Everything Sucks Anthology

Everything Sucks

Anthology

Written by R. Smith

Edited by Shawn M. Greenleaf

Book Design & Cover by Savage1Studio

Copyright © 2014 R. Smith

All rights reserved.

Date: 02-20-2014

A Team Pop Culture Production

Publisher: Smashwords Edition

License Notes: Smashwords Edition

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This is copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author.

Thank you for your support.

Dedicated to:

I'd need several pages to list everyone who truly deserves a

dedication, so I'll just say I dedicate this book to everyone in my

life who supports and encourages me. And makes me cookies.

Couldn't do it without the cookies.

Books by R. Smith

Pop Culture Sucks! Manifesto Of A Vampire

Everything Sucks Anthology

Knights Of Albion: Book1 (Late 2014)

Table Of Contents

1. Tea & Victory

2. Family Nonsense

3. Win

4. You'll Love This Guy

5. Lucky

6. Creations & Saviors

7. Hog House

8. Underground

9. Easy

10. Hell of A Lady

11. The Twist

12. The Importance of Blue

13. Pop Culture Sucks! Preview

14. End Notes

Introduction

Though all of these short stories involve or expand on characters introduced in my book Pop Culture Sucks! Manifesto of A Vampire, each stands on its own as an independent narrative.

Reading the book would just be gravy. (Delicious, delicious gravy, mmmm . . .) Some of these stories are funny, some dark, some violent--and one is just outright odd.

Enjoy!

R. Smith

Tea & Victory

First, he was terrified.

When the terror wore off, annoyance filled the vacancy.

From pitiful life, to no life at all. Wonderful.

A few days later he realized being turned into a sentient . . . dead . . . thing was, without a doubt, the most fortunate event of his life.

It meant he could finally realize his darkest (and most loved) dream. He could make them suffer like they deserved.

He set out towards his childhood home, determined neither of them would be spared regardless of tears or apologies. He would see it through to the slow, painful end.

He arrived at their doorstep in less than an hour; the ability to move so swiftly still new and thrilling. He pounded on the door with no regard for the late hour. His father answered the door, his face going sour like year old milk upon seeing his son.

Hello Papa, said Victor. Is Mama home? I need to speak to the both of you.

We had an agreement, Victor, his Papa said wearily as he stepped aside with obvious reluctance.

Victor crossed the threshold slowly, half expecting his father to change his mind and slam the door in his face.

You're an embarrassment, we'll come to you if the need is urgent. His father looked him over with a heavy sigh. At least you had the good grace to come while the neighbors are asleep.

Only a few days earlier, such naked recriminations would have dug deeply into him and clung hard, like a parasite.

Though his Papa's cruelty was as reliable as the sunrise, Victor had never learned to build a wall or barricade able to withstand the constant attack. He withered away every time, defeated, no matter how well prepared. But now those scornful words missed their mark. In fact, it was all he could do not to roll his eyes.

He replied meekly, playing the part, Of course Papa.

The men made their way to the small but tidy living room, the weak amber glow of a single lamp working to illuminate the space.

His mother sat in her massive, deep blue armchair, like the poor man's Queen she tried to be. She looked no happier to see him than his father had.

Victor dug deep, trying to find that desperate urge to make them proud, despite everything. It was beautifully, gloriously gone.

Unaware of Victor's transformation, his Papa continued the tirade, puffing up more with every word. "If you're here to ask for 'start up money' again, or blame your chronic failure on us, you can save your breath."

Victor pretended to shrink under the angry lecture; played the son they both expected. He was waiting for the perfect moment.

It had to be perfect.

"First you fail as a student, then you fail as a laborer, and now you can't even handle operating a tiny cafe! Even soup and sandwiches are apparently beyond your ability, Victor, and I won't hear you blame us for it!"

He continued to wait. It wasn't easy, but he would not let himself spoil his own revenge.

His mother shook her head. "I have to disagree, Donald. We must have done something wrong. I mean, just look at him. Both of them, she sighed as if weighted down by a great burden. Madeline desperate to be a man, and our son a sorry excuse for one."

For possibly the first time in his life, Victor glared at his mother. "She doesn't want to be a man, mother, she just refuses to kneel at our feet--not mine, not Papa's not any man's."

He grinned derisively. It's not the 1800s anymore, Mama, the century turned some years ago. So sorry you can't keep up. He imagined his face radiating satisfaction as he continued. Or maybe you're just too feeble minded to understand the concept of ambition.

His father gripped the edge of his wife's regal perch, white-knuckled, the unspoken threat of violence coursing through his posture. You will not speak to your mother this way in her own home! Get out!

The perfect moment.

Victor was proud of himself for waiting.

Rather than flee under a cloud of shame, as his parents no doubt expected, Victor slowly crossed the room, laying their sins bare as he went.

The two of you never offered us anything but pain and insult--neither of which we earned. I'll never know how Madeline found the strength to thrive the way she has; but we can hardly spend time together without becoming bogged down in miserable childhood memories!

He stepped directly into his father's space, their feet practically touching."And for that, you absolutely do deserve the blame!"

He finally allowed himself to speak with genuine menace. Blame and brutal punishment. Which brings us to my reason for this visit.

His father merely scoffed, dismissing the threat without hesitation; but Victor could have sworn he saw real, genuine fear flicker across his mother's face.

Victor had run eagerly to their doorstep, visions of drawn-out torture dancing in his head like Christmas sugarplums. But suddenly, just as he prepared to reveal his new features, the monster hiding beneath his face, all he wanted was be rid of them and to let Madeline know she was free. Forever free of their endless malice. Even though she no longer felt like a sister, their shared miserable history would always bind them together.

So it was quick.

He lunged for his Papa first, then Mama. He managed to stick to the plan; insofar as draining them both to nothing, even though it was a bit much for his stomach to handle. He’d resolved to consume them both entirely, as they had consumed his childhood, his courage, and his pride; and he achieved that goal.

He left them in a heap, looking like wax-faced, broken dolls, at the foot of his Mama's empty throne.

Madeline's apartment was his next stop.

He apologized for the obscene hour as she let him in, he assumed more out of curiosity than as sense of sibling love. She made them a pot of tea and they sat at her small kitchen table as it steeped on the counter only an arm's length away. Madeline couldn't afford much on a shop girl's pay, but she would not stoop to a frantic husband-hunt just to snare his income. Love or nothing would get her down the aisle.

While they waited on the tea, she sprinkled tobacco into two papers and rolled them with expert fingers, handing one to him.

So what's your big news, Victor?

He wracked his brain for the perfect way to tell her, and came up empty.

She waited patiently as he floundered for words.

He finally stumbled into something close enough to appropriate. I can't tell you exactly what I did, Madeline. I figure it'll be in the papers soon. But I got justice for both of us. Mama and Papa will never bother us again.

She twirled the lit cigarette between her fingers, torn between concern and joy. How'd you manage that?

Your first guess is likely the right one. he replied.

Madeline sighed and took a long drag.

Between the physical terror and never ending debasement, there was nothing to grieve. A sudden warmth burst through her, head to toe. Gratitude. She knew it wasn't the correct moral response a person ought to have, but she couldn't help it. Victor's implied confession was wonderful to hear, and she couldn't muster a single ounce of sympathy for her parents.

Victor continued, Papa can't bully us, and you'll never hear Mama's 'men only marry women who need them' speech ever again.

Whatever you did to 'em is okay by me, big brother. I'll keep my mouth shut if the cops come a' knocking, she assured with a sleepy smile. But you should leave town if they start sniffing around you.

Victor finished his tea and stood up. I promise I'll look out for myself.

Madeline walked him to the door. They hugged, said goodbye, and Victor went about learning to live as a predator, rather than the prey he'd always been.

Thanks to a nosy insomniac neighbor, he did end up needing to make a run for it. The sojourn didn't last long. St. Louis was a big city--not the biggest, or most violent, but every city sees its share of crime; so fresh new bloodbaths overtook the headlines, and police attention, soon enough. He slid back into town under a new name without much trouble, though he still spent much of his time traveling.

He wrote to Madeline regularly, and even returned to attend her wedding (so much for Mama's theory), but in every other aspect Victor died the moment his sister locked the door behind him, the sound of it like a book snapping shut. He walked away with the taste of blood, tea, and cigarettes still lingering in his mouth as Victor James faded away.

Chapter closed.

He changed his name to Jimmy Vic because it sounded like the name of a man who stood out in a crowd. He learned to fish, fly a twin engine, operate a moving picture camera, speak Portuguese; and that was just in the first few decades.

Since he moved around a lot, he could usually feed on anyone he cared to, just leave the bodies where they fell. He was one hell of a successful a Vampire. Such a shame his parents weren't around to see it. They might've been proud.

*********************************

Family Nonsense

Dirty laces of even dirtier sneakers swing casually, not giving a shit about anything, not even the shoes they're attached to. They don't need shoes, the shoes just happen to be there.

Silas imagines this must be how her shoe laces feel.

Silas is a boy's name people helpfully inform her all the time, as if she's seeking their opinion. Gender can eat me, she thinks, old fashioned.

Silas Wellabae. Twenty two and bored with her own angst. Angst is for glowering teens. It still boils inside her like a pot of water impatiently waiting for something to cook, but at least she has enough self respect to be bored with--rather than indulge--the feeling. It's boring. Even the word is boring. Angst. Sounds like a sneeze trying desperately to cop an attitude.

Stupid angst.

She slouches her way downstairs, squinting against the bright morning sun streaming through the windows.

It's one of those mornings when all the love she feels for her family gets poured into pancake batter. One by one she stacks them in the electric warmer. Baking always calms the inner bullshit.

Pancakes don't pay bills unless you make hundreds of them for hundreds of strangers, and Silas has no interest in doing that. She doesn't love strangers. She's indifferent toward them at best, and if she made them breakfast, those pancakes would merely be the fluffy bread of apathy, not love.

She can hear her parents and younger sister shuffling around upstairs, trying to wake up. Eventually they plod into the dining room, still in robes and slippers. Silas is the early riser of the family.

Silas eats the Franken-cake, the one that always turns out weird somehow, then she pulls on her running gear and takes off while her parents give polite audience to her little sister's meandering story about how spiders and bugs could become friends.

There's a sharp chill in the air. It defies the glaring sun, refusing to surrender. Silas doesn't mind one bit. She barely notices the weather when she jogs. Jogging is her 'think time,' and it takes up most of her focus.

Lately she thinks about how she doesn't know anyone her age with a three year old sister. April was a huge surprise. Not only had her dad gotten a vasectomy years ago, but her mom was 41 at the time. Silas, at first, assumed her mom had hooked up with some other guy with Champion League Swimmers, but the docs confirmed her dad's (ick) vas deferens (ick) had re-attached at some point; rendering him once again fertile. Silas feels very comfortable with minimum detail on that front.

Anyhow, April looks just like dad, so she probably is his kid. If she's not then wow! Talk about a huge win for mom in the ass-coverage lottery.

When she reaches her usual stop, a bench overlooking the valley below, she sits and waits for her Great Gramma Etta. This is their favorite spot to talk. Sometimes Silas even talks out loud. Not if there's other joggers around, of course, but the Watts Hill path isn't very popular. Too steep.

So it's the perfect place to talk to Great Gramma.

Etta doesn't look like a movie ghost. She looks like something everyone ought to be able to see, but can't. Silas understood this (somehow) the very first time she saw Etta. She was four at the time, and throwing a spectacular fit in the grocery store. Etta marched right up and scolded her into obedience. They had since become good friends.

Silas can feel Etta's arrival. She doesn't even turn her head to make sure before speaking up. I think Mom wants me to move into my own place.

Could you afford rent on top of tuition? asks Etta in her airy, gentle tone.

Silas shakes her head. Nah. S'why I think she hasn't said anything. Well, that and she's worried I'll take it personally. But I'm so much older than April. Her little daycare buddies' parents are all . . . well, sometimes April gets confused about who her mom is, she says heavily.

Really? Soft and calm. Always soft and calm.

Silas nods. I overheard her the other day call Mom 'Grammie,' that's what her friend Sasha calls her grandma. She and Sasha have play dates a lot. Anyway, when Mom came out of the room . . . you know that look she gets when she's trying not to cry? She had that look.

I can see how that would hurt a mother's feelings, says Etta. This doesn't sound like a happy situation for anyone. Do you have any ideas on how to fix it?

Silas wedges a dandelion between her sneakers and pulls. She turns to Etta with a sigh. I've thought about taking a sabbatical from school to go help my Aunt Bina and Uncle Fred with the ranch. They always talk about needing more help.

By the time Silas arrives back home, her mind is made up. Montana or bust. Her mom seems both worried and relieved about her elder daughter's decision.

Silas packs a forest green canvas sack with a fistful of underclothes and two shirts, then hops a greyhound to Missoula. She gets a taxi into Stevensville from there. It's a steep cab fare, but Bina has figured it to the dime (including a nice tip), then wires Silas the money a few days before she plans to leave. As the cab rumbles along, Silas tries to remember her last visit to Stevensville, when she was a little girl. The memories are dim, but it's clear the town has hardly changed.

She meets her Aunt in front of the old schoolhouse sometime after 7 p.m.

Sorry to be pickin' you up so late, says Bina as she hops out of the truck. Always something to deal with, you know how it goes.

Silas brushes off the apology with a hug. Thanks for letting me stay here. You're seriously saving my family's bacon. I mean it.

Bina shimmies Silas's canvas sack off her shoulder and stows it behind the passenger side seat. She puts her hands on her hips and looks concerned. What all's going on there if you don't mind my asking?

They