Author Archives: adderobrx

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Crippling Debt

The first phone call came as we sat down to dinner.

I had been expecting calls from potential employers or recruitment offices, so I was excited when I heard the ring tone. I was nine months into the job search and our savings were running dry. Though it was six in the evening where we lived, it was only three on the west coast and I had sent my resume everywhere. My stomach gave a small lurch as I looked at my phone and read the word UNKNOWN across the screen. The only phone calls I had gotten from unknown numbers over the past months had been bill collectors or people trying to sell me solutions to debt or upgrades to my internet service.

“Should I take this? It’s an unknown number, but maybe it’s important,” I asked my wife, Caroline.

“Two minutes, Tom. I’m serious,” she said.

I touched the accept button.

“Hello?” I said.

For a moment, the line was almost quiet. There was some distant sound, like a record player or a crackling fire, but I blamed poor reception.

I looked at my phone to make sure it was connected, which it was, and almost tapped the End Call button at my wife’s insistence, until a voice came through the speaker, high in pitch and business like.

“Hello, Mr. Hanshaw,” said the voice.

“This is he. Not much time to talk. Who is this?” I said into the receiver, admittedly coming off as impatient.

“Oh, this isn’t that kind of phone call, my good sir. There was no question mark at the end of that sentence,” the voice replied.

“Well, there was one at the end of mine. Dinner is getting cold, the wife’s stare is colder, you understand. I’ll ask again. Who is this?” I tried to sound firm, but I was tired and I sounded it.

“It may be best to have your wife eat without you. We have a few things to discuss. Cold supper should be the least of your worries,” said the voice.

“If I owe you money, I’m doing my best. If this is a prank, you need to do better than that. Have a great night,” I said.

I touched the End Call button on my phone sat down to eat so my wife would stop rattling her finger nails on the table.

“Obviously that wasn’t a job offer,” she asked.

“Unless the job is sniffing out bullshit, no. I’m afraid not,” I replied, deadpan. I couldn’t even be disappointed anymore. It had become the status quo.

“Tom, we are going to be alright, aren’t we?” Caroline said.

“Of course we are. This is just poor timing. I just got my master’s degree. I’m stuck between overqualified and under experienced and I just need to meet with the right people,” I repeated for what had to be the hundredth time that month alone. Her eyes rolled the same way they had every time I said it.

“I hope you find them before the bank sends a moving van and locks us out of our own house,” she said.

She spooned peas into her mouth, her face contorting to one of hatred (though hatred of me or another leftover meal, I didn’t know). It amazed me how quickly love didn’t matter when everything else went to hell. Happily ever after wasn’t a real thing, but in my case, tolerable for a while was pushing it. The problem wasn’t that we hated each other. It was that we didn’t want to, and neither of us knew how to prevent it from constantly poisoning every fucking discussion we had.

The phone rang again. I had set it next to me on the table. My wife gave me a look that said she would be happy to throw the fork across the table and eat with her hands if I delivered any more bad news. The screen said UNKNOWN again, so I didn’t answer.

The ensuing silence lasted long enough for each of us to take a bite of the leftover chicken ziti her sister had given us the night before. It had become a habit to accept any offer of a free meal, served with a side of sarcasm and dirty glances from her sister for not taking care of her sister.

Before my wife could swallow her first bite, my phone rang again. The volume grew with each ring until the sound was deafening in the small dining room. Caroline’s hands flew to her ears as she screamed something I barely heard. I tried tapping the decline button enough times to make my finger numb, but it wouldn’t stop ringing. My wife ran across the room. I was able to make out her words as she passed.

“I’m not even hungry anymore. The last thing you need is a broken fucking phone when we can’t even make a car payment, Tom, so fix it or shove it up your ass so I can’t hear it!,” my wife screamed, approaching the stairs.

I stuffed the in my pocket to dull the noise. I had kept my voice mail empty, paranoid I would miss a message about a job lead or offer, so I knew that it should have clicked over at some point. The ringtone kept getting louder.

Grumbling to myself, I separated the back plate from the face of the phone and removed the battery. At last, the ringing stopped, though there was a ringing in my ear that wouldn’t go away. I put everything in my pocket to leave the table technology free, the way Caroline had insisted it should always be before the credit collectors had started ruining every second of our lives with phone calls and endless e-mails. Just in case she came back into the room. No need for another fight over something stupid.

I kept eating the now-cold dinner, lulled into a mechanical dance of scooping cold ziti into my mouth as I reveled in the silence, until the phone ring again, not bothering to slowly build to full volume this time. The sound was deafening in the small dining room. I inhaled and nearly choked, but was able to cough up the pasta. It took a moment to realize that the phone in my pocket, sans battery, wasn’t the one ringing. I crossed the room to my wife’s small purse, which was dancing across the kitchen counter with the power of the vibrations, and pulled out her phone.

The screen said UNKNOWN.

I clicked accept, ready to yell at whoever was on the other line, my last straw reached.

The voice didn’t wait for me.

“Hello, Mr. Hanshaw. It was very rude of you to hang up on me without hearing what I have to say. I abhor rude people, so I will say this just the once. If you hang up or otherwise find a way to interrupt this call again, I will take something from you,” said the voice.

“What do you want? I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with prank calls. Have some empathy. Please, save it until I have a job again before I end up sleeping on the couch,” I said

“Mr. Hanshaw, what on earth makes you think this is a prank?” the voice said, half laughing.

I started to take Caroline’s phone apart to remove the battery, same as I had done with mine. Like my wife, I no longer wanted food. Just five minutes of peace. I planned to call the phone company to figure out how to block unknown numbers the next morning.

“If you do that, I will have to take something from you, Mr. Hanshaw. I would highly advise against…” the voice cut off as I removed the battery and tossed it and the dead phone on the kitchen table. Frustrated and ready for the day to end, I tasted none of the food as I shoveled it into my mouth.

Whoever was trying to contact me was out of phone numbers. There were plenty of people who knew how to reaching us both it wasn’t hard to hide a phone number from caller ID, but whoever was doing this was in for some advice on their people skills and an evaluation of our friendship. Every person who mattered in our lives knew what we had been dealing with. I didn’t recognize the voice. The harassment was unnecessary. When our shit was in order, I would find out who was responsible, and one day, they would regret it. One day, I would…

The phone began vibrating on the table. I froze, colder than the remnants of the food stuck to my fork. There was no ringing, but the way the table shook made the phone seem…I don’t know…angry.

All the anger that had been building up drained away. When the phone started vibrating without a battery, I became scared. When the phone answered the call without my assistance and put itself on speaker, I could barely breathe.

“I warned you,” said the voice, much deeper than it had been the previous two times.

I wanted to speak. I truly did. The food in my mouth, half chewed, might as well have been cement. I couldn’t open my mouth at all. My eyes, however, were wide open.

“I don’t know why it is you people find it so hard to answer a simple instruction. You are all entirely too rude. And now, I have to take something from you, Mr. Hanshaw. I really don’t want to. I sincerely mean that. But you must take me seriously or this is all for naught. So, which bitch will it be? Zelda or Caroline?” the voice asked.

That broke the spell. I kicked the chair backward and stood, sweeping my head around and looking for an intruder, a face in the window, something…anything…to lead me to whoever was taking this sick joke one step too far.

“If you wait too long to make a decision, I will be happy to make it for you, Mr. Hanshaw,” the voice warned. “Just think about who you love the most. Everybody else in a person’s life is usually expendable. How about thirty seconds? Thirty. Twenty-Nine.”

“You think I’m a naive asshole?” I screamed, regaining both my anger and the use of my mouth. “Oh, big man, you know the name of my wife and dog. As soon as I found out who this is, you won’t have a job, either. Then we’ll see who is laughing!” I screamed.

“Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.” The voice continued to count down.

Scary stories weren’t like real life. Even at that moment, as I ran to the front door and threw it open with a shout, hoping to find some past co-worker or a close friend trying to take my mind off of the terrible situation I was in and the crippling debt that was destroying my family from within, I had no notions that this was something beyond an elaborate, albeit convincing and offensive, prank.

Until the voice reached zero and the lights went out.

Until, in the darkness, I heard a crash from upstairs and a light laugh from the phone on the kitchen table.

I ran towards where I knew the stairs to be, knocking the knick-knacks and paintings we had wasted so much of our depleted earnings on to the floor as I rushed my way through the blackness, all the while screaming for my wife and my dog. I heard Zelda bark and it calmed me down enough to stop screaming. I heard some other sound too, something muffled and frantic. Probably Caroline wanting the dog to shut up while she drank away her sorrows.

I tripped in my scramble to climb the stairs. Instant pain shot up my shin and stopped my ascent for a moment.

The lights returned shortly after that. They didn’t flicker or buzz as lights tend to do after a power outage. One second it was black, the next I was nearly blinded as I limped my way up the rest of the stairs.

Zelda met me at the divider gate we kept at the top of the stairs, jumping up and down and licking my hand as I reached down to pet her. As soon as I opened the latch and stepped through, she sped off towards the bedroom. I took a couple of breaths before I walked into the room, knowing how angry Caroline must have been to ignore my screaming during a blackout.

Those deep breaths are the only reason I didn’t pass out when I entered my bedroom.

Caroline lay face down on the floor. That isn’t entirely accurate. A pile of clothes at the foot of the bed must have tripped her during the black out, and her back was to the ceiling, her face wasn’t exactly on the floor. Half of the bottle had disappeared down her throat. Her mouth had been stretched so wide by the bottle that the corner of the lip I could see had torn. The blood seeping down the bottle and onto the carpet had mixed with wine and something that looked thick and snotty. Tears trickled from her bloodshot eyes. The top part of her body rested at an unnatural angle as her head balanced on the wine bottle, which rested perfectly upright on the floor save for the person choking on the upper half of it. Zelda lapped at the frothing mixture like a doggie cocktail. There was a disgusting bulge under the skin on the back of her neck.

As disturbing as all of that was, the single blink of Caroline’s visible eye was what caused me to drop to my knees and vomit. Zelda was quick to run over and begin her second barking course of the night as tears and snot streamed down my own face.

“Now, I’m sure this is something of a shock to you, Mr. Hanshaw, but I gave you a warning and told you my terms in plain English, the same as your creditors before me,” the voice said from my pocket.

The phone hadn’t bothered to ring this time.

I pulled my phone out, my voice catching on the sobs and whimpers in my throat. The screen no longer said UNKNOWN, but had instead opened up one of those video chat apps. My vision was blurred from the tears, but what silhouette I could make out made me think that was for the best.

Caroline made a coughing noise and her body jerked. I cringed.

“Don’t be such a baby. Those kind of spasms are completely normal. It’s not like you’d hear a death rattle, right? If you think that’s bad, wait for the bowels to let loose!” the voice chided.

I grabbed Zelda and ran from the room. The last memory of my wife was going to haunt me long enough. I didn’t want to be in the room while my dead wife shit herself.

I locked Zelda and myself in the bathroom. She whined some, but only because I hadn’t let her finish snacking. That thought would have made me throw up again had anything remained in my stomach.

“I’m going to give you exactly two minutes to compose yourself, Mr. Hanshaw. After that, we will resume the intended conversation. So that you know, this is an attempt to collect on a debt. I hope you realize that any further attempts to delay or avoid this conversation will result in…similar consequences. Get your shit together,” the voice said.

The next two minutes might as well have been an eternity, though looking back I wish I had just washed my face and waited for the call.

As soon as the screen went black, I reached into my pocket and grabbed the battery. I pushed it into the phone and held down the power button, waiting for it to turn on and cussing at it under my breath for wasting time. Zelda sniffed under the door and scratched to be left out, sick and tired of being cooped up.

I opened the door and let her out, not wanting to deal with the distraction. Beyond everything that happened, I regret that the most. It was the only time that night I feel I had any real control, and in my panic I reacted how I would have on any other normal day.

By the time the phone loaded, nearly a minute must have been wasted. I called 911, fulling expecting something crazy to prevent the call from going through, but they picked up after a ring.

“911, what is your emergency?” the operator asked.

“My wife is dead. Someone is attacking us,” I answered.

“Are you in any immediate danger?” the operator asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

She started to ask me to describe my assailant, but I cut her off, knowing time was short.

“He will be back in less than a minute. He killed my wife. I don’t know who he is or what he wants. He says he is a debt collector. Please send help. My address is 932…” I was cut off.

“Salvador Street, Mr. Hanshaw? Obviously, I know where you live. Technically you did nothing to prevent our conversation, so I suppose I can’t fault you for keeping your wits after such a traumatic experience. To be honest, I’m impressed you were able to think at all! Are you ready to talk?”

I was done. I had reached my limit. I had wasted whatever wits left on a failed 911 call and had nothing left to maintain my composure. I proved it by tossing the phone in the toilet and holding down the flushing handle. I thought it would just sit at the bottom of the bowl as the water flowed over it, but it was small enough to disappear from sight.

I cried then. I leaned against the wall, ignoring the painful jab of the towel rack and Zelda scratching to be let back in to comfort me, and cried in loud, heaving sobs.

I wasn’t a bad person. I hadn’t done anything illegal. I lost my job at an inopportune time and had shitty luck, but I was trying as hard as I could. I loved my wife despite her criticism and resentment. She had a hard time understanding that trying hard didn’t always equate to results. Her anger was understandable. I had insisted on going for my Master’s degree, sure that it would take us to that next level of financial stability, and every failed interview and missed opportunity I blamed on that degree was me hating myself a little more for how much of a failure I had become.

Through all the anger and resentment, Caroline had stuck by me and put up with my self-righteous bullshit. She was my best friend, and now she was dead. If the voice on the phone was to be believed, it was just as much my fault as the debt that had caused him to call in the first place. Zelda’s scratching and whimpering grew louder, so quieted my sobbing until she let a bark of boredom and moved on.

That’s when I decided to end my life. My reason for living was dead in our bedroom. Whether all of this was a bad prank mixed with worse coincidence or the act of some crazy individual out for blood, better to die by my own hand than by that of whoever that voice belonged to.

I opened the bathroom door to call for Zelda, planning on leaving her in the neighbor’s fenced in yard with my suicide note tied to her collar. She didn’t come. All it took was a downward glance to realize that she hadn’t been scratching at the door to try and comfort me.

Zelda, both halves of her, lay dead at the foot of the bathroom door. Blood had soaked so deeply into her white fur and the carper that it was hard to tell the two apart, save for the collar around the lump on my left. Much like my wife’s final blink, some part of Zelda let out a final wheeze that sounded like a weak bark.

Zelda was like our child, and though I had no illusions that we would outlive her, I cannot explain to you what seeing something so brutal done to something you love so much does to you. What happened to my wife could have been a fucked up accident. Somebody had torn Zelda in half.

I felt nothing as I walked to my bedroom, stepped over Caroline, and stepped into the closet. I unlocked the combination safe and grabbed the gun from top shelf, not bothering to close it afterwards. I stuffed the gun into the back of my pants and grabbed the blankets folded at the end of our bed. I used one to cover Caroline as best as I was able without looking, and the other to cover Zelda, hoping they would appreciate the gesture if they had been able.

I walked down the stairs, slow and deliberate, almost too carefully for a man on his way to swallow a bottle of cheap vodka and a bullet. At the foot of the stairs, the doorbell rang. I wasn’t surprised as I looked towards the door. I knew exactly what I would see through the cloudy, decorative glass of our front door.

The same silhouette that had been on my phone screen.

The voice spoke to me through the door. I pulled the gun out of my pants and walked towards it, hearing every word, defeated.

“Now that we can avoid further interruption, Mr. Hanshaw, let’s discuss business. It’s very simple. You owed money and services to some very impatient people. I am more dedicated than most when it comes to collecting on those debts, and so people of such influence tend to come to me when all else fails. Why, you ask? Because instead of waiting for a peasant like you to pay installments, I pay your debts in full. Call it pre-consolidation. Now the only person you owe is me,” the voice informed me.

“I don’t have the money. I don’t have anything left!” I cried, leaning my head against the door and placing the gun against my temple.

“I don’t need your money, Mr. Hanshaw. Money is paper. Paper can be recycled. I only require one thing to clear your debt. Something invaluable. Just one little thing, and we can both move on from this. Open the door and give it to me. Trust me when I say that the gun in your hand won’t save you. There are plenty of things left I can take from you. You just don’t have the imagination in you to know what they are,” the voice said through the door.

“Just take it! Take what you want and leave me alone! What the hell do I have left to give?” I screamed, slamming my head and fists against the door, letting every emotion hit me at once.

“Your soul,” replied the voice.

Then, a sharp pain struck me in the chest and I was on my back, with bright light blinding me and demons screaming and scratching at my arms, turning me on my stomach and whipping me, pulling on my, beating me.

Through it all, I was content, because the voice was gone.

It was over.

My debt had been repaid.


                The image of Tom Hanshaw’s calm, smiling face froze on the screen.

The man who had paused the video read from a sheet of paper, his voice unnaturally deep and clear.

“When this was filmed, Mr. Hanshaw was free from any drug or alcoholic influence. It was filmed three days after Officer Stevens and Officer Norman entered the home, by force, in response to Mr. Hanshaw violently banging on the door from inside. Due to the nature of the emergency call, they thought Mr. Hanshaw was being attacked. Instead, they found him holding a gun and dazed from being knocked to the ground when they entered. Nobody can be sure rather or not the 911 call was meant to lure in further victims or bring someone in to clean up the mess he left behind. Thankfully, he was restrained and taken into custody without a single bullet being fired. He had rested and eaten before filming his confession, assuring anybody who would listen that he wasn’t worried as his debt had been repaid. He requested this confession and signed forms claiming he was within his right mind while delivering his confession. He assumed he would be free to leave afterwards. That was a year and a half ago,” he said.

The recent testimony they had all been privy too was entirely different. Tom had been frantic and weeping. Though his state appointed lawyer had adamantly warned against it, Tom Hanshaw wanted to tell his side. Anti-psychotics and trauma prevented him from saying anything helpful. The gaunt man was barely able to string a legible sentence together as he cried out that his debt had been repaid and that he should be free.

Due to the lack of witnesses and scant testimony, all they had to go on was evidence from the crime scene, expert testimony theorizing what led to the break, and Tom’s own poor excuse to defend himself. Some of them were unwilling to condemn a man so broken and driven to insanity by debts of the system when he was barely able to tell his side of the story, so they requested a review of his confession tape, filmed three days after his arrest at his own request.

The man set the paper on the table and spoke to the men and women before him.

“The man on that tape is not the man we have seen in the court room over the past few weeks. His sanity has been cleared by multiple professionals, meaning Mr. Hanshaw believes what he is saying is the truth and may be a functioning sociopath. Comparisons to Ted Bundy, while not relevant, seem accurate at this point. Now that we’ve seen the tape, I think it’s safe to say we can reach a fair, unanimous decision. We may never know whether it was an insurance ploy or an argument over finances gone wrong. What we do know is that Tom Hanshaw blamed murdering his wife and dog on calls received from two cellular phones that evidence shows had been disconnected weeks prior to the event. Difficult as it may be, we have a decision to make.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the options are as follows. Option one, the real Tom Hanshaw is the cold man we saw on that tape, and we condemn him to a guilty verdict and the death penalty. Option two, the real Tom Hanshaw is the man we saw in the court room, though still guilty, and we condemn him to a live out his life in a high security psychiatric facility. Option three, the real Tom Hanshaw is both men at different stages of grieving, is telling the truth, is not guilty, and should go free. The verdict must be unanimous. Are we ready?”

He let the question hang in the air for a moment, giving everybody a chance to digest the weight of the question with murmurs and head nods.

“Very well. Now then, all those who think Tom Hanshaw is guilty, please raise your hand.”

Moments later, the man walked to the door and informed the guard that a unanimous verdict had been reached. The jury was ready to inform Tom Hanshaw whether or not his debt had been paid after all.

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Customer Service: Our Horror Story

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So here it is. After I posted my customer service satire yesterday, a couple people didn’t quite get the point. That and as we try to tell our story and warn people off of this particular individual, we are having problems with all of the appropriate images being posted to back up the story. Therefore, this post is a place for people who either A) want to understand the satire post or B) want to hear the full story of what pissed me off so bad that I had to write something funny to calm down. I don’t get angry easy, folks…but when people screw with my family (this includes my animals), my friends, or those who don’t deserve it/can’t defend themselves, I get angry. So I diffuse by writing.

This is what we as a group wrote up, attempting to be as factual as possible.

A Teri-ble Situation

On March 4, 2015 Krystal Nichols, Christina Otero and Rachel White began a dialogue with Teri Casper of Sugar and Spikes and Babies so Nice out of Cincinnati, Ohio regarding the purchase of sugar glider joeys. The sale eventually culminated in the purchase of six gliders; 4 joeys and 1 breeding pair. We remained in frequent communication with Teri as it would take several weeks for the joeys we purchased to wean before they would be ready for shipping.

As part of our conversation, we requested and received several pictures and updates. As shipping time drew nearer we began to prepare for our new arrivals.

The First Lie

On April 16th, Teri was directly asked if the gliders would be receiving a vet check including a physical examination and a fecal. Teri’s reply was that the gliders would be seen that very week.

Several days later, on April 21st, Teri was again directly asked if the veterinary exams had taken place, as promised. Teri’s response was an assurance that they had seen the vet for an exam the previous day (April 20th, 2015) and that the fecal analysis (both a SNAP test and a smear/float) had been run. She promised to include the veterinary paperwork along with the shipment of the gliders.

She concluded the message with a brief warning that the gliders would be in a “kind of a tight squeeze” on their flight but assured us that they would be comfortable with room to “stretch out” and that they would have appropriate snacks for the flight.

The Neglect

However, on April 23rd, 2015 the gliders arrived in deplorable conditions. The four joeys were zipped into one 6.5 X 8.5” bonding pouch inside a very small kritter keeper and the breeding pair were zipped into a separate bonding pouch in a separate kritter keeper. The “snacks” were a few pieces of dried kibble that resembled dog food and some yoggies (small yogurt drop treats).



The gliders inside the pouches were dehydrated, filthy and terrified. They were literally saturated with their own waste.




photo5 photo6 photo7 photo8 photo9 photo10After arriving in these conditions, we immediately turned to the paperwork for confirmation that the gliders had indeed received a clean bill of health. However, there was no paperwork included. Though Teri claimed to have included the veterinary paperwork with the flight, the manifest reflects there was no paperwork to speak of.


We contacted her about our issues with both the condition of the gliders and the lack of promised vet records.

The Forgery

When we approached her seeking answers, Teri promised to send us the veterinary records on the following day. The following day we followed up asking that she email us the paperwork. She agreed to email the information and then disappeared. She did not respond to us again for almost a full week. During this time we had our own vets perform routine fecals and housed our new additions in quarantine.


Upon her return from her family emergency, she finally provided us a picture of the paperwork for her new puppy. She claimed the underlined portion was testing performed for the gliders, but that was not indicated on the paperwork. There were also no results included. At this point, we had been promised a hard copy with the glider shipment and then an emailed copy. Following that, she claims that she had to get a printout, and then that the vet had to call her with the results. She continually ignored our frequent requests for her vet’s contact information.

photo16 She eventually provides us with a new Patient History Report showing the tests results. The problem now is that this is document is a photo of a screenshot of a document still in a format that allows editing (notice the red squiggly Spell Checker lines). Also, there is no vet information on the letterhead.

The Detective Work and the Downward Spiral

Teri continued to ignore our repeated requests for her vet’s information so we reached out to a local animal hospital where we found out that Teri works, thinking the results may have come from that hospital. Using what little information was on the forms she sent and asking the  appropriate questions, we deduced that her forgery used their business as a front.

Teri Casper is known by the staff as owning sugar gliders, but they have never seen her gliders in the office as they do not work with exotics. They are familiar with her dogs and did see her newest puppy for an exam on April 20, 2015 as seen in the first Patient History Report. At the request of the vet, we emailed him the photos Teri sent to us. We never once implied that they were a forgery; the vet deduced this himself. The vet was very unsettled to learn that Teri had forged their initials and fraudulently claimed that the gliders we purchased were given a clean bill of health by their establishment.

To be transparent, Teri never once told us the name of the hospital she worked at. We found it on our own after much leg work and asking questions based on the information she gave us, because we wanted the truth. To respect the hospital and its staff, we feel that releasing the name of it or any of the doctors would be a disservice to the hospital, who had no idea what was going on and were helpful with helping us get to the truth once the facts were laid out.

Teri’s offer to send us a stamped hard copy is an empty promise. Because she works at this veterinary office, she could easily stamp her forged documents herself. It didn’t get that far, but this was the likely next step as she had promised to have documents mailed to us on the day we contacted the hospital.

It is unknown how long Teri has been forging documentation, but it is very likely not the first time (though that is an educated guess based on our experience and we have no actual proof that their are any victims of forged documentation besides us).

For the record, all we wanted was the truth. Our constant requests for such were met with more lies, excuses, or complete ignorance. We did not take it as far as we did for any other reason than we care about the well being of our animals and we wanted the facts. We wanted to know the vet that treated or checked them before they came into our care, and we wanted official proof that what was said was actually done due to the  inconsistencies we saw in her story.

Yes, we had planned on getting them tested by our own vets prior to their arrival as per proper new arrival procedures. That is not what is in question here. This is a community that is supposed to be built around honesty and putting the animals first. We were told something had been done, and we were lied to. Instead of coming clean, we were lied to on a bigger scale until we had to become detectives to find out the truth on a matter that, in the bigger picture, was pointless to lie about. On top of that, the gliders were mishandled and shipped in a manner that showed little thought or care for them.

We do care, and therefore we feel it is necessary to report this event to everybody in the hopes that things like this will stop happening in the community. If even one glider is treated better because of this, or if one person prevents being screwed over because they look a little closer at something that looks out of place, then sharing this information has been worth it.

The Aftermath

We posted this information to a forum meant to warn sugar glider owners and breeders of bad business transactions and shady people. Due to size, not all of the pictures were included (which is one of the reasons I am posting this to my blog), and that caused some mild heated discussion due to the lack of “proof”. These were distinguished once it was provided.

We posted here KNOWING that Teri could see it, and wanting her to be able to respond as she saw fit. Again, this was never meant to be an attack on her, simply a means to find out the absolute truth. As she has blocked all of us on facebook, we were unable to see her response when she DID post it, but we were able to see the content thanks to a friend.

Her response was as follows:

Teri-Casper-Screen-Shot-2015-05-07-at-9.04 Teri-Casper-Screen-Shot-2015-05-07-at-9.05

Now, while we respect her right to defend herself, the fact is, her response is full of lies. I’m not going to get into some of the ridiculous things she claims on a personal level, because this isn’t an attack. Some important notes however…

  1. We don’t know Teri outside of this transaction. Not only do we not have a clue what her finances were, are, etc…but we did not (nor would we have if we had known) mention them to her business partner (aka the boss vet we spoke to) because we called him only to find out rather or not the vet records were legit. I have no clue why she felt the need to lie about this other than to try and discredit us with information she can in no way back up.
  2. In no way, shape, or form did she ever discuss a 48 hour policy. We would have done it anyway, because it is good form to have the animals tested on both ends of that kind of travel, but adding regulations after the fact as a way to defend the things you did is just…sad.
  3. She claimed we harassed her boss and workplace and caused their partnership to end. False.
    1. I called once and left a message for him. I called a lot of other vets as well, trying to trace down where the documents originated.
    2. He called back, and I explained (as noted above) that we were looking for verification on these records.
    3. He asked me to email him the records and commented on how disturbed he was. All I sent him was the screen shots of her dogs patient history and the forgery she sent us. Everything else was pieced together by him because he’s a person of intelligence.
    4. He called me later to discuss the situation with Teri in the room. When asked if she had a response at the time, she said no.
  4. Here are screenshots of emails from him. Now, I understand that what I am including images of could basically be something  typed…but I refuse to drag the vet into this and that includes posting his name, so either you trust my word at this point, you don’t, or you stopped reading after the first picture:
    As you can see, he explained exactly what happened of his own accord. She resigned because it was that or get fired. This was probably the best situation for her overall because it let her control the ramifications of her dishonesty.

    As you can see, he explained exactly what happened of his own accord. She resigned because it was that or get fired. This was probably the best situation for her overall because it let her control the ramifications of her dishonesty.

    1. I replied to this email thanking him, apologizing for any stress or problems this caused, and explaining that Teri replied to our post and some of it (i.e. the bankruptcy statement, claiming again that the gliders were seen at the vet even though the vet himself told us that was a blatant lie with her in the same room, etc) was more lying and whatnot. I asked if he wanted the documentation we posted as well as her reply because, though we were trying our damnedest to maintain anonymity for his hospital, if somebody made the connection and anything came of it we did not want him to be unprepared or hit off guard. I also apologize for harassing him in any way, if that was the case. Full text in screen shot.
    2. His reply to that message?Vet Reply 2


As you can see, even after her entire lie had come to light, she continued to lie (when not face to face with someone in a place of power) and continues to do so. Instead of holding her head up, admitting her mistake, and apologizing at ANY POINT…she is alienating those in the glider community who can see what a real issue she caused. It’s like a terrible episode of Catfish where the person gets caught and just won’t confess.

To top it off, she verbally attacked the admin of the forum we posted the warning on initially, even though we did so to ensure she had the opportunity to say her piece, because…I don’t know…free time now? She even created a facebook group with a mission statement and told this admin that she was out to get her, then us. It has been reported, but seriously…

Not once have we tried to attack her. Karma bit her in the ass, and she just won’t stop fighting back. Even now, if she came clean about the situation, I would be completely fine with discussing with her why she felt the need to lie so much for so long on such a large level, because I read deeper issues here. I genuinely hope that she gets help and finds her way again, before any more animals or people suffer due to her actions.

All of this unneeded drama over a lie about testing a piece of shit.

Total cost of the test (for us, anyway)?



To Teri
I want to say that I do not feel guilty about what happened. Our goal was not to ruin your life. We just wanted answers. That being said, you talking about standing outside of a gun store for hours disturbed me, because you said it for one of two reasons: you wanted sympathetic attention and made a bold, dramatic statement to get it, or you are truly suicidal and that was your way of reaching out. Suicide is not a joke. Period. And though I may not be the person you would want to confide what is really bringing about these issues to, if you ever get to that place again, I implore you to go to or call the National Suicide Prevention Line at 1-800-273-8255 to get the help you need.

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Customer Service: A Satire…

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Recently, we had a terrible experience with an individual while ordering a couple of sugar gliders pets. I may post the full details of the experience in a follow up post, but for now, I wanted to write this to give everybody an idea of what this situation felt like if the person had been a national brand instead of a sole proprietor (though to me, a business is a business and you don’t screw over your clients/customers as bad as this person did…EVER.)


(Names of companies and products have been slightly modified. Let me state that both non-modified companies are GREAT and are only being parodied due to how ridiculous all of this would be if a “real” business pulled these shenanigans.)


Let’s go the land of make believe where a business run by more than one person tries to pull this kind of crap and see what happens…(Notice: Make Believe means made up, phony, or in this case, satirical)


Me: (phoning Fake Amazon Customer Service)

Fake Amazon: Hello, Fake Amazon Customer Service. How may I help you?

Me: Yes, the cage I ordered a few days ago arrived today. While putting it together I noticed that the wheels were damaged and pieces of the cage are bent to a degree that make it impossible to put together properly.

Fake Amazon: Sir, the cage was shipped in the appropriate packing materials.

Me: Sure, but this is supposed to be a Nitter Cration cage. The box was a bit torn up on arrival, but…the box doesn’t even look right. It’s bright yellow and it looks as if somebody just wrote “Nitter Cration” on the side. The “r” is even backwards.

Fake Amazon: It must be overstock. I assure you that the box is correct and the product is exactly what was promised on the website.

Me: Are you sure? I have pictures. I don’t see a Nitter Cration logo anywhere on the box…

Fake Amazon: Sir, all of the appropriate information is on the website. You got what you paid for. Do you see picture of the box on the website? No. If you insist, we can send you the official shipping information for your particular unit to assure you that we sent you the appropriate cage. It will take 5-10 business days. Will that make you happy?

Me: I mean, that doesn’t change the fact that the cage itself is still damaged. I don’t need a whole cage. Can you just send me a couple of replacement parts? For how expensive it was, I didn’t even have to sign for it. It was just left on my door step.

Fake Amazon: Fake Amazon has no control over what happens to a product once it is shipped. You can file a complaint with UPS. You should contact Nitter Cration directly if you are looking for replacement parts.

Me: But I’ve already said this box has no markings and there is nothing identifying it as a Nitter Cration cage, though my online receipt blatantly states that it is one.

Fake Amazon: Sir, I’ve already stated that we can send you information on your unit within 5-10 business days. I’m afraid there is little else I can do. Please make sure to leave a positive review and let people know how your service was handled!

Me: But…

Fake Amazon: *click*

Me: (After 5 attempts to re-dial and receiving a busy signal, I give up).


 As promised, on day 10, I received a letter in the mail with the supposed information on the unit.


 Me: (calling Fake Amazon back…finally get through)

Fake Amazon: Hello, Fake Amazon Customer Service. How may I help you?

Me: Hi. I got information I requested on a cage I ordered a couple of weeks ago and I am having some issues with the legibility of the document.

Fake Amazon: I see in the notes that we sent out unit information on a Nitter Cration cage. Do you have further questions?

Me: It’s written in crayon.

Fake Amazon: That is not entirely accurate sir. As you can see, the signature at the bottom of the page was clearly done with a ball point pen.

Me: But..the rest of the document is written in crayon.

Fake Amazon: Is your issue with the color? Burnt Umber seems to please most interested parties, according to analytic information.

Me: You said you were sending me an official document to assure me that this was indeed a Nitter Cration cage so that I could contact the company about replacing my product!

Fake Amazon: Sir, I can assure you that everything on that document is 100% accurate…

Me: But there is nothing official about it! I can’t use this to get answers or parts replaced! I couldn’t use this to get a B on a Third Grade spelling assignment! It’s just crayon! Everywhere!

Fake Amazon: Sir, please, the ballpoint pen at the bottom…

Me: You need to send me something official that clearly dictates both yourself and the selling party  were a part of the transaction before I was or I am going to have to contact them directly for further information. This is getting ridiculous.

Fake Amazon: Well, sir, we have provided what you asked for and I’m uncertain why you are not satisfied. Perhaps we can re-send the document in 5-10 business days copied in Number 2 Pencil instead?

Me: *click*


After much time on hold, I am finally able to contact a representative from Nitter Cration. After explaining the situation and providing them pictures of the official receipt from my account and the unit information they sent, I am assured that they had no idea the product was being sold in such a manner. Hours later, I am contacted by a Nitter Cration Representative, who informs me that Fake Amazon has a representative on the same line, and asks me to repeat the story. Fake Amazon refuses to comment after I am done. Days later, I find out that Nitter Cration and Amazon are no longer doing business with each other, though the split was purportedly “amicable”.

I received one final piece of mail from Amazon. It is important to note that the letter arrived on a crisp piece of 8.5 x 11 paper with a letter head and neat, legible Times New Roman font making up the content of the letter.


 Dear Shitty McShitface Shitterson,

       We are unsure why you felt the need to contact Nitter Cration about problems with your unit. We would have happily replaced any defective parts, up to and including the entire cage, so long as proper proof had been provided. We have a history of doing that very thing and don’t understand why you continually hassled both our customer service and representatives from Nitter Cration until they were strong armed into forcing a peaceful severance of our sales agreement. That partnership was important to us and you spoiled everything!

Of course, other people will just sell the same product on our site, but the slight discount cuts into our profits and we are trying to make drones a thing. We hope you are happy that you have taken part in possibly setting the future of human technological evolution and fast, efficient shipping back by a decade because you wanted to be a whiner baby over some bent metal.

Fuck you.


           Fake Amazon Representative



So there you go. That shit would NEVER, EVER fly in a real business. For the record, I DID recently have an issue with a cage I ordered through REAL Amazon. Here is, more or less, how that conversation looked…

Me: I ordered a cage from you a few days ago and while putting it together, we noticed a couple of broken wheels and some bent cage pieces. We can’t really use it as is.

Amazon: I’m so sorry, sir. We will have a replacement shipped to you using our fastest method of delivery. Anything else I can help you with?

The. End.


Moral of the story? The customer is NOT always right, but do not shit all over them when they are. Respect that your customers are not all idiots and some of them are willing to go the extra mile to find out the truth regarding things they spent their hard earned money on. If that truth bites you in the ass because you are a liar who forges documentation and ends up losing a business relationship over it, it was probably NOT the customers fault.

I will update at some point with the true inspiration for this story and the lady who turned shitty customer service and mistreatment of animals into what she claims is a personal attack. Just give me some time to get everything organized into a coherent story, and I promise I’ll post it for all to read.

In 5-10 business days.

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Absolute Horror, my first novel, published!

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Yes, my novel has finally been published and is available for purchase here:


To everyone who helped, pushed, read, complained, offered advice, and listened to me talk for years about a novel I’m sure they thought didn’t actually exist…I think, from the bottom of my creative being, that it is worth the read. Thank you all.


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Six Pretty Petals

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UPDATE: This story was accepted and published by Creepy Pasta as of February 13th, 2015. This short story can also be read by clicking here.

I woke up that Saturday morning to an unexpected breeze, cool and pleasant, against my cheek. I kept a fan on myself while I slept during the warmer seasons, but the fan was packed deep in my closet during the heart of winter.

I wiped my eyes and looked towards the source of the breeze. A yellow blur blocked some of the blinding light that broke through the sheer curtains. As my vision regained clarity, the yellow blur morphed into a lovely flower with six large, yellow petals.

Before college, I would have been terrified of waking up to a strange flower on my chest, but maturity left me more curious than scared. After meeting my best friend, Chelsea, a female sleight-of-hand magician, I had grown more willing to accept the unexpected. The flower was part of some intricate trick she would surprise me with later in the week. It was the only explanation that made sense, therefore I assumed it to be the correct one.

I made it through high school without uttering the ‘love’ word to any of my boyfriends, as my friends were so hasty to brag about doing. When it came to romance, it wasn’t something I let take over my life. My reputation around campus as an ice queen wasn’t entirely accurate, but it didn’t bother me. It helped me avoid the dating scene and keep focus on my G.P.A. My plan was set, and I was the only one responsible for executing it.

I was not a prude, but I was a realist. No spontaneous college guy would waste random romantic gestures on the control freak. Even if there was interest, a warm fire or a heated blanket were more romantic than any flower this far north. Winter wasn’t for color, it was for comfort. Still, it was a pretty flower.

The flower seemed healthy, but I could smell nothing. My nose was ice cold, and a fresh gust of air made me very aware of the liquid that was dripping from it. The breeze was coming from the window, open about an inch. I closed the window and touched my nose. My hands, warm from being tucked under my pillow, recoiled from the touch of my cold nose. It was no wonder I couldn’t smell the flower.

I set the flower on my nightstand, hoping a long hot shower would clear my head and warm up my nose enough to smell it. I saw a notification for a few unanswered texts from Chelsea, but I needed to wake up first.

Chelsea was the sober sorority sister of Phi Sigma Sigma, and my best friend. She had never touched a drop of alcohol in her life and never planned to, though she had a sense of humor about it. “Why?” was a question she heard often and used as a way to challenge her ability to think quick. She claimed various rules of various religions at first before moving on to secret societies cult tenants forcing her to keep clean for her Master. For the past month, she has used that question as a study aid for her Death and Society class. She would claim that the victims of Insert Serial Killer’s Name Here were drunk and that she didn’t want to make herself an easy target. After recounting some of the more gruesome details from memory, even the most practiced partiers would spend more time eyeing their drinks and fellow party guests with suspicion than imbibing. She was passing the class with flying colors.

Chelsea was a sleight-of-hand magician, and Penn and Teller were her idols. Neither had ever taken a drink of alcohol, and neither ever would, for no reason other than they didn’t want to. She liked the idea and spent her time practicing sleight-of-hand by herself while other kids her age practiced the handsy stuff on each other. I was the control freak, she was the perfectionist, and both of us avoided deep relationships in lieu of our own personal interests and hobbies. We were best friends a week into English 301.

Chelsea was the designated driver, cock blocker and general care taker when the Phi Sigma Six went to parties. She asked for three things as payment: gas money, permission to perform magic tricks for the guys who struck out with us, and allowance to film any embarrassing shit we did (with a clause that none of it ended up on YouTube). I never got drunk enough to go viral, but New Year’s Eve was the one night of the year I caged the control freak completely. That Saturday was January 1st. I assumed Chelsea was the reason I woke up with a cracked window and a strange flower instead of a cracking headache and a strange frat boy. None of the normal signs of a hangover dragged me down and silently praised Chelsea for whichever of her magic tricks had prevented the normal symptoms. I remembered nothing.

The hot shower was fantastic. The hair on my legs was longer than I expected considering I had shaved prior to party the night before. An ex-boyfriend used to swear that his facial hair always seemed to grow in thicker and quicker after a night of heavy drinking. Not caring much about the cause, I recycled the diagnosis and slathered conditioner on my legs. After I washed and conditioned my hair, I turned the shower head to pulse and stood under the water, enjoying the sensation of water massaging the back of my neck while my hair draped over my face like a hot towel. One of the perks of a private dorm room: no roommate, no sharing the hot water.

After I brushed my hair and teeth, I returned to my bed to check my missed messages when three loud, rapid knocks pounded at my door. After the third knock, a sheet of paper slid through the gap at the bottom of my door. This was how the sorority passed along warnings about secret dorm inspections or frivolous gossip we didn’t trust texting. It was quick and anonymous. No one ever knew who was knocking. For secretive note passing, those three knocks were obnoxious in volume and left a feeling of creeping dread clinging to each and every goose bump that ran up my spine. That cold cape of unease never stayed with me until the end. Much later, I realized what was so unsettling about the situation:

One, my door was the only one that had been knocked on.

Two, I had heard no footsteps approaching (or leaving, for that matter), even though the floors in our building creaked if somebody so much as coughed.

I left the note on the floor, as if to punish it for ruining my calm. I checked that the padlock was in the locked position (a useless, but helpful symbol of safety) before I picked up my phone to check the text messages from Chelsea. The knocking returned most of the pre-shower tension. My subconscious would expect more knocking for hours just to avoid surprise if it happened again. The stress made it impossible to relax.

I paced around the room as I checked my phone. First I caught up on e-mails, the last of which was also from Chelsea. It contained an image that failed to download no matter how many times I touched the retry button. I let it be and scrolled through the text messages instead. These were the last few messages on my phone.

Me: see u in 5, doll! (Dec. 31, 2014 08:29 p.m.)
Chelsea: Who is that guy? Why is he trying to give you a flower? Can I do a trick on him or does he have potential? (Dec. 31, 2014 09:42 p.m.)
Me: says his name is ray! never seen him before, but Ana thinks he’s cute so no tricks yet! (Dec. 31, 2014 09:44 p.m.)
Chelsea: Do his eyes look strange to you, or are you too drunk to notice? (Dec. 31, 2014 09:45 p.m.)
Chelsea: Brit? Where the hell did you go? (Dec. 31, 2014 09:59 p.m.)
Chelsea: Hello? Are you in the bathroom? You need to practice so you aren’t puking drunk after one Angry Orchard! Just tell me if you find a ride or not. This party is L-A-M-E! (Dec. 31, 2014 10:49 p.m.)
Chelsea: Brit, seriously, where are you? I can’t find Melody or Sara. Ray keeps looking at me and his eyes are seriously fucked up. I’m getting creeped out. (Jan. 01, 2015 01:11 a.m.)
Chelsea: Holy fvk BRt I jus foudn melody, shes passd out or smthng. Wher are u?!?!?!?! (Jan. 01, 2015 01:42 a.m.)
Chelsea: BRIT! ANSWR ME!!! (Jan. 01, 2015 01:56 a.m.)
Chelsea:sixlovelypetalsdoesshelovemeordoesshenotsixlovelypetalsdoesshelovemeordoesshenotsixlovelypetalsdoesshelovemeordoesshenotsixlovelypetalsdoesshelovemeordoesshenotsixlovelypetalsdoesshelovemeordoesshenot (Jan. 01, 2015 4:03 a.m.)

By the time I read the last message, the chills in my back had returned ten-fold. My frantic pacing caused my thighs to ache. I made a mental note to call Melody later and make sure she was feeling better, but I needed to see Chelsea.

Chelsea didn’t just lose her cool. Ever. Getting us safely back to our rooms, passed out or otherwise, was what Chelsea did. She didn’t freak out over it, especially not to the point of it silencing her inner grammar Nazi. She had grown used to me shortening a couple of words and not using capital letters, but anything beyond that meant repercussions.

More terrifying than those three knocks were the last three text messages.
The first, broken and misspelled, like a drunk text sent to an ex booty call. She would have ignored me for a weekend on principle had I sent it to her.

The second, all capital letters with exclamation points for emphasis. That would have earned me a public conversation where she yelled at me just so my ears and shame could be uncomfortable as her eyes had been reading it.

And the third message. One long string of lower case letters. Gibberish at first, but after reading it back a few times it repeats the same message six times. ‘Six lovely petals. Does she love me or does she not.’ I had no idea what the fuck that was supposed to mean, or why Chelsea would have sent it.

My phone beeped and I had a fear spasm, as if I’d run into an invisible wall. A small arrow appeared at the top of my cell phone screen signifying a successful download. I forced myself to stand still and calm down before I opened it. The morning was spiraling into some sort of hell thanks to my inner control freak. I hoped a cricket chirping wouldn’t cause me to piss myself at the rate I was going.

The download was the image Chelsea had sent me, called NYE15-6Petals. I don’t know how long I sat with my thumb hovering over that text, unsure whether or not I had the guts left to open that image. I had to talk myself into thinking that it was some elaborate prank on Chelsea’s part to get back at me for disappearing on her last night. It took me longer to open it than I’m comfortable admitting.

The picture proved that Chelsea was not responsible for the flower. It was a picture of the six of us, the Phi Sigma Six. From left to right, we were Melody, Sara, Jolene, Anastasia, Chelsea, and me. All of us had yellow flowers behind our ears, and each one of those yellow bastards had six petals. I glanced at the flower on my night stand for a moment. Perhaps it was the fear, or seeing that all six of us had received one, but it no longer seemed beautiful or special. I sure as hell didn’t have the urge to smell it anymore.

Unable to keep still, I began pacing again. I glanced at the piece of paper on the floor. I wanted to look at that piece of paper about as much as I wanted to smell the flower, though I knew I would eventually look.

I had to look. To take control.

I looked back to the picture. Six of us smiling, unsure of the shenanigans the night still held. My eyes moved past our flower framed faces to the mirror behind us. In it, I saw the man who had taken the picture. He held Chelsea’s phone level with his chin. The flash in the mirror left little of his face recognizable and made his hand look thin, almost skeletal. His eyes, unaffected by the flash, were completely visible.

Chelsea had been right about Ray. His eyes were as disturbing as Chelsea’s texts described. Something was wrong with them. They whole of each eye looked black. Most people would have assumed the man wore contacts, but the blackness looked like deep, empty holes; the irises floated against the blackness like the rims of buckets floating at the bottom of the well. All six of us had red eye from the flash, but Ray’s eyes were matte. The flash didn’t just not touch them, it seemed to actively avoid them.

It could have been bad Photoshop. I wish I could say that, at any point, I had believed it was bad Photoshop.

Whether it was the growing fear in my gut or a trick from staring at the screen too long, I saw the eyes move, those pale irises staring right at me, and let out a high pitched shriek as I shoved the phone deep within the depths of my pillow pile. I was done with cryptic texts and strange images.

I couldn’t stop pacing. Again, I wanted to convince myself that Chelsea was trying out a new, albeit disturbing, magic trick on me. She had a tendency to surprise me with small pieces of tricks instead of running me through the patter and show of it all.

This was the finale of a good trick. It would explain the black, hollow eyes that light avoided, how the texts set up finding the picture, how the picture seemed to download on its own when I finished the texts. It all made sense if I could accept that Chelsea, as a magician, had secrets that she just couldn’t share. Once I saw the trick pieced together, it would all make sense.

Any other truth would break me.

At some point I had stopped pacing and had picked up the piece of paper. I was staring at the blank back side of it as I left my thoughts. Confused emotions made me dizzy while fear and reason, the angel and a devil on my shoulder, fought for control of my hands; fought for control of that precious, terrifying sheet of paper. The devil on my shoulder cooed that turning it over would reveal the secret and give me the answer Chelsea could not. The angel, meek but loud, screamed that turning it over meant I could never not turn it over.

I had always thought that my controlling nature made me a rational person, if a bit distant, but I was learning that fear turns a person’s every trait into a weapon. I was as naïve and stupid as any horror movie character I had yelled at over the years, because I could not let myself remain naïve and stupid.

I had to know. To take control.

I turned the piece of paper over.

By Neil Palmer

January 3rd, 2015 – It has been three days since the Acacia Fraternity New Year’s Eve Party ended and two more students have been tragically added to the list of deceased. The bodies of Anastasia Higgins and Chelsea Fogg were found in their respective dorm rooms this morning, despite campus being under 24-hour surveillance and closed to all non-police and federal authorities as of January 1st.
The rooms of all six sorority sisters have been secured and are under observation. Melody Simmons and Sarah Rowland were found on the morning of January 1st by pledges assigned to aid them after the New Year’s Eve party. Jolene Robert’s body appeared in her bed the next day. There were no signs of forced entry and no reports of suspicious activity from officers on duty.

Ms. Higgins and Ms. Fogg each had strange yellow flowers on their chests, as with the previous victims. Two of the petals on Ms. Fogg’s flower had been removed, leaving four petals. One petal had been removed from of Ms. Higgins’, leaving five. Though the flower has not yet been identified, the picture below, pulled this morning off of Ms. Fogg’s phone, show that each flower has six petals. Authorities suspect that whoever was responsible for the flowers may have information and urge anybody with information to call 911 or the provided anonymous tip line as quickly as possible.

(In the middle of the page was the picture that Chelsea had emailed me, displaying the six of us smiling with those fucking flowers behind our ears. I wouldn’t let myself look at Ray’s face again. I forced myself to read on, despite tears blurring my vision.)

Britney Davidson is the last member of the Phi Sigma Six who remains unaccounted for. If criminal profiler theories that this is the work of a serial killer can be trusted, Ms. Davidson represents one more potential victim. Finding her is paramount to both saving her life and catching the person responsible for the deaths of her five sisters.

If anybody has any information regarding the whereabouts of Britney Davidson, please call the aforementioned numbers.

A service for the Phi Sigma Six will be held as soon as the campus is re-opened to the staff and students. Until then, free grief counseling and student support is being offered at the local YMCA.

Our thoughts and sympathies are with the families of all six young women and anyone else whose lives they have touched.

There was a picture of me on the bottom of the page, and some phone numbers.

I let the paper fall to the floor as my breath caught in my chest. My sisters were dead. My best friend was dead. The grief I felt for them, and the fear I should have felt knowing that I was next, both punctuated by the date at the top of the page.

It was January 3rd. I had been lost for three days, which meant that I had lostthree days.

Somehow, I had ended up back in my own bed, the same as my sorority sisters. I hoped nobody had stuffed a piece of paper underneath any of their doors. I hoped that they had gone peacefully in their sleep. I hoped they had been ignorant to the fear coursing through me knowing that I was next.

Three knocks, much louder than the first, crumbled my nerves. The chills running up my spine grew hot with adrenaline. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t help myself from whimpering in short, ugly bursts. I turned towards my bed, ready to leap for the phone under my pillows and call 911.

I couldn’t take the first step. What I saw stopped the chills, the tears, the whimper, my breathing and time itself, for all I knew.

The window was cracked about an inch. The yellow flower with the six pretty petals was no longer on my night table. The yellow flower sat on my chest in a perfect spot to obstruct my vision if I were to open my eyes. Not a single petal had been removed.
The room had become claustrophobic and surrealistic in a hurry. I wasn’t sure if the version of me, who I thought of as the ‘real’ me, was asleep or dead. I wasn’t sure if I was a ghost, a dream, or having an out of body experience.

I had been vulnerable to whatever monster was responsible for the death of my friends the entire time, and I had been ignorant of that until I read that damn article. In trying to grasp control, I had broken the illusion and lost all of it. As vulnerable as the ‘real’ me lying in bed was, the part of me stuck staring at her would be the part that suffered.

I envied her, the ‘real’ me lying in that bed, relaxed and oblivious. She hadn’t spent the morning pacing around her room, slowly losing her mind. She hadn’t learned that her best friends had died. She had no idea that she would never be waking up, if she wasn’t already dead.

The door behind me creaked as it opened. My entire body felt as cold as my nose had been. The adrenaline was gone, no longer warming my limbs. Something more than fear froze me in place. All I felt was cold.

I would not move. I could not move.

Each shallow exhale turned into a thick cloud of fog in front of my face. My eyes were wide open and drying out in the intense cold. The room itself seemed to turn gray the colder I got. I heard a hiss behind me and a large cloud fog flew past my head, overtaking one of my own small breath clouds.

I could not react to whatever was behind me. Rather it was out of fear or something the thing behind me had done to me, I would never know. My bladder let loose to punctuate my lack of body control. The fresh piss felt like ice water as it flowed down my leg. It didn’t even take a cricket chirping.

A yellow blur slowly crept over my shoulder from my left peripheral. As my vision regained clarity, the yellow blur morphed into an ugly flower with one large, decayed yellow petal. My entire body was ice cold, but this time I could smell it; something like nail polish remover and moldy bread and sweet rot.

Holding the stem of the flower was a pale hand that looked thin and skeletal at first. I was wrong. The hand wasn’t skeletal; it was a skeleton’s hand.
A voice behind me spoke, a deep whisper louder than any of the knocks.

“Six lovely petals. Does she love me or does she not?”

No control.

I looked at my body one last time and offered a silent apology. I was going to be the reason we died, and I could do nothing to stop it.

I was powerless.

Powerless to resist the second skeleton hand as it grabbed my wrist and raised my hand to the flower.

Powerless to stop my fingers from pinching that last yellow petal and plucking it off.

Powerless to stop myself from saying “I love you not.”


I woke up that Saturday morning to an unexpected breeze, cool and pleasant, against my cheek. Somewhere within the whoosh of the wind blowing through my window, I swear I heard a deep whisper.

“Good choice.”

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I look outside at how dreary the weather has become and I can empathize. I’m not big on idolizing people, as I feel like it hinders collaboration and creativity. That being said, I was once a child who had idols and aspirations. I wanted to be a superhero, a wrestler, a movie star, an astronaut…all at the same time. As I grew up and shed unrealistic and over fantasized goals away, there were some things that stuck and defined who I am.

I wanted to create. I wanted to entertain people. I wanted to teach. I wanted to make the world smile. I wanted to become a people pleaser who didn’t get walked all over and who could talk about the darker things in a way that took away their power. I wanted to give a hundred times more than what I got.

I wanted to be Robin Williams.

I never saw him as an eccentric comedian who talked a thousand miles a minute. I saw him as a man with a passion for life and spreading joy to those around him. I saw a man who could be honest and likeable at the same time. I also saw the darkness that existed, and applauded him for being open about it.

As a person who has integrated comedy into different creative ventures I have pursued (as well as done actual stand up), I understand how dark it can be to bring light to others. You want to make people smile and laugh because you understand the things it makes them forget about, even for a little while. You tell jokes while looking at a sea of faces. Sometimes a risqué joke hits somebody the wrong way because of pain they have experienced and catching somebody’s eye in the moment that pain is remembered in front of a room full of people is worse than any joke bombing. It can be a lonely place, feeling responsible for shouldering so much just to give out some joy. Robin himself once said that feeling lonely while surrounded by people was one of the worst feelings there was, and I agree.

No facts have been released yet, so I will not make any assumptions. Years ago, I lost a friend to suicide. Yesterday, I lost one of the only idols I never let go of. It hurts. I will remember the joy he brought me and do my best to give as much as I can to the world, because he inspired me to do so before I could ever grasp how important it could be.

I say all of that to say this: you are never alone. Sex, orientation, religion, skin color, an interest in terrible literature about sparkling vampires…I don’t judge. If you ever feel depressed or lonely and need a smile, a hug, a painting, or anything at all and you feel like you have nowhere to turn, I will do my best. I’m not a professional, and there are plenty of those who can help. I’m not an anonymous person, and there are phone lines full of strangers looking to offer what help they can give. But if nothing else works and all hope is lost, I will be here, and I will be whatever I need to help you realize that depression is no more than a terrible villain.

And every villain has a weakness.

National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

Depression Tips:

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Ask Me Anything # 2: Forgiveness

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Sharon Childress:
How do I forgive someone who isn’t sorry? Don’t tell me that forgiveness is for me…

Hmm…I don’t think I can phone this one in. There are a bunch of ways to answer this question, all depending on who you ask. I want to give you a straight, honest answer from my own point of view, but I don’t want to come off as preachy. and I don’t have a PhD. Yet…

Seeing as how most of the sites I find when I google ‘Forgiving somebody who is not sorry” return little more than long winded versions of the advice you blatantly state you don’t want, I will forego my plan of critiquing their opinion and credibility down to the level of Westboro Baptist Church and give it to you like I see it.

Note: The following is nothing more than my opinion, backed by little more than my own version of common sense, observation, and experience. 

I was the kid who grew up saying “I’m sorry” to things I had not even had a hand in. Fact is, I was never even sorry, really…the phrase just popped out because I had nothing better to say and had yet to learn to control my body through years of male kegel exercises and constantly being wrongly identified as a female Canadian when ordering food over the phone (kegels, sadly, do not give a guy a deeper voice).

Not caring is either a lack of realizing that there is a reason to be sorry or a silent proclamation that all of their fucks in were invested in Circuit City and they have none left to give to anybody.

In either case, the person needs to know that there is something to be sorry for in the first place. Whatever the elephant in the room may be, it must be exposed or else all you are really doing is playing “Saw: The Home Game” by yourself.

The core dynamic of apologizing and forgiving  is an agreement that somebody fucked up and that if nobody ever brought it up again, that would be swell. There are those who love to say the phrase “I forgive you, but I won’t forget!” No shit. And that person will remind the ‘forgiven’ party every chance they get that they have, indeed, not forgotten, meaning nothing was resolved in the first place.

You didn’t want the answer to be turned back on you, but to a degree, it is about you. Why do you need to forgive anybody? Viserys Targaryn let his head be cast in gold because forgiveness would have nullified everything he set out to achieve. Do you know how much a golden head cast would normally cost somebody? The Iron Bank would own their entire family. And, silver lining, imagine what Viserys would have done had he outlived Khal Drogo. Killed the entire fucking planet. What I’m trying to say is, sometimes good things happen because somebody can’t or won’t forgive.

This may just be me, but I can interact with a person without forgiving them for a transgression. I can also move on from a person completely without forgiving them. It does not make me feel like a bad person or an unhappy hate monster. Most of the time, I feel a like I am walking a little lighter for removing myself from something that had obviously made me unhappy or made me feel negative.

Forgiveness is a something that somebody else, if they cared even a little, would want FROM you if they wronged you (and were aware of it). Feeling off in any way because forgiving them comes hard is not guilt devouring you from the insight like an infant Xenomorph because you suck as a human being. It is your body putting stress on you because you are trying to force yourself to think that you have to do something that is not required.

The heart of the problem of this question depends on some things

  1. Is the problem that you MUST forgive a person to feel good about yourself, regardless of rather or not they care? If so, then I hate to say it but it is on you. You either have to find a way to forgive them and be ok with it or find a way to be ok with NOT forgiving them, but if the other party doesn’t care in the least, I doubt they are going to throw you a bone to make forgiveness easier. And if they do, they are manipulating you.
  2. Is the problem that they don’t CARE, and being able to forgive them is proof that they finally give a damn about you? Again, this is on you because it becomes your job to make them care, make them understand why you feel the way you do, and make them legitimately sorry in order for you to forgive them. In other words, you have to stress and worry about something that they don’t care about, and that stress and worry will ONLY go away if you can make them care. Even then, they may just say what you want to hear to get you to shut up, which is a manipulation of  the situation.
  3. Is the problem that you really, really don’t want to forgive them but feel that you have to do so or else you are just as bad as them? Fuck that.

Some people do not deserve your forgiveness or affections. Every minute you spend debating how to forgive someone who doesn’t deserve it or does not care, Stephen Moffatt adds another month to to how long we have to wait to find out rather or not Sherlock misses Moriarty.

Forgive yourself instead. Forgive yourself for not forgiving them, if it makes you feel truly despicable.  At least you will cuddle afterwards. And as Rupaul says, “If you can’t forgive yourself, how the hell you s’posed to forgive somebody else.” I added some creative licensing on that one…

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Ask Me Anything # 1: Galilee 10 B.C. to 50 A.D.

I’m not a celebrity, so the whole Rob Nichols ‘ask me anything’ trend won’t be trending anytime soon. I have made it a point to begin letting people know that they can ask me anything by e-mailing me at, and I will provide an answer.

I have received my first questions (via Facebook instead of the aforementioned e-mail, but I shouldn’t expect anybody to read every single word of the directions when I cook Hot Pockets via observational scientific method). Below is the first. I will be posting the second soon.

Andrew Bowers:
Tell me about the culture surrounding Galilee near 10 BC to 50 AD

Ok, to be fair, I did say I would answer any question.  The culture surrounding Galilee near -10 to 50 A.D. (Anno Domini) was, according to that bible thing, pretty fucking terrible. According to the atheism page, Galilee was a Roman occupied area of Palestine in the same way that The Death Star was occupied by reliable Empire marksmen. Sure, there were plenty of them there, but…did they do very much? In Lamb, a sequel of the Bible (like The Godfather 2, it is the better of the two books), the landscape, clothing, skin tones, and general mood of the area are also described as brown, so there you go.

Criss Angel aka Jesus

It was during the time period  mentioned that this Jesus guy, from what I have read, healed some people, turned water into wine, gave sight to the blind, tore the legs off of a woman on a park bench, walked across the water of a swimming pool, floated  over The Luxor Hotel and Casino, and other miracles of questionable validity and sanity.

A quote from his gospels reads:

“23)His powers did bleed their tears
And darkness did call their names
He stared down the fears of his disciples
And doth did he take pleasure in their pain

24)Don’t think ye alone, He did say
For soon, thee shall all find
Mine is the voice you hear
Screaming inside of your mind

25)Behold, I am the mindfreak
There is no reality
For all is an illusion
And the Holy Ghost won’t shut up”

I had to paraphrase that. I didn’t understand what the fuck he was talking about, to be honest. I think I got off track, but to sum up the answer, they cancelled his show to atone for our sins. Fair trade, I think.

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Oh, Father…

I watched from the back seat as my father murdered them all. His rage knew nothing of skin color, sexual orientation, or any other superficial trait as those who reported on him would later have you believe. His only true concern was obedience. I was spared his temper and his desire for blood, but I was an obedient son. Had I defied him in any way that read as betrayal, he would have put me down with the rest of the sheep and tried for a better son.

Violent as he was, he treated me with kindness when he was not indifferent to my presence.  The lessons he taught me contradicted his actions. He would preach to me the faults of bullying and encourage me to make my friends to be nice to each other while busy extorting every ounce of happiness out of somebody who looked to him as a friend. He explained the importance of community while taking out a sea of men because he had the better weapons. He taught me the importance of love while hating everything that existed.

Once, when I was old enough to grow more than boy stubble on my chin, I asked him why he raised me to be such a different man than he. I expected him to say that he wanted me to be a better person than he was, or that I was his chance for redemption. Instead, he looked at me and said “Son, if through you I can make a few of these cockroaches piss me off even a little bit less, I might be able to take a vacation from all of this wrath and carnage.”

He was raising me to babysit, basically. He was sick of dealing with what he thought of as annoying children. And unless I did something to make them less annoying, he would continue his wicked ways.

I used the lessons he taught me to pen my own non-profit group.  I promoted charity and good will and said yes to those in need, but it was never enough. I would call on dad every time word of some atrocity reached my ears just to ask if it was his doing. Sometimes it was. Sometimes he would just laugh and say that he must be giving some of the “cockroaches” ideas of their own and that, the way things were going, he would be able to take a break and let them handle the trash for him.

I never understood my father and his violence, because he never wanted me to. Still, I loved him. This was the first time that love shifted towards something more in his realm of emotion. I sensed hate, even if I didn’t quite feel it, and I knew that embracing it would leave me open to my father’s brand of justice. I would become just another cockroach.

To quiet the voice of hate, I had to overpower it with my own.

I took a more public position as the figurehead of my company and began doing motivational speaking tours. I expanded my staff, letting those as serious about my convictions become closer than siblings and offering them equal stock in the fruits of our labors. We began advertising, which let us give more than we ever had before.

I guess I got too loud for my own good. Rival companies who cared more for wealth and status did not appreciate business being stolen from them by a company full of hippies and peaceniks. Having dealt with my dad, I was confident that I could handle any words or anger they threw my way. After all, I was hurting nothing but the pride and bottom line of those who prayed on the weak for a profit. I ignored them and continued on with my business model. I had no other choice.

The day came when my father called me and told me that I needed to get my affairs in order. At first I was confused, and I wondered if everything I had done based on his lessons had been for naught. He told me he was proud, but that he had not prepared for the lengths I would go to silence the annoyances of the world and that the world would go to silence me.  Men would be coming for me soon, because he was selfish in how he raised me.

It was the only time in my life I had heard him sound anywhere close to sorry.

I knew I could not ask my father to save me, because his methods would result in death and I had done so much to promote the opposite of those methods that utilizing them would destroy the company and the strength of our message. Too much good had been done for that. He knew this was true, and so all he said was the he loved me and he was sorry.

My dad murdered, stole, and caused all around chaos because it was his nature. The world was his toy box and he loved the smell of burned plastic. Because he raised me to clean up for him, I was the one who would take the punishment. I was prepared for their brutality, and none of them came close to matching my father’s wrath. I took solace in the fact that my nonchalance would only hurt their cause, and a little part of me was excited that they were digging their own graves.

Still, as they hammered the nails into my wrists and feet, I wish my father could have done something to prepare me for this. In the end, his intentions for my life were good, but on the whole he was a shitty father. He punished for his own cause and let me die for mine.

To be fair, the looks on their faces when I ‘woke up’ were priceless. Sure, he was a terrible father, but he was, hands down, the best troll who ever existed.

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New Project

I am going to Chuck Wendig’s advice and  start up a second novel (while in the process of getting the first edited) using his 350 words a day method.

I’ll start soon, might post the 350 words a day here.

Link to Chuck’s article:

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