To comment or send a message, please email:

Friday, March 9, 2018


I was looking for something to watch and despite "rave reviews", most shows weren't turning my crank. It got me back to thinking about Breaking Bad. Just how well done that show was.
Of course, none of the characters could exist in the actual illicit drug industry but that's kind of beside the point. The writing, acting and production were irresistible. I tried to watch Sons of Anarchy but the writers telegraph too much, same with Walking Dead. You can see plot twists and coming a mile away. Same with Stranger Things, which is really a show for kids and teens and their parents, I guess.

Getting back to BB, the actual nightmare of the drug cartels doesn't allow for the inner struggles Walt wages with himself or the terrible personal torment Jesse suffers and that drives Gus to become the top drug distribution dog. The real Gus would have long forgotten the murder all those years ago of his young chemist friend by Hector Salamanca. More likely, Gus and Salamanca would have had many happy and profitable dealings since then. And forget about Mike’s old school honor among thieves. It’s positively quaint. There are several lapses in narrative logic but none of that makes it a lesser show.

The cartel reality is brutal and Darwinian. It’s about money and control and that's all. There are no incredibly complex criminal plots or mind bending strategies going on. The illicit drug wholesaling and retailing business is a hammer to the face, a 9mm slug to the head, chainsaws as murder weapons and people being stuffed into dog food cans. Fido eats and shits out the evidence. The global criminal cartels profit from every morsel of flesh and bone. A barrel in the desert is a waste of a barrel.

If there’s one character in the show that reflects the actual day-to-day reality, it’s Tuco. He’s a total psycho but a businessman and in his line of work the two thing are mutually inclusive and highly beneficial. A guy like Tuco will blow away friends and family without a second thought. He might rage and cry about it afterwards like any good psycho but that won’t stop him from doing it again and it is a helluva warning to anyone who might consider fucking him over.

But it’s the lack of actual stupid reality that allows BB to look at larger questions about things like who and what you really are when put under serious pressure. Everyone’s good when there’s no stress but if you’re forced into a tight spot where you have to make some hardcore choices immediately, what kind of creature do you become?

The show does a great job of rolling out that whole idea; a supposedly normal guy pushed into the most extreme end of this world, a planet full of raging contradictions and head-fucking ironies. In other words, the Breaking Bad story line has not much to do with the way things are in reality and maybe that’s why it’s a great work of art, why it’s so Shakespearean.

The reality of the illicit drug business is far more prosaic than the convoluted narratives that run through BB. The cartel heavies from Mexico would have just killed them all and worried about Gus' distribution system later. Nobody at the top end cares how good the dope is; just as long a nobody else has anything better. Your dope can be shit but if it’s stronger than whatever else is around, you’re golden. It’s far easier to either kill or buy off any legit competition than track down that one awesome chemist and build some NASA quality super lab.

Cartels impose their will by killing everyone who's even slightly suspect without much distinguishing who deserves what – and that keeps everyone on their toes. Gus would have killed Walt and Jesse at the first sign of trouble, not tried to out-think them. And he wouldn’t risk one ass hair for a difference of 3 or 4 percent purity of his product. When Gale tells Gus a couple percentage points in the purity of his methamphetamine is massively important, it's pretty thin logic. Gus wouldn’t give a shit. The main thing in that business is minimize all risk, keep tight control, and don't go looking for problems for a minor gain.

Also, there are no Hanks in the DEA or any other police agency. At any important level, everyone is on the take or playing turtle. From the small town Mexican police chief to the high-ranking border cop and the member of congress who accepts big donations of cartel money through front companies while continuing to push rabidly anti-drug propaganda. And all these cops and politicians work hard to make sure street level dealing and drug use remain serious crimes in order the keep retail prices from falling.

The cartels and the international banking gangsters they’re allied with NEED drugs to be illegal. Just like the mafia needed booze to be illegal during the prohibition, a policy that built those iconic criminal empires. And that was small potatoes. The amounts involved in the modern global illicit drug and money laundering industries is far too much to count, let alone combat. And the political power that results is beyond comprehension.

The cartels and their allies always keep things as simple as possible. They use a basic formula when faced with resistance by police agency operatives or some politician with a glimmer of conscience. It goes more or less along these lines: Play along and you get large cash payments like clockwork. Refuse and we take care of you - after we take care of your family while we force you to watch. Take your pick.
Plata o plomo. Silver or lead.
What would you do?

Wednesday, June 8, 2016


Kindle & Ebook...
Print Edition...


Getting nailed by those badge-wearing bumpkins not only cost me my hot-assed old school Suzuki but their petty jealousies have been following me around, cramp the fuck out of my style, like a wet sack of shit across the neck. Everything goes wrong; missed chances, sub-par dope, strings of minor but galling hassles.

I’m beset with logistical snags, flat tires and dropped calls. Regulars badger for fronts of my badly cut dope then take their cash elsewhere. I’ve scrambled all over for a decent wholesale connection but keep rolling snake-eyed paper thin puppets who know a guy who knows a guy who knows some other fucking guy ad infinitum.

Years ago, a couple boatloads of Persian traders alighted on our fair shores and filled this three-legged town with brown magic from the fabled hills of Ariana. After their top dogs made a great show of opening vast and glittering discos, they promptly blew themselves up by becoming their own best customers.

Stalwart wops whose forefathers literally built this burgh─even they’ve lost the way, victims of hubris and canny TV producers. They pigged out on the illustrious Sicilian tit for centuries but too much media fawning turned them into a herd of useless Gotti mimics who tried to leverage Omerta into a household name.

Inbred racist bikers step into the breach now and again, reaching toward this cosmopolis from their surrounding hick town bunkers. Too often their success results in inexplicable farmhouse bloodbaths. Police are left to puzzle over mutilated bodies strewn about after a drunken argument involving some arcane point of order escalates into close range shotguns, crossbows and Bowie knives.

I did have high hopes for a gang of slick West Africans after they’d carved out territory in the east end. Not only were they stylish, happily venal and worldly, their pipeline was based on long established clan ties and appeared rock solid. However, as so many who’d sought to become the gods they once feared, these intrepid sons of the mother continent became infected with fetishistic consumerism. Looking to maximize revenue, they developed a rep for poisoning their clientele after diluting the product with mislabeled industrial effluents. This led to several intramural gun battles, leaving their sleek and shapely network a smoking ruin.

So it’s been back to the Saint Clair Porkchops. Stone headed men who beat each other senseless in front of street corner sports bars then stagger home to their mothers’ basements, not twenty doors away. They always have stuff but quality is inconsistent, watered down with the usual shortsighted greed and small time turf wars.

Desperate men do desperately stupid things so I go see an old witch on Dundas West, in the dead zone between Lansdowne and Roncesvalles. I’ve passed her sign a million times: Love Problems and Money.

She’s reputed to be the spiritual and titular descendant of the original Madame Schontz, a renowned Gypsy priestess who star centerman Dave Keon hired in 1969 to put an eternal curse on the Maple Leafs after they’d blackballed him at the peak of his impressive career. The team was condemned to never win another Cup, no matter how much coin they blow on superstars come and gone. So far so good. They’ve managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in a dozen inconceivable ways so I figure what the hell, Madame Schontz Junior is worth a shot. And what’s a hundred bucks? I blow a hundred bucks before I’m out the door these days. Just think about money and you’ve blown a hundred bucks.

A note taped to her doorway sends me around to a back alley. I knock and a suspicious young muzhyk woman opens up a crack. She looks past me and narrows her eyes, sniffs my air.
“Nobody home.”
I show her some cash. “I need to see Madame Schontz. Immediately.”
The woman’s face off-gases about ten years and sixteen tons as she lets me in. “I’m the daughter,” she reports, poking a finger between her Double Dees, frayed bra straps cantilevered outward. She leads me into a musty hallway converted to a tiny kitchen. We’re pushed up against one another, her knockers pressed into my navel. She gestures further down the corridor. A Socialist Realism Christ on an ancient calendar hangs near the ceiling. We go by a derelict dumbwaiter. I half expect an arm to burst out and brain me with a skillet.

The daughter steers me into a dim backroom, small as a doghouse. Madame Schontz is a four-foot high pyramid of quivering flab wrapped in a sateen Blue Jays jacket, topped with a big pork roast face and pink visor hat. Hunkered on a rug, I can’t tell if she’s got legs or not. She toys with a few playing cards and some yellow dog’s teeth scattered on an overturned plastic bucket. I crouch down and the daughter offers to interpret. She squeezes in beside me and lays her chin on my shoulder. In the mirror behind Madame Schontz, we’re a two-headed Diane Arbus freak.

I’m a drug dealer, I explain, but having a truly shitty time finding decent drugs at a good price and it’s not only ruining my rep but alienating the most important sector of my customer base; a carefully cultivated collection of successful fags, lawyers, academics, arts parasites, petty government asswipes and other sundry middle class degenerates.

The daughter asks me to write down the drugs I’d like to procure. Just two, I tell her: Clean Colombian Flake and Sweet Brown Afghani H, the old fashioned stuff, if Madame would be so kind. The type processed with ether instead of the kerosene or diesel used nowadays by those cheap-ass CIA toadies. And some good sticky bud wouldn’t hurt either but not absolutely necessary since I’ve got weed more or less covered. And please, no pills or other pharmaceuticals. I find them gauche.

My c-note disappears down the daughter’s cleavage as she hands the scrap of paper to her mother. The old woman rubs it on her forehead and on her desiccated neck flab, chews it up and swallows. In about ten seconds she begins to tremble and sweat and jabber in several tongues.

Her nose runs, she pumps at her ears as if they’re ringing. Her hands twitch, she puffs on an invisible cigarette. Madame Schontz goes bug-eyed, cackles, yells and nods madly. She’s ecstatic and inspired. I smell it, a high Andean clean smell, a cold wind clears the sinuses. She laughs, haughty and luxurious. She freezes.

After some long moments, her eyelids begin to hang, blob body sagging in stages. She smacks her lips and savors a deep earthy flavor. She claws at herself sensually, murmurs with pleasure. I watch her lean forward in tiny increments, finally at a steep angle, her face not quite touching the plastic bucket.

“You mean like this?” the daughter asks.
“Yeah,” I point. “Exactly like this. What she’s high on, that’s what I need. And the thing before.”
Madame Schontz snaps out of it and her closed lipped smile beams at me with a heartfelt munificence. Her personal style might be more street corner Carnac than Oracle of Delphi but this bewitched babushka appears to be onto something.

“Go live your life,” her daughter tells me as I unfold myself from their lair.

* * *

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Newest member of the family...

Me and my girls...
Newest member of the family on the left...
Kawasaki D'Tracker, modified screamer
with powerbomb exhaust.
Loud and lovely...

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Excerpt from the new novel...

Excerpt chapter:

I’m chaperoning Opium at the jammed apartment of Fil’s father, Max. He’s a dyspeptic old crip who fancies himself an inventor. We’re wedged into his pack rat life, a shabby little place in Christie Pits, owned by the noisy Porkchops downstairs. A lot of incandescent lights are on, red paisley wallpaper. Tables and bed are supported by boxes of third and fourth hand war books every chairborne commando must own. A raft of plastic bags fills one corner. Max always asks about his son but I never reply.

“Filmore P. Mann,” he declares. “Whereabouts unknown.”

Opium picks her way through this overheated overstuffed crap pad, idly scoping tiny soldier figurines and boxes of hotrod postcards. Her black hair is in long pigtails with red plastic devil barrettes. She wears Oxfords, white knee socks, kids training pants and a child-size wifebeater. She sucks on a popsicle while examining Max’s collection of scale model WWII British fighter planes hung from the ceiling by fishing wire.

Max is missing his left hand from mid-wrist. I’ve heard a bunch of different versions how it happened, from an inexplicable cleaver attack to the extremely rare Doctor Strangelove Syndrome, where the hand was removed because it kept trying to tear out his throat.

Currently, he’s using an old fleshtone prosthesis bought at a garage sale after losing his yearly allotment. The losses are down to Max getting boozed up and taking off the hand to play up some drunken gag and forgetting it on the bar.

Pensioned off from the Transit Commission’s ideological purity division years ago, he whiles away his days building dildo attachments adapted to fit onto a universally swiveling mount he sticks over his stump, custom braced all the way to the elbow. His dildo arm is twice as thick as his drinking and smoking arm so he’s ended up looking like a tennis player.

Max’s Friday night visits from Opium have been going on for quite some time─months, I guess. To truly get off, he requires a very specific set up. She must wear her child’s underthings and sit in the oversized wingback opposite, feet dangling as she reads aloud from a dumbed down fairy tale collection, one of those volumes with the pop-up 3D characters. Max playfully menaces her with one of his dildo attachments, making it rev up and down with suggestive zings. She smiles shyly and continues to read, slow and unsure, as a child of five might. After about ten minutes of this warm-up, Max discreetly wacks off under a big coffee table volume full of those grainy old trench warfare photos from Passchendaele and Vimy Ridge. Opium pretends not to notice.

I watch Max fuck around with his latest contraption, the Vual 3400 Dildonator, named after a dearly departed pal who Max claims was built like a Khazar donkey─known among aficionados as the donkey’s donkey. Max has used the mechanism from a reciprocating saw with a massive twelve-inch red rubber dong mounted on a metal shaft. The thing’s thick as the business end of a Louisville slugger. It’s powered by heavy duty cables welded to a pair of 24-volt truck batteries sitting on the floor.

He plans to patent and market his creation through “gentlemen’s magazines.” This new device not only pounds up and down but he’s installed a mini gyroscope to effect random wiggles, waggles and figure eights. Max has been badgering me to ask Opium to take a test drive. Yeah, that’ll work. The chick’s got like a fifteen inch waist.

“Approximates skilled fornication method,” Max brags with a bucktoothed grin as he waves it around.

He hits an On switch zip-tied to his upper arm and the dong begins a slow articulated rhumba. A hollow section in its middle is full of colored plastic beads. They rattle and clatter as a blue-lit greeting card diode plays the Average White Band tune, Cut The Cake. The thing does in fact wiggle, woggle and wondrously worm its way through a snappy little routine. Opium doesn’t look up from her fairy tales.

After a minute or so the Dildonator seems to get stuck and repeatedly swivels to the left. The motor whines as the mega-dong angrily pogos up and down, as if throwing a tantrum. Max hits the Off switch but no dice. The beast howls and dervishes. Its centrifugal force almost throws him out of his wheelchair. Max battles to unlock it from the gyrating base. It’s clamped on tight. He yowls in pain when the thing almost twists off a finger.

The motor bursts into flame, igniting the sparkle-filled red rubber phallus. It quickly liquefies black. Max shrieks as molten effluent runs down to his forearm. I grab the loco dong with the sleeves of my jacket and try to tear it off him. The thing deforms in my hands, its slimy napalm ooze sticking to me and anything else it touches. Pieces of it drip and run onto the carpet. The rug catches fire. I stamp on it but the goop comes up in flaming strings stuck to my boot.

Opium finally springs into action.

“Don’t get water!” I holler. “It’s an electrical fire.”

“So what then?!” she yells from the kitchen.

“Something powder! Baking soda. Anything!”

I grab a dirty towel off the floor and swat at my sleeve, now going up. The dong motor spins and screeches. I duck as it hurls its remaining guts in a wild 360. The distended nightmare glob twists and sizzles, strung between me, Max and his chair. He screams again as more flaming black rubber splatters his face. I try to corral it with the towel. It too goes up, a fiery white flag.

“Hurry the fuck up!” I yell just as me, Max and the rabid dong get hit with a choking cloud of laundry powder. The light blue crystals clump and smoke but finally kill the melted remains of the haywire dildo. The monster buzzes and farts a final time. Opium stands there, empty jumbo detergent box in her hands. She wears an astonished grin. Max shrugs, sheepish, picks at the bits of melted rubber stuck to his glasses.

Sunday, November 23, 2014


When I was a kid my parents knew a couple called George and Georgia. Both were made of that exotic mongrel mix you get in southeastern Europe, the land bridge going into Turkey and the Middle East. Mobs of marauders and rapists have been through there for centuries.

George was swarthy and handsome. He'd have looked right at home with a top-knot and Fu Manchu, shirtless and carrying a scimitar. Georgia wasn't magazine beautiful but had a rare blonde sensuality. Not easy for a woman with pale hair, pale skin and pale gray eyes to come off fiery but she did it with a kind of deeper sweet hunger.

Their real strength was others didn't exist for them. George was a typical man of his era, tall and masculine, didn't dance, a sublime undertone of confidence and power. Women went all girlish and soft near him.

The same way men doted on Georgia's sweetness, which seemed to be for the whole world but she was just being a good girl. When those two looked at one another, they burned everything else away. Married but no kids, which was strange for the time and she openly dismissed the idea as "Not for us."

I guess they were too busy fucking to be parents. I was like ten or something and at some big wedding or baptism in a church basement me and a few other kids saw George and Georgia steaming up their car windows out in the parking lot. I guess they couldn't wait to get home, just had to take a break from the drinking and socializing to lay on a good fuck. They seemed a lot younger than my parents or their other friends. Fucking will do that. Amazing they didn't get sick of one another the way couples usually do.

Anyway, my original point was about this thing Georgia would do. A couple times she dropped George off at a cafeteria my old man owned a piece of. George was a highly skilled carpenter. He usually did bowling alley lanes with an uncle of mine but since my old man had found him a cool hotrod Buick at a good price, George came round for a few days and built a new cafeteria counter.

I'd be sitting outside peeling potatoes in the alley way and see them pull in and she'd wipe his mouth and his mustache with her hand. Actually, more like fondle his face and mouth, this really slutty smile on her. I didn't recognize it as such then, being just some stupid kid, but I realized later on what her look meant.

I asked my old man about the mouth fondling and he was never a subtle guy. "She wipes her wet pussy first," he grunted then gave me a leer and winked but didn't explain further and I didn't ask since I had no clue what he was talking about.

George and Georgia looked so natural in his hopped-up Buick Skylark coupe. They were a pair of Balkan fuck freaks yet easily slipped into the beautiful American open road forever nihilism of that very romantic era. Now it's all about gas mileage and hard-on drugs and traffic tickets.

I'm talking about ancient ideas pushed so well by those old hotrods merging speed and love in a perfect way cuz they had a front bench seat, like a big sofa, so were pretty much made for George and Georgia. Not like cars nowadays with the straight jacket bucket seats you're strapped into and can't touch each other. Well, maybe hold hands.

Try giving a driver's seat blow job in your average commuter car today. The one doing the blowing will end up eviscerated by some lever or other plastic protuberance - and you'll both get a raft of tickets issued by some safety-obsessed paramilitary idiot cop.

The crazy thing is not long after George built the cafeteria counter they were both killed in a high speed crash. The police said it happened for no apparent reason on a straight away, during a warm sunny day. So I figure they must have died fucking, Georgia straddling George in the driver's seat, the windshield fogged up, her ass knocks the steering wheel sideways and the Buick bashes into the guard rail at 100 mph and goes cartwheeling down a steep rocky gorge to explode on impact - their huge A-Bomb mushroom cloud of burnin' hot love. Talk about going out in style...