chapter six

“They’re alive!?!” Satchel or Bel shrieked as the living corpses of Dead Simon #1 and Dead Simon #2 advanced on the group.

Harmon tried to quell the situation, “Simon? Hey what’s up? You okay? We thought you were dead.”

Dead Simon #1 grabbed Chuck Funk and sank its’ teeth into Chuck’s shoulder, ripping out a chunk of flesh. Blood sprayed onto Marjorie forcing her backwards as Chuck howled in pain.

Balddee shoved the advancing Simon #2 away from Harmon. There was a banshee's scream as Dead Simon #2 was impaled on a phallic symbol that Ellen had left on a cub reporter’s desk.

Satchel and Bel wailed as Johnny Bookreport leapt into the fray, trying to separate Chuck from Dead Simon #1. Harmon grabbed the autographed Kent Hrbek baseball bat that hung above the revolving door to the office hitting any piece of Dead Simon #1 that was available. Mule took up the hat rack, forcing it between Chuck and the living corpse and tried to pries them apart.

Dead Simon #1 relinquished its’ grip as Harmon made contact; its’ face smashing and splattering onto the floor. Chuck rolled over, sat up, spit up blood then collapsed to the ground. Harmon’s Hrbek special landed a rib crushing blow to the chest of Dead Simon #1.

And then all was quiet.

“What the shit just happened?” Satchel or Bel freaked out.

“I don’t know.” Johnny Bookreport said, blood covering his face from where he had run his hand. “Is Chuck dead?”

Balddee looked down at him. “He ain’t alive.”

“I can’t fucking take this anymore.” Marjorie freaked out wringing the blood from her hair. “I didn’t even want this job. I should be working at Wal-Mart. No matter how retarded their benefits are at least this sort of shit never happens there.”

Mule threw up and Marlon Maxey offered him a tissue to wipe his mouth.

Balddee lit another cigarette, “What do we do now?”

There was a sickening thud as a fist came through the face of Johnny Bookreport. Dead Simon #2 tried to extract its' hand out of the back of Johnny’s skull as his body slumped forward in dead weight.

Then a new sound was heard as the paper cutter's blade sliced through the skull of Dead Simon #2. The man that had been Simon #2 stood, then fell forward, leaving a shaking Dr. Gonzo standing behind it.

The Rentals, Califone and the Hold Steady

Albums Purchased

The Rentals – Return of the Rentals

Califone – Quicksand/Cradlesnakes

The Hold Steady – The Hold Steady Live at Fingerprints

To the casual observer this will looks like a direct rip off of Nick Hornby's lovely rendition that he runs on books for the Believer. And, in many ways, casual observer, you are spot on. However, as far as exorcizing and exercising demons goes there is a little if no finer means of conveying a point. Or, from a simpler perspective, it is a means of me justifying my Saturday ritual of a cup of coffee and going to the record store to listen to albums.

Saturday was a productive day in which the ageless battle of Self v. the Kipple in My Bedroom continued. The good news is that hats from all thirty teams in baseball (even the Bitch Sux) hang in my room, co-habitating the walls with the excellent worded phrase my sister had framed for me “Fuck off you Fucking Fucker”.

Matt Sharp’s classic The Return of the Rentals was of no little help during this process. This album was picked up as Friends of P. has been dinging around in my noggin the past several weeks and needed to be taken out for a walk. A good album that seems dated now but in that enjoyable sense of dating where it feels like the album is easy. The nostalgia helped even when I pounded my thumb in lieu of hitting the head of the nail.

I found Califone’s Quicksand/Cradlesnakes in Cheapo’s gently used section and feeling the impulse so I scooped it up. Experimental music has never been a genre that I have glommed onto however the folksy guitar that lead singer Tim Rutili brings with him from Red Red Meat and Ugly Casanova proves a worthy addition to my Sunday morning, impromptu leaf raking session. As art so often mimics life: when I was done raking, more leaves had fallen and I found a lot of work had presented itself and that the album would take a few more spins before I loved it.

At times I feel vindicated in my purchase when Rutili mimics Ryan Adams, like with Vampiring Again. Then, just as quick, I feel like a rube that bought the album for a quick music fix with Cat Eats Coyote.

Curling also kicked off this weekend. These events always lead to great fear and loathing as inevitable failure is recognized from the get go. Keeping with my strict regimen of maintaining peak physical condition and athletic grace, I consumed a good amount of aiming fluid prior to hitting the ice and a doctor recommended allotment of The Hold Steady Live at Fingerprints.

There are few finer things in the world than walking down Selby with your ears on; when you feel that sort of homecoming in beauty and melodies and absolute perfection. You may never be able to go home again but you will never rub the scar off. Listen to Craig Finn play storyteller as he spins songs out of headphones. You walk past old haunts like Costello’s, the Blair Arcade and the Hanging Gnome and feel like your with an old friend.

Last, here are the two songs that twisted my week.

Our Hell, by Emily Haines and the Soft Skeleton, is a beautiful song to begin with but also a slick video. Stripped bare from most of her band Metric, Haines uses her stream of conscious lyrics in a stark, laconic melody. This is not to be confused with her fellow Canadian Feist but more with the adventurousness of a Jenny Lewis without the pop sensibilities of Rilo Kiley.


Staying in Ontario but moving North and East are the Junior Boys. 80’s synthesizers should be avoided, however the Junior Boys make it work. This is helped by the video, of Under the Sun, making me wax nostalgic for those perfect Chicago afternoons but also by the absolute chill of it. Simplistic and, yes, remeniscint of when Zuul succeeded and Gozer showed up but… shit, now I’m telling you about the twinkie.

chapter five

“There isn’t much to say I guess. We’re locked in here. Our friends and co-workers are dead and we can’t get a hold of the police.” Harmon folded his arms and turned his back on Remo’s office where they had placed Remo and Todd’s dead bodies. “The only thing we can do now is say a few good words about those that have left us.”

The group stood in tight quarters, muddled together with a feeling of safety in numbers. Dr. Gonzo went first, “My favorite story of Remo was a night we all came back here after Costello’s. Everybody had been drinking and he had gone into the girl’s bathroom by accident. I don’t know what he was doing in there but he locked himself in. I was banging on the door yelling at him: let me in, let me in, and he was shouting at me I: can’t, I can’t. So I threw up and all the vomit went underneath the door in this thin, digested beer river. That, of course, made him throw up too. He was a real sweetheart when it came to both of us cleaning it up though.”

Mule spoke next, “I remember when Harmon and I convinced him that there was a six foot seven transvestite trying to get a hold of him. We kept pretending to be her, calling his phone all day and telling him we were waiting outside the building. What was the name of the tranny again?”

“Claudette, I think.” A smile wrinkling up the corners of Harmon’s mouth as he continued to stare down at his feet.

“Yeah, Claudette or something like that. We even had a friend of ours at Sex World fax him over pictures of dildos that Claudette was going to use on him that night. The poor bastard didn’t want to leave the office.” Mule paused from looked up, “Funny, I don’t think we ever told him we made that up.”

The group shuffled their feet nobody knowing who should speak next. Johnny Bookreport spoke up, “Shouldn’t somebody say something about Todd?”

Another moment of silence fell on the group. Chuck Funk, who stood closest to Harmon elbowed Harmon in the ribs. “Todd was,” Harmon started then cleared his throat. “Todd was always here. Even though we usually did not want him to be here. Todd was always here.”

Balddee shut the door to Remo’s office. The group looked around the office trying not to establish eye contact.

“What do we do now?” Dirty Orpheus asked.

Mule looked up from the floor. “The only thing we can: we wait.”

Satchel or Bel shrieked and everybody turned around to see the corpses of Dead Simon #1 and Dead Simon #2 moving down the hallway, their bloody jaws open, dripping saliva; unblinking, dead eyes staring, their hands extended to grab the nearest living person.

chapter four

“Someone screamed.”, remarked Balddee while lighting a cigarette.

“Do you have to smoke in here?” Dirty Orpheus questioned, waving his hand in front of his face. “I don’t think Harmon would like it if you were. Did anybody let Todd in?”

“Let him smoke.” Harmon cut in, looking in the direction the scream had come from. “Balddee go check it out. Remo must’ve slipped or something.

Baldee drew another drag from his cigarette exhaling a jet stream dyed red in the emergency lights. “Sure.”

Balddee walked. The corridor was black except for a faint glow coming from the direction of the utility room. He dropped the cigarette down to the floor, crushing it with the sole of his boot then followed the light. He pulled out his lighter so he could see.

On the floor of the utility room laid Remo, electrical cords mixing with charred intestines spilling out of his stomach; a flattened wrist reached out for the cell phone. Balddee lit another cigarette and looked at the cell phone, which did not have service, before flipping it shut. “I guess we all have to pay our dues somehow.”

Balddee picked Remo up and brought him back towards the others. The body felt light until Balddee realized Remo’s legs were no longer attached. He went back into the utility room to collect them and then dragged them out by a loop in the jeans.

Screams came from the front of the office.

“What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?” Dr. Gonzo screeched, clawing at her face. “Balddee, Todd’s dead. His head was chopped off by the revolving door. He’s-” She screamed again, “What the fuck are you carrying?”

Mule and Harmon came toward Balddee carrying the body of Todd Dancer. “Is that Remo?” Mule asked.

Balddee looked down again at what he was carrying. “Yeah. Found him in the utility room.”

Mule dropped his half of Todd causing Harmon to fall into the bloody stump where Todd’s head had been.

“Put both of them in Remo’s office.” Balddee instructed after a silence.

“Balddee's right.” Harmon whispered, “The police will be here any moment now and,” he paused, looking around at the rest of the people in the office. “We’ll leave them in there and let them sort everything out. Come on Mule. I can’t do this on my own.”

Satchel or Bel screamed, then informed the group. “We can’t get out. The revolving doors aren’t moving. Some sort of emergency system must’ve kicked on and the door is sealed shut.”

Balddee lit another cigarette. “That’s just perfect.”

chapter three

“So can I go then?”, asked Marjorie, again. “All of this has upset me and I do have a date later on tonight.”

When it came to leaving work due to romantic engagements, Marjorie had spoken to the most unsympathetic ear in the office. Remo, who had been charged with the removal of the bodies, looked over at her, “Well, we talked with the police and we need to stay here until they show up and do their questioning stuff. I’m sure it’ll only take a couple of minutes and then. I don’t know, yeah, I guess we’ll all be going home.”

There was a sudden shudder from the building as thunder crashed. The lights flickered, dimmed then snuffed out. In an uncontrollable action Remo wrapped his arm around Marjorie letting out a soft “welp”; the fart also was his.

“Get the fuck away from me sicko.” Said Marjorie, pushing Remo to the ground. “You’re smooth moves may work on the rest of the office but they sure as shit aren’t going to work on me. I’m going to go talk with Harmon. I shouldn’t be forced to stay in this shit. I’m a fucking unpaid intern.”

“Remo!” Mule yelled from the other end of the office, “Figure out the power situation. Maybe it was a surge or something. Maybe one of those thingys just needs to be flipped. Or just do something.”

Bel or Satchel screeched, “There are fucking dead bodies here and we’re in the dark.”

Satchel or Bel replied, “Here, I have some Jeff Buckley, just cool your shit out.”

The emergency lights kicked on shooting an eerie red glow into Harmon’s office illuminating the facial features of the corpses. With a sigh, Remo closed the door and took the corner that lead towards the utility room. The hysterics from the rest of the office ebbed away and a certain peace came to him.

Remo picked a phone up off the wall but there was no dial tone. He flipped open his cell phone but it showed no service. He used the light from the cell and walked into the utility room and fumbled towards the circuit breaker.

Having never invested the money to bring the building up to code the circuit breaker had slipped into disrepair and proved difficult to open. He struggled with it for a second before dislodging the door and toppling onto his back.

While lying on the floor, a satisfied feeling came over him: his truck was running, his house had been completely finished, all of his friends were coming over and, best of all, he was going to get laid.

He struggled to stand not wanting to lose the sweetness of the dream but aware that the rest of the office was depending on him to fix the power. He blinked once and then drifted back down, down onto his back.

A cracking sound informed Remo his wrist had snapped. He saw a major power cord rip out of the wall and thrust into his stomach with a blinding spark of life. His last breath was expunged in a short, stifled scream. And then, there was nothing.

chapter two

Monday came to the offices of Bad Mother Coitus with a sky like a hangover. Weather reports dominated the news with floods and storms covering the entire state. Harmon, who worked the farthest away, was hampered the most and last to arrive. So as not to improve Harmon’s Monday experience, Todd Dancer regaled the office with lyrics and pronouncements about his bitches.

Behind the office’s revolving door chaos reigned supreme. Harmon’s office was last one on the left down the long isle, a section of the office Balddee already prowled with a cane and promises of domination. Dr. Gonzo chatted on her computer to somebody on one of the coasts while in the next office over Pedro, the cat, rubbed himself on any available object knowing full well it would cause most of the allergic population to grow sick.

Potential new interns huddled behind the closed door of the conference room filling out forms. Harmon considered yelling at Mule, who was supposed to be interviewing them but who instead was staring at the coffee pot, willing it to make coffee, before giving up.

“Have you heard this yet?” Satchel or Bel asked Harmon as he tried to make his way past. He could never remember which was which. “It’s an early scratch recording of Ambulance LTD’s s/a album. It’s really fucking good. I could make you a copy of it if you’d like.” Not in the mood for conversation, Harmon waved a non-committal hand in their face and continued forward, ever forward.

Ellen was putting herself into a bondage harness when Marjorie cornered him. “Harm, due to the bad weather do you think that we could all go home early? I don’t want to get stuck out in this and my girlfriend and I are going on this big date tonight and I really don’t want to miss it.”

Harmon mumbled something non-descript while Marlon Maxey, the office attorney, phone tucked against shoulder beckoned him so they could talk about the latest lawsuit. Ignoring this, Harmon found similar un-enjoyment with the loud interview Dirty Orpheus was having with people in Crapcago.

At his office, at last he turned the knob. He opened the door where he found the dead bodies of Simon and Simon, the former Team Building leaders, hanging on the wall.

“That’s a shame.”

chapter one

The easiest way to explain what has happened to the Bad Mother Coitus zine is to look at the unmarked letter that came from Bob in Pequot Lakes, MN. Ellen discovered the letter while trying to organize the Monday Mailbag segment then passed it along to Mule.

In typical BMC fashion, Mule let the letter gather dust for several months until an idle Friday where no worthy challengers showed to play Harmon and him for the office Volleybag title and he found himself bored enough to buckle down on actual work.

Mule looked the letter through several times before making Harmon read it.

“I didn’t even know we had a cleaning room.”

Harmon, in his usual disappointed air remarked, “It’s next to the break room.” When Harmon noticed that this failed to register recognition with his writing partner, “Where you keep your coffee.”

They walked down the hall to the door marked ‘Cl aning oom’, inside of which were cleaning supplies purchased twenty years ago most leaking and, no doubt, seeping chemicals into the surrounding office. But masked by the shelves and with no real light to show laid a small door. Written across the door in large font type was a warning: “Do not open this door… Ever!”

“Think we should open it?” asked Mule, looking at Harmon in the dim light.

“Well, the warning label advises us not to and there is that letter from Bob which indicates it would be a poor idea.”

“Well, there is that.” Neither of them moved. In the background Balddee shouted at the telephone even though his phone line had been disconnected some weeks ago. Mule spoke again, “It’s not like it would hurt anything if we just opened it a crack. I mean seriously what could possibly be in there that could be so bad?”

“I guess it couldn’t really hurt.”

“Remo has a crowbar in his office.”

“And why wouldn’t he have a crowbar in his office?”

After much heaving and cursing Harmon opened the door and huffed “Well, that was anticlimactic.” A remark aimed at Mule who had not helped in opening the door whatsoever. Both looked into the small, empty, blasted hole that had been uncovered.

“Fuck it, let’s go to Happy Hour, today’s shot anyway.” Mule commented as a means of empathy.

Harmon shut the door with a large clang, the reverb shaking the entire office. Harmon and Mule stared at each other, alarmed for the briefest of seconds as the office shook to a stand still.

But it was quitting time and, in the offices of Bad Mother Coitus there is no holier of a time. All the occupants skipped across Selby towards Costello’s for a much deserved dose of Friday reality.