So Bad It’s Good Friday — Ride to Hell: Retribution

Welcome to So Bad It’s Good Fridays. Everybody knows about great movies, games, and books and what makes them so great, but what makes a great bad movie, game, or book? First up?

This seems like a good idea.

This game released quietly two years ago. In fact, when it came out, I wasn’t even aware of it. But then people started getting their hands on it and saying what a HUGE, epic fail it is. I watched a short preview and though, There is no way on earth this could be real. I mean, I have played bad games. (One day I will write about the absolute worst game I’ve ever played, but we’ll keep that in mind for a future post.) But I’ve never seen something that failed so magnificently at everything it did that it was actually kind of beautiful.

I had to play it. Call me a masochist. I played it on PC. Call me a dumbass.

The game stars this guy:

This guy’s name is Jake, I think, but I’m just going to call him Bubbles for his bubbly personality. When the game starts, we know absolutely nothing about him, because somebody thought it would be a really good idea to start off with a turret section that segues into a montage of madness.

You have to make a small sacrifice to the developers (I’m too lazy to look up their name) to make it through this section, because if the game thinks you’re not that into it or that you won’t call it in the morning, you’ll randomly die. This is where I immediately regretted choosing PC to play, because the PC controls are like trying to pee in the woods while blindfolded. By the way, you can’t change the controls, you can barely change the screen settings.

Anyway, after that . . . thing that passes for an introduction, we finally settle down into some building with Bubbles sitting there, bobbing his head like he’s listening to some hardcore rap, yo. Echoes of gunshots are heard, as well as voices, I think, the audio mixing is shit so you can’t tell. I think this signifies that he’s having some kind of Vietnam flashback? This game apparently takes place after the Vietnam War, but other than this weird insight into Bubbles’ psyche, it’s never mentioned again.

I’m actually glad that this game doesn’t give any deep insights into the tragedies and consequences of war, because . . . I mean, did you watch that video?

So Bubbles reunites with his uncle and brother, and this is where I absolutely broke down into laughter. I laughed so hard, I broke into tears.

You have to see it to believe it.

This is when I knew, this was going to be the best experience of my life.

After some shit with your brother running away because he wants to go see bands (no, seriously), you get into some trouble with some guys that look like half-assed Pixar models. One of them has an Irish accent because . . . One of them sounds like his testicles are in a vice as he asks your brother whether he’s ever “skinned the ear off’n a baby cow.”

I . . . I have no words for that.

These guys apparently don’t like the fact that your jacket’s cooler than theirs, so they chase you, even though the game makes it seem like you’re racing. Then, even though you get ahead, they somehow ambush you at a gas station. Not a 7/11, so you can’t even get a slushy for your woes.

After some more weird transitions and meaningless dialogue, your brother gets killed (BUBBLES’ BROTHER, NOOOOOOOO! HE CONTRIBUTED SO MUCH TO THE STORY WITH HIS WANTING TO SEE BANDS AND BEING A TALL SACK OF SHIT!) and you get shot . . . I think. I mean, it shows BB gun pellets hitting you somewhere, and you falling. The screen goes black and white like a David Lynch film, and then . . . you’re somehow back on your feet. Just fine. With no bullet wounds. Because reasons.

After that the thing that tries to justify this games existence just devolves into some revenge plot where you look for the guys who killed your brother. I don’t want to “spoil” any of the truly outrageous WTF moments because describing them with words won’t do it justice (though there’s two parts that need to be addressed, it NEEDS to). You will laugh. You will laugh so hard you cry. And then you will just cry, because you know you might never experience anything of this magnitude ever again.

Let’s talk about the game play, which is about as well executed as everything else I’ve told you about so far. It has two sections: biking and shooting. Your bike controls like you’re driving on an ice rink that’s being pulled by a magnet. If you even think about turning around, the game fades to black like you’re being swallowed into some void where the only way out is to drive into the light. Also, you have to go straight. There are no turns, no stop lights, and no cops. Occasionally, there will be guys you need to smack with your wrench, which I guess is your signature weapon. There’s actually an animation where you stab a guy (with your wrench), then smack his head against the bike handle, then twist the knife, then twist his neck, so you know Bubbles is no pussy.

Pictured: not a pussy.

Why are these sections in the game, you ask? Funny story, actually. At one point, this was supposed to be an open world game where you can ride your bike anywhere, participate in races, and all that jazz. Well, along the way, the developers realized that nobody got time for dat and decided to just make this weird Frankenstein’s monster of a game that isn’t quite open-world and isn’t quite linear either. You can see some of their open-world assets in some of the buildings that you can’t interact with. There are also levels that are big and open that have nothing to do in them. I guess the developers were too lazy to fix all that stuff. MAKING LEVELS IS HARD, GUIZE.

So the shooting. Oh, Lord, the shooting. It’s just sad. The guns sound like a child’s impersonation of what a gun would sound like. The act of pointing and shooting takes much more work than is necessary. With those big, beefy arms, you would think Bubbles would have a better handle on a gun, but it practically takes that malformed arm off its socket every time he pulls the trigger. Goons can take cover, and you can take cover, but I’ll be damned if any of it actually works. Sometimes the little pea bullets go through stone and wood like magic. The goons don’t duck, so much as fling themselves to the side like their trying to be a superhero and fly. There is hand-to-hand combat, but screw all that. The style is like the Batman Arkham games if Rocksteady decided programming was just too hard and life was meaningless. But like I said, forget it. Get a gun and shoot them in the head, if you can manage. The goons will sometimes stand there like they’ve never heard of the saying, “bringing a fist to a gunfight” or something like that. So you can take your time offing them while march helplessly forward.

Guys, I’m starting to see a trend here. The bike can only move forward. The goons can only move forward. Even controlling Bubbles, it’s like he refuses to stray from the path. If you go back, you’re sucked into a black hole of nothing, seeing nothing. You can only move ahead in a straight line.

I think I’ve figured out the meaning, guys. I know its secret — the ULTIMATE TRUTH.



There are two more things that need to be addressed before I end this. The first is an example of a typical level you’ll find in the game.

So at some point in the story you come across an electric fence. Bubbles radios his uncle and tells him of his important dilemma. “What are you going to do?” His uncle asks. Bubbles smiles and says, “I think I have an idea.”

OK, I thought.

So Bubbles runs across the street where he sees a truck and some truck workers. He proceeds to murder everyone because asking nicely is for pussies, and Bubbles is no pussy.

Still not a pussy.

Bubbles climbs into the truck and drives. Not across the street where I assumed he’d just drive through the fence.

Me: Bubbles, where are we going?

Bubbles: Watch and see. *Puts on his glasses.

The police start chasing you and blow up upon impact because Bubbles just exudes too much man for them. The driving section here feels like it takes two hours, like going on a real road trip and the AC is broken. Finally, just when you think you’ve exterminated all of the cops in WTFsville, you park the truck at an electric plant.

Me: Um . . . why are we here?


Me: Why is there a timer? Is something going to explode?


Bubbles Not-A-Pussy murders all of the electric plant workers on his way to the other side of the building. He aims his gun, points at the truck, fires a few million times, and then the truck explodes. The explosion somehow goes behind him as he flings himself into the water in slow motion. There are no survivors.

Bubbles drives all the way back to the now un-electrified fence.

Bubbles: Problem solved!

Me: Wow, that was needlessly complicated. And stupid.

Bubbles: But hilarious!

He got me there.

At another point, you’ll encounter a woman being harassed by some fat guy in a parking lot. After murdering the guy, the screen fades to black. I’m assuming the woman knocked you out and took your money because that sounds like something I would do.

Instead, when you come to, this happens:

I don’t even know if I can say anything else about this. I wouldn’t even know where to start. All I can tell you is that this happens every time you meet a woman. Because:


So that’s Ride to Hell: Retribution in a nutshell. It’s poorly executed, it’s boring to play, and it’s a nirvana of bad dialogue, story, editing, graphics, level design, box art, trailers, PR men, developer, publisher, manual, just . . . It just does NOTHING right.

And that’s why I secretly love it. I mean, how can you not? This game is a miracle in that it exists at all, and because it exists, it makes the world a slightly better place.

Have you played this game? What did you think?

Also, if there is any type of entertainment you want me to talk about for So Bad It’s Good Friday, then feel free to tell me about it. I love watching, playing, and reading anything that inspires hilarity and joy.

What’s In A Name

So if you’re reading this blog, you’re probably wondering why the hell I called it The Pencil Professional. The quick answer:

It was the only thing I could come up with.

I suppose I could have just called it A.R. Davis blog or something, but I think I was just trying to be fancy or whatnot. I’m not really a professional, in my sense of the word, and I don’t really write with pencils. Alliteration was my friend when I came up with the name. Plus, it’s too late to change it. One thing you’ll learn about me is that if I don’t have to do it, I won’t. You can call me lazy; my mother even said that should have been my middle name. So the name stays.

So what kind of content will be on this blog? Mostly things I’m interested in. I might review video games, because I used to do that for my college paper and I enjoyed it. Some writing stuff, but it probably won’t be anything you haven’t read before. This Friday I’m starting a series called So Bad It’s Good Friday where I review bad entertainment because I’m nothing if not original. I just want this blog to be fun, something I can easily keep up with on top of real life and writing books.

I guess that’s mostly it. Still no release date, though after this weekend, I should have a better idea. The final cover came in and it looks AMAZING, I can’t wait until people see it. I’ll probably post another excerpt sometime soon so you can remember what the hell my book is about without having to scroll all the way down. I’ll probably also do a post the day before it’s available, if only just to vent.

So, lovely reader, are you having a good day? I hope so. Tell me about it.



This is a short story I wrote while I was in college. I’m posting it just because. 



The gat feels good against my thigh. I stuffed it in my jeans and covered it with my over-sized, dirty wife-beater. I can feel the cold steel against my skin. This gun is like my second dick; its explosion will kill you. You’ll give birth to a bullet.


I need a place to stay for the night. I go home to the streets, the only lover I have ever known. She does some bad shit sometimes, but she’s the one who’s always there waiting with open arms. The concrete is hard and cold. The leaves have all left their trees like a girl cutting all her hair.


There’s a black plastic garbage bag beside me. It smells like somebody died.  Goddamnit. If only I had a bed to sleep in. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. Do I really have to sleep here?


Like I have other options.


I rub my eyes and lean my head against the brick wall. This life just ain’t worth it no more. Sometimes, I just wanna take the gun in my pants and blow my fucking brains out. I mean, look at where I am! I’m thinking about sleeping next to something that probably smells worse than I do.


I see something out of the corner of my eye. I peer at the garbage bag and see a tiny looking thing pressing against it. It looks like a little hand. If it’s some alien shit, I’m gonna sell it for a million up front. Then I wouldn’t even have to think about being out here. I could have a million gats to protect my ass. And a big house to put them all in. Goddamn.


I pull apart the garbage bag. The smell hits me and I back away, trying hard not to throw up. I hear a noise. I push all the shit aside. My hands feel sticky and gross from touching people’s old food. The sound gets louder and louder.  I push my arm in until my fingers feel something soft and human. Tiny little . . .


Somethings. They feel like . . .



And an ankle.

I grab it and pull.


“Oh my sweet Jesus,” I breathe as the thing comes out and squirms and screams. It’s not an alien.


It’s a baby.


It’s screaming so loud I think my ears will pop. It’s screaming, and I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do. I hold it out away from me in both hands and the baby’s squirming so much it’s hard for me to try and not drop it.


Jesus Christ. A baby. It’s naked. It ain’t got a dick, so it’s obviously a girl.


She’s pretty small. And she’s blue and purple, and she smells dirty.


I can’t keep this thing.


After a few minutes of thinking of what to do, I gently place the baby on the concrete and walk away. I know that sounds fucked up, but I don’t want to be held responsible for some shit, know what I mean? I done a lot of bad things, and I don’t need this on me. I could try to be a nice person and try to sell it or give it to an orphanage, but then if nobody wants it . . .


Goddamnit. I’m halfway down the block. The screaming is ringing in my ears. I look back. I can see a blurry outline of a purple little something squirming under the streetlight. I sigh. Jesus, if you are up there, why the hell did you do this to me? I walk back to the baby and kneel beside it.


I scoop the baby up. “All right, little baby,” I say as softly as I can, “you gonna have to stop all that crying now.”


She doesn’t stop crying. I start to get frustrated. Her face is all scrunched up. I do the only thing I can to keep her quiet: I stick my thumb in her mouth. Oh, Jesus, it’s so nasty, feeling her gums all over my thumb. But she starts quieting down.


I don’t know nothing ‘bout raising no baby. But I know you shouldn’t just throw it away like an old carton of Chinese if you don’t want it.


“All right, little baby, I’ll stay with you tonight. But in the morning, I’m getting rid of your ass. You better not do some shit to wake me up, know what I mean?” I chuckle to myself a little bit. “Of course you don’t; you’re just a dumb baby.”


She’s real quiet now and the only sounds we can hear are sirens. I sit and lean against the brick wall. I hold the naked baby against my body, hoping that I can keep her warm at least for tonight. At least until I can find somebody that can take care of her.


I snap awake. I feel something sticky and warm on my body. It smells pretty rank. I look down and see the sleeping baby on me and then I remember what happened last night. Fuck. I slowly pull the baby away from my body, and as I do, I see something brown on my shirt.


Holy shit . . . No way.


There is shit on my shirt. There is actual baby mess on my wife-beater. “What the fuck!” I yell and the baby cries. Great. Just fanfuckingtastic.


All the people who are walking past stare and I know I have to do something quick before one of them starts getting in my business. I pick the shirt away from my body, and the shit smells so bad. I feel like I’m gonna puke. Meanwhile, the goddamn baby is hollering in my ear so loud I know I’m gonna go all deaf. What the fuck do you have to cry about? You’re the one that messed up my only shirt!


I clench my jaw and take deep breaths. I stick my thumb back in her mouth until she goes quiet. I look back down at the baby and hold off the will to beat it senseless. I realize she probably shitted on me because she’s naked.


“Man, now I’m gonna have to get a new shirt. And some clothes for you.” My stomach growls. “We need food. But, shit, what do you babies eat?” I don’t know why the hell I’m talking to a baby. It’s not like she can answer my question.


She looks up at me with these little brown balls like brown M&Ms. What the hell is she looking at?


I tear my eyes away from her and watch my surroundings. There’s a store on the corner of the street. I can feel my gun almost burning against me. I lick my lips and dig into the garbage. I pull my thumb out of her mouth. She starts crying again.


“God, is that all you ever fucking do!” I spit. I pull out an old ski hat that looks too big to fit on any normal head. I rip holes for the eyes, nose and mouth.


But wait.


The baby.


I think about leaving the stupid baby here. But she might be gone by the time I’d come back. Her skin is an angry red. She’s a volcano.


I dig in the garbage some more, cursing under my breath. I’m pissed that I have to take care of this fucking baby because some dumb slut spread her legs without thinking and didn’t want to take care of her responsibilities.


I tie some old cloths I find together to make a sling. Then I place the baby inside. I make sure that she can’t fall out and bump her head and end up all stupid or something.


I creep back into the shadows. I am hidden, but I can still see the store. The baby falls asleep after all her fussing gets her nowhere. I wait until there ain’t that many people roaming the streets, sniffing around to stick their nose in the barrel of my gat. The cops pass a couple of times. I duck down so they don’t see me.


There is silence in my ears. I rub my fingers together, licking the salty anticipation off my lips. After what seems like hours, I step out into the open, full of ill will. It feels like I’m walking through things. Like everything ‘s zooming past me, and I’m the only one in slow motion. I cross the street and I swear that I can see the colors of cars blurring together as I walk across.


I turn around before entering the store. Nobody’s watching. Nobody. I’m not surprised. Stupid uppity city people. They’re either looking down ‘cause they don’t wanna look at the ugly that’s right in front of them or they’re looking ahead at their own bullshit, stupid to what all’s going on around them. I put on my mask and walk through the door.


Jingles of bells greet me as I walk in. I pull the gun out of my pants and point it at the clerk. He’s tan and middle-aged. I can see the white hairs that stand out on his head. He looks like Dr. Frankenstein.


Somebody screams. I tell everybody to get out of the fucking store before I blow his head off.  I hear footsteps stomping frantically, like a herd of stupid buffalo scared shitless. They run too fast to get a good description of me. What’s that word? Oblivion? Yeah, they be all oblivion to me.


The clerk is shaking in his own brown skin. He raises his hands in surrender. I smirk beneath my mask and point it to his forehead.


“H-Here’s the money,” He opens the cash register. “y-you can have it—all of it. Just. Please.”


“I don’t want your money.” I say.


He’s staring at something and I know it’s not the register. It’s something underneath the counter. A button; a silent alarm for stupid criminals.


“I swear to God if you even try to pull some shit or think about calling the cops, I will take your ass out faster than you can blink!” I yell.


He looks up at me. He looks like he knows he is going to die. I feel like God, only better.


Then there’s a small cough coming from my chest. My eyes glance down at the baby. Shit. I forgot she’s here too.


The man stares at the head that’s now poking out of the sling. He squints at it. I shove the gun in his face. “What the fuck are you looking at? You got a problem?”


The baby starts to cry. The man wants to look down, but he can’t.


“Gimme all your baby shit!”


He looks back up at me with a dumb look on his face. “Wh-What?”


“Did I stutter? Gimme all your baby shit, motherfucker!”


“I-I don’t understand—”


“Don’t play dumb with me. You think I’m playing games with you? I will fuck you up and that’s not a promise. That’s a goddamn guarantee.”


“Ai-aisle three.” He breathes out, pointing to the left.


“Put everything in the bags,” I say.


I follow him to the aisle and watch as his trembling hands reach up and grab all the baby stuff I need. As he does this, I look behind me just to make sure nobody comes in.


When it’s done I have several bags full of baby things and one bag of food for myself. I make my way to the exit, thinking if I’ve missed anything. I look at the clerk, still standing there like a dog waiting for its next order. He’s wearing a bright blue shirt. It probably smells like lotion. Cigarettes. Home.


“Gimme your shirt,” I say in a low voice.




“Just give me the goddamn shirt and don’t give me no lip.”


I’m too tired for this shit.


He quickly removes his shirt and tosses it to me.


I spit in his direction and head out the door.


We’re at the park because it’s safe. The sun shines nicely on all the happy people. But not me. It doesn’t warm my skin. It burns it.


I lay her on the grass. I disposed of the rags in a small pond on the way over here so that the cops wouldn’t find anything. Cops are fucking slow anyway. I stole probably hundreds of dollars of stuff in that store and not a siren was heard.


I grab a pack of diapers and some baby wipes out of a bag. I open the pack of wipes first and clean her ass. God, she smells. I try not to gag as I clean her up. She’s a little fighter, though. She’s kicking and being all fussy and crying. I pull out some more wipes and clean her arms and legs and chest. She doesn’t want me to. I get pissed off.


“Look, I know you don’t like this anymore than I do,” I say as I wipe some dirt off her thigh, “but you can’t go around smelling like something you should flush down the toilet. People will think you’re dumb and slow and ain’t worth anything.”


I examine the package of diapers. The instructions seem simple enough. I tear open the package and take one out. I slide the baby under it and spend about ten minutes trying to figure out how to get it on. After a bit of cursing and fumbling, I win. Then I fight with her to get some clothes on. It really pisses me off.


“You keep doing this shit and I’ll just go up and leave your ass here. Would you like that, you ungrateful little bitch?”

She looks at me like she’s pissed. I don’t give a fuck. I finish putting her clothes on and take out some food for her. They’re little jars of goo. I inspect one that says “Peaches” and unscrew the lid. It looks like throw-up. I look through the bags to try and see if I got spoons. I forgot them. Fuck.


I look at the food, then at the pissy baby, then back again. Shit. I make an ugly face as I dip my finger into the gooey orange mess and scoop some out. I move it toward her face and feel her mouth. It’s just as gooey as the peach shit.


She never takes her eyes off me. I feed her half the jar.


My stomach growls. I haven’t had anything to eat all day. I look at the peach mess and curiosity gets the best of me. I dip my finger, scoop some out, and taste it.


“Oh God!” I stick my tongue out, trying to let the air get rid of the nastiness. God, how do babies eat this shit?


I hear a giggle and look down at the baby.


She’s smiling.


“You like that?” I ask with one eyebrow raised. “You think it’s funny?” I glare at her, but not for long. I stick my tongue out at her again and she laughs. She laughs.


I can feel myself get carried away. I make more stupid faces. I know I should stop but I can’t help it. I don’t ever remember making somebody happy or laugh or anything like that. When she laughs, peach goo dribbles out of her mouth.


“Aww, what a cute baby,” Somebody gushes behind me.


I turn around. It’s a teenage blonde headed bitch. She’s carrying a stereo. She bends low to look at the baby. “What’s her name?”


I debate on telling this girl to fuck off and mind her own goddamn business. But something holds me back. I never thought about naming the kid. Besides, if I named it, then I wouldn’t be able to give it away. Some bitch might want to call her Jeanette or Francis or some dumb name like that and wouldn’t like the name I picked out.


Then the radio starts playing this song that starts out, “Hey there, Delilah/What’s it like in New York City…?” And I just blurt it out: “Delilah.” I look back down at the baby and say, “Her name is Delilah.”



I pull out a flashlight and click it on. We’re right under this house that some rich people put up for sale so they could go and move on to another rich neighborhood.  I set the bags down on the floor and sit. Delilah’s crying again. I bounce her gently and tell her to shut up in my softest voice. I lie on the ground next to her and try to get her quiet so that some nosy motherfucker that lives in the house next door won’t come around. I take out a toy and wave it in her face but it’s no good.


I’m losing my patience. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and turn away from her for a moment before I do something stupid. How the hell did I get into this mess? I should’ve just walked away. I want to scream. I should’ve given the baby to that stupid blonde bitch in the park.


After a minute, I turn around and pick her up. I rock her gently. Gently.


“Somebody used to play me this record when I was scared of the dark,” I tell her, even though I know she can’t understand me. “She don’t mean nothing to me anymore. But when she did she would always come into my room and put the CD on when I was hollering just like you are now. I ain’t a real good singer but I could sing it to you. It’s called ‘Hey, Jude.’ I think it’s by the Beatles. I guess you babies are used to people singing real bad to you. So, here goes . . .”


I clear my throat and fumble with the first few lines. Then my voice gets stronger and Delilah’s face goes soft. After a while, her eyes start to droop and she yawns. Her head leans against me. She gives one final sigh and she’s asleep.


I gently place her on some blankets I laid out. I don’t stop singing until the end. I look down at her, her face all soft and peaceful like.  She’s beautiful with her clean rosy skin.


I almost feel like a good person.



There’s a bathroom behind the gas station and I break in because I don’t want to ask for the key. It’s nasty in here. I can hear the flies buzzing around the toilet and I feel sick but there’s nothing else I can do. I lay out a blanket on the dirt-speckled floor and place a sleeping Delilah on it. I place my plastic bag of supplies beside her. I pull out a razor and some shaving cream and get to work on my scraggly, scratchy face.


If I’m going to play the part of salesman, I have to look the part. I can’t look like some nasty perv or some shit. Then all people’d wanna do is call the cops.


When I was younger, I would stand at the bathroom door and watch my father shave. He’d catch me out of the corner of his eye and ask, “Wanna learn how to be a man, son?” He’d laugh as if that was impossible. I wouldn’t say nothing. I would just watch him. His movements were gentle and I wondered why he never bothered to treat me like that. It was the only time my father was mostly quiet. Usually, he’d be busting around our little shitty apartment, swinging a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. He said he loved that man more than my mama. Maybe even more than me. He mostly ignored me. He’d occasionally rustle my head like I was a dog and not a son.


My mama wore a piss-yellow robe throughout the house. She wore an expression like somebody pinched her chin between their fingers and started yanking down. She was real nice, though. When I would get upset and have nightmares, I’d bury my shameful head in her lap and she’d pat me until I was done. She’d take me to my room, take out that familiar record with all the shaggy-haired men on them and play “Hey, Jude” until I went to sleep. She’d give me a small smile and if I blinked, I would miss it until next time. The first time I saw it, I couldn’t believe it until I looked up again. My mama had a real pretty smile, even through all that ugly that stained her whole body. I always thought it was a pretty sight.


Delilah starts crying and I cut myself. Shit. I slam the razor into the sink, watching blood swirl down the drain. I grip the sink like I’m going to vomit. It doesn’t matter.


It’s almost over.


How do you go about searching for a family, let alone somebody that wants a kid? I’m wearing nice clothes and I don’t think I look like a bum. But what do I say and how do I know I chose right? I can’t be all like, “Hey, can I come to your house and make sure you don’t throw this baby in the trash right away?” That’d be dumb and they’d probably think I’d steal something anyway. The one thing I learned about disguises is that they don’t last very long.


We sit on a bench at the park. I bounce Delilah on my lap with my thumb in her mouth. It’s the only way I can keep her quiet for at least a little bit. I look at the people jogging or walking or chatting on their cell phones. I try to imagine what house they might live in. Then I try to imagine them with Delilah.


A lady with a soft pink sweater walks hand-in-hand with some business looking dude. She gives him goo-goo eyes and he just keeps talking. Probably about his own dumb ass. No, thanks.


There’s a nice looking normal couple playing Frisbee. But they already have a kid. They might not want another one. Jesus.


I look and look until Delilah starts crying/needs changing/whatever the fuck she wants. She always wants something. Christ.


I do this all again for several days, watching people. We go back to the underground and I barely get any sleep. She wakes up in the night and I don’t know maybe she dreams about choking in the dark. When she cries, I just sigh because I’m pissed off, but I take her in my arms and I pat her back and I tell her that everything’s gonna be OK. I won’t let nothing bad happen, I promise. My arms hurt from carrying Delilah everywhere to the point that I think they will permanently be in the shape of carrying a baby.



Goddamnit, I’m sick of this. I get up from the bench and walk up to some lady who’s chatting on her cell phone. She got curly brown hair and wide hips and I can smell her fruity perfume as I get closer. She sees me and she stares me down, her mouth open to make the next word of her sentence. I stop dead in my tracks. The lady blinks at me and I just stand there like an asshole. I hold up Delilah who’s squirming, about to throw a good hissy fit, and the words get stuck in my throat. I think if this woman’s going to know about Delilah’s nightmares or if she’s gonna get sick of her because she just doesn’t understand. I think of this woman throwing Delilah against the wall or throwing her cell phone at her or screaming at her and I hate it. I hate this lady so much I worry I’m gonna kill her. I keep walking.


At the underground, I sit staring at Delilah for a long time. I think about not having to carry her around anymore and finally getting some sleep and how I just threw all of that away. What is it about you, little baby, I think, that makes me ready to forgive you?


So I think, fuck it, I’ve done a good job taking care of her so far. She’s OK with me and I think she likes me. Besides, what the fuck do I need sleep for? It’s not like I got a real life.



One day, my mama announced that she wanted another baby. I was getting too old for “Hey, Jude” and crying in her lap. I don’t remember how old I was–ten? twelve?–but I remember how that shit stung like a bee in my heart. She said she wanted to be selfish. She said that she wanted all the love in the world. I don’t know how my mama got her way, but she did. I’d see her rubbing her flat belly over and over. She started to inflate and she’d say she’d feel kicking and did I want to feel it, too? I was scared because what if it kicked me so hard that I ended up punching it and killing it? She grabbed my wrist and made me rest my head against her soft, swollen belly. At first I thought I just heard gas. Then I felt a bump against my ear. It pressed against me bump bump like little heartbeats.




We come back from seeing the ice skaters. It’s real cold outside, so I stole Delilah a little pink coat. The fresh snow and the clear ice looked real pretty in the dark. Delilah watched as the people spun and twirled like they’re in the Olympics.


I paid attention to the couples that skated with their kids. There was this one little girl skating between her parents and she was stumbling and tripping and her parents held her up so she wouldn’t fall. The little girl looked up at her mom and dad and smiled at them.


Maybe when Delilah gets older, I’ll teach her how to skate. I wonder if we’ll look alike when she gets older. I wonder what she’ll call me.


In the underground, she falls asleep real quick, her cheeks all rosy and sweet like. I stare up at the ceiling for a long time. The dark shapes play with my eyes. I see the little girl with the parents. I close my eyes and they skate in circles behind my eyelids. They twist and turn and foam and spill on the ice. The little girl falls and I pick her right back up. Try again. She tries again and falls. I pick her right back up. Try again. She cries and says she can’t do it. I tell her stop being dumb and I didn’t raise her like that. She wipes her eyes and tries again and then she jumps and twists in the air. She starts laughing. She says I did it, Daddy, I did it! I’m real proud of her. She smiles and her mouth is pretty and bright, so bright, so bright . . .


“What the fuck?” I blink and there’s a light shining in my eyes. I shield them with my arm. There’s somebody standing there with my flashlight. I look around for Delilah and she’s gone.


I reach down into my pants to pull out my gun. It’s gone too. Shit.


My eyes adjust to the light. It’s a lady. She’s got frizzy blonde hair and she’s wearing some ugly khaki pants and a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up like she’s goddamn Martha Stewart.


I get up in the bitch’s face, “Where she at?”


“She’s fine,” she says.


“Did you hurt her?”




“I swear to God if you hurt her–”


“I didn’t do anything to her. Now be quiet and follow me.”


I got no choice. I follow her. She lives next door. She opens the door and asks me to come inside.


Delilah’s fast asleep on a dark red couch. Her little pink coat is folded over one of the arms. I go to pick her up but the bitch says, “Don’t move her. She’s asleep.”


“Don’t talk to me like I’m dumb,” I tell her. “I know she’s asleep.”


“Then keep your voice down,” she hisses like a snake.




I sit down beside Delilah. I look at her. She looks O.K.


“You want some tea?”




She sighs. She repeats herself.


She makes some and it tastes kinda nasty. I don’t drink it. She says her name is Nancy and that sometimes she thought she’d hear a baby crying. She looked out her window and she saw us going under the house. She just wanted to make sure the baby was O.K. Nancy takes up the cups and puts them in her sink. When she comes back, she has my gun and I’m thinking oh shit, oh shit. Nancy pushes a button and the clip comes out.


“This yours?” she asks.


“Yeah,” I say. I’m real nervous.


“It’s empty,” she says.


I’m quiet, quiet. I want to punch this bitch but then I don’t because even though she’s a bitch, she was nice to me and Delilah. I don’t know what to do so I just sit there like an idiot. I can feel the walls pressing all around me and it’s over, it’s over, it’s all fucking over.


Nancy puts the clip back in.


“What’s the girl’s name?” she asks.


“Don’t worry about it.”


Nancy sighs, but she doesn’t ask again.


“I want you and the girl to sleep here tonight,” she says. “It’s no good to be sleeping under there. If you run away, I’ll call the cops.”


“You didn’t call them already?” I ask.





Nancy thinks for a moment, stares at the gun, then says, “The little girl seems O.K.”


In the morning, Nancy’s bouncing Delilah as she feeds her. She makes stupid baby noises and I want to say to cut that shit out but I’m tired. I just lay there and watch how normal it all looks.


“I used to want a baby,” Nancy says after all her baby babbling.


“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.


“She yours?”


“Yeah. She mine.”


Nancy nods and pokes at Delilah’s belly. Delilah laughs and drool gushes out. I watch as Nancy wipes her face, not even caring when some of the drool gets on her couch.


“You know where you’re going from here?” Nancy asks.


I stare up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”


“What about the baby?”


“What about her?” I sit up suddenly.


“You can’t keep running with her forever.”


“The hell I can.”


“What about when she grows up? Sure, you may know what she needs now, but what about when she gets older? What if she doesn’t want to keep running away?”


“I’ll deal with it when it happens.”


“What about a mother figure?”


“She and I don’t need no stupid ass female. We got each other and that’s that.”


Nancy sighs like I still don’t get it. But I understand. Babies take a while to grow up. I’ll explain everything to her then.


It’ll be O.K.


“Well, what about school?” Nancy asks.


“Fuck school.”


“Now, don’t be irrational. You don’t want her growing up without an education.”


“I can teach her things.”


“How to be a criminal, maybe. Do you want to see her live the same life you do? Do you want her to end up in jail—or worse?”


“Gimme back Delilah,” I tell her real mean like.


“I’m not done with her, yet.” Nancy says in a sing-song voice to Delilah.


“Yes, you are.”


“You threatening me?”


“I know why you’re talking all that shit. You want to keep her or you want to give her to somebody else. All I know is you don’t want me to have her.”


Nancy shakes her head. “I just want you to think about the future.”


“Fuck the future and fuck you.”


Delilah starts squirming.


“You’re upsetting her,” Nancy says.


“No, I’m not. You are with your stupid future talk. Give her here, right now, before I knock you out.”


“Boy, you’re not going to do a damn thing to me. Now, sit down.” Nancy stands up to face me. I stand up and holler in her face.


“NO! Give me Delilah!”


I take my hand and shove Nancy’s face away. She stumbles and falls backward on the couch. I form a fist and I can’t control myself and I punch her face once, twice, three times and she screams and Delilah screams and in my head I’m bad, I’m bad and I can’t ever help myself.


“Bitch, I told you not to fuck with me!” I scream at Nancy’s curled up body.


I grab Delilah and sprint out the door. I race down the street. I run and run until my lungs explode with fire and I can’t think straight anymore.


My limbs feel like spaghetti and I’m scared I’m gonna drop Delilah. I tell her to be quiet. I try to rock her but my arms are fucked up.


I hug Delilah and then I say, “Fuck the future.”


I burst into tears.



It was late afternoon and I was crumpling up a note from the teacher about my stupid bad behavior. I punched some kid in the face for talking shit about my mama. I never did like people talking bad about her because I think back then I might have loved her.


When I entered my house, I could feel something cold run through my body, turning my veins to ice. I heard the drip, drip of the leaky faucet but everything was real quiet. I was real scared and I had to pee. I tiptoed to the bathroom and froze at the doorway.


There was blood in the bathtub, all dark and red and sticky. It looked like a murder scene on T.V. I wanted to scream but it was stuck in my throat and I swallowed over and over but I pictured the blood was going down, down into my body. I tasted cold metal. I ran away from the bathroom, trying to catch air in my little lungs. I found my mom and dad in my bedroom. My mom was standing at the doorway and I was real glad that they were OK. But they weren’t OK. I saw dark red on the back of my mama’s nightdress.


“It just doesn’t matter anymore,” my mama said.


“What the fuck are you talking about?” My dad looked red and wild and scared.


“I said it don’t matter.”




“It don’t matter. I already done killed it.”


My father burst into tears and fell to the floor, letting the screwdriver and a piece of the crib fall from his hands. I tried to imagine the little baby swirling down the bloody drain and I felt sick and I hated my mother. I thought of the little bumps against my head, beating against me. I’m here, I’m here, little baby was telling me. I felt anger and sadness and I wanted my mama dead and it scared me. She was just standing there like it was nothing. So much for wanting to give away all the love in her heart. I wondered then if she ever thought about doing that when I was in her belly and what was the difference between me and the unborn baby. What made her want me and not it?


I couldn’t stand all of the — anger? sadness? or is it just pain? — emotion coming from them. So, real quiet like how I found them, I turned my back on them and walk out the door. I cried for hours as I walked aimlessly through the world, thinking about that little unborn child and in what part of the sewer system was it in now or was it in heaven being looked after by somebody better than my mama?


After that day, I never went back home.


I make a house out of a cardboard box like the homeless people on TV. I get scared when I hear sirens. I picture cops coming out of the cars and ripping Delilah away from my heart.


I don’t have much money and I don’t have a gun and I don’t know what I’m going to do. Delilah’s diaper needs changing and she needs food. I don’t have any of that and I’m so tired that I don’t want to get up. I feel like I don’t want to do this anymore and it makes me sad because I love this little girl more than anything, but I just feel so tired. I look down at Delilah’s pretty face all red from the cold. I wrap her up in my hoodie. I don’t know what to tell her.


Delilah starts coughing and I pat her back gently.


“You O.K.?” I ask her and of course she can’t say anything. She just rolls over and whimpers and cries in her sleep. I put my hand on her back to let her know that I’m still here. I will always be here. I was just kidding about all that being tired mess. I can still do it.


I can still do it.



She won’t eat anything. I try and shove the peaches in her mouth, but she just spits them out, rolls over on her side and starts crying and coughing and I’m scared. I start to think, what am I gonna do if she dies? Then I tell myself that’s pussy thinking. Delilah is strong. My little girl is as strong as any grown man, as strong as that dude that holds up the planet, like it’s nothing.

How do they do it?


Parents, I mean. How do they keep up with this shit? What’s that word? Security, I guess. They don’t have to count the change in their pocket and realize they only have twenty-three cents. I count the change over and over as if doing this will make more money appear.


I stand outside the doctor’s office. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to pull the door or push it or if I’m even allowed inside. I see the sick people huddled together through the glass window. Delilah looks pale in my arms.


A woman opens the front door and asks, “Do you need some help?”


My muscles tighten. I take out the change and hold it out. It’s all I got. “Is this enough?” I ask.


“For what?”


I know it’s not enough. I think to myself maybe this was why my mama killed it.


I stand outside a pretty white house with the gold numbers. I imagine the pretty people inside having a meal, laughing and talking about their day and acting like they care about each other. When they go to bed at night, death and sickness and all that is like a nightmare that they can just jerk awake from. I look at my pretty baby. My Delilah. I ain’t ever loved anybody, I don’t think, not like I do her. At night I cry my eyes out because I want to be good. I want to be a good person.


But I don’t think I’ll ever know how.


Delilah, you’re probably gonna hear a lot of shit about how nobody wanted you. You’re gonna hear a lot of bad things about me probably and all the bad shit I did. I ain’t gonna deny that I did some bad things. But don’t ever let them tell you that I didn’t give a shit. Don’t ever let them tell you that I didn’t try. Don’t ever believe that nobody loved you, because that’s bullshit.


I love you.


It takes a good minute for Nancy to come to the door. Through the hallway light, I can see the fat bruise I left her on the side of her face. It pinches me.


Before she can say anything, I say real fast, “Her name’s Delilah and she’s a real sweet girl. Her favorite food is peaches but I don’t know why ‘cause they’re nasty as fuck. I found her in a garbage bag. I tried my damndest to do the right thing by her. I tried my damndest to take care of her, but then I got real tired and I did stupid shit and I’m real sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.” I start crying again. I fucking hate crying, but I can’t help it.


I feel like I will never be right again.

Nancy looks at me and I almost think she feels bad for me. She reaches out for Delilah. “You’re doing the right thing,” she says real quiet.


“If I ever hear you treat her bad or throw her away, I’ll come back here and kill you,” I whisper.


“I wouldn’t ever do that,” she says.


I try and do it real quick so I don’t have to feel anything else. I place Delilah gently in Nancy’s waiting arms. She starts wriggling and crying real loud. Her hands reach back out for me. I have to look away. Nancy rocks her in her arms and tries to shush her but she won’t quit.


“Sing to her,” I say.


“I’m not much of a singer.”


“She don’t care too much about people’s singing. She likes ‘Hey Jude’ by The Beatles. I sing it to her all the time so she’d be quiet.”


“I don’t think I remember the words.” She looks back down at Delilah. “Will you sing? Just until I can remember.”


I don’t want to. But Delilah’s reaching out for me and I think the faster I can put her to sleep the faster I can not feel bad about leaving her. My singing starts out weak from all the crying. Nancy starts to join me after the first verse. As we sing I can see Delilah as a toddler, taking her first steps, stealing sweets before dinner.


I see her going to school, learning real good, being real smart.


I see her going to college, making something of herself.


I see her going to her job, walking down the street. I’m an old man then, and as we pass each other for a split second, a moment of recognition will flash in our eyes but we will keep going.


We will not look back.



Writing With Depression

I got diagnosed with depression when I started college. When I first started getting the symptoms, I didn’t even know I had it. Firstly, there’s a stigma in my family that if you go to a counselor, you are trying to seek attention. Or you’re crazy. Or both. Secondly, I was going to classes and eating and functioning like a normal human being. But I knew something wasn’t right. I was constantly pushing people away and I hated myself all the time. I didn’t even really want to write anything anymore, and I had been doing it semi-regularly after high school. (Aside: One of the most important things someone in class said that stuck with me, “This is something I want to do, something I want to make a career out of. If that’s the case, then I have to treat it like so. I have to write every day, even if it’s crap.”)

So I went to counseling, got diagnosed, and started medicine, stopped medicine, got back on medicine, stopped counseling, and I’m finally back on track. Whew. So anyway, back on topic. Fellow writers know about the little voice in the back of their head, the one that says, “This sucks, you suck, this is the worst thing ever written.” Imagine that little voice magnified to, like, earthquake levels. When I worked on The Beast, I had that voice screaming at my constantly. But on top of the, “You suck, this sucks,” mantra, I had things like, “You are the worst person in the world. Why does anybody like you? You’re ugly, you’re stupid, you should die.” I think that’s why it took me seven years to get this thing the way I wanted it to. I was in full judgement mode all the time. I don’t think I need to tell you how exhausting that is.

Some of the things I’d like to share with you, reader, is how I pushed past it. Depression sucks, and it would be great if there was a cure for it. One of my passions is to educate families or just people in general to learn about the real facts of depression and not the stigma stuff, or the stuff they show on TV. Maybe if I shared some things that I did, it will help you. In the comments, let me know what techniques you yourself have tried. If there are enough, I might make a page dedicated strictly to techniques. WE CAN OVERCOME THIS!

Wot I Did:

– I would watch god-awful TV or movies while I wrote. It made me laugh harder than if I watched a well-put together comedy, and somehow, with nonsense in the background, it helped me concentrate. When I’d lose steam, I’d watch bits of what I put on. If you are like me and love unintentionally hilarious bad movies and games, may I recommend: Birdemic, The Room, Food Fight, Ride to Hell: Retribution, and if you want to write for more than an hour and a half, you can stream Beauty and the Beast (the new CW show, it’s delightfully awful). In the future, I may do posts on the best worst somethings.

– I would read inspirational quotes without looking at the names. Think about it, of course Martin Luther King would say something completely awesome! He’s already awesome. Without looking at the names, they could be anyone. Hell, they could even be you!

– Rant to my husband. Sometimes you just need a good listener. Depression doesn’t make any of your feelings rational, but that doesn’t mean they’re not valid. Find somebody who can pay attention for a few minutes while you do nothing but talk. Tell this person that you don’t want them to fix it, you don’t want them to give you advice (you probably wouldn’t take it to heart anyway, not because it’s not from a sincere place, but because you’re in a high emotional state), you just want them to listen. When I would rant and complain and whine and say things are not fair, it actually calmed me down enough to focus.

-Hold onto an ice cube for as long as you can. Depression can lead to dangerously dark thoughts. I don’t want you to hurt yourself; YOU ARE AWESOME. Seriously, do this if things start to get that far and there’s no one around to talk you down or you don’t feel like talking. The cold will start to hurt your hand to the point where you can’t focus on anything else. Another thing I did to keep myself safe was have my husband lock up all the medicine in a box where only he knew the code. Will it make you feel like a child? A little, I won’t lie. But you need to keep yourself safe in those dark times. If you don’t want to have someone do that, put the medicine/dangerous objects in a place far away, where it will have to take extra effort for you to get to it. I haven’t called one of the free hotlines, so I can’t tell you about the experience. I’m actually interested in learning about it, though. So if you yourself have made the call or have volunteered to take calls, what was your experience?

-Color in a coloring book. It’s not just for kids. They sell coloring books for adults (not dirty ones, though I’m sure if you look you will find). It will relax your mind and you can let loose creatively, because who on earth judges that kind of thing, really?

-Play video games, especially open world ones where you can release your anger. GTA IV helped me get through some of the worst times in my life. I could not only relate to the character, but I could also get a rocket launcher and blow up the world if I saw fit. Saints Row is also another good series because it doesn’t take anything seriously and encourages you to be as destructive as possible. You don’t even have to be good at them. Most of them have an easy or casual mode or cheat codes where it’s impossible for you to die.

-Write poems or just random words. Writing junk releases the junk. Then I ball it up, and throw it away or burn it if I’m feeling particular.

I hope these tips help at least a little. The important thing to remember is that you are beautiful and whole and awesome just the way you are. We all get down on ourselves and punish ourselves harsher than we should. You may feel alone, but you aren’t. You are in my thoughts, always, and I want nothing but the best for you.