My Hellish Aftermath.

Shot In the Kneecaps By An Austrian Robot.

Yeah. You assholes think it’s sooooo hilarious when a foreign-born time travel android kneecaps Some Old Duffer Working Parking Lot Security at the goddamn Pescadero State Hospital. And then he goes “He’ll live,” in that fucking accent, and you dipshits just about lose it. Tell you what: I wish Skynet WOULD become senient, and I wish it fucking WOULD fry the world, and I wish the dystopian hellscape where robot feet go around crushing human skulls in a ham-handed fucking metaphor WOULD come to pass. Cause you guys are all assholes. And you deserve to burn.

Well, while you’re falling all over yourselves having your “robot adhered to the letter of the law, not the spirit” laugh at my expense, lemme give you a little tidbit that might dampen your goddamn mirth just the littlest fucking bit: partial amputation. They had to take my left leg below the knee. Just so you assholes could have your laugh. Cause AFTER I nearly died of shock that night, shivering in a puddle of my own fucking blood, the left leg gets this weepy infection that started to turn black, and they had to hack it off. And you fucking fuckers are probably still laughing, calling me Hop-a-long, and Pogo Stick, and shit. I swear I would choke the life out of you if I could catch you.

My goddamn leg is like the end of a fucking knockwurst, now. Fuckers. Think I woulda been working graveyard shift security if my goddamn police pension was enough to live on, you smug sons of bitches? Hell, no. I’d have been in

Lemme ask you this, Bright Eyes: when you get shot at work by a fucking time-travel robot who goes on to commit Suicide By Melting, who in the shit to you sue for damages? You think my workers’ comp claim covers the goddamn medical misery that my life has become? Think again, Swifty. So. If you think it’s still funny — one-legged widower who blows through his savings getting a bunch of treatments that don’t do a goddamn thing. Lemme tell you about Lyle. You’ll crap yourself laughing about goddamn Lyle, you worthless turds.

Lyle is my son-in-law. Or was. Till my Lizzie couldn’t take it anymore. Divorced him. Lyle was a cop. One of the responders that night. But then Mr. Roboto with his grenade launcher, he fires one into the parking lot, hits a manhole cover. Which Frisbees up and hits Lyle in the head. Shatters his riot helmet. Cracks his skull. Lyle’s a vegetable. Was in a coma for like four months, and they take him off his respirator and he starts breathing on his own. And now he’s gonna lie there till he dies. And they just flip him like a burger so he doesn’t get bed sores. And Lizzie was pregnant with their first.

Little Davey. She gave him Lyle’s middle name. Jesus we cried through that christening. He’s a great kid, mostly. His teachers say he might be on the spectrum, though. He’s acting out a lot. So things are tough for them. Still visit Lyle every couple weeks. Like paying a call on a goddamn ficus tree. For eleven years. Davey’s gotten caught stealing a couple times. Worried about that kid.

So. Anyhow. You fuckers have your laugh at my expense. I’ll see you all in Hell.

You can find longer essays, satire, fiction, and info on the workshops I teach in Chicago on my site: — also, check out the WRITE CLUB podcast

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