Don't get me wrong - I don't care if I'm not as man-pretty as I was when I was 19. Frankly, I don't give a shit about asinine crap like that (as long as I'm still physically fit, I guess ... aha). I just don't like the fact that I'm a year closer to death, that's all. See, I'm like most people you know - I don't want to die. Ever. Not fucking ever. Other people can go ahead and die all they want. Personally, I really like living, all in all - the good AND the bad. Even at its worst, well ... better the devil you know than the devil you don't.
I have a lot left that I want to do, before I get too senile/crippled to do these things. I wanna climb another mountain face. I want to publish many, many more books. I want to record more albums and play more gigs. I want to watch my stepson grow up and become a man. I want to learn how to play more musical instruments; I would also like to get drunk a bunch more times, as I enjoy it. The list goes on and on.
Anyway, I wrote a new story.Wanna read it?
The New Fish
I was jolted awake about an hour ago, confused and disoriented; my heart was pounding and my sheets were soaked in sweat. Some slavering, malevolent horror was in the trailer with me, creeping up on me while I slept with poised claws and razor teeth. The absolute certainty of this coated my mouth with the metallic taste of fear, sour and dry and thick. I grabbed the baseball bat that lays beneath my cot and tip-toed around the cramped darkness of my trailer, straining to hear over the keening of the wind outside.
And the pounding of my own heart.
Of course, there was nothing here except my goldfish and yours truly, the sweaty guy in his underwear. It was the gusting wind that startled me awake - it happens quite often in the late autumn and early winter. The wind rips through the scrub of skeletal trees that surround the trailer park and charges, with a lion's roar, into our lonely huddle of frail little shelters. It gibbers and shrieks and pounds on our walls with fists of dead leaves and frozen grit.
Satisfied that I wasn't about to become chow for some unspeakable creature, I laid back down on my squeaky, saggy old cot and tried to get back to sleep - but I couldn't. Instead, I found myself thinking about that night in the penitentiary, the night of the lockdown; I kept thinking about Mikey and Big Rob and the rest of them, all of us huddled in a cell with the lights off and the frigid northwest winds howling at the walls. After a while, I gave up trying to sleep. Instead, I sat down in front of the computer and I started typing. I'm no story teller, not like Mikey or Hutch, but I'll try my best ...
Read the rest here ...