OMG! NEW MATERIAL!

It's been too long, my friends. My bad. Here's quick BS update. Last fall I announced a book project, Real Zombies of Palo Alto. Long story short, it's on haitus and probably will be that way for the foreseeable future.
However, there is more zombie news to report. First, I hate Andrea on The Walking Dead. Second, and most importantly, I've began a new zombie project named Sustineo. I'm really excited about it and though it's still in the early stages of development, it's got more potential and promise than anything else I've ever written. I'll try to update often. Below is a short sample of the story.
Thank you everyone for your interest and support since the start of Battlestar Sarcastica.

PLEASE NOTE: This is a early and rough draft. There might be a few grammatical errors. Hope you enjoy.

 

 The Dawn of Death

SUNDAY SEPTEMBER 16, 2018 21:38

“I know you’re out here, you diseased son of a bitch! Where the Hell are you?” Private Randy Murphy said aloud in a voice dripping with false bravado. The Illinois National Guardsman crept along a brick wall in an alley near the checkpoint at Lake Shore and Wacker along Lake Michigan. A late summer thunder storm was pounding the area, making a horrible night worse. The rapid fire lightning threw ominous shadows on the walls of the already unnervingly dark alley. Rain came down hard on the pavement and felt like rocks as it hit Murphy.

 His uniform was soaked and his boots had begun holding water. His full face respirator was starting to irritate the skin on his face. He wanted nothing more than to rip the damned mask off his face, but he wasn’t sure if that would be a smart move. He’d rather play it safe and be uncomfortable than be infected and cozy. Not much was widely known about the infection other than those who became infected were at risk of spreading the illness rapidly if they weren’t quarantined quickly. 

“Come out now, you stupid bastard! What’s the matter, you chicken shit or something?”  Truth be told, Murphy was the one who was scared. He talked a good game with the guys at the checkpoint. He often bragged and embellished stories about his past, anything to help himself feel like he was one of the guys. Most of the other Guardsmen knew he was full of shit and tried to avoid talking to him as much as possible. 

Murphy’s commanding officer, Sergeant Robin Marsh  hated the kid, too. That’s why he picked him to track down a man showing signs of the infection. Normally two soldiers would be sent out to track down a carrier, a name the soldiers had given people who were recently infected, but Murphy was in full dickhead mode tonight. Murphy had been grating everyone’s nerves with stories about his athletic prowess, even though a guy as small as him stood little chance of being a stud on a football field.

The man Murphy was tracking was suspected of being a carrier that had approached the checkpoint asking for help. He told the soldiers at the makeshift gate that he was burning up and starving. From what little the Guardsmen knew about the infection, a severe fever and a growing hunger were both symptoms of the infection. The protocol was to apprehend any and all suspected carriers. The soldiers were moving towards to man to bring him in when he turned and bolted towards the alley.

“Murphy to Sgt. Marsh, come in please,” Murphy called out using his walkie. I give up, the dude’s gone, Murphy thought to himself. “You better have found that dickhead, Murphy.” Shit. I’m screwed. “I’ve looked everywhere-“ Murphy cut himself off at the sound of a trashcan being knocked over. “Please…help me. Sir, please…” a frail voice called out through the pounding rain. “Standby, Sarge. Think I got him.” 

Murphy readied his M16 and stepped lightly toward the trashcan. “Don’t do anything stupid, Murphy,” Marsh called over the walkie. Murphy had pulled out a Rosary out of his pocket  and had a white knuckled death grip on it and his rifle. The Rosary hung from his trigger hand and swung in the stiff breeze of the storm.

“I hear you, stupid ass. Show yourself.” There was a rustling from behind the trash can. Murphy stiffened up and cleared his throat. The noise grew loader as Murphy inched closer. He was within a few feet of the can when something stepped into the beam of the flashlight attached to his rifle. It was the man from the checkpoint. He stood roughly six feet in front of Murphy and began to twitch. “On your knees, sir.” The man‘s face was pale and looked bruised. The man took a clumsy step toward Murphy. “Please…help me.” The man was clutching his neck. “Something bit me. Please.” The man’s voice sounded strangely calm to Murphy. “On your knees or I’ll shoot you. Drop to your knees. Now!” He yelled in his bravest voice. The man inched forward. “Last chance, idiot. Drop to your knees.” Murphy mutterd a prayer under his breath and switched off the rifle’s safety. The man continued towards Murphy and raised a bloodied hand. 

A second figure emerged from the shadows. A streak of lightning revealed the second person: a short, thin man covered in blood. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God,” Murphy muttered as the blood soaked man jumped on the back of the man Murphy had been tracking. The attacker bit the man’s neck, dropping him to the ground in a bloody heap. The man lay motionless as the attacker raised his head and set his sights on Murphy. He rose awkwardly from the now lifeless body and started toward Murphy.

“Murphy, what’s going on? Come in.” The radio’s sudden noise startled the man. He hissed and lunged for the solider. Murphy squeezed the M16’s trigger. The shot hit the man in the chest and knocked him to the ground. “Jesus, Murphy, you better answer me or I’m gonna kill you myself.” Murphy, dazed and shaken, keyed his walkie. “I’m fine, Sarge. I didn’t have a choice, sir. He came at me.” 

Murphy bent over and puked into a puddle in the alley as the man rose to his feet. Murphy turned his head towards wear the attacker’s body fell. It was no longer there. “The hell?” he asked himself. A hand grabbed Murphy by the shoulder. “Jesus, Sarge. You scared me.” Murphy turned to face Marsh but instead was staring into the eyes of a dead man. The attacker bared his teeth and sank them into Murphy’s neck and clawed at his chest. 

In less than thirty seconds, Private Randy Murphy was dead, laying in a puddle of his own blood. The attacker stood over his body, swaying slightly from side to side and hissing. “Murphy? Murphy! Where the Hell are you?” Marsh’s voice boomed down the alley. The Sergeant and two other soldiers were running toward Murphy at full speed, rifles at the ready. The group reached the attacker and lowered their rifles, thinking it was Murphy. An explosion of light flooded the alley, revealing the attacker’s true identity to the soldiers.

 “Jesus, Sarge. That ain’t Murphy,” one of the soldiers said to Marsh. The Sergeant stood shell shocked. “Who is it then?” the other soldier asked. “Not who. What,” Marsh said quietly. “Come again, Sarge?” Marsh raised his rifle and switched off the safety. “That’s not a person, Howard. It’s a monster.” 

The attacker cocked his head to the side and hissed. He began to trot clumsily toward the soldiers. Marsh took a few steps toward the attacker before firing a single round into the man’s forehead. “Whoa! What the Hell, Sarge?” Howard screamed as the attacker fell lifeless to the ground.

“Like I said, it’s a monster,” Marsh said calmly as he pulled a phone from his pocket. He punched a few keys and coughed before speaking.

 “Sir, this is Sergeant Marsh, with the National Guard. We’ve got a situation down here in sector 5A. Well, I…I, uh, I’m pretty sure I just shot a zombie, sir.”

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Ask an Asshole

Hello, dumb asses. Welcome to the first and probably last edition of my advice column, Ask an Asshole. The reason I say probably last is, frankly, most advice columnists are asshole who think they know what they're talking about and there's already a ton of those assholes out there already.

Dear Asshole:

The guy I've had a crush on for the last year or so finally asked me out on a date. We're going out this Friday night so I've got a few days to figure out what I'm going to wear. The problem is I can't make my mind up.
Do I wear nice dress clothes and risk coming off as a high maintenance woman? Or should I wear something kinda sexy? I don't want him to think I'm easy or a hussy. I mean, I'll totally have sex with him on our first date, but I don't want him to think I'm slutty.


Please help!
Indecisive Idiot in Ida-ho.

Dear Idiot:

The fact that it took a year for him to ask you for a date means one of two things: either you're a hideously ugly lady or he finally got drunk enough to lower his standards enough to want a date with you. Actually, I guess those are pretty much the same as each other.

Anyway, I think if you're going to 'totally have sex with him' on your first date, you're probably a bit on the slutty side already anyway. I think it's safe to say you have more slutty clothes than nice dress clothes. Am I right? Of course I am. Might as well stick with what you are familiar with.

I'm going to have to wrap this up. My editor wants to talk to me about my professionalism. I think that means I'm fired.

Oh well.

Asshole

My Time with the Justic League

I doubt the non-disclosure agreement I signed has expired, but screw it, I’ve got a story to tell and bills to pay, so here goes.

I used to be a member of the Justice League. As Sgt. Sarcastica, I fought crime and long lines at the waterslide alongside Batman, Superman and Wonder Tits…I mean Wonder Woman.

Since Superman is an asshole and made me stand in the back because he's an asshole, you have to squint and look in the top right corner to see me because Superman's an asshole.

 

With Green Lantern’s ability to make large, green fists, the Flash’s super speed, and my sharp wit, the world could sleep soundly at night, knowing that the Joker and his cohorts were behind bars.  Then they escaped again, and everyone was pretty much fucked until we showed up.

Times were good back then.  I never had to pay for drinks and was always surrounded by at least a half dozen super models.  Strangers would applaud and kids would shout my name everywhere I went. Every couple of months I’d make an appearance on the late night talk shows.  I once held a key to damn near every city in the USA.  Those were the days.  But, just like Jessica Simpson’s body, stuff started to go downhill.

This happened because Superman's an asshole. This never would have happened on my watch.

One day, as Green Arrow and me were watching a football game in the Watchtower rec room, Superman came in and turned off the TV. 

“What the hell, Supes?” Green Arrow shouted. 

“We have money on that game, douchebag,” I added. 

“You know my stance on gambling guys.  Anyway, I need everyone together in the Hall of Justice. There’s someone I want you guys to meet,” Superman said before he sauntered away. 

“Twenty bucks says it’s one of those Make-A-Wish kids again,” I said to Arrow.

 “Doubt it. Last time we had one of those kids here, Martian Manhunter scared the shit out of the kid and he pissed all over the place. Don’t you remember how pissed Batman was?” 

The team had assembled around the table in the large room.  Everyone, except Superman, was already in the room. Batman sat on the far side of the table, glowering at the two of us. 

“What took you so long? We’ve been waiting," he hissed.

Flipping him the bird, I sat in my usual spot, directly across from Wonder Woman and her Jugs of Justice.  Arrow took the seat next to mine.  

“Should I turn the AC down a bit, DubDub? Looks like you’re a little chilly over there,” I said, bumping fists with Arrow.

 “Listen, you prick,” Wonder Woman growled.  “Don’t call me DubDub or her Royal Hotness. It’s Wonder Woman.  Got it, asshole?” 

Before I could say anything, the door to the Hall opened and Superman walked into the room. 

“Hey, Wonder Woman. Nice to see you,” he said, walking with an odd limp.

“Uh-oh. Boner Alert!” I yelled.  Arrow bumped fists with me as everyone else glared at us.

“Thanks for coming. Over the last few weeks, Batman, Wonder Woman and I have discussed bringing a new member on board.  After much consideration, we’ve decided to add two members. Everyone, please welcome Aquaman and Hawkman.” Superman turned to face the two newest members as they walked into the room.  “Green Arrow, I’d appreciate it if you would show Aquaman around the Watchtower. Sarge, please do the same for Hawkman.”

 Reluctantly, I rose from my chair and walked over to the newbie, pausing to point and wink at Wonder Woman and give her the "call me" hand signal.  She stood and slapped her hands on the table, causing me to flinch and walk a little quicker.  

“Sup, Birdman. I’m Sgt. Sarcastica but you can call me Sarge,” I said, lifting my hand to shake his. He stood there, looking first at my hand then looking me in the eye.

 “I’m Hawkman. You can call me Hawkman. Call me anything else and I’ll peck your eyes out.” Seeing the look of shock in my face, he smiled coyly.  “Just kidding.  I’ll bludgeon you within an inch of a vegetative state,” he said as he slapped me on the back. 

“Roger that, Hawkman.”  What a dick.

After walking him around the Watchtower, I left Hawkman in his quarters and made my way to the dining area. The Flash and Green Lantern were sitting at a table, staring at a chessboard positioned between them. 

“Dudes,” I said, nodding to both of them as I grabbed a bottle of water and sat down at their table.  Flash gave me a quick salute while GL, deep in thought, gave half a grunt. “What do you guys think of the two new guys?”

 Flash gave a quick shrug. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.” 

GL made his move and leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles.  “I like them.  I think they’ll be great additions. What do you think, Sarge?”

 I finished the rest of my water and threw the bottle across the room towards the trash can.  It was just a few inches from the can when a large green hand swatted it from the air.  “Not in my house, Sarge,” GL chuckled.

 “I’m not sold on Hawkman yet," I said.  "Haven’t talked to Aquaman.  I'm about to head that way now. Oh, hey. Flash, you’re one move away from winning the game.  GL, you’re an asshole.  Deuces, bitches.”

I was approaching the door to Aquaman’s quarters when the distress beacon sounded. “Talking to the Waterboy can wait, I guess,” I said to myself out loud. I turned to jog to the Hall of Justice when I bumped into Martian Manhunter. “Fuck me. You okay, man? Sorry,” I said. 

“Sarge, please, the language. I’m fine. Come.  Let’s see what’s going on.” I’ll say this about Manhunter:  he’s probably the calmest, most easy going guy I’ve ever met.  Get on his bad side, however, and you’ll probably end up being able to piss out of your elbow.  

“Sure, let’s go,” I said, more than relieved he wasn’t pissed.

Once we were all in the Hall, Batman hit a button and the giant computer screen came to life. “Bad news, everyone. I just got word from Robin that the rumors of an alliance between the Joker, Lex Luthor, Sinestro, Gorilla Grodd and Mongul aren’t just rumors anymore. Their respective gangs are attacking major cities simultaneously on Earth. I have a feeling it’s more than likely a trap. Looks like they want us to split up to stop them and that’s exactly what we have to do.  Flash and Green Lantern, take Hawkman with you and head to Central City, where Sinestro and Gorilla Grodd are teamed up. Grodd is using mind control to destroy the city. I can only imagine what his next move will be. Superman and Manhunter will head to Metropolis to stop Luthor. Take Hawkgirl with you. Sarge, Arrow and Aquaman will head to Star City to stop Mongul.  Nightwing will meet you guys there. Wonder Woman and I will head to Gotham to take out Joker.  Red Tornado and Robin will join us. Everyone needs to stay alert. I’ve got a feeling there’s more to this than we are aware of right now. Good luck.”

“Alright. Arrow, Fishsticks lets do this," I announced.  "You might want to call Captain Marvel and see if he can give us some help.”  We piled into one of the Watchtower’s transport shuttles and headed to Earth.  Aquadouche passed the time by vomiting.  Everywhere. 

“First time traveling in space, huh?” Arrow asked. 

 Aquafuck took a break from puking all over the fucking shuttle.  “Second. I rode up with Superman earlier. It was different with him, though. He didn’t take as long to get there,” he said before throwing up again. 

“Really?  Only the second trip? I couldn’t tell. You puke one more time and I swear to God, I will go to the Star City Aquarium and punch every fucking fish they have. Pull yourself together.”

 He managed to stop puking as we landed just outside the city.  “I’m sorry. I’m not used to that type of gravity. It’s a lot different than traveling under the sea.” 

I was beyond irritated with Batman at this point for sticking Arrow and me with the rookie. “Fucksakes, man. This ain’t SeaWorld, asshole. This shit’s real and it’s about to get even more real. Mongul is one bad motherfucker. Stick with me and you’ll be okay.  Arrow will cover us with until we can reach that building over there. Then we’ll cover him until he catches up. Once we’re together again, I’ll take the left flank and Arrow will head right. You’ll be our spotter. Let us know when Mongul is in the right spot and we’ll attack.  Got it?”

 Fishfuck looked confused. “Attack with what?” 

Arrow and I exchanged glances.  “Green Arrow is the best archer in the world. I’ve got this big fucking gun that shoots shit and goes boom.” 

He started puking again. “Fuck this, Sarge. I can’t do it. Oh, God. I’m sorry.” He ran back to the vomit covered shuttle, somehow managing to puke twice while running full tilt. If I didn’t hate his fucking guts, I’d be impressed.

“So, Sarge...now what?” Arrow asked with a bit of fear in his voice. “Is there a plan B or do we just wing it and shoot at him?” I wasn’t expecting the usually brave Green Arrow to show the slightest bit of fear, but there it was. I couldn’t help but feel like something wasn’t quite right with the situation. “Sarge? C’mon, man. What’s the plan?”

 Scanning the surrounding buildings, I saw the sky had begun to grow darker and the air cooled slightly.  “What the fuck? What’s going on?” I turned towards Arrow but he was gone.  “Arrow? Where are you?” No response. No sound of movement, either. “Chicken shit,” I said to myself out loud. The sky was almost as dark as Mel Gibson’s soul.  My mind began to race, trying to make sense of the situation. We’d been up against Mongul before, but nothing like this had happened before. 

A dozen different thoughts raced through my mind.  Where did Arrow go? If Wonder Woman can fly, why does she need that invisible jet? The thought of Wonder Woman, or more specifically, Wonder Woman’s cleavage of justice, distracted me from noticing that there were no sounds anymore and the sky had turned as black as Gigli was a horrible movie (DIFF SIMILE?). I was lost in deep thought. I wondered how drunk Wonder Woman would have to get before she would Jell-O wrestle with Hawkgirl. I was pulled from my fantasy by the bone jarring tackle of an invisible attacker.

I was soon pinned to the ground and felt someone or something on my chest. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” A fist three times as hard as granite answered my question.  Before I could take another breath, my attacker showered my face with roughly a hundred punches. There was only one person I could think of capable of pulling off a feat like that. “Is that you, Betty White?” I asked, on the brink of unconsciousness.  A knee pressed down on my throat as the sky exploded with an intense white light. 

“You think you’re funny, huh? Think I wouldn’t figure out who did it?” the attacker asked. The voice sounded familiar, but the sound of my heart racing and the bright light made it nearly impossible to identify.  The knee lifted from my neck and was quickly replaced by two hands.  I was lifted off the ground and realized that I was in the holographic training area of the Watchtower.

“What the fuck, Superman? Let me go! I’ll fucking kill you!” 

Just a friendly word of advice, never threaten to kill Superman. You’ll just have to trust me.

 His grip tightened and I grew weaker by the second.  “Just say you did it and I’ll let go,” Superdick said. I’d be stupid not to comply.

“Fuck you.”  Bravo, Einstein. 

“Say it, you fucking dildo” he raged.

“Shit. Fine, asshole. I did it. Let me go.” 

Another piece of advice, when you ask Superdouche to let you go, make sure you’re not 30 feet in the air at the time. He will be more than happy to oblige. What a prick.

SuperdickheadwhoIwanttostabinthefacewithsomethingsharpandcoveredwithherpes stood over me as I lay in a crumpled heap. “So you admit you put Kryptonite powder in Wonder Woman’s underwear?  You think that’s funny, butt fuck?”

“Yes. I find it absofuckinglutely hilarious, Supercocksucker.”  I’m such a fucking idiot.

“Are you really that petty and jealous of me sleeping with her that you would do something like that?”

“Not really. I just think you’re a major douchebag. What did you expect, you ate the last of my Froot Loops, asshole. You had it coming. Did you really set up an elaborate hologram just to kick my ass? Lame.”

“You’re right. It is lame. I can’t satisfy Wonder Woman now. The Kryptonite gave me ED, asshole.”

I began to laugh uncontrollably at the thought of Superman sitting on the edge of Wonder Woman’s invisible bed while sobbing and saying ‘this has never happened before.’

The last thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing a large red boot coming towards my face. And pissing myself. Turns out Superman can kick pretty hard.

Cracked Out with 'Stone

I recently had the opportunity to chat with funnyman Gladstone. If you haven’t read any of his
work on Cracked.com or watched any of the 70 plus episodes of his hit internet series, Hate by
Numbers, you’re an idiot and should go check them out.

Andy Brown: How does an average day in the life of Gladstone go?

Gladstone: I wake early. I have small children. I write on the train to my day job. Work the day
job. Write on the train home from the day job. Rinse and repeat. Weekend with family who are
the reasons for the day job.

Q When did you decided to give writing a shot?

G: I was an English major. I was always writing, mostly serious fiction.
But in 2004 online humor started to actually be something. And I wanted to try that.
I proceeded to meet all my best friends online and they were all humor writers and I realized
that's what I was.

AB: Not counting the other writers for Cracked.com, who is your favorite humor writer?

G: Oh, geez. Online?

AB: In general.

G: I can't answer that. And it’s too hard, but my stock answers for best "bloggers" are Matt
Tobey and Dennis DiClaudio of Comedy Central Insider and Indecision, respectively. They are
true bloggers. One or two paragraphs. Smart. Quick. Funny. I can't really do what they do.

AB: Have you given serious consideration to making writing your day job? Or would that ruin it
for you?

G: In the sense of starving to death and dying and watching my kids live in the street? Yeah, that
would be a buzz kill.

AB: Bullshit. Dan Brown doesn't starve. I think you'd be safe.

G: Most Internet writing opportunities, even many television writing opportunities, would not
support my family.

AB: Have you ever been recognized on the train or in a coffee shop as Gladstone from Hate by
Numbers?

G: I have been recognized as Gladstone from Hate by Numbers in public exactly once.

AB: Did that person like the show at least?

G: Big fan.

AB: Did you feel like a rock star?

G: I was actually with my son and it made me feel weird, so I said, "well then you must know
my neighbor's kid Johnny," and he said "yeah, Psychic Kids". That was kinda cool.

AB: Did your son think it was cool, too?

G: I guess.

AB: When HBN started, did you envision it going over 70 episodes?

G: No. I had no long term ideas for HBN. Only that I didn't want it to get stale or to be a rant
show. I could have kept it going but, for me, I proved the viability of the show by doing some of
my best episodes for AOL -- 21 in all -- and when Asylum folded, it seemed like it made sense
to try something new. Cracked was wonderful about not cutting ties when HBN left. And also
wonderful welcoming me back to a weekly column.

AB: Tell me about your screenplays.

G: I have one fully written complete screenplay. I have not sold it. I'm currently writing another
one that I think will be more saleable with Ian Fortey.

AB: The one you've got completely written, what's it about?

G: An aging action star must team up with his younger replacement to save both their careers
and just maybe the world.

AB: Interesting. Did you write either part with a particular actor in mind?

G: It’s loosely based on James Bond, so Hugh Grant would be dream casting.

AB: How different do you think your life would be had you not pursued writing humor online?

G: Not very different. But, if my online work leads to something full time, then very different

AB: Do you still play music much?

G: Not really. Just teaching my son guitar. My daughter wants a ukulele for her birthday. I'll
learn that with her.
AB: Do your kids want to be writers?

G: Hard to say.

AB: What's the one thing about you that would surprise your fans the most if they found out?

G: I’m constantly giving people more credit than they deserve. Not less. I'm idealistic, not
cynical.

AB: That’s never a bad thing. Thanks for your time, Gladstone. BattlestarSarcastica.com
appreciates it.

G: No problem.

Fear And Loathing In Gotham City

   “Move to Gotham City” my wife said. So what do I do? I listen. Pack all our stuff up and leave Flint, Michigan and move to the great Gotham City. We found a nice apartment and I found a job as foot patrol for the police department. I thought things were going well, but my boss Commissioner Gordon turned out to be a huge d-bag. I’ve asked and asked him for overtime and he is like “no Jimmy, the budget is tight, especially since the mayor cut funds in order to install the new light on the roof.”

   A light. A stinking light. I get no overtime because some pencil pushers purchased this huge, ugly light to shine in the sky at night and flash a symbol that looks like a bat. Stupid, right? Not to mention the thing ups the power bill by a million percent. The bulbs alone cost a fortune. I think they are a trillion candle watts. I about shit myself when I heard the light was to signal some guy that dresses like a bat to come and help the force out in ugly situations. That’s right; I went to police academy and numerous hours of CPR training and Special Forces training to earn my title of Officer Thanks for Nothing.

   Seriously? A bat? The guy wears a latex suit that is so tight you can see his nipples, and he has all this goofy looking crap hanging from his belt that all have a bat symbol on the. They call him a hero, but he obviously has no powers other than costume design. One time, Gotham was being terrorized by some guy in a suit with a bunch of question marks on it, not the guy in the infomercial on how to get government money, but some dude who talks in riddles. So what does my boss do? He shines that stupid light and nancy boy and his sissy little side kick show up. But that didn’t bother me as bad as the time some old guy with a weird face and a suit that was different styles on both sides took some people hostage and kept flipping a coin to decide their fate. Now, I was a hostage negotiator with 10 years experience in the field, and what do they do? Yeah, bat light. So along comes the bat guy and, instead of negotiating terms to surrender the hostages, he blows a bank vault all to Hell and it about took out half a sky scraper.

   Let’s get back to the sidekick; he patterned his costume after a robin. Not a hawk, not an eagle, or even a condor, but a robin. The little red breasted bird commonly found in the Midwest. Wow, I feel safe at night now. And keeping with the bird theme, some jerkoff that associated himself as a penguin one time tore a bunch of stuff up and ran for mayor. Frankly, the guy gave me the creeps, and he looked like the little fat guy that was on Taxi. Batman took care of this guy for us, though and it only cost us two weeks without power and half the general fund in repairs. Meanwhile, I get stuck directing traffic for the little smart ass kids down at the elementary school.

   Don’t get me started on this shit for brains philanthropist named Bruce Wayne they keep posting on TV. This guy is a middle aged bachelor who lives with his much older butler in a mansion. Hmm? And he looks a lot like Batman, and always seems to disappear from a crowd around the time all Hell breaks loose. Meanwhile, I get stuck doing crowd control while Mr. Mystery goes and puts on his latex and outside underwear to show up in his pointy looking car. He then tears a bunch of real estate up and disappears, leaving the police to arrest the guy he simply slapped around a little. I then have to help the fire department and EMTs get the neighborhood back in order. Seriously, this guy costs the city more money than welfare recipients.

   I’m at wits end. The final straw came when a clown in a purple suit came to town and started robbing banks and stuff. Really? A clown? I suppose that whole precinct full of detectives was too busy investigating how Ke$ha got a record deal instead of looking into this one because I wouldn’t think a clown in a purple suit and a Glasgow grin would be too hard to track down. Good old Commissioner Gordon shined a light for that one and $2 mil in property damage later our culprit was left hanging for us to come and cuff him. But the good news is that now my taxes have gone up to cover damages.

   I can’t figure out what is weirder, the strange convicts in this town or the unorthodox crime fighting techniques in this town. Did you hear about the lady running around dressed like a cat? Yep, a cat. Meow. And somehow people are threatened by her, not sure if it is her ninety pounds of muscle and vinyl cat suit, or the bullwhip she carries. Yeah babe, let me reach around my gun to get my wallet for you.

   This is it. I’m done. I don’t think I can live in a city like this any longer. I’m sending my resume to the Metropolis PD Keeping my fingers crossed.

-Nick Sager