Hey jerks. Dante Starsailor here. Dad gave me the keys to the castle, so to speak, so I just wanted to make an introductory post. Gonna be writing a lot of good stories. Been thinking about a lot of cool shit. I’d say more, but I’ve got a sweet babe coming over, and god knows I love me some sweet babes.

Till next time . . . be bad, be hot, be fearless. Love y’all so god damn much. Peace.

Here’s a story I thought you might enjoy. My dad told it to me yesterday. I’ve heard it a few times, but I always like hearing it. It’s a true story.

My grandpa Ron was a cop in Chicago a while ago—I think in the 1980s was when this happened.

It was a slow night. He picked some guy up downtown for something stupid, shoplifting or public urination.

He took him down to the station. He leads the guy to a room—not an interrogation room, just some empty room to talk to him in. He was probably going to lecture him and let him go. My grandpa must have not done a very good job patting him down, because when they got in there and my grandpa shut the door, the guy pulled a gun on him!

My grandpa, 6 foot 2 and built like a cement mixer, pulls out his own gun, points it at the dude, and says, “Give me that”. The guy is significantly smaller than him, and also terrified, so he hands him the gun without a struggle.

Then my grandpa looks the guy in the eyes and says: “If this gun is loaded, I’m gonna have to kill you with it!”

The guy is trying to stay calm, but he’s sweating and shaking like a leaf. My grandpa pops the chamber open, and sure enough, it’s loaded. My grandpa laughs and says, “All right, son, you sit down in that chair. I’ll be just a second, and when I get back, I’m gonna kill you.” The guy is so scared that he sits down in the chair without putting up a fight. My grandpa walks out of the room, locking the door behind him.

My grandpa walks down the hall to another room and puts the guy’s gun in a lockbox. Then he comes back and opens the door. The guy got a window open, and was trying to jump out! He would have fallen a few stories, and it probably would have killed him. The dude would have rather killed himself than get shot by my grandpa!

My grandpa Ron felt so bad about it that he sat there with the guy until he calmed down. They had a cup of coffee. Then he let him go—without his gun.

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At last call we got in the car

And drove like psychos

Through the dead city of Oakland

To the pathetic empty streets of Berkeley

Where we urinated on the clock tower

The moon hung up in the sky

Still swollen from the night before

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Satisfied with our streams

We ran back to the car

Our noses inflamed

And everything else fried to hell

Scaring the few twerps on foot

With our howling

And manic stupid caveman laughter.


Casper Lockett was seated on his $30,000 sofa thinking about big tits and cool guns and good whisky. He would leave for Tokyo in the morning. Tonight he would fuck his robot secretary and his robot housekeeper and his robot cook and his robot sex doll until his dick fell off and his testicles exploded.

“Jesus, Ingrid, where are you?” said Casper. He slapped his fist down on his $12,000 coffee table and managed to swallow the bile that was creeping up his throat like a cockroach. “I don’t pay you to not fuck me.”

“You don’t pay me at all,” said Ingrid. “I’m a robot.” She stepped out of the hallway closet and closed the door behind her. She had been hiding.

Casper’s penis was rock-hard. Her motions had made it swell and now it was pulsing there on his hairy thigh.

“Get over here,” he said, “and show me what you do for free.”

Ingrid glided over the smooth obsidian floors and knelt beside him. She lowered her head and rested it on his knee. It was a ritual the two knew well. Casper gently stroked her synthetic hair and eyed his throbbing member as it grew larger still. Soon it would reach her chin—and then things would really get wild.

“You’re going to be gone so long,” Ingrid said. “I don’t know what I’ll do.” It was the most melancholy Casper had ever seen her. For a moment he even felt bad for her. But then he stopped feeling that way before it got weird.

“Two months ain’t that long. And you know the Japs, they always find a way to kick me out.” Casper Lockett had been caught consuming industrial quantities of drugs on various Tokyo rooftops and train platforms and in hotel bars and public restrooms during his stays there but had managed to avoid jail time due to his immense wealth.

“But you’ll come back?”

“Yeah. After I smoke a bunch of dope weed with those Yakuza fucks. Crazy fuckers. In general Jap weed ain’t all that great, but these creeps have the good stuff.” He paused. “And of course I’ve got to attend some—you know, some god damn meetings. Financial stuff.”

Casper thought for a moment and couldn’t figure out why exactly he wasn’t fucking Ingrid. What was with all this talking? he thought.

The head of his penis was engorged with blood. It was reaching the legal limit and he knew that if he didn’t hide it inside someone or something soon, the holo-scanners would pick it up and the cops would come knocking. He lifted Ingrid’s chin with his right hand and gazed into her vacant robot eyes. There was a tiny flash of something in there, deep and far away, and it startled him to see it. He realized then that there were thoughts and feelings swirling around inside her, even if she was little else than miles and miles of wiring shoved inside a pleasant-looking human-shaped thing.

“Let’s get down to it or I’m gonna lose it.” He took a cigar from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. The bile was coming back but he let it simmer there for a moment before pushing it down again with a heroic gulp.

“I thought maybe we could watch the city for a while. I wanted to stand by the window with you and watch the city. Before you left.”

The city was in flames three hundred stories below Casper Lockett’s top-floor penthouse apartment. People were screaming and crying out for food and comfort—for anything other than the painful deaths that surely awaited them.

Casper fingered the remote in his pocket and the shades lowered. The penthouse became dark and moody and cavelike, even more so than before. The dim overhead lights glowed somberly on the obsidian floors.

There was faint chatter heard elsewhere in the place. It was Casper’s other robot servants. They were plotting to kill him later in the night while he slept.

“Let’s fuck,” said Casper, preoccupied. He hadn’t made out a single word. The cigar was still unlit in his mouth.

“I hope that one day things change for us, Casper. I love you and want the best for you. And I want you to want those things too—for me and for you.”

“Uh huh.” Casper stood up and put his hands on his hips. His boner ripped his pants and flopped out of the hole it had created. It hung there unflinchingly—trapped in the mucus of the moment. Casper laughed at the sight of it. It was big and fierce. It was ready to go.

In the morning Casper Lockett would leave for Tokyo. But tonight he would fuck a bunch of robots until his dick fell off and his testicles exploded.

I had gone to Target because I didn’t want to be at home and because I wanted to feel as horribly isolated and alone as possible. When I got into the place I made a beeline for the toy aisle and went into the one with the yellow walls—yellow denoting “neutral” toys, the other aisles being some garish pink and some terrible blue, because apparently boys and girls can’t play with the same toys unless they’re weird and hard to categorize.

Of course I immediately took the cat keyboard off the shelf. I always take the cat keyboard off the shelf. The cat keyboard is a child’s music-thing shaped like a cat’s grinning face. Its teeth are the keys. If you press the “meow” button the keyboard produces notes using synthesized cat meows. It is the best thing they sell. It is the best thing anyone sells.

I held it there with my left hand and pressed the keys with my right. It wasn’t enough to keep the meows to myself. I wanted to share them with the world. So I stepped out of the aisle and stood there in that big-ass through lane near the electronics section. That’s when I saw you coming towards me holding a half gallon of milk and a bag of apples. You had on a big weird jacket and your hair was red as hell. I thought you were a good-looking person. Meanwhile other bad-looking people were passing by, either ignoring me or giving me hateful glances, maybe because they’re not having any fun at all and can’t stand the sight of someone else trying to have some, but you laughed and smiled at me when you got close. And when you did I played the first few notes to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”.

Girl, I played those notes for you. I just wanted you to know.

Keep twinkling, baby.

Tonight John and I sat in the back of a pub on Telegraph Avenue and listened to strangers laugh and scream about terrible things that couldn’t possible matter to anyone anywhere. I said to John, leaning over the wooden table: “They may as well be slamming stones down on coconuts while the rest of the apes watch on with vacant grins.” John nodded but his eyes were all bad. He’d been out of it all night.

“Maybe that was a mean thing to say,” I went on, not sure if he was paying attention, “but let’s not pretend it isn’t true.”

I stood up and walked over to the door. Outside it was raining like a real bastard. I was glad we had driven our old Fremont police car to get there. The “DOOMSMOBILE,” as we called it, was parked on a nearby curb and I wanted to walk out of the bar and sit inside the damn thing while the rain came down on the windshield.

John said he was going to use the bathroom and I went to the bar to pay my tab. When I got back to the table he was gone. I found him leaning against the windows out front. His hood was up and he looked shredded. We walked down the sidewalk together, not saying anything, and I got in on the driver’s side and unlocked the doors. The two of us sat down and put on some good music.

In the rearview mirror I saw the only sign of aging I had experienced in ten years, the spiderweb crack of flesh beneath my eyes . . . little trails going nowhere. John lit a cigarette and I thought that maybe I needed to either get laid or jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.

We drove west in the rain. On Peralta Street I let John out and he put our rent checks in our landlord’s mailbox. I watched half a month’s salary disappear and the rain came down harder.

John got back in the car and slammed the door behind him. He leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes.

I stomped on the accelerator, letting those cop tires squeal against the asphalt, and aimed the DOOMSMOBILE toward downtown Oakland hoping maybe we’d see a body or at least a few sparks.