Collaboration
Since it was requested, and it pleases me to do so, I’m posting one of the old columns I did with Smith Michaels. If he doesn’t want the screenname he never uses reveald, he can wake himself up from whatever Scandinavian hell hole he’s passed out in and edit this damn thing himself. I have nothing to hide.
From the archives: MAX PAINE
It was dark, dark like the thoughts of one of those 17-year olds on Barney who think about what a real life would be like, dark like when you have your eyes close, like when you’re asleep. The scream, a scream like the sound of a dying emu, like the sound of an cheap Wal-Mart brand alarm clock with AM, FM settings and dual alarms going off, pierced through the dark darkness that hid the light. My eyes cracked open, open like a 7-11 at midnight, or a fat man’s fly at an opera, and then I saw the truth. It was late, late like the insulin for the dead diabetic, late like 15 minutes late. Dag. (more…)
