Maybe five. But he was built alright, standing a good <st1:time hour="17" minute="11">five eleven</st1:time> with long, thin appendages that come from growing too fast, too soon. He was wearing his gun belt like he knew how to move.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Yeah," Christmas said slowly, "I'm lookin and I guess I found ya, Sandman."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Too bad for you," he said, "you'da lived a lot longer, you hadn't."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Wanna do this here?" Christmas asked. "Or outside?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Up to you," Sandman told him, "you wanna die in the shade?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The crack of gunfire came from Christmas's right and Krinard fell in a spray of blood, his rifle dropping to the floor with a thud. Christmas was off the stool in a flash, his peacemaker already in hand and firing. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> His first two shots went wide left but not by much, and the third caught the Sandman in the shoulder. But he had his piece out, too, and put a hole in Christmas' thigh as the little man backed out of the saloon, firing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> He tripped down the stairs and landed on his ass in the dirt. The peacemaker went back into the holster and the left one came out. He scuttled backward and scanned the windows of the saloon, but saw nothing. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> He was in trouble, and he knew it. Two against one were bad odds. He had counted on that when he brought Krinard. But it was obvious to him now that the Sandman had another gun with him, and Christmas was down his extra hand. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> A bullet struck dirt beside him and he rolled and saw the Sandman standing in the middle of the street to the west. Before he had a chance to fire, a bullet cut through his shoulder and he spun to find the Sandman standing in the middle of the street to the east.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "What?" Another bullet caught him in the opposite shoulder, and he spun again, and again the Sandman was to the west, but the man in the east hadn't moved. "How?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "They call us the Sandman," one explained, "because we put so many people to sleep. But they call us that, too, cuz the Sandman can be everywhere at once, and so can we."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The Sandman walked calmly up to five paces away from Christmas and smiled. He raised his pistol. "But it ain't easy being the Sandman." <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The gun bucked and spit fire and the Sandman to the east buckled under the weight of a bullet tearing into his shoulder. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Sometimes," he wheezed, "it takes sacrifices."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The western Sandman adjusted his aim, and pointed the long barrel at Christmas. "Merry Christmas, midget," he said. Fired. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> The blast knocked Christmas' head back as the bullet tore through his brains and burst from the back. He collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds and mixing with the dry soil.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You know," the Sandman said, "eventually word'll get out."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Bout Christmas?" the Sandman asked.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "No," he told his twin, "bout the fact that there's two of us."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> He lit a smoke, and smiled, again. "By then, we'll have killed so many they'll stop coming."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> His mirror image frowned. "They'll never stop coming. No matter how many we kill." <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Well then, we never have to worry bout gettin bored, do we?" The Sandman turned and started towards the saloon.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "How's the girl?" his brother asked. "She's awful purdy."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "You wanna have a go at her?"<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Hell yes," he patted him on the back, "if you don't mind it."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Nah, she won't know the difference."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"> "Oh yes she will. When you was in <st1:city><st1:place>San Antonio</st1:place></st1:city>, I went and got myself circumcised..."<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><br />
<br />
</div>Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-75472046020300096932011-12-09T19:56:00.000-08:002011-12-09T19:56:06.716-08:00Christmas...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Stay tuned for Christmas stories from Bill Pryst and Damien Wright. We just have to get our facebook page in order (i.e. to fucking work... piece of shit... only works when it wants to) and then we'll have a short a week for your enjoyment.<br />
Merry Pagan Holiday Turned Jesus Day<br />
The Brothers Finn</div>Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-89890615751505822712011-11-17T17:39:00.000-08:002011-11-17T17:39:33.247-08:00Sneak Peak: The Contagion By Damien Wright<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One</span></div><br />
“TAX EVASION? You’re holding a seventeen year old kid on tax evasion?” <br />
Chad Turner leaned against the hard wall of the FBI field office and watched his contact closely. Chad was long and lean, dark and smooth, and not in any mood to deal with the fucking NSA. The agent, his current contact in the Administration, was tall and thick and looked like he was constipated. Chad assumed he was: too much HGH would do that to you. <br />
“Is that even legal?”<br />
“Of course it is,” the agent answered. “We found a hundred and fifty thousand dollars… among other things, in a safety deposit box under his name. We can put him away for at least a year for that, plus a few more for possession with intent. And that’s if we can’t put together any other charges. It’s all in the folder.”<br />
“I didn’t realize the NSA was interested in people’s taxes.” Chad kicked himself off the wall and snatched up the folder, let it fall open in his hands and glanced inside. “That kind of changes my opinion on the urgency of paying them.” <br />
Chad flipped through the pages. He had seen them all before. At seventeen, Toby Smith, AKA ToBiN, was already a career criminal. He was a good criminal, by Turner’s estimation, but obviously not smart enough. He had gotten caught.<br />
“How’d you get into the box?”<br />
“Well, we contacted DHS with his name. They checked it out and then kicked it over to the IRS. They looked into the family’s financials, which were all fucked up, so they got a warrant to look into the Mustang….”<br />
Chad was already getting bored. The only thing worse than doing business with the NSA was having to actually meet with them face to face. No Show Assholes, every one of them. They’d sit behind their computers, or work out or whatever they did to look like tree trunks, and then swoop in and take the glory after Chad saved the day. He had a worse title for the FBI, though.<br />
“Which was Toby’s,” he cut the agent off.<br />
“Right, but bought for cash and in his dad’s name. But, naturally, when they checked the signature….”<br />
“The dad’s didn’t match?”<br />
“No, so they were able to get a warrant to check Toby’s financials and they found the box. They opened it in accordance with the warrant and found about twenty thousand worth of Oxycontins, ten thousand worth of cocaine, another twenty in bootlegged games and such, and a hundred-fifty grand in cash.”<br />
“Why not hit him for the drugs?”<br />
“We are not,” the agent said gravely, “giving this to the DEA.”<br />
“Okay,” Chad sighed, “but they didn’t give it to Cyber-Crimes either?”<br />
“He’s listed as a national security threat. DHS would have the lead if he wasn’t a hacker. So….”<br />
“He’s not a hacker,” Chad corrected, “he’s a code monkey. Get on with it.”<br />
“Well,” the life-sized GI Joe figurine shrugged, “we can push the tax trial for a year or so, ask for no bail because of the circumstances, keep him out of sunlight until we find what’s on his computer. He’s known as ‘ToBiN’ online. He’s well known for….”<br />
“I know what he does,” Chad cut in again. He knew everything there was to know about Toby Smith, that was his job. If he didn’t know, then there’d be a problem. The fact that the NSA was just now finding out illustrated everything he despised about them.<br />
“Yeah, I guess you would, wouldn’t you?” ‘Roid-head Bob’ looked at him condescendingly, and then continued. “Anyway, the little shit never actually uses any of his viruses, at least not when we’ve been able to track him, so we can’t charge him with any of the anti-hacking legislation. We could give him ten years if he’s been stealing and selling copyrighted games, which we believe he has, but we can’t prove it.”<br />
“What about the games in the box?”<br />
“Can’t prove he stole them, and he hasn’t sold them yet. As is, it’s copyright infringement, that’s it. If we can get two more names we can hit him with conspiracy and then he’ll serve some time, but just having them isn’t enough.” Again, Roid-head Bob looked Chad over. “I thought you would know that.”<br />
“So you figure you’ll take him off the streets with the tax charge and gather more evidence while he sits in jail,” Chad repeated from memory. One thing government agents are not, is original. “Makes sense. What do you need me for?”<br />
“We found a program on his computer, and we can’t figure out what it is. I was hoping you could talk to him and clear it up for us.”<br />
“Sorry, guy.” Chad pressed the folder back into the man’s chest. “That’s not what I do. I don’t work for the NSA, they work for me.”<br />
“I was told you were a consultant, the best.”<br />
“I am,” Chad nodded, “and you’re not. None of you are. I use you when I need you, not the other way around.”<br />
“This is a matter of national security,” he fumed, “we called the Secretary of Defense and she sent us to you.”<br />
“Did she?” Chad asked, not impressed. If they would just learn not to give his number out, he’d like politicians a lot more.<br />
“Yup. She said if anyone could figure out what it was, you could.”<br />
“Give me the program,” he grumbled, yanked the phone out of his ten thousand dollar coat pocket and fired it up. The douche handed him a small flash drive and he pressed it in. “One would think someone else knew something about their fucking jobs.”<br />
“Excuse me?”<br />
“You heard me.” <br />
Chad studied the programming code with mild amusement. It was a “Cherry Bomb” virus, designed to detonate at a specific time and date. Deferred release was the official term. But this one was very sexy, extremely well made. Made for a purpose. He wasn’t surprised they couldn’t figure out what it was. It was written in a code only a select group of underworld writers could ever fully understand, a dynamic code, constantly shifting and changing encryption. Toby hadn’t finished it, though, which was strange. It was a masterpiece. The fact that Toby didn’t finish writing it sent a warning pang through Chad’s stomach. It meant he was definitely planning on selling it.<br />
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” the guy in the suit that cost less than Chad’s boxer’s asked, puffed up his chest like an exotic fish.<br />
“I’ll talk to him,” Chad ignored the question and open the door to enter the interrogation room, but stopped. He turned slowly towards the agent, smiling, “You won’t be here when I come out, will you?”<br />
“No, but I’ll be watching.”<br />
“Good,” he said, “watch and learn.”<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
Chad crossed the room and was immediately slapped by the hot, humid air that poured from the vent above the accused. It’s in no way illegal to toggle the thermostat to keep a suspect unhappy. Chad saw it all the time. There were more elaborate means as well, but heating up the room and making the suspect sweat was just as effective as the next measure.<br />
“So ToBiN,” Chad watched Toby’s eyes light up when he heard the name, “why don’t you tell me about the cherry bomb.”<br />
The room was small and well lit, the only furniture a metal table and three uncomfortable chairs. The large two-way mirror on the far wall was the room’s most prominent feature. The rest was very monotonous and depressing, not unlike the rest of the field office. In the chair against the solid wall sat Toby Smith, a chubby young man with red hair and green eyes. His face was flushed and he had sweat on his brow, which beaded about the same size as his freckles and acne. He was still shackled, and he held his hands in front of him on the table, twiddling his thumbs and muttering to himself.<br />
Chad ran a well manicured hand through his short, expertly cut hair, and continued, “I would expect better work from you. It’s not finished, I presume.” <br />
Chad studied the kid, and knew by the glazed look in his eyes that Toby hadn’t been fed in a while. Another nice infraction that couldn’t be proved in court. Lower the blood sugar, lower the will to fight. Toby was eyeing him back, and squinting as if trying to think.<br />
“Oh wait, I know you,” Toby said finally, “you were ‘The Titan’ back in the day, right? ‘Turner the Titan’ they call you online, you’re my idol man.” <br />
Chad grimaced and looked down. He hated that name. Only a fourteen year old kid would put his last name in his online alias. Chad had been fourteen, but it still stung. He used to get off on people admiring him, but now it was just one more liability. He didn’t know how Toby recognized him, but shit happened.<br />
“You’re a fed now man? That’s fucking disappointing.” Toby shook his head and shifted in his chair, looking frustrated more than anything. “I guess they pay you well for screwing your comrades.”<br />
“Toby, listen to me,” Chad said calmly. “I had a chair and a choice very similar to the one you have now. They’ve got you on tax evasion for the money in your deposit box. They found the drugs, which they can use to charge you with intent to distribute narcotics, and they’ll get the conviction. <br />
“They’re investigating you for trafficking in bootleg programs and games. You’re looking at ten to twenty years on that one, alone. Add in this little baby,” he held up the flash drive and spun it in between his thumb and forefinger, “and they can tack another twenty on. If they decide to make the terms run consecutively, you’re looking at forty-one years bitch time. Is that what you want?”<br />
Toby tapped his foot steadily, glaring across the table. Young, dumb-ass, cowboy, Chad thought. He used to be one of those cowboys, but not anymore.<br />
“I’m seventeen,” Toby said, and straightened his back, “they can’t touch me.”<br />
“You’ll be tried as an adult,” Chad shrugged, “and they’ll send you away. Or they’ll just wait a year to file the charges, then you’ll be eighteen, and you’ll be screwed.”<br />
“They can’t do that, I know the law.”<br />
“You’re dealing with the federal government, man. They can do whatever the fuck they want. Ask the boys in Guantanamo.” He shrugged again. “Give them some time. They’ve already got their lawyers looking into it, and soon they’ll have you charged with so many different things you won’t be able to read all the indictments without your eyes getting fuzzy. They’ll have to hire a speed reader just to save time.<br />
“But,” Chad continued, and lightly ran his long fingers along the smooth table top, “if you cooperate, tell me what I need to know, they might go easy on you. Maybe they drop a charge, decide to make you ‘queen for a day’ and let you rat out all your little friends. Who knows? But you’ll have a chance. I’m being honest with you, Toby. If you don’t talk, you’re shit out of luck.”<br />
Chad let Toby think on that for a moment. He watched him make his decision. There was never any real possibility that Toby would stand up for something larger than himself. That was why he was on one side of the table, and Chad was on the other. <br />
Toby looked down at his lap. After a few moments of that, he looked around the room, studying the bright white, painted walls. Then he gazed at the mirrors for a moment, and finally looked back at Chad.<br />
“You can’t prove it’s mine,” he said finally.<br />
“They found it on your laptop. Don’t fuck with me. Even if I found it in a dumpster I’d now it was yours. There’s only two coders in the country that could write something like this: You and SpEkTeR.”<br />
“Man, fuck SpEkTeR!” Toby snapped. “Fucker couldn’t write something that nice if his life depended on it. He sits on his ass and collects credit cards. Fucking sell out.”<br />
“Why isn’t it finished?”<br />
“How do you know they didn’t just bust me before I was done with it?”<br />
“Because, Toby,” Chad said, and leaned in close, “I know everything. Fifteen years ago they arrested me and offered me a job. They did that because I’m the best in the world. You left it unfinished on purpose. Now, tell me what you know.”<br />
“I don’t really know anything,” he stammered. “Okay, so I am finished, at least I’m done with it. That’s the way they wanted it.”<br />
“I know that.” Chad leaned back, checked his diamond cufflinks. “Why unfinished?”<br />
“People do that all the time.” Toby shrugged. “They do it so you can’t sell it to a competitor, usually. Anyway, these guys gave me very specific details on how they wanted it. I made it to the letter the way they asked. I don’t know who they are, or what they’re gonna to do with it.”<br />
“How much are they paying you?”<br />
“A hundred thousand.”<br />
Chad raised an eyebrow and glared back across the table at him. “For an unfinished program?”<br />
“I don’t understand it either, but that’s what they offered. I have a lot of people ask for unfinished stuff,” he repeated. “I figured this guy sort of knew what he was doing. Maybe he just didn’t know how to do the whole thing himself. It’s a lot of money, I know. But what do I care? I’m a business man: I aim to please my customers.”<br />
“He had you write it in a very unique code. Guy like that knows what he’s doing.”<br />
“What the fuck do I care?” Toby asked again, venomous. “You give a shit about what your employers do? Company man? No, fucking A you don’t.”<br />
“How do you make contact with them?”<br />
“I don’t.” Toby spit on the floor. “They’re supposed to contact me next Wednesday, that’s when the deadline’s up. They’ll send me a friend’s request and I’ll save a picture file. Inside will be all the information on the meeting...” Toby’s eyes lit up and he held his hands together like a prayer.<br />
“But hey,” he pleaded, “they’ll probably find out I got pinched. There’s a whole network that watches for stuff like that. Once someone posts that I got arrested, it’ll be on every hacker blog in like five minutes so I can’t turn on them.”<br />
“I know that, ToBiN, but we’re going to try anyway.” <br />
Chad got up and walked to the door, he had nothing more to say.<br />
“Hey, what happens now?” Toby sputtered. Apparently he thought Chad would hold his hand through it all.<br />
“What the fuck do I care?” Chad mocked as he turned the knob. “My guess is you’ll have a very unpleasant next few decades. Say hello to Big Bob the white supremacist for me.”<br />
The door slammed behind him, but Chad didn’t care. It always did that in field offices. They ran so much re-circulated air through them he could practically feel himself getting sick as soon as he walked in. <br />
As his long, steady strides brought him past the lines of cubicles, he checked his phone and noticed a message from Beth, the love of his life. He opened it, hoping it would lift his spirits, but before his eyes could scan the text a screen opened with the words “Call from Osirus.” He answered.<br />
“Yeah Osirus,” he said into the receiver. Osirus was his digital gatekeeper. The program that allowed him access to all the government files that ‘consultants’ never saw. Because Turner Technologies llc. was so much more than an IT firm that ‘occasionally does business with the federal government.’<br />
“<i>Code in please</i>,” Osirus responded.<br />
“CT8507,” Chad breathed as he walked through the revolving doors and emerged onto the busy streets of Denver. “What do you have for me?”<br />
“<i>SpeKteR is preparing to make a sale</i>.”<br />
“Tell the surveillance units to wait for me. I’ll be in Boston in under three hours.”<br />
</div>Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-41631983373980985972011-09-29T20:31:00.000-07:002011-09-30T08:57:11.738-07:00"I don't want any..." - By Bill Pryst<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">"That's not fair," I say, pour beer from the keg spout into a pitcher. "You can't tell me I'm staying another night and then change your mind and say I have to go home tonight. If I go home I have a job and a kid and responsibilities. <i>I don't want any fucking responsibilities, Jim</i>."<br />
My phone rings. I pick it up and say "I'm on vacation" into it and hang up.<br />
"She also says we have to bring back the keg."<br />
"We're not bringing back the keg until it's empty. Here, get me something else to put the beer in."<br />
"We're going to put the beer in our bodies, Bill," Jim assures me. Then into the phone: "No mom, we'll bring it back. Don't worry."<br />
He's talking to his mom because she put the keg on her credit card because he was on Temporary DuTy and therefore unable to put it on his card. He got back the night before. The keg was waiting. She's threatening to take me home early because I'm stranded in Temecula with no way to get home short of hitchhiking and my son's been at grandma's now far longer than I promised.<br />
"Why were we drinking champagne all day when we knew we had to finish the keg?" I ask no one in particular.<br />
"Because I like champagne." Into the phone: "No, mom, we don't have any left."<br />
I look through the patio door and see four empty bottles the size of half-gallons on the kitchen table. The only reason we quit with the champagne is it was making us tired. I finish filling the pitcher and start drinking it as fast as I can - from the pitcher. Monika comes out and puts her cup in front of me, I fill it up and hug the pitcher to my chest. Monika disappears into the apartment.<br />
Beyond the balcony California is sprawled out lazily from two stories down. The green of plants never designed by nature for the environment clinging tightly to rocks they can't possibly be nourished by. The labyrinth of irrigation systems set up to feed the plant-life which never existed until we arrived, and would quickly depart should we ever decide to leave. The entire state in a constant state of being refurbished and becoming new and improved if only on the surface. A place where if they decided to put the picture of any celebrity with the phrase "Of Course We're Full of Shit" on the flag no one in good conscience could object.<br />
California, the beautiful whore she is.<br />
"Fuck dude I'm tired," I announce. "We need something to wake us up. I only slept two hours last night, and your recliner wasn't exactly the Hilton."<br />
Monika appears in the doorway holding a bottle of Sailor Jerry's in one hand, a set of shot glasses pinched elegantly between the fingers of the other. Her eyes hold the question I need no prompt answering.<br />
"Jim, your girl's got shots."<br />
"That's why I'm so madly in love," he explains as he joins us on the balcony. <br />
We hold our shot glasses together - each is unique in that he bought each of them in Hawaii when he was supposed to be hold up in Pearl Harbor but instead was in Maui in a beach bungalow with Monika. We salute each other and down the firewater. It goes down like shit and I have to suppress my gag reflex to keep it from coming back up.<br />
My blackberry rings again. "Bill doesn't live here," I say into it and hang up.<br />
"I can't get too plastered," Jim says. "I have to go pick up the Benz."<br />
"Man fuck the Benz. Oz and Christy and Eric and Nick and his bitch wife are all coming over."<br />
"We'll wait by the pool."<br />
They get dressed, and I stay in my jeans, T-shirt and flip-flops.<br />
"Aren't you going to put on board shorts?" he asks. "Go swimming?"<br />
"I don't have any. I was only staying one night, remember?" Really I don't have any. And I don't mind because honestly he's been working out the whole time he was gone and now he's all ripped and shit and I don't really like being around him. Not without my shirt on. <br />
We hit the pool and bring two pitchers - one of them from the blender. Go back and refill them. Oz shows up, meets his friend there, and spends an hour forgetting about his cousins and talking to his friend. I get two more pitchers. I'm walking through the complex with two pitchers of cold beer, condensation dripping from them, as I pass a mother unloading her two kids. She eyes me with contempt and scurries her progeny along, trying to shield them from the debauchery that they're sure to experience later in life.<br />
Eric and Christy arrive. The sun sets. We order two pizzas, which are not enough. Nick shows up with his bitch wife - all three hundred pounds of bad attitude of her. I invite her to join us. <br />
She sneers and says, "I know you all hate me."<br />
I don't say anything and Nick kisses her goodnight and she leaves. We head to the apartment, where people are now doing beer bongs and even more shots of Sailor Jerry. <br />
My blackberry rings. I pick it up and say "God hates gay people" into it and hang up. Set it on the table, and take a shot.<br />
We play beer pong. I'm on Jim's team. Which was a better choice for me than for him. He was a basketball player and he hasn't missed a free throw all night. I haven't made one, and he's not very impressed.<br />
"Next time I'm leaving you outside," he says, and sinks one. <br />
"Next time I'm fucking Monika and making you pound on the door," I tell him. He's still not impressed.<br />
Out of nowhere Bitch Wife arrives. Carrying her child. Suddenly Nick has forgotten we exist. He's talking to his line-backer life partner and ignoring his family. I sit down next to them and strike up a conversation. Bitch Wife leaves.<br />
"What?" I ask.<br />
"Dude," Nick sighs.<br />
"You just can't say things like that," Michelle explains. Michelle is Jim's sister.<br />
"Like what?"<br />
No one answers because they all assume I knew exactly what I said. They are all terribly wrong. <br />
Bitch Wife is back suddenly and ordering Nick to come with her and take care of their new-born. I remember exactly the problem and explain that Nick has a dick and that means he is not, and never will be, the bitch in the relationship.<br />
Nick leaves with his master.<br />
"What a fucking waste." I collapse on the couch. A beer is placed in my hand, a Shock Top. "What happened to the keg?"<br />
"We threw the keg over the balcony an hour ago," Jim explains.<br />
"How long do you plan on living here?"<br />
"Until the lease is up," Jim nods, "four more months."<br />
"Good luck."<br />
I'm outside and Keith is bumming yet another smoke. I can't remember who he is or why he's in Jim's apartment - that's right: he's Monika's high-school friend that Jim was convinced she was fucking while he was gone. Except Keith is very possibly swinging for the other team and very seriously working at Red Lobster as a bus-boy and was totally unprepared when his best-friend told him to come meet her fiance and his cousin - the thirty year old war hero with more petty cash than Chrysler and his cousin, the psychotic author. <br />
So I give him another "Gold" and light it for him. Because I assume he thinks that's classy. I'm wearing my top-hat again, which apparently no one thinks is classy.<br />
"Bill," Jim calls, "your ride is here."<br />
I look over my shoulder and there's my two aunts, come to collect, and I'm honestly not upset. I'm just thankful I can still walk on my own. <br />
I was fully planning on falling asleep on the balcony and having my cigarette burn my fingers until they blistered. The two parent figures kinda saved me from that. They drag me out, leaving most of my possessions in Jim's apartment, usher me to the waiting car, and throw me in. Right next to my grandpa, who is waiting in the car.<br />
"Grandpa," I slur, "grandpa grandpa grandpa. How's it going? This is all your fault, you know that? You did all of this."<br />
"I don't remember doing this," he says.<br />
"Well," I think a moment, "neither do I. But this all your fault. You made all us little pain in the asses." I always say this to my grandpa. Because he had seven kids. And of them they had twenty or thirty kids. And of those they had forty or fifty or sixty more. And now, because grandpa didn't want to tie it up, there's hundreds of us little bastards running around. <br />
He should repent, but he seems to be proud of it.<br />
I'm rambling about something I don't even know most of the ride. The only coherent thing I say is "I need more beer. Can't sleep without it. Gotta stop and let me buy some more booze."<br />
"No," one says.<br />
"If he'll pass out, give it to him," the other says.<br />
They buy me a forty ounce Bud Ice can. Heaven never tasted so good. Not that I would know. But I always imagine heaven as swimming against the current in a river made of high content alcoholic beverages for all eternity. It makes me feel better about my health conscience life-style. <br />
They deposit me on the couch, and all sigh. I can't fall asleep fast enough. Only I'm not done. Why should I be? When there are so many people I need to talk to right now. So much to say. So much genius just ready to spill over and they'll never know what they missed if I don't call them right now and explain how incredibly awesome I am, and they are.<br />
"Jim," I say, "Jim... Jim... Jim... Jim... Jim."<br />
"That's my name, and if you don't stop I'll sue you for trademark infringement."<br />
"Jim... Buddy... Man... Like... Fuck you dude."<br />
"Okay, I'm going to fuck my smoking hot fiance right now. Go to sleep, Bill."<br />
"Everyone else has!" I don't know why I say it, I just think it'll hurt him. Why did I call him again?<br />
"I'll choke you! I'll kill you! They train us to kill, Bill! They train us to kill!"<br />
And my phone dies. Never has it picked such an opportune time.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<br />
I wake up on the couch. A dog is looking at me and suddenly, all in one terrible realization, I remember that my aunt has dogs and a cat - all of which I'm terribly allergic to.<br />
I'll spend the next twenty hours sneezing and coughing and wanting to throw up.<br />
We get on the road and the aunt's decide to hit the casino:<br />
"We'll make a few dollars and be on our way," they say. Halfway in - two hours in - and two hundred down they hand me a water bottle full of wine and say, "Here, it'll make you feel better."<br />
"No thanks," I say, sneeze. "Just run out the credit cards so I can go home."<br />
My blackberry rings, it says CALL FROM JIM. I pick it up and say "I don't want any" and hang up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-53230895212998300742011-09-16T20:01:00.000-07:002011-09-16T20:21:09.190-07:00Introducing: Bill Pryst<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I remember the moment I decided I wanted to be a writer. I was in New Jersey, on my knees, in a basement, with a construction worker, trying to earn some extra money...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
No. No. I was tiling the floor. <br />
It was a restaurant and I was working on a Sunday, finishing up the job so that it would be ready for the grand opening. They had this thing where they wanted to be able to hose down the floor. Just stand there with a hose and clean the whole fucking room. So we had to pour like a ton of concrete along the walls and slope the whole floor towards the drain, and then tile it, and it was a bitch let me tell you. Somewhere along the line, we fell behind schedule (I think it was the moment the owner of the restaurant came through with a hammer, hit a bunch of tiles and announced that any that broke where not set properly. My boss offered to do the same to the owner's head and see if that was set properly, which didn't work out as well as we'd hoped in that we lost the other half of the job - they let us finish the basement). <br />
So there I am, on my knees with this old, crusty bastard - nice guy, don't get me wrong - and he starts talking about his former life. The one before his wife turned to heroin and he had to take care of his son, his (now) ex-wife's legal issues and the rigors of owning a small construction business (we were subcontracting under this guy BTW). He started explaining how he was an actor, and how he used to be a quasi-star in Soap Operas. <br />
I tell him to fuck off.<br />
He says, "No, I'm serious, I was on One Life to Live."<br />
I pull out my phone, and call my boss. They've known each other for years, I figure he can put an end to this.<br />
"What's up Bill?"<br />
"Hey, I got a question to ask you."<br />
"Sure."<br />
"Was Sammy in Soap Operas?"<br />
"Sammy? Yeah, he was, but why do you care?"<br />
"I'm standing here with him, and he said he was a bit of a star."<br />
"You're with Sammy?"<br />
"Yeah."<br />
"Why are you with Sammy?"<br />
"We're finishing up the restaurant job. Gotta be done by the grand opening."<br />
"I didn't tell you to finish that. Fuck, Bill, he still owes me three grand! I'm not finishing it until I get paid. You just fucked me, Bill, took away my only bargaining chip! Get your stupid ass out of there right now!"<br />
And I hung up, and started listening again.<br />
"Not only did I act in them," Sammy explained, "but the producer loved me. She let me sit in in casting sessions. One time, she mounted me on the table, and told me I could have her right there if I wanted."<br />
"And?"<br />
"And nothing. I was married at the time, my wife was sober, I couldn't do it."<br />
"Putz."<br />
"Oh sure, I regretted it later, but at the time I just couldn't. I ended up quitting acting and concentrating on my business and raising my son. Especially when my wife had her problems, the divorce, I just couldn't handle the pressure anymore, and the money was shit. She turned out to be this big time editor in New York. Never was sure what the connection between producing a soap and editing books was. But I still talk to her now and then. She keeps asking me to write a memoir."<br />
"That only matters," I told him, "if you can write."<br />
A gleam came into his old, half-lidded eyes (by this time, Sammy was a full-time drunk. Like a six-pack before breakfast drunk. Which is part of what contributed to his owing my boss 3 g's and their eventual falling out, and more than just a part of this story) and he said, "I can write. There's a lot of things I can't do, but I can write."<br />
"So you're telling me that you have an editor in New York...."<br />
"Yes."<br />
"Who wants to publish your book...."<br />
"Yes."<br />
"And you haven't gotten off your ass and written it yet?"<br />
He thought for a moment. "Yes."<br />
And suddenly I was flashed back to a car in a small town in Maine. (Yes, the state. If you don't know where it is, don't worry, no one else does) I was in the back of the car and my two friends were in the front. We were passing the bowl around (if you don't know what that means, we were smoking pot) and discussing what we would do with our lives (no one mentioned curing cancer, strangely) and how we would get the hell out of Maine. I took the pipe, tamped it down, and took a hard rip.<br />
"I'm going to be a writer," I said.<br />
Snap back to a basement in Jersey.<br />
"If I wrote a book, and gave it to you," I asked, "could you give it to her?"<br />
He thought again. "I can promise I'll get it to her desk. I can't promise she'll like it."<br />
And my literary career was born. That very night, I sat down at my coffee table - in my basement apartment - with a pen and a three ring binder full of notebook paper, and began my first novel. It took me nine months. It was short. It was convoluted. And it sucked like a Hoover.<br />
But none of that mattered.<br />
Because Sammy was long gone. Having burned every bridge he had crossed in his long fifty-five years. He left everyone he knew with debt. Changed his number, and skirted town.<br />
He only owed me five hundred bucks. But he owed far more than that to my dreams. No editor, no chance at stardom. Just a three ring binder full of hand-scratched dialogue and plot points. I felt alone, outnumbered, and dying inside.<br />
But life often plays in the long, forth quarter football none of us can see. Each second of each quarter seems the most important moment in the world. But you never know when the other team will drop the ball. And that's exactly what happened, thousands of miles and years down the line. <br />
What happened?<br />
I met someone. <br />
His name is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fist-Full-Brunettes-Multiple-Thriller/dp/0615501311/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316227608&sr=1-1">Rick Glacier</a> and I saw him in a dream. Big and Cold and in control. He walked into a room and the ladies followed. Maybe it was the vodka. Maybe it was the Rockstar Juiced. Maybe it was fate. But he walked into my life and onto my word processor and my life hasn't been the same since. And last month I was able to get his first story published. <br />
Snap to today.<br />
I'm walking through a Starbucks and wondering if I still have the half-pint stuffed under my seat so I can make a good old fashioned Hottie Tottie and I pass a table piled with books. The girl at it has her nose half-buried. I stop, look at the titles: "Fiction in the Twentieth Century." "How to Write Fiction." "The Greats: Stories from the Masters."<br />
"Well," I say, she perks up, "I see someone wants to be a writer."<br />
"No," she snaps, "I am a writer."<br />
"Oh, I see." I lean against the table. "What do you write?"<br />
"Fantasy, mostly."<br />
"Got anything published?"<br />
"Not yet, but I'm working on it."<br />
"Good for you," I tell her, wink. "Never give up."<br />
I turn and walk away.<br />
"Who are you?" she asks my back.<br />
"Oh," I say to myself, "I'm just a guy who wants to be a writer."<br />
<br />
</div>Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-24954331868917526012011-09-15T22:02:00.000-07:002011-09-16T08:55:44.371-07:00First of all....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://abclocal.go.com/wpvi/story?section=news/local&id=8355127">This</a> annoys the shit out of me. It's a story about Jersey Shore being awarded a shit load of tax payer money to shoot their stupid, mind numbing show. Now, listen, I have absolutely no problem with people being drunk and stupid, if I did the guy in the mirror and I would be constantly at war. What I have a problem with is people who have no business being famous from the get-go.<br />
"<a href="http://www.google.com/#hl=en&sugexp=bvec&cp=7&gs_id=x&xhr=t&q=the+situation&qe=dGhlIHNpdA&qesig=mHr9rRY1I9KLCrcfmrHzQQ&pkc=AFgZ2tlZgpYTSSkVVJeCfFY5LQtkfojTo9o4fkFAHm4u-LgEAnOisRHIA9C16nO2o1a2Aia6nhUyyqdTBqS3hCUTmyVsMX7gZg&pf=p&scli">The Situation</a>" is a seriously over-blown situation in-and-of-himself. First off, what the fuck is wrong with his chest? Apparently, there's something constantly on fire right there, because he can't ever have a shirt covering it. Every single shot has him holding the clothing away from him. I'm not exactly sure who told him to take his shirt off, I just know that the invisible person seems to be everywhere he is, since I can't find a single shot of him without him grinning like he has down syndrome with his shirt hiked up like anyone gives half a fuck who the hell he is, or what he has under his wife beater (and in his case, yes, it is a wife beater. I lived in Jersey long enough, and knew enough Italians to say - Mike Mr Situation will smack the shit out of his women, because he doesn't have the manly organs to keep them without violence).<br />
But that's beside the point. <br />
Who the hell is <a href="http://www.google.com/#hl=en&sa=X&ei=U9NyTp6VHIGLsgLzgb3UCQ&ved=0CCMQvwUoAQ&q=snooki&spell=1&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.&fp=ea9a26852ee014a8&biw=1024&bih">Snooki</a>? And why do I know who she is?<br />
Furthermore, who the fuck is <a href="http://www.google.com/#hl=en&sugexp=tsh&cp=4&gs_id=f&xhr=t&q=Kim+kardashian+twitter&qe=S2ltIA&qesig=o8eDYvB-2ceqoNeTAsUiaw&pkc=AFgZ2tnoW6mXWAI0yegwz5aITw-">Kim Kardashian</a>, and why in the name of the sweet little innocent baby Jesus should I give one shit in twenty million who, how, or what she's fucking?<br />
These are not real people, they're caricatures of people. They're manikins. They exist solely for our sick, twisted fascination with them. They are not real, like the Barbie Doll is not real. They fornicate like people, they marry like people, they even walk and talk like human beings, but they are not people. They are brands, and they cultivate this.<br />
I say this, partly because of a new recognition of what it should mean to be "famous." But partly because I'm sick of seeing no talent fucks all over the tabloids.<br />
Remember when Music TeleVision played music? Remember when Disney was for kids? Remember when sex was an adult pastime, and not a Nickelodeon selling point? Remember when having eight ten-year-old's sing for sixty hours a week was slave labor? <br />
I do. <br />
But today it's just good television. <br />
It's just good marketing.<br />
It's just good business.<br />
It's the whole shitty business. I've turned on my TV for three weeks in the last six months. Seriously, I just turned it back on, and in three weeks I have had six years worth of Christmas requests. Every single commercial is a must have. My boy has no idea anymore what to do with himself with the TV turned off. <br />
"Well, until I can watch TV, what do I do?"<br />
"What did you do before we had TV?"<br />
"Play."<br />
"There ya go."<br />
"But, am I allowed to watch TV yet?"<br />
"No."<br />
"I'm calling the police."<br />
"Thankfully, they haven't legislated television rights yet, so I'm totally within my legal rights to not let you watch TV."<br />
I wonder what the Situation would have to say on the subject. <br />
First, he'd probably take off his shirt (if he was wearing one in the first place). Then he'd drink all my liquor. Then he'd explain that New Jersey has the greatest beaches in the world. And then I'd kick his faggot ass out, and go to the bar, and hang with real people, in <a href="http://www.google.com/#sclient=psy-ab&hl=en&source=hp&q=lake+havasu+spring+break+2011+pics&pbx=1&oq=Lake+Havasu+Spring+break&aq=1&aqi=g4&aql=1&gs_sm=c&gs_upl=0l0l4l26l0l0l0l0l0l0l0l0ll0l0&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.r_cp.&fp=4843294771223d1e&biw=1280&bih=923">Havasu</a>, a place that can and will piss all over the Jersey Shore every chance it gets.<br />
Because we're real. We work. We have kids. We (in our case) are fighting to get recognized. And we're not real sympathetic to a bunch of over-privileged cunts who don't deserve a free drink, let alone twenty-four hour news coverage....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-68251750684216215562011-09-08T11:30:00.000-07:002011-09-08T11:34:11.683-07:00He Was Alive...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I just stumbled onto this <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/2011/09/07/2011-09-07_arkansas_weatherman_brett_cummins_found_in_hot_tub_with_naked_dead_man_wearing_d.html">article</a> about a weatherman who woke up next to a dead man. According to the article, the weatherman showed up at a friend's house with another friend, proceeded to ingest large amounts of alcohol and illegal narcotics (the witness says he doesn't know exactly what they were taking, but they were snorting it, which isn't a good sign) and then got in the hot tub. Everyone had a grand old time, and passed out, the weatherman and his friend in the hot tub (in the bathroom) and the homeowner on the couch. When the homeowner awoke Tuesday morning, he found the two men still asleep in the hot tub. Correction: the weatherman was asleep, but when they tried to wake up the friend they noticed his face was blue (also not a good sign) and he was wearing a dog collar. The weatherman, now totally fucking freaked, decided to leave the bathroom and vomit in the living room (not very considerate). He then left (for no apparent reason) and came back later to give his statement to police.<br />
Now, let's all be honest here: Haven't we all had a night like this at least once? You know, you pick up a friend, go over to someone's house, snort a few rails, hit the hot tub, have a few drinks, pass out, and wake up next to a dead body.<br />
This shit happens.<br />
It doesn't happen to you?<br />
Not even in college?<br />
Oh, shit, you're not very adventurous are you?<br />
Anyway, I feel for the guy. Not the dead one, but the weatherman. I don't feel for the dead guy because he passed out in a hot tub with a dog collar on. Did he really expect that to end well? I'm not a psychiatrist, but if you've read our previous posts you'll see I'm not a big apologist for people who are asking for it. And if you pass out next to a fucking weatherman with a dog collar on you don't have a great deal of self-esteem, in fact, if you're fucking a weatherman at all you don't, so this guy probably isn't all that sad about getting himself axed. But the weatherman, I mean, shit, poor fucking guy. He's been outed to the whole world in like the worst possible way. Imagine going to work the next day:<br />
"Hey Bill."<br />
"John."<br />
"How was your Monday night?"<br />
"Um...."<br />
"Guy's, check out this article about a guy that died this morning. They found him in a hot tub with a dog collar on!"<br />
"About that..."<br />
"And he was fucking a weatherman!"<br />
"Who fucks a weatherman?"<br />
Then they both get to the same part at the same time. The part where they identify the weatherman. And their eyes slowly settle on this doomed weatherman, standing in front of them. And he looks at the floor and just says "I guess I'll just go clean out my desk."<br />
I mean, that's not something you bounce back from. I read an <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2034697/Lonely-Monica-Lewinsky-trying-play-Bill-Clinton-affair.html">article</a> last night about how Monica Lewinsky still isn't able to go to a decent restaurant without being made fun of. And all she did was give the President head, which, honestly, isn't that big of a deal. She was young, he was the leader of the free world, it sounds like the set-up to a bad joke...<br />
Oh yeah, sorry Monica.
<br />
So this guy is forever the gay weatherman that killed his lover with a dog collar. You might as well tattoo that shit on his forehead. He won't be working for CNN any time soon. I doubt Fox is interested. Hell, even MSNBC has standards. No, this guy is just as dead as the dude with the dog collar. The only difference is the dead guy's name hasn't been released.<br />
So here's my forecast for this weatherman: 100% chance of it raining shit on you for the next twenty years...
</div>
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-5724277613613330662011-08-29T19:15:00.000-07:002011-08-29T21:08:52.767-07:00Sex Sells, and a Rant About Ugly PeopleLet's start with the ugly people, because this is something I know a thing or two about. Why are you all chuckling? No, I'm not fucking ugly, thank you very much. I happen to be pretty attractive, if you're into short, unsuccessful single dad's with an illegitimate child and more bills than income....<br />
Right.<br />
So, ugly people. What brought this to my attention (the apparent plague of ugliness, and no I'm not talking about Lady Gaga) was this article by the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/28/opinion/sunday/ugly-you-may-have-a-case.html?_r=1">New York Times</a> that makes the case that we should protect the ugly from discrimination under the Americans With Disabilities Act. It's not their fault, they were "Born This Way" (okay, this time I am talking about Lady Gaga).<br />
This is by far the most idiotic thing to come down the pike since obese people were told they were technically disabled, and therefor should not have to walk the extra twenty feet for their Whopper. I mean, really? "Being attractive also helps you earn more money, find a higher-earning spouse (and one who looks better, too!) [sic] and get better deals on mortgages. Each of these facts has been demonstrated over the past 20 years by many economists and other researchers."<br />
Well, there you have it! Fuck paying that lousy six percent on your mortgage! Beautiful people don't have to pay interest, why should you! See, only pretty women ever get jobs. And men, well men: "Beauty is as much an issue for men as for women." Is it really? Okay, maybe it is. Let's do some, really really quick, research. I'm going to list off, in order, the <a href="http://www.upi.com/News_Photos/Entertainment/The-richest-celebrities-of-2011/5572/">top richest cilebrities of 2011</a>. Read along if you'd like. Ready? Go!<br />
1. Oprah (fat and ugly - in my opinon)<br />
2. U-2 (obviously gay)<br />
3. Tyler Perry (really?)<br />
4. Bon Jovi (annoying, and gay and ugly and anything else I can throw at this Jersey Shore fucking wanna-be)<br />
5. Jerry Bruckheimer (good movies, hideous looking devil)<br />
6. Steven Spielberg (awesome movies, well, used to be. Not bad looking, I guess, but not what I would call "beautiful" either)<br />
7. Elton John (can't hate the guy, sorry)<br />
8. Lady Gaga (no. Fucking NO!! She is NOT attractive! I would fuck nearly anything, and I'd prefer a nice cold corpse to this psychotic whore)<br />
9. Simon Cowell (fine, *shrug* maybe)<br />
(now we come to the good ones)<br />
10. James Patterson (guess how much... just guess. $84 million, this year! I'm sure they figured that in to their statistics)<br />
11. Phil McGraw (really?)<br />
12. Leonardo Dicaprio (okay, gay moment, the guy is fucking cool as shit and can act his ass off)<br />
13. Howard Stern (need I say more?)<br />
and I'm gonna end it there, cuz'n I made my point. Ugly people! Get off your fucking ass's, work, buy some nicer clothes, and get used to the oldest maxim in the book: Money is sexy. <br />
Are we done?<br />
Yes, on that note. Now, the Sex Sells part, which is the other side of the proverbial coin. Money is sexy, but sexy is money. And for some reason, Americans can't admit that to themselves or each other. <br />
Finnean Nilsen Projects first book - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fist-Full-Brunettes-Multiple-Thriller/dp/0615501311/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1314677295&sr=1-1">Fist Full of Brunettes</a>, written by a drunkard and sex fiend by the name of Bill Pryst, is unarguably literary porn. I'm not blushing, I don't care. What's wrong with that? Why does everyone seem so disgusted? <br />
Are we reaching out to Penthouse to shoot it as a film? Yes. <br />
Are a hundred and twenty pages out of a hundred and eighty sex scenes? Give or take. <br />
And? <br />
So what?<br />
What the hell is so wrong with sex? My sister picks up the book, reads a page and calls me: "What the heck is this?"<br />
"What?"<br />
"This book. Why would you want to be associated with this trash?"<br />
"Um... Why not?"<br />
"It's the most disgusting thing I've ever read. I can't believe, I'm so embarrassed, that my brother would want to read something like this! Would have thoughts like this in his head!"<br />
And I didn't ask what she thought her husband thinks about. I didn't ask how the fuck they conceived their children if she was still a virgin. Why? Because it's not for me to ask such questions. I let her rant, explained that a great many books are just as explicit, and hung up after reminding her she had little say in what I chose to do with my life.<br />
My dad:<br />
"Would you want your grandfather to read this book?"<br />
I thought for a moment. "I don't see why the fuck not. He had seven kids, I think he gets the idea."<br />
And on and on and <i>on</i>!! It's silly. It makes no sense. We can have graphic violence on TV all day, and very little is said. Tonight I can't wait to watch Hobo with a Shotgun, a film I was assured was so full of gore they literally become torrents of blood. Can't fucking wait. But on the same token, I love Spartacus Blood in the Sand. Is there sex? Yes, lots of it, as much as they could pack into an hour program.<br />
And?<br />
Here's the deal: I like sex. Everyone does (whether they admit it or not). Not everyone likes violence. There's a simple way to say this. <br />
Violence is only fun when it's not happening to you. <br />
Sex is only fun when it is happening to you. <br />
So, I guess what I'm saying is, wouldn't it be nice to have a little more sex, and a little less violence?<br />
Now I'm off to watch my ultra-violent movie, and after it I'll pound down a good-old-fashioned adventure story, with plenty of sex on the side. Because I like my violence, but I love my sex...<br />
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6346196929981690997.post-60525364427607733482011-08-25T12:56:00.000-07:002011-08-25T13:01:43.584-07:00Your Call is Very Important to UsFirst of all, no it's not. I wish I could record one of those for my ringtone when you call me:<br />
"Hello, this is Finn, your call is not very important to me, or I would have answered it already, but if you hold on I'll get to you at my earliest convenience."<br />
I called blockbuster last night because my dvd was scratched to shit and wouldn't play, and what do I get? "We're sorry, all of our agents are currently busy." I'm not going to argue with terming a bunch of minimum wage workers sitting in cubicles "agents" (the woman who helped me was very sweet, and I really liked her as a person) but is there that huge of a demand? At any given moment is there just a rash of fucking people calling to report scratched disks? And I get it that people are stupid, but do you really have to explain to me how to clean a dvd while I'm on hold? Don't you think I tried? Is the average person so dull that they would rather sit on hold for twenty minutes than take out some Windex and wipe the thing off?<br />
Okay that's a Yes on that last question. People are the dumbest animals alive. I knew a tech guy, he told me the average call to him was fixed when he asked them if the computer was plugged in. "Oh, look at that, nope, thanks."<br />
The problem is the answer is No to the others. I'm sure there's a lot of people calling, I'm also sure they could handle the volume if they hired a few more people. Instead, they assume (correctly) that people have just gotten used to waiting on hold when dealing with businesses (no joke, I've had a business call me and put me on hold. *ring* "Hello?" pause, "Hello, all of our representatives are currently busy helping other customers..."). <br />
But that's an increasingly large problem in this country. I recently spent two thousand bucks on a service, and the rep I spoke to before I spent the money said "Anytime you have questions, here's my number, just call." Of course, when I call, I get the classic "Your call is very important to us."<br />
What if other things worked like that? What if you called 9-1-1 and said "Someone help! My husband's just been shot!" And the reply was "We're sorry, all of our officers are currently assisting other citizens, please stay on the line and your emergency will be dealt with in the order it was received. While you're waiting, please ensure that this is in fact an emergency. Ask yourself these questions:<br />
1. Are you or someone you know gravely injured?<br />
2. Are you or someone you know in immediate risk of being injured?<br />
3. Are you or someone you know committing a crime, or have you seen someone committing a crime?<br />
4. Is there a white male acting in a suspicious way that you think may be associated with terrorism? If You See Something, Say Something.<br />
5. Is there a fire or flood in your area?<br />
6. If you are calling because you are about to enter a flooded wash, Turn Around Don't Drown.<br />
7. Has your erection lasted over four hours?<br />
8. Did a fast food restaurant not alert you to the fat content in their food?<br />
9. Have you or someone you know ingested a poisonous liquid? Drain-o? Bleach?<br />
For quality control purposes your call may be recorded.<br />
Hello, and thank you for calling 9-1-1, how may I assist you?"<br />
"My husband's bleeding to death!"<br />
"Well, ma'am, just give me a moment and I'll see what I can do to remedy this situation." *tap tap tappedy tap* "Okay, and where are you located ma'am?"<br />
"In Los Angeles."<br />
"Oh, dear, you've called the Oakland office, let me just transfer you to the Los Angeles office."<br />
"But..."<br />
"Thank you for calling 9-1-1, your emergency is very important to us...."<br />
You get the idea. How well do you think that would work out? And then they do ads on there, like the phone company does:<br />
"Did you know that 9-1-1 is now digital? Just one of the ways we're working for you."<br />
Or:<br />
"Do you have more than twelve emergencies a month? Ask your representative for frequent fall discounts, elusively through 9-1-1."<br />
All I'm saying is, for Blockbuster: Put a box on your website, where the customer can type in the number on the disk and say it's damaged, or put a button on the kiosk "Return Damaged Disk" and I'll punch it and put the fucking thing in and be done with it. I don't want my lovely "agent" from last night to lose her job, but it would be far more effective. Or, you go the web chat way, where you can have one person helping five customers simultaneously. But don't tell me my call is important to you if you're not going to answer it. Because it pisses me off.<br />
And for the rest of us: fuck renting movies, go out and buy a good book, like <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fist-Full-Brunettes-Multiple-Thriller/dp/0615501311/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top">Fist Full of Brunettes</a> and put your feet up, turn off the phone, tell the kids to make their own damn dinner, and enjoy yourself. Because nowadays we need something we can hold on to, something tangible that won't crash, like a good old fashion book.<br />
And, of course, your readership is very important to us...<br />
Finnean Nilsen Projectshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04279347180960495005noreply@blogger.com1