In any case, if you’d like to take a gander at a small preview of the revised work it’s here. Note that it’s been revised to take place in New York rather than Seattle.

Bounding from the end of the bar, Bob Farcas was on Henry Sera like a great glandular chipmunk. His cheeks puffed—“HENRY, it’s great to see you again! Shots?” A pause to look at the bar “. . . shots!”
“Farcas, you prick, are you trying to get me drunk?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’m a team player, let’s see if we can do this thing.”

Porno En Fuego (Sample Chapter)

I felt like a strange intruder in a hand made Zegna suit, fresh from a sales call, out of place with the Poors. Guys that would have hardballed me had I walked down the street in a T shirt walked by as if we were invisible to one another. When I got down the beach I enjoyed its emptiness; it was a weekday, and a rainy overcast one at that. The whole place was silent and most of the shops were shuttered, scenes like this always make me feel like I’m being let in on a secret. I sat down in Ruby’s and had a hotdog in the place where they were invented; I washed it down with a cold American beer, afterward I walked to Stillwell Ave and hopped the D back to West 4th.

The shadenfreude is thick, it tastes just like one of those beautiful steaks you get at the Strip House—perfectly cooked and just a bit bloody. Out here, for us little folk at least, the recession has been a hoot; the only tangible effect is another $400 off that outrageous fucking rent we pay. The bankers are still making money but at least they aren’t throwing it in our faces like they used to. All in all, we’re yukking it up . . . while the rest of the country teeters on the brink of depression. To hear the reports you’d think that everybody west of the Hudson has begun raising rabbits in backyard hutches, trading their precious meat and skins for goods and services;   families are living in the hollowed out shells of abandoned tract homes—shit, according to the newspapers everybody in the Midwest is mere months away from riding around in biodiesel-fueled Plymouth Dusters and shooting each other for scraps of food. I hear the new haircuts will be fierce, and that’s no small consolation, post apocalyptic America will be a mean, sexy place.

Don’t worry Real America, our check is in the post. As soon as the magnitude of the CRE bust becomes apparent and second wave of ARM recasts goes rolling through the heartland we’ll be feeling your pain. Hedgies will be begging for the opportunity to work on your rabbit farms as our streets once again start to reek of piss and rape. The soft-pawwed trust fund hipsters who loudly pine for the days when this town was “tough,” people who use terms like “Disney-fication,” dudes that think things are too safe—they’ll finally have the opportunity to get mugged. We’ll all be in the government cheese line together, pointing in glee, shaming one another for the unchecked avarice that got us into this spot to begin with; content with watching our own houses burn as long as Those Bastards get fucked too.

My hands felt like blocks of wood, and my feet were starting to get those nasty, driving pains that precede proper medical frost bite. Jim and Dan were down in the valley trying to scare some deer out into the meadow, and I was slowly succumbing to hypothermia up on the ridge. . .

1.5 page PDF

The original plan was to do a bunch of shorts here on the site and eventually have something of a collection by this time. Unfortunately, running a business in startup mode, settling into New York, and managing an engagement turned out to be a lot more time consuming than I originally thought. Still, it’s not such a bad thing as it’s given me a bit of time to think about writing in general. It’s also given me a bit of time to work on my atrocious grammar; oh, it’s still bad, but it’s much improved.

The small stretch of 14th street that I walk down has awesome kids with fantastical, ironic hair lurching past. If I keep walking I know that there’s the Blarney Cove ahead just another half block; Popeye is there, hugging people and limping over to pour another gin and tonic. The large latina girl, I forget her name but I remember her telling me how much she liked getting fucked by two guys at the same time. (And it was ok to tell me because I wasn’t her type so she would never have to worry about freaking out a future prospect, she assured me of that.) That bar smells like bars; it’s the sort of joint you can get drunk in and belt out "Total Eclipse of the Heart’’ with your girlfriend and the chick you both plan on fucking later, and nobody will think anything of it.

The Blarney Cove might be nice but I opt to skip the hangover and drink myself to sleep, the weekend’s ahead and there’s at least one epic night planned. I must save my strength.

Ever been in a whorehouse? It’s weird. It almost always happened when I was
completely hammered around five AM. There was some sort of alcoholic impulse to find something to do after all of the bars had closed. Sometimes out of boredom I’d stagger around seedy neighbourhoods and try to guess which residential places were really brothels cleverly disguised. Most of the time I was correct but sometimes I’d just terrify or annoy someone who had the misfortune of living in a house that merely looked like it could be one of ill repute.

I’m not sure if they were good times I was having — or just interesting ones.

Hi,

I am after dental information, see it’s been a long time—perhaps seven years since I’ve been to a dentist. I have just come off of a very long “bender” where I have been drinking during all waking hours for several days straight. During a bender it is not unusual for me to wake up in closets, alleyways, and super market store rooms. My clothes may be quite dirty and I am often savaged by young delinquent toughs. I was once stabbed in the leg with a screwdriver.

Now, when I’m not on a bender I won’t even touch the drink, I mean not even a glass of red with dinner. In fact I tend to skip beer and wine advertisements on television and cut out the alcohol ads from popular magazines, I keep them in boxes under my bed. I have six now. My psychiatrist says that I have mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, luckily it doesn’t seem to interfere in my day to day life.

While I am a generally healthy person and only go on these benders during paid leave from my job as an insurance adjuster I was feeling somewhat the worse for wear after a particularly well executed run. I remember waking up that afternoon having been thrown into a cardboard recycling dumpster the night before and noticing a large pool of blood around my face, smeared on the cardboard boxes. Shrugging it off I climbed out of the dumpster and made my way back to my house. I assumed that some rough bastards had beaten me severely.

Strangely enough though after I returned to my house and cleaned up I found no tell tale bruising around my mouth and I wasn’t sore at all. Could this be from a lack of vitamins?

-SDW