Die Writing

A cold November on Pennsylvania Ave

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on July 3, 2018

Richard Nixon reached into the coat of his bespoke, Georgetown-tailored suit and produced a cold, long knife. Narrowing his eyes, he stepped out of the shadow of the after-hours office pool in the West Wing. Harsh and distant light from the street fell across his face. Nixon did not smile. Motionless, his breathing slowed to a barely perceptible motion of his diaphragm, he scanned the room.

In some distance, his mark made a careless sound. Nixon vanished into the shadows once again.

He moved with deadly feline finesse. His leather oxford shoes fell soundlessly in the carpeted aisles. The area near the breakroom had linoleum tile; he circled it, the hazard already noted in his mental map.

Nixon darted between rows of cubicles with flawless precision. Was that the President or a moving shadow of the Venetian blinds perturbed by the air conditioning kicking in? Or maybe it was the old maple tree outside, rustling in the nighttime breeze. His deadly progress was inscrutable, but certain.

Patiently, he closed the distance to his target. Nixon’s eyes sparked in the darkness like two cold, hard diamonds. He slithered from the supply closet into the copy room, hard steel briefly flashing in his hands. The mark was now within his murderous reach. The fax machine.

In a furious, lightning-quick arc, he slashed the power cord and the phone line. With a hard, precise kick, he sent the fax machine to the floor. Like a tiger executing its killing strike, he was upon it in an instant, knife thrust through the ventilation slats on the back of the fax machine.

In the West Wing, no one can hear you scream.

With one hand, he held down the fax machine, with the other, he struck, over and over. Hard plastic shattered and splintered. Cogs and bits of circuitry showered on the floor. A toner drum ruptured, sending out a squirt of black ink.

Barely begun, the deed was over.

Nixon stood over the massacre. He even out his breathing. Slowed down the heartbeat. Cleaned and replaced the knife within his jacket. Then without saying a word or expressing any emotion on his stoic face, Richard Nixon stepped back into the shadows.


Pablo Picasso vs. Eggs

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 4, 2013


Pablo Picasso!


Pablo Picasso sat down to have his breakfast, but the breakfast was having none of it. He had in front of him greasy eggs, coffee that smelled of stale cigarettes, and a truly revolting morning. Outside his window, the gross man selling newspapers was taking a piss behind his stand and making obscene hand gestures in Pablo Picasso’s direction. He knew the gestures weren’t meant for him – the newspaper man was involved in a loudly disastrous affair with the woman living directly above Picasso – but the sight was upsetting.

Pablo Picasso took a sip of the coffee, forgetting that it tasted of old cigarettes. He contemplated spitting it out, but didn’t. After all, it was his habit to get drunk late in the night and then confuse the coffee pot for the ash tray. There was no one to blame.

He briefly tried to blame Matisse, but right away knew it was pointless. Matisse was the nicest man around, and hardly ever smoked. He would just curl up on the kitchen counter and make cat sounds all night. Matisse was not good at being a cat, but he was so nice about it, no one had the heart to tell him.

Distracted, Pablo Picasso weakly wielded his fork at the breakfast. The eggs ruptured with a burping sound and the yolks ran out, forming a filthy shape. Pablo Picasso grimaced at the eggs and opened his mouth, intent on a reprimand, but the eggs were completely indifferent and just rolled their eyes.

“I’m Pablo Picasso!” He said firmly, brandishing the fork at the eggs. The eggs continued to ignore him, slowly spreading all over the plate in defiance of the great artist.

“I…” he started again, desperately grasping the fork. The eggs basically unzipped their pants on his living room couch, scratched their fat belly, and belched.

“I’m Pablo Picasso,” he said quietly and furiously, quickly finished his coffee and left the apartment. Carefully dodging puddles by the newspaper stand, he headed toward Matisse’s house.

Rules about being in love

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on December 4, 2012

“Are you in love with her?”
“I can’t say.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got a rule.”
“A rule?”
“If I acknowledge being in love with someone, it has to be to that person first.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Well it’s a rule and I’m sticking to it.”
“Then tell her.”
“Well I can’t… I can’t tell her now. Look, she it talking to someone, to that… is that a guy or a girl?”
“That’s Sam.”
“… That is impressively unhelpful.”
“Sam is a guy.”
“Are you sure? Look at those hands.”
“Sam is a guy.”
“Those are mom jeans. That has to be a girl.”
“Sam is a guy.”
“And look at…”
“Would you shut up about Sam? Maybe you are in love with Sam instead. Go tell that girl you are in love with her!”
“This is awful.”
“It’s fine.”
“I can’t do this.”
“Yeah, instead, why don’t you hang here all night and awkwardly make out with this bowl of guacamole. What’s her name, anyway?”
That’s impressively unhelpful.
“You know what? Shut the hell up.”
“Go tell her you love her.”

“Hey Chris…”
“Oh hi! Have you met my girlfriend, Sam?”


Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 5, 2011


Who is reading this, anyway? Also, I really need to up the frequency of writing.


“This is a stupid idea. There’s going to be cops there!”

“Crisp, this is the perfect thing to do! We have our rights. We speak for the community. I’m a red-blooded American and I have my rights, brother!”

“Benny you’re a fucking pimp!”

“And what’s not American about that?”

“The part where the first cop that see you cuffs you and puts you in the slammer, you idiot.”

“I provide a service, a valuable one! What’s the difference between and a dude that works in a bank? Or the guy who sells carrots? And you know I think of my girls better than just carrots. When you get down to it, I’m really just in HR.”

“You are insane.”

“I’m just starting to take this civic thing seriously. Maybe if you watched some documentaries, you’d understand.”

“Fucking documentaries?”


“Seriously, fuck you. You’re going to be the first pimp in the world to go down because he watches too much TV. That’s stupid. You just couldn’t get stabbed or overdose on blow like everyone else.”

A very important message!

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on February 2, 2011


WARNING: the following piece contains seriously adult language. It is obscene, grotesque, and silly. Mainly obscene. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Well, fuck it

Hello, America. I would like to talk to you about skull-fucking. It is a grave epidemic that is sweeping our great nation, and I find it necessary to raise my voice where others have remained silent. Skull-fucking threatens us all, especially the children and the elderly.

First off, I would like to dispel the rumors that I do not take this subject seriously. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Skull-fucking is the deciding battle of our times. It is an issue entirely unfit for any kind of levity or tomfoolery. Skull-fucking is destroying our great nation and must be stopped.

Consider the threat that skull-fucking poses to our elderly. Most of them are high on glaucoma medication, and due to a combination of these two conditions might be completely unaware that they are presently being skull-fucked. A recent study revealed that on average, a person over seventy years of age only has a twenty per-cent chance of noticing that they are being skull-fucked. This means that out of every five seniors currently being skull-fucked, only one is even vaguely aware of what is happening.

How can we dishonor our geriatric heroes in this way? How can we stand idly by while grandma gets skull-fucked into pulp? We cannot allow things to carry on in such terrible fashion, America. Every elderly person must be issued a chastity helmet with a proximity alarm.

Well, what of the children, you ask? Things appear even worse with our young, as many of them consider skull-fucking to be cool and hip. Many kids skull-fuck at recess, during lunch, and while skipping class. They disguise this vile activity with cool slang terms, such as “skulling,” “noggin-rockin,” and “voting Republican.” Some may constantly wear sunglasses to hide their blood-shot eyes. Many develop a taste for hip-hop music. Frequently, children engaging in skull-fucking lose interest in school and grades. If your child displays any of these signs, he or she may be secretly skull-fucking right in your house. Right now.

Parents – constant vigilance is the only way to catch skull-fucking early. Remain alert at all times so that you may protect your sweet little one from the scourge of skull-fucking. Scrutinize your children constantly. Analyze their every behavior in terms of skull-fucking potential. Face the facts – if your children reach the teenage years, they are probably skull-fucking at least once a week. So talk to your kids about the dangers of skull-fucking early. Talk to them before their innocent eye sockets are violated by strange penises in the back of a bus station.

Above all, remember this, America. United we stand, but divided we get skull-fucked.

Something slipping

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on January 2, 2011


Maybe I need to get out more.


The officer entered the interrogation drab room, sat down heavily, opened a file on the table and stared into it for a while. The suspect smiled like a smug asshole. The two shared a procedural silence.

“Hm,” finally submitted the officer.

“It says here,” he finally declared, still staring into the file. “It says in this document that you were arrested in possession of cocaine.”

“I’m sure it does,” countered the suspect. His smile widened.

“It then goes on that you resisted arrest with mental rays.”


“Mental rays. Heavy shit.”

The suspect offered little in the ways of sounds.

“That’s right, mental rays and ducks. Says right here.” Without looking up, the officer stabbed at the document with his finger. “It then goes on to say further, that you grew feathers and attempted to escape through the window.”

Another pause. The suspect was no longer smiling. His wide-open eyes were staring at the officer. His mouth was preparing to gape.

“Further noted – bills. Duck bills. Lots of extradimensional portals on the walls. Illegal warmonger streetcar hamburgers and a hot-dog themed suit of armor. Animated with the soul of the deceased mother of the accused.”

Mouth agape.

“Butterscotch penguin czar compote, complete with custom-built spoilers, trophies, and walkie-takie. Two-way communication, imported, fur-lined, decadent.” The officer went on in a declarative tone.

The suspect struggled internally. Words collided in his mind. Something has gone terribly wrong here, and the mind recoiled in panic.  Suddenly, the door burst open and another officer flew into the room. One hand was crushing a coffee mug, the other accusingly pointed at the suspect.

“Duck?” His voice was filled with grinding hate.

“Duck?” He demanded again, this time facing the first officer.

“Fruitcake in December, best time of the year for flute hunt, assorted Benjamins and Davids,” he calmly informed the newcomer. The furious officer swiveled his burning eyes toward the suspect, who attempted to sink into the metal chair. The chair was not welcoming of retreat.

“Duck,” the word dripped with venom. The officer lounged forward, pounding his huge fist into the table, and unleashing a furious tirade of ducks no more than two inches from the suspect’s face.

Thin is one’s grasp on reality, but just how thin no one realizes until they find themselves on the other side of the madness line. Apparently, what we had always thought was a tall wall with barbed wire and guard towers is barely a line in the dirt. The very word “duck” was ceasing to make sense. The suspect was breaking through to some other, twisted meaning of what was happening, and that frightened him even more.

The duck finally left, ducks continuing to angrily echo down the hall.

“Dinosaur robot Titanic,” the first officer resume to marmalade. His finger shifted in time, through the page, poked out, floating away like a zeppelin. Red swarm of tectonic couches crossed the back of the room in a slow and majestic formation. Smells of various shapes arranged themselves on the floor as the deep hardwood cherry blossom took on a party line.



Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on May 12, 2010


Buzzing, bubbling happiness.


As the bagel slowly slipped into place, flowers were springing up everywhere. A certain aroma arose in the air, heavily reminiscent of chairs and tigers in bloom. Everything was right and pink. It was such a fulfilling sensation, to be near all the action, what with the monkeys typing away on the infinite keyboard while the sun was setting over all the people at the mall. The kind of sight that comes hugged by candy wrappers, a truly once-in-a-lifetime hamburger. People came from far and wide to witness this, and now they all stood like trees, full of squirrels, warmed by the sun’s pencils. A celebratory song came over the crowd, the sure sign of a left turn.

“Strapon,” the man said dutifully.