Arcade #4: Frightened Killer (Blue Whale Media, 2022)

My eyes, teeth, and genitals are all infected.

I went searching for hauntings in an asshole-breeding town. I sat on a patch of dead grass and drank, watching a section 8 party through the bushes. I walked to a warehouse offering a show for $15 a head.

They gave a choice of box cutter, garrote or hunting knife. I don’t remember putting on the mask.

The others were surprised when I started swinging. They boxed me into a corner with metal and plastic cafeteria chairs. I pushed through and ran up the escalator, bloodied slightly. At the top, they asked me what my OS was but said I could fill it out later, and fed us with a salad bar. No one sat with me but plenty of them stared.

I don’t remember getting home.



Some believe the future is a single infinite scroll recording all who aren’t dead or will be. A merciless but perfect sort of sense, because they’ve only known others’ wraiths and little of what’s already occurred. But the truth is even they aren’t there, nor the scroll, though it still makes a perfect sort of sense, when the Earth becomes just the same as any other planet.


I’m beginning to reek. Not beginning–I’ve reeked the past several months. I barely leave the house anymore, so I only shower once a week or less. I speak so infrequently that when I do, it comes out as a raw, scraping croak.

If I go out to a show or movie, I need to wash my crewneck and hoodie and jeans two or three times, the reek has permeated them so completely.

I think it’s because of the Adderall but my buddy doesn’t believe so. He says we reek because of the mite-shit in our pubes, and Adderall wouldn’t create more mite-shit. He uses a special soap that kills the mites so that he won’t reek anymore. He offers me some, but I reject it. I’ve reeked so long I worry I might miss it.