Old DB wanted me to send this to you. He's got letters pouring in left right and centre, from well wishers and nay sayers alike. Rather than take on the impossible task of answering them individually, he whipped this up. Some say he sounds a bit nervous, like he may be under the perpetual gaze of some frightful entity, tripping over his words and such. I think he sounds fine and dandy. Better than when he left in fact!
-GD
Saturday 9 February 2019
Wednesday 6 February 2019
MONEY SUCKING BLOOD PIT
A money sucking blood pit, that's all it is Mylin. You walk in there
and there's no fuckin way you're getting out in one piece. Not without a
new lampshade asshole cavity. Buy em up ship em out. You've got no
choice but to listen, I am your boss after all.
He was right. Brusque but to the point. A doctor was what he should have become, barking orders at nurses and surgeons and people on their death beds. Put a scalpel to his cranium wave, he might say, pretending to know what the hell he was talking about. I knew a guy who pulled the doctor con for sixteen years in small town Ontario. He drank his milk out of a measuring cup and pissed on the nurses. Set up a practice and pulled out before the heat could drop on him. It was a lot easier to do that back then, before all the cameras went up everywhere. Some might say you had a small piece of life to yourself, one that you didn’t have to invent in order to survive. People were even free to take advantage of it, bend the rules, improvise a bit. It’s just how it was back then. A lady could run a modest drug ring while her cousin might be turning tricks in an alley way. A rural guy might have started something up in his field, a grow op, something simple like that. The cops stayed away. They were more interested in political crimes, things that jeopardized the sanctity of the state. Of course, the doctor was apolitical, he told people it made his dick soft. Nobody believed him. He was just too hated to muster anything remotely political. He relied solely on his charm – which many people saw directly through, some even said it disgusted them – and the naivety of newcomers, of which there was a steady stream thanks to the Landing Docks just a few clicks down the road.
By this point I was powerless. I’d wasted my time on a piece of shit scheme with nothing to show for it but this lowsy brass ring and a couple of mild STDs.
This is part of an ongoing work of non-erotic autofiction outlining the real life and times of the author.
-Glen Davis
He was right. Brusque but to the point. A doctor was what he should have become, barking orders at nurses and surgeons and people on their death beds. Put a scalpel to his cranium wave, he might say, pretending to know what the hell he was talking about. I knew a guy who pulled the doctor con for sixteen years in small town Ontario. He drank his milk out of a measuring cup and pissed on the nurses. Set up a practice and pulled out before the heat could drop on him. It was a lot easier to do that back then, before all the cameras went up everywhere. Some might say you had a small piece of life to yourself, one that you didn’t have to invent in order to survive. People were even free to take advantage of it, bend the rules, improvise a bit. It’s just how it was back then. A lady could run a modest drug ring while her cousin might be turning tricks in an alley way. A rural guy might have started something up in his field, a grow op, something simple like that. The cops stayed away. They were more interested in political crimes, things that jeopardized the sanctity of the state. Of course, the doctor was apolitical, he told people it made his dick soft. Nobody believed him. He was just too hated to muster anything remotely political. He relied solely on his charm – which many people saw directly through, some even said it disgusted them – and the naivety of newcomers, of which there was a steady stream thanks to the Landing Docks just a few clicks down the road.
By this point I was powerless. I’d wasted my time on a piece of shit scheme with nothing to show for it but this lowsy brass ring and a couple of mild STDs.
This is part of an ongoing work of non-erotic autofiction outlining the real life and times of the author.
-Glen Davis
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