So, I’m dead. I’ve read the obituaries, watched the funereal ceremony and pomp. Boo-fucking-hoo. They said nice things. I wasn’t nice. My legacy was tabloid trash, bin and bird cage liners. I amassed millions. I ran campaigns of fear and hatred, invaded the famous and the suffering, hacked phones, photographed private moments. Exploited secrets and
Zeus, the child of Titans, ate his own and begat new gods. Some believe the Gills are Science’s revenge for ignoring their warnings. Some say Science genetically engineered them so that a remnant of humanity could survive the great inundations and extremes that resulted from Climate Change. Some say it was just a natural progression
You better watch out You better not cry You better not pout I’m telling you why Santa Claus is Coming to Town Haven Gillespie, 1933 I’m the other side of that coin, the boogieman parents use to frighten their children, the Krampus from old
She wants out. Tells him so. He loves her too much. She belongs to him. If she leaves, he’ll track her down. Kill her. Tells her more than once. She believes him. * * * Two years of abuse. A slow ruthless awakening leaves her nights staring at the ceiling listening to his ragged breath
