“Impotent hatred is the most horrible of all emotions; one should hate nobody whom one cannot destroy.”

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

FROM THE DESK OF: John McKay - President of Citizens Against Fred Dick Good Day, Mr. Ray!

I say, good day and good morrow, for you are doing what could only be described as God's work!

And everyone here at CAFD, and Chicken City more broadly, couldn't be happier!

You've made Fred Dick cry.

You've made him bleed.

And now?

Well, I know that there have been questions about you, about the kind of man you are, due to the kind of man you've been.

I would hesitate, if I were you, to rush to answer such questions and prove you aren't the man you were.

God requires you to be the man you were before.

For you see, God sometimes requires evil acts to vanquish evil actors.

You know, you aren't the only person on the PRIME roster who has left a man paralyzed.

Oh no. Those who know my story, those who have read my testimony, they know just as surely as I do that Fred is in no position to criticize you, of all people.

You, who can experience regret.

You, who has dealt with such tremendous loss.

You, who was chosen by GOD to end this scumbag's existence once and for all.

There are times in every man's life when he must nut up, or shut up.

And I had my chance a year ago on the pickleball court.

He broke my legs.

I had another chance not that long ago.

He beat the shit out of me with a car bumper, and left me paralyzed.

Rumors around Chicken City are that he made violent, friendly love to that car bumper in a Ramada just two nights later.

A fucking Ramada, Mr. Ray.

And this is precisely what you will be ridding the world of, so long as you do what must be done.

I watched the last ReVival, and I can say with confidence that his choice to mention your daughter to get under your skin was vile, but hardly surprising. That's the kind of man he is.

But be wary, Mr. Ray. As that's not the only kind of man he is.

He's also the kind of man that will enjoy the peeling away of your skin and dance in the blood that spills out from behind the layers. He's the kind of man who will eat pasta from a bowl fashioned from the ribs he already ripped away from you so that he could have easier access to urinate upon your heart.

Because he allows nothing to stand in his way.

Believe me.

I'd know.

Underestimating Fred Dick is the mark of a fool.

That's the only thing, Mr. Ray, the only thing that could stop you from accomplishing what ought be accomplished.

So please, just because the shark is a stupid, fat, stinky piece of shit, you must remember...

He's a shark all the same.

And his teeth work just fine.

My wife sits on the city council of Chicken City, by the way. This is quite outstanding news for you, so I must mention it. We are prepared to give you a key to the city, and name June 30th Paxton Ray Day, should you end his life at Tropical Turmoil.

Hell, we'll do it if you hospitalize him.

You see, Mr. Ray, Fred is the type of man we'd gladly watch you paralyze.

The entire world would agree.

And I have seen you come to enjoy hearing the cheers from the world.

This is good. In fact, the world will cheer all the louder for you the more awful, and inhumane the things you do to him end up being.

I know you've only just become human.

I know you've only begun to redeem yourself.

Well, perhaps, just one last time...

Abandon that humanity.

For humanity's sake.

Just be a big, giant bastard once more.

To make the world a better place. We know you have it in you. Warmly,

John McKay

"Captain's Log. 18. 6. 24."

Fred Dick sat in the driver's seat of the Slut Truck™, speaking into a tape recorder. His Dr. Dreadful Food Lab sat perched on the dashboard, percolating some non-newtonian solids. Usually, this was a telltale sign that some delicious gummy worms were being made.

But not this day.

This day, Fred was trying to do real science.

Unfortunately, Fred's only scientific knowledge was limited to Star Trek episodes, because Lionel Dot Gov had told him, "If you truly understand Star Trek, then you truly understand time and space."

This basis of knowledge was further limited by his own brain, and fragmented memories of Back to the Future 3, the only one he ever saw.

Fred spoke more into the tape recorded, "Attempted to recalibrate the Dr. Dreadful Food Lab into a full on, balls out flux capacitor. If my fuckulations are correct, once the Slut Truck hits 69 miles per hour, it will transport my fat ace all the way back to the year I was born."

Fred reved the engine of the Slut Truck™, came extremely close to flooding it, and took off down a stretch of road in Portugal outside of his chosen Ramada Inn.

He found it was extremely difficult to reach 69 miles per hour on this street, on account of all the people and other vehicles and lack of straight lines, as well as the size of his own vehicle and it's physical limitations.

Honestly, the fact that he reasoned those things was fairly impressive. Typically he would just blame God.

Fred pulled over, huffing through his nose, face turning even more red than already was, eyes squeezed shut.

He didn't do all this merely as an elementary school science fair project, like a nerd.

He did this because he had to.

Cecilworth Farthington wrestled because he had to.

Paxton Ray paralyzed people for no reason because he had to.

So Fred Dick was going to back in time.

He had to.

Suddenly, through all his huffing and puffing, he punched the daylights out of the steering wheel.

"DAMN YOU GOD!!!"

There it is.

"How am I gonna go back in time with all these GOT DAYUM PORTUGUESE IN MY WAY LORD GOD!?!"

Yeah, he found his way back from whatever rational place he got lost in briefly.

He slumped in his seat and screamed a primordial death scream.

Then he sighed.

"Portugal sucks."

He pouted for a moment longer, and then his eyes flashed the grin his mouth did not have time to betray. He grabbed up the tape recorder from the passenger seat, and pressed record.

"Captain's Log. 18. 6. 24. Addendum."

He clears his throat.

"Paxton Ray is a bitch and he smells like eggs."

Dear Sexy Ass Paxton Mothafucking Ray,

You prolly ain't never hearda me and frankly I don't blame you. I'm just a nobody. A nobody named Randi Dick.

That's right. I'm Fred's not one, not two, but THURD ex wife. He's such a hoe. Right? You know that. Yes you do, you fucking know that.

And he's a liar. And he's a scumbag. And he's the worst human being anyone who meets him has ever met.

He's a cunning snake, Pax. Do you mind if I call you Pax?

You have to stab him when you have the chance, you know?

And you have the best chance of all.

I was talking to John down at CAFD, and he said he was writing you a letter, so I figured I would too.

But I'm not gonna try and convince you to kill Fred. I already know that if you have the opportunity, you will.

It just so happens your sexy ass has the opportunity.

But you know what would make killing an evil snake of a man even better?

Having you a woman you can make love with and have kids with and who will cook spaghettios for you whenever you want them or pizza bites or taquitos.

Think about that shit for a minute.

We could have so many kids together, you wouldn't even notice when one went missing.

Hell, Fred has three by me, two of which are for sure legitimate. And they're all beautiful. Only one of em has a third nipple.

Just think about it.

Lastly, I just wanted to wish you good luck, and to remind you to keep your eyes open.

If you're gonna kill Fred Dick, and I know you are because you're the kind of guy who would, you aren't going to beat him with intellect.

You'll have to out clever him.

Fred's not a smart man. He's dumb as hell. What kind of man starts a book club when he can barely read and hardly write?

But there is genius buried inside of his cleverness.

Please keep your head on a swivel.

Yours (if you'll have me),

Randi <3

P.S. please have me.

P.P.S. I want your body.

Last week, after Fred and his fellow Whoresmen beat up Paxton Ray, when the dust cleared, and Daytona had run off to dip his pen in ink, and STRONK had been tucked into bed, and Lowell had been locked in a broom closet, Fred had himself a drink and sat at the bar of the Whore House.

Beside him set Harley Walker, having one himself.

Fred always admired Harley. Something about his attitude. He'd never admit it, but he always thought, "I wish my dad was more like him." And in this way, he figured Harley as something like an older brother.

"Got a question, Harley."

"Shoot."

"Do you think travellin' back in time and fixin' something could actually fuck the world up? Like, you go back in time and say, make things right with somebody. But all the sudden, Hitler is the President of Mozambique or something. Or like, you know, everybody's butt is suddenly on their face and their face is on their butt, and they pee out of their butt and poop out of their face?"

Harley doesn't answer.

"Harley?"

But Harley was snoozing, head on the bar, heads in a foam cloud.

That's a big brother for ya.

Fred figured that Harley didn't have to be perfect. Hell, he didn't know Fred thought of him that way, and he would've rejected the notion altogether. Harley was the type to tell you to take your notions of responsibility and stick them all the way up your ass.

You know, typical big brother shit.

Or shid, as our subject would want to correct us.

Fred was left to ponder and reflect upon these questions all by his lonesome. He'd never tried to calibrate a flux capacitor, let alone invent one. He'd never tried to fuckulate the various times and spaces that existed infinitely across different times and spaces.

Nevertheless, he felt obligated to do it.

Obligated to himself.

Obligated to her.

After a while of thinking about it, and then doing a couple farts out of his butt, Fred stood up from the bar and wandered off towards the bathroom. His stomach sure was a bubbling! He must've had to take a meeeean Paxton Ray. 

Dear Paxton Ray,

I, Reality, King of all things, would like to interrupt this tale just long enough to also compose a letter for you.

See... You're a piece of shit.

It's important that you know that about yourself.

Allowing the things you've allowed to happen?

Doing the things you've done to your friends, your so-called friends?

And you think apologizing and trying to be a better person is going to somehow redeem you?

You're irredeemable, Paxton.

You're an irredeemable piece of absolute dog shit.

...

And that's what I love about you, Paxton.

I adore you for it, even.

Unlike Fred, up until now you've known your place in the world. You knew what it was. You may not have liked it, but by gum, you accepted it.

Now all the sudden, being a piece of shit isn't good enough for you?

You want to be a good guy?

Cut the shit, Paxton.

I don't normally curse or talk down to people, as the vast majority of my subjects understand that I am King and they deal with it.

So prove you know your place, Paxton.

Prove it.

A good person cannot beat Fred Dick in a glass knuckle boxing fight.

Not even one with your skills.

Why? Because Fred Dick is one of the most underhanded, undereducated, underestimated bastards who ever walked around the fields of my Kingdom.

Sometimes, even I have underestimated him.

So I need you, Paxton.

But I don't need the good boy you're pretending to be for whatever reason I could care less about.

I want my favorite piece of shit back.

I want Fred Dick humbled.

I want you to hurt him so badly, he retires.

Hey -- DON'T FUCK THIS UP FOR ME.

I have been building this with the two of you since you first decided to open your mouth and call him ugly.

And just because you did that, look how far he's taken this with you.

...you think he won't take it further, Paxton?

And further... And further... And further?

There are two paths you can take here, Pax.

The Path of the Face or the Path of the Heel.

The Path of Denial or the Path of Truth.

The Path of the Good Samaritan, or the Path of the Big, Bad Sumbitch that Loves to Hurt People.

...I expect you already know which way you must take.

Hurt him, Paxton.

Humble him.

Leave him for dead.

Hell, kill him if you'd like.

In the end, you'd be doing me a favor. Because just like he isn't going to stop with you, this foolish usurper is never going to stop with me.

He hates me.

And his hatred for me is matched only by my loathe for him.

You humans. You know, you're the most troublesome animals. At the same time, you're all too human, and just barely human at all.

Stop being human, Paxton.

Bend the knee.

Do my bidding.

Or else.

Sincerely,

Reality.

Now, as your Emperor, I realize I have left you with a question.

Why is Fred building a time machine?

Or rather,

Why does Fred think he's building a time machine? Since there's zero chance he actually does.

Well, since Paxton Ray is going to kill Fred at Tropical Turmoil, I don't think the answer makes much difference.

However, I'm respectful of your time.

Therefore, see below.

The rain fell hard in the cemetery grounds, and tears did just the same from Fred's otherwise stoic, pimply, red face.

Through the salty solution forming water tables in his eyelids he could still see her so clearly. Sandra Dick 1963-2003. Daughter. Wife. Mother. When he opened his mouth, I genuinely thought he was going to speak. But instead, the softest, most gentle singing voice you've ever heard poured forth from his lips. "She is a dyin' dandelion floatin' on the breeze, twirlin' sweetly in the evenin'." From the emotions caught in his gullet, the lyrics cracked and popped like an old vinyl, escaped through sobs, and somehow, sounded genuine.

"I don't remember the rest of the words, Mama. It's been so damn long since I heard the song. Last time I played it was at the five year anniversary party of your death."

He wiped the tears away from his face with the neck of his Jordan jersey. The mud caked on the bottom of his Jordan shoes as he dug them further into the ground, an anxious practice of his born through ritual.

"I didn't enjoy myself at that party, Mama. I haven't much enjoyed anything at all. That's not on account of your death mind you. That's on account of... Well, I don't know exactly what. Something's wrong with my brain. You knew that better than anyone."

Normally, I would never harm one of my subjects.

But Fred is a usurper. And the Kingdom of Reality suffers them not.

So I admit, I tormented him.

Flashbacks. Memories. Real moments. Fragments.

None of them good.

All pain... And nothing but.

And all involving her.

"I don't know what I did to you," Fred screams out. "I have been tortured for years for by it! 'Why does she hate me?' 'Why don't she love me back? Ain't mamas supposed to love their kids back?' And them questions didn't change when you died. The only thing that changed was the tense."

Fred shook his head. Slapped himself on the forehead. Stop it, he screamed internally. Stop it!

I did.

"Well, I realized that the only way to fix things, was to go back in time and fix things. So I've been watching lots of YouTube videos and listening to all kinds of audiobooks about physics, both theoretical and physical, and I have decided to craft my own time machine."

He paused, as if she were going to say something back to him.

She didn't.

"Anyway, I know I'm not a genius. I don't have a good book brain... Even though I started a book club. But that's exactly what I mean, Mama! See, I have a will that cannot be shaken. I can't read worth ass. I started a nerd club anyway. And I'm gonna go back in time. And I'm gonna figure out what I did to make you hate me so much. And I'm gonna grab Lil' Fred and stop him before he does it."

He turned his back to her, started to walk away, paused, and scrunched his face up tightly to prevent the ugly, bawling tears from falling out.

He breathed in deeply and said, "I just think that maybe it would be nice to know, you know, or at least have a memory or a picture or something, of what it felt like when you smiled at me."

He added. "Some day. Soon and long ago. All at once."

When he walked away, he began to ponder what it would take to fuckulate all the different times and spaces in order to get back to those long ago, awful times.

He figured it couldn't be any harder than starting a book club as a mostly illiterate adult.

“Mother is her son's first god. She must teach him the most important lesson of all — how to love”

— T. F. Hodge