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Member since: Tue Jul 10, 2012, 05:40 AM
Number of posts: 667

About Me

I write a blog of dark humor - Goblinbooks.com

Journal Archives

I Went To UVA And I Hope They Sue The Everloving Crap Out Of It

I got my undergraduate degree from that rape school you've read about. (And if you haven't, you should. Sabrina Rubin Erdely wrote an important piece.)

I loved Virginia. I did. I have so many good memories of that place. I learned things, and I wrote things, and I made lifelong friends, and women broke my heart, and I got good and drunk, and that was where I dated the person who became my wife.

And I hope the class action lawsuit against it leaves nothing but a fucking crater.

Seriously. I want all the people who were raped or assaulted at that institution to find representation, and I want the settlement to be so ugly and onerous that the administration has to sell the Rotunda to Walmart to pay for it. Do you think there are many? Gee, I do not know. But it sure seems like if a bunch of frat brothers commit a gang rape in their own house right in the middle of their own party and do nothing whatsoever to conceal the identity of one of their ringleaders... that kind of tells me that they don't have much of a fear of getting caught. Which sort of makes me think this kind of thing may have happened before. Oh, and also we know it did.

And while we're on the subject of things that are obvious, here's a quote from an article about the police investigation of the crime: They have few updates at this point, but the delayed reporting may pose problems for officers tasked with the investigation. According to NBC29 legal analyst Lloyd Snook, without any physical evidence collected right after the alleged sexual assault, a future prosecution could be a challenge.

Yeah, evidently if you're a school administration official, and someone reports a felony to you, and instead of calling the cops you have some kind of informal process where you chat about it a lot, and you might not even expel the guilty party, and the result is that the cops don't get to the crime scene for two years... that might make justice difficult. So about that suit: Do you think there was a pattern going on here? Do you think people in the frat and at the university knew about it? Do you think their lack of diligence made the school dangerous for incoming students?

The University knowingly exposed its students to the risk of sexual assault through a systematic lack of reporting of crimes on and near its campus. That's obvious. The only question is who is out there. How many people are out there.

I hope they come in from the shadows and tell their stories. I hope UVA loses money until everyone in the administration has to wear hairnets to make extra cash. I hope that fraternity simply doesn't exist anymore.

You already know these people aren't going to reform themselves. Someone needs to take money from them, serious money, and then they will pay attention. Then we might have a real change in our colleges. If you are out there, and you have a story, please go find yourself a lawyer and start the long overdue process.

NOTE: THE BLACK BOOK OF CHILDREN'S BIBLE STORIES is about faith and loss, and a haunted house hidden so well you didn't notice you'd been living there your whole life. BUY IT HERE.

Should We Defund The Pentagon And Give That Money To Canadian Musicians?

US security services don't protect us. That's clear. That's what every grownup knows. Our soldiers, sailors, spies, and contractors - God love 'em - do a number of very difficult jobs in the world. They are honorable people, most of them. (The ones who don't commit atrocities and then take selfies.) But actually keeping ordinary people from getting killed is not one of their accomplishments. We've spent more than a decade fighting jihadists, and the result is that those jihadists have changed the name of their group. We launched two wars, committed targeted killings - we've lost and taken countless lives - all for a rebranding.

The question isn't whether we're wasting our money and our young men and women. We are. You know we are. The only question that matters is what to do with the money once we admit we're wasting it with all this out of control interventionism.

And I'd suggest we use it to support the Canadian music scene.

Have you heard some of the songs on Brill Bruisers yet? Most of you probably have. But clearly we don't have enough awareness. Watch this:

Doesn't financing this make more sense than whatever the hell the NSA is really up to? But it goes beyond the New Pornographers. We could be helping Metric produce new albums. We could be the reason Arcade Fire finally gets that next dozen musicians that's really going to give their sound some depth.

The bottom line is US armed forces and their supporters have promised us security and freedom, and they have not come across. The Canadian music scene has promised us rock, and they have fucking delivered.

Don't think I don't know the risks. Could arrogance and mission drift bring us the next Rush? Sure, it's possible. But Rush never waterboarded anyone. Not really.

I guess what I'm saying is that we could take all the money and effort we've spent on our defense establishment, and we could literally do any other thing with it, and it would make the average US citizen on an airplane or in a big city less at risk than what we have been doing - which is picking fights all over the planet with people we barely understand. We could light fire to all that money. We could spend the next two weeks putting all our forces into the biggest, most elaborate game of paintball the world has ever seen. We could crash all our aircraft carriers into each other and create a giant artificial reef just to develop tastier crabcakes. It doesn't matter. What we're doing right now is so obviously pointless and heartbreakingly counterproductive that it does not matter what else we do. All alternatives are on the table at this point.

So, I'm thinking Canadian indie rock. Brill Bruisers kicks ass, and it doesn't make me ashamed.

THE BLACK BOOK OF CHILDREN'S BIBLE STORIES is about faith and loss, and a haunted house hidden so well you didn't notice you'd been living there your whole life. BUY IT HERE.

Night Of The Libertarian Werewolves

I really can't stay…
Baby, it's cold outside.
I've got to go away…
Baby, it's cold outside.

Dean Martin was crooning through the minivan's speakers, and it made it hard to hear what was outside. But Rat Pack Christmas was the only thing that calmed Douglas down. Donald was sitting next to him in his car seat, wailing and screaming for me.

"Help me, daddy," he said. "Help me!" But Donald was the baby, and he was more dramatic. He laughed and cried easily. Nothing seemed to really get to him. I never worried as much about Donald. Douglas, almost four then, was serious and quiet and thoughtful. The whole world seemed too much for him sometimes. Anything could break his heart. He was absolutely silent and wide-eyed in the back, and he understood enough to know he should be scared.

"Are you okay honey?" I asked, looking at him in the mirror between glances at the row of white front yards and black-windowed houses. He nodded and didn't mean it. I went back to my business, searching in the sweep of the headlights as the van turned. I held tight to the wheel, and we skidded on the ice. The trucks hadn't sanded the back roads and subdivisions out here in the county, and the snow had been falling heavily since early that morning. As the van slipped I heard the hiss of glass chips sliding across the back seat. The rear window was completely smashed. Through it, a draft of wind slipped in and made the minivan's cabin numbing in spite of the heater. I had enough time to grab blankets to wrap Donald and Douglas. But I didn't have time to dress. I was in my boxers, a T-shirt, and shoes without socks. I'd gotten gloves, but discarded them. They made it hard to work the Mossberg, thumping around down on the floor of the passenger's side.

I kept one foot touching it to know its location in case I had to get it quickly. But on the passenger's seat was the revolver, and that seemed a quicker reach.

This evening has been…
So very nice.
I'll hold your hands; they're just like ice.

My nose was still bleeding. Every time I snorted I could taste rust. When I coughed or breathed too deeply, a rib let me know it might be cracked. Bruises covered my body. And none of that was as bad as the nub of the hunting arrow sticking out from my shoulder. I'd broken off as much of the shaft as I could. The head had hooks though, and I wouldn't be able to get them without pliers and time. I had neither - not then. So I hunched to keep that part of my back from touching the seat, but now and again I would brush it and the shiver of pain was exquisite. I discovered so many things, things I never suspected, but I never found out quite who the fuck shot me with the arrow.

"Daddy, help."
"I can't help you now, Donald," I said as evenly as I could. "But I bet we can sing a song together…"

The kid shook his head and his face crinkled up. I sang along with the radio to get him interested, even though I could tell it wouldn't work.

I wish I knew how… To break this spell.

"I'll take your hat; your hair looks swell," Dean and I answered.

"No sing!" Donald said, "No, no, no!"
"Donald, please. We'll drive out of here, and then I promise you…"
"Donald, why don't we…"
"Donald!" I shouted, but I never finished. Because then something bumped up against the window right next to his tiny head, and I saw it in the mirror. I didn't see it long, but it had eyes and teeth and it looked right at my son, and then it was gone. Startled by the sound, Donald stopped crying. And then he broke out laughing and laughing like it was one of our games, and I'd just surprised him.

Douglas didn't even change expression. Just stiffened a little, and soon I smelled he'd pissed himself. But I wasn't looking directly at them. I turned around in my seat, straining to see it, but the thing was somewhere beside the vehicle, just out of sight, and moving toward the open window in back. I hit the accelerator and the van jerked forward. I made it to the end of the street and spun around, almost toppling the vehicle. Whatever was out there could outrun us. I knew that. There was only one thing to do. I clicked on the high beams and sped back, aiming for a trash bin and a clump of cardboard boxes with a shadow behind them. I barreled into that mess, taking most of my neighbor's trash halfway down the block. For a second I thought I missed it, but then there was a thump from the grill and right tire, and it felt right. I pounded the brake and fishtailed to a stop. Then I backed up about fifteen feet and hit it again, trying to put my wheel right onto its head.

Silence and stillness. Nothing but the curtains of headlight and street lamp spotted with snow. The cell phone buzzed in the side pocket, jolting me. I picked it up with my left hand. I kept my feet on the brake and my right hand free to reach the gun. I was ready to see something terrible rise up, and I knew I'd have to shoot it without hesitating.

"Is everything okay?" Ellen wanted to know, "I called the landline." She'd been away for awhile, and she worried on nights like this.
"Oh yeah, honey," I said. "I had them in the bath."
"It's really late for that."
"I know, I know. They wanted to watch Airplane, Airplane. And then they wanted to watch it again, and I just, I just couldn't say no…" I chuckled unconvincingly.
"You sound strange."
"Just a lot of… stress. It's nothing."

She murmured sympathetically. It had been a strange day. But it was difficult to be a stay-at-home dad. It was always worth it, and I loved my family, and every day was an adventure of course. Still, some days were harder than others.

"Don't worry," Ellen told me. "You've got all the important stuff." It's something we reminded each other when we ran low on money or our work got hard. Because if your kids were okay, and you were in love with your wife, then you really couldn't worry about anything.

"I know you're right, honey," I told her. "Now, I gotta…"
"You have to put them to bed."
"Love you."
"You too." She hung up. I dropped the phone. Even Donald was quiet then. Whatever was down there in front of us hadn't moved. It was time to kill it if I could. I almost reached for the Mossberg, but changed my mind. The revolver. Because it had silver bullets…

The hidden full moon glowed softly from somewhere behind the clouds. The interior lamp chased it away as I popped open the door. The trash was everywhere - old plastic bags, an empty can of corn, unopened junk mail envelopes splotched with dark liquid. And beneath them, a torn sign:

Rand Paul 2016

I'd been seeing them all around now. Everywhere. It made a crazy kind of sense. The gatherings of college-aged white men in identical sport coats in hotel conference rooms. Arguing with each other. Spreading out over the country to give you pamphlets and tell you their theory to explain everything. And you knew they weren't actually going to put anyone in office. So what were they really up to? What else could it be?

"Daddy's got to do something, kids, and then we'll go have ice cream, okay?" Donald smiled weakly. Douglas nodded a little. I punched the emergency brake and stepped out to finish it off.

Note 1: More to come.

Note 2: THE BLACK BOOK OF CHILDREN'S BIBLE STORIES is about faith and loss, and a haunted house hidden so well you didn't notice you'd been living there your whole life. And it is FREE today. GET IT HERE.

A Veterans Day Message From A Man In The Trunk Of A Car

I don't have much time to say this. I hope I don't.

Someone struck me in the temple and wrapped a hood over my face before I could respond. My hands and feet are zip-tied, and my kidnappers are driving wildly and fast. The turning of the vehicle rocks me from side to side in the close darkness as if I'm at sea. One side of my face is slick, and I want to go black and expire before we reach wherever we're going. I've heard what happens in such places.

I should add that I am not the one they were looking for. Their leader didn't say my name correctly. I can hear rumbling from an argument. But they will agree to smother their doubts. Like all of you they know they can't stop.

The men don't wear uniforms. They don't wear your flag. Your leaders don't admit what they are doing. They might belong to units your military does not acknowledge. Or they are retired from the armed forces and now work for a civilian agency. Private companies will hire them for this kind of work soon, if they haven't already. But they are all over the world, and they are working for you, even if you have absolutely no control over them. You know enough to know it's happening, that it's beyond anyone's supervision, and you all have your own reasons for keeping quiet.

I and the others (the many, many others) have only one pitiful revenge. We know this thing you're doing is killing you.

It's destroying basic meaning of all the words you use to tell yourself who you are. The word "veteran" does not actually mean anything under conditions of such secrecy and violence. The phrase "defending our freedom" that you like to use - you already know it has little in common with these grubby little crimes you commit everywhere.

What becomes of a nation founded on an idea when it can no longer use words to describe that idea?

I think you already know the answer.

And that's why, through my pain and terror, I pity you.

NOTE: THE BLACK BOOK OF CHILDREN'S BIBLE STORIES is about faith and loss, and a haunted house hidden so well you didn't notice you'd been living there your whole life. BUY IT HERE.

Does Pat Robertson Wear A Hockey Mask And Kill Teen Campers?

It would be irresponsible of me to definitively answer the question I posed in the title. I just don't know. It's hard to say whether Pat Robertson, living as he does in southern Virginia, even owns a hockey mask. I don't have evidence that proves - conclusively proves - Mr. Robertson spends his warm summer evenings crouching in the bushes outside rustic cabins fondling a machete as he listens to the furtive sounds of young people exploring each other's bodies so that he can butcher them afterwards.

I won't claim to know any of this.

Is Pat Robertson obsessed with transgressive sexuality? Yes. Is he a kind of Lars Von Trier figure, telling lurid stories to scared old white people so they can be filled with disapproval and secret arousal? Of course he is. Does he keep a girl in a makeshift dungeon somewhere in North Carolina? We just don't have all the facts.

Does it seem like Marion Gordon Robertson talks more about steamy, sinful man-on-man action than you'd expect a completely straight person to do? Possibly. And does this seem like a common feature of older social conservatives? Who could judge? But that does not mean Pat Robertson has a bright red PVC suit that he wears as he's waylaying young men in the forests around the Regent University complex, tying them up for a series of hideous games that explore the outer boundaries of pain and pleasure. Not necessarily.


"God Never Sends You More Than You Can Handle," By A Drone Operator

You look like crud, Trev. You really do. This thing with Karen's getting to you. You don't talk about it, but I can tell, man. I can just - wait...

Hotel Three-Five. Geronimo. Still loitering at the target. No action. Copy that, Hotel? No action.

Look, you love her, and she loves you. And the Big Guy's got a plan for you both. You're going through something that might look really awful now, but it's going to make you stronger in the end, okay?

I know you've got mixed feelings on religion. But just... just hear me out on this. I believe when bad things happen to us it's like a kind of test. It's not always clear. But that doubt you feel - that's part of the test, you know? Just like...

I see it, Hotel Three-Five. I got two SUVs moving south toward the target. About 700 meters and closing. Standing by. Repeat. We are standing by.

...Just like when I went through all that school stuff with my daughter. I mean, how many weeks did that last, right? It seemed as if Mackenzie was going to end up at some horrible community college or something. Judy and I didn't know what to do. We prayed and prayed about it. It tore us apart. And then one day, I remember...

The first SUV stopped, and I got three, uh, three militants getting out and entering the target. Waiting on the second.

I remember just getting this feeling, this voice in my head. "I care about you." That's what the voice said. "Whatever happens, I will be here." It gave me chills, man.

There's the second. Repeat, the second SUV is parked, and I've got... I've got four more militants entering the building. Someone's meeting them at the door. A person holding a small... it's a small dog, Hotel Three-Five. A dog. Permission to engage target.

Someone's up there, Trev. Someone is looking out for you. Believe it.

Missile off the rail. And... target hit. Target hit, Hotel Three-Five. Waiting to see... yeah, we took it out. We destroyed the target, Hotel.

Don't start, Trev. It was a dog. You heard the briefing. A dog, okay?

We're going to loiter another ten and then head back. Good job everybody. Over.

Why don't you come to church with Judy and me this Sunday? You don't have to join or anything... I'm not asking that. Just think about it.

It really helped me find some answers.

I am the author of a novel about the dark side of Scripture. It is called The Black Book Of Children’s Bible Stories, and you can find it on Amazon.

Pat Robertson Finds A Monster In The Cellar

Western civilization is an ancient and beautiful structure. We're lucky to live here, mostly. But below this house is a cellar. And in that cellar is a monster. You knew that already.

Anyway, if you're a certain type of social conservative you pretend the monster doesn't exist. So if someone sends you down the stairs to rummage around, it can be quite a shock.

A couple of weeks ago someone sent Pat Robertson to the cellar.

It was one of his viewers. She wanted him to explain why the Bible's bloody parts are different than the bloody parts in the Quran. This difference is important to some of us, because it justifies the things we want to do to Muslims. (Of course, many people would argue we don't want to do any of it. We have to, because they're brutal people. That's what the issue is. Whether Muslims are brutal by their nature; if it's fair to judge them by the worst in their group.)

So Pat found himself halfway down the stairs, his feeble white hand trembling on the banister. He was trying to spot the chain to the overhead bulb in the center of the room. Someone had spilled something on the cement floor. It had barely dried.

We keep so many things down here. It's cluttered. It's not safe. Pat needed to look up one of our old stories. According to a founding document of our culture, God ordered His own chosen people to commit mass murder.

Now go, attack the Amalekites and totally destroy all that belongs to them. Do not spare them; put to death men and women, children and infants...

This is 1 Samuel 15:3, and it's part of a campaign of terror and bloodshed the Israelites waged as they took control of the Holy Land. Pat himself referred to it as "the wars of extermination." God and his prophets repeatedly commanded that the Israelites kill their enemies. It was their duty. Even the infanticide.

God is the supreme Lord of life, and can require his own when he pleaseth; infants likewise are born in sin, and therefore liable to God's wrath.

This was how John Wesley justified it, adding...

Their death also was rather a mercy than a curse, as being the occasion of preventing their sin and punishment.

Today many of us say that's not what the Judeo-Christian tradition is about. Progressive believers argue that the text itself is deeply flawed. I think that's the only decent way to think about the Bible. There's just too much murder in that book. Large portions of it are immoral. Not old-fashioned or weird, but wicked and wrong. You have to absolutely reject some of it, or the parts about love and compassion are meaningless. They are actually obscene.

Not everyone thinks this way though. There are many, many people of faith out there still who agree with John Wesley that butchering children was justified. Writing for The Briefing, John Allister compared it to the ethics of assassinating Adolf Hitler - taking life for the greater good. The cellar is where we keep all the stuff some of us try to ignore about our past, and our values. But others - let's be honest - actually like coming down here. They vote. They have power. They support our leaders when they wage war, and they always have reasons. They too define who we are.

Who are we, actually?

Pat found his footing, walked into the stale air, and he decided not to turn on the light. He heard breathing in the corner. He smiled at what was sitting there. What had always been sitting there.

It smiled back at him.

I wrote an entire novel about these things. It's THE BLACK BOOK OF CHILDREN'S BIBLE STORIES, and you can find it here. Tomorrow and Thursday it will be free at Amazon.

Dick Cheney: "Welcome Back To The Shadows, America."

Hello, old friends. Nice to see you again. I think it's time we had a chat. We're going to be here together for a while.

I'm not sure you understood me when I first said America would need to spend some time in the shadows. It was just after 9/11, and people weren't thinking clearly. Fear will do that to you, won't it? You start seeing monsters everywhere, and you freeze up. You look for someone, anyone to make the terror go away. You probably thought I was talking about sending spies and special operators into the dark corners of the world to do all the brutal things we'd need to do. Yes, that was part of it. But I was also talking about you. You're here in a kind of moral twilight with them. With me.

Just yesterday CNN reported that we're relaxing the rules about killing civilians during our air war against ISIS. The locals have already reported noncombatant casualties, but the US government hasn't confirmed it. You don't know every detail. So when you give your president a bump in the polls for prosecuting this war, you don't really have to think about whether we're going to end the lives of innocent people - a growing number as the situation deteriorates, which it will, because it always does, and you know that too, and also don't know it. The deaths that you cause will be numbers. Footnotes. Sentence fragments buried deep into news reports you'll barely skim. You won't have to see a tiny shoe beneath some rubble and know that it's all that remains of someone's child. This war has gone on for more than a decade, and you've never had to know those kinds of things.

You agree to it all, as long as we agree to punish anyone who tells you what's happening. You'll let the government have the authority it wants, but it must lie. Because if it lies to you then you're not the ones who are really monsters. No. The shadows - the moral twilight - they hide you from yourself. And it depends on people like me.

It makes me happy just to think about it. It makes me feel needed.

You really did love me all this time.

Didn't you?

We talk about our dead as if they were part of Schrodinger's experiment. As if it had spiraled out of control, the box closed and the one inside appearing everywhere and always out of reach.
Keep the box closed forever, and she'll follow you down each street.
Keep the box closed forever, and she'll never be far away.

The Black Book Of Children's Bible Stories is a novel of supernatural horror. It is about Scripture and language and loss. It is a text whose words are all around you. SEE IT HERE.

A Message From Jesus Christ On The Targeted Killings

You already kind of know what I'm going to say, don't you? Love your enemies, do unto others, all that stuff about the least of your brothers... I've gone on record about how you should treat each other. Sure, I didn't actually tell you, "Don't fire a mess of Tomahawks through someone's living room." I didn't think it would be necessary to spell it out. You Americans have a country absolutely packed to the ceiling with people who claim to follow me. But you are really, really comfortable with dropping high explosives on people.

Now we're going to talk about whether I was a pacifist, aren't we? I mean, what if you come across a bunch of bad guys who are going to do some harm to an innocent person? What if violence is the only way to prevent more violence? This is your way of dodging the question. Because you look reasonable if you make the choice between doing absolutely nothing in the face of evil... or airstrikes, home invasions, and encircling the world with a network of military bases. It's dishonest, and you know it. You guys say you're all about me, but you really act like the people who did that hilarious thing with those thorns. Enhanced interrogation, right? I sure know all about that. They were laughing while they did it. It was just like those news reports you don't think about. Like a prank gone too far. They were exactly the type to take selfies afterwards.

No, you always pretend this stuff is necessary. Always. You always excuse it. The pacifist thing is a way to make the job impossible. So that you can stop trying to be good. So that you can do all the terrible things you want to do. And you do want to do them. You're addicted to violence. Violence is your country's last and greatest export.

Let me clear something up: When I said that if you live by the sword you'll die by the sword, I wasn't giving a commandment from God. I was just giving advice. If you hit someone they'll hit you back. If you kill them so they can't hit back, their second cousin will pop out from around a corner tomorrow. Which means your brother has to burn that guy's house down, and this forces his tribe to slaughter your tribe. And so on. Until you live in a world where you have to spend every moment of every day doing hideous things to each other to stay safe, and it's never enough. And it won't be enough until the world runs out of people. That's how it works.

So many of you believe an Iron Age scroll is a solid science textbook, but you have trouble accepting that a first century Jew in occupied Palestine might know a thing or two about the nature of violence.

Forget I'm Me. Just consider the obvious. You've completed a 20-year cycle of escalating missile attacks, kidnappings, interventions, and turning your country into a giant prison. The result, they tell you, is that now the threat is even greater than before. And the solution? Let's do all the same things that worked so well the first time.

Stop being idiots. I really should have said it during the big speech on the mountain. But you probably wouldn't have listened to that either.

We talk about our dead as if they were part of Schrodinger's experiment. As if it had spiraled out of control, the box closed and the one inside appearing everywhere and always out of reach.
Keep the box closed forever, and she'll follow you down each street.
Keep the box closed forever, and she'll never be far away.

The Black Book Of Children's Bible Stories is a novel of supernatural horror. It is about Scripture and language and loss. It is a text whose words are all around you. SEE IT HERE.

A Message To America From An Old Friend

Hey. I'm over here in the shadow of the tree. I wanted to talk where we wouldn't be bothered.

The streetlights are really far apart in your neighborhood, aren't they? Lot of dark spaces. Maybe you need floods in front of your garage - the kind with motion sensors, you know? I've been telling you to upgrade your alarm system for a while now. Burglaries across the city. You need security that looks better than your neighbors. They pass you by and hit the next guy. It only makes sense.

Dangerous world, huh? It's going to get worse too. You know it's going to get worse. Someday you're going to be able to live in one of those gated communities. Have a solid private security force. Be able to check anyone before they move next to you. But you don't have that kind of money now. That's not the country you live in now.

Have you thought about getting a gun? I know what you're wife said. She's right about the kids. She's smart. But she's also naive. So what if you don't tell her? How about that? You could hide it somewhere - the vent behind the dresser, maybe. They wouldn't find it, and you'd have it close in case of an emergency. You need to protect the family. They'll thank you.

And that cellar window. You need new locks. And you haven't gotten the unlisted number yet. A lot of bad people out there.

And that young guy who lives just past the corner. What's his name, with the car. He rents the house. He has people coming over at all hours. A couple of robberies have happened nearby. He's doing something wrong. Maybe it's drugs. Anyway, he doesn't belong here. You don't want him near your kids. You don't want him, or his friends, those friends of his, near your wife. So do something about it. There are plenty of things you could do.

It's your home, you know? All that stuff they taught you in school. All that pledge of allegiance nonsense... That doesn't matter in the real world. Not when we're talking about your safety.

Get that guy to leave. Make him.

When it comes to your safety, you just do whatever's necessary. That's the way it is. It's the way it's always been. You're not a bad person. This is still America, right?

I'm glad we had this talk. I look forward to our chats out here. I really understand you. You and all your friends, all your neighbors. Everyone in your town. I've been here for a long time. And whatever you do, I'll always be here for you. I mean it.

Now you go back home now. Kiss those kids of yours.

Kiss them for me.

Once there was a haunted house hidden so well you might be living in it still... Please read The Black Book Of Children's Bible Stories - a novel about families and loss, and the ghosts that follow you everywhere.
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