I Joined The Illuminati By John Patrick Robbins

To get half off my IHOP pancakes I don't even bother to eat.

So I can attend the house parties up in the Hollywood Hills.

Pissing off a balcony to hopefully hit the gardener who I caught a ride here with.

To feast upon small children and drink vintage bottles of cheap wine.

And get hand jobs from A-list celebrities who secretly believe I'm a D-list producer.

Snorting cocaine I cannot afford off model's tits whose names I cannot pronounce.

And secretly plotting the world's bad choices as I invest in bitcoin and collect human organs off the deep web.

I joined to feel a part of something more screwed up and deranged than myself.

As I write this, knowing soon they will be at my door.

Disguised as a Domino’s delivery dude who's clearly been sent to take my life.

Crystal meth is awesome when you make it at home. I just love crafting!

What? Did you think I was going to knit you a fucking sweater?

Wow, you’re more fucked up than I ever imagined you to be. 

Hey, you single?

Where did you go?

Another one vanished; it appears those Illuminati have struck again.

John Patrick Robbins holds the record of holding his breath out of water and lives in a series of tunnels that lead to the center of the earth.

He can speak fifteen different languages and is fluent in idiot, which makes him great at running E-zines.

He runs a writer's retreat in Hell where all are welcome. Just please sign the guest list and remember: you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.

He is currently the curator for the Great Tits of History Museum in Vatican City.

He has been published in the Yellow Pages and is currently starring in a documentary about his life called:

Who Gives A Fuck? The Life & Times Of A Non-Ballet Dancer.

He enjoys collecting corpses from the cemetery, which he will bring back to life to forge his Viking zombie army to fight the Disney Corporation to gain control of their vaults and see the rare film Daisy Duck Does Scooby-Doo.

He currently is not on any prescription medication.

Exposing the Soul by Shithead

Being a poet is being an artist of pure expression.

And it’s also my excuse for walking around naked a lot. 

Because now I’m an eccentric genius instead of a pervert. 

Who simply allows the universe to flow in and out of his body.

Then forgetting who was giving the input or the output halfway in.

And end up in a sea of ultra deep spiritual cum and caca. 

There’s a profound lesson somewhere in this write. 

But I’ll let you know whenever I figure it out 

 

Shithead is 24 years old and likes to poop in front of a live studio audience. After years of his artistic solo career he was voted the number 1 writer in the Midwest  in 2022 despite not living on this planet or being liked by anybody in general. 

Stuck by Susan Isla Tepper

Today before the store was even open, the general manager Stu called a meeting for after hours. When he finished his spiel and walked away everyone got totally pissed.

“He means after work!” Vinny yelled.

The store was a low level discount operation adjacent to the Mall but separate from it. We were only getting minimum wage.

“They should pay us for the extra time,” Vinny went on.

“It’s over-time!” Rochelle was in a screechy rage, her bulging eyes from her condition seemed more bulgy when she got upset like now.

I was pretty upset, too. I had an early dinner date at Cookie’s Steak House. Sure, it was only a Mall restaurant but the food was really good. After Stu’s goddamn meeting there wouldn’t be time to go home and freshen up and change into something nice. Now I had to phone my date, and maybe he’d cancel and I’d been looking forward to those lobster tails with the melted butter you dunk in all week.

I stood near the George Forman Grill weighing the possibilities. Should I not stay for Stu’s meeting, would he make an example of me and maybe can me? On the other hand I was desperate for those tails. They gave you three on the plate, plus salad, fries, and a dessert of your choice. Their cheesecake was to die for. As a starving actor it wasn’t the sort of dinner I could afford on my own.

Apparently small appliances were going missing. Stu mentioned things like electric hand-beaters and compact coffee makers. Things thieves could stuff into a big shopping bag. Most of the security cameras no longer work. The pros knew and scampered around stealing stuff.

“Keep an eye out for large women with bulky coats and shopping bags,” was the last thing Stu said.

Rochelle began fuming again since she was a plus-size woman. “That’s plain discrimination!” she snarled.

“Well it can’t be one of us since they already treat us like thieves.” I held up the see-through plastic wallet-purse where we had to keep our money, keys, etc, etc. No personal purses or wallets of our own allowed on the floor.

It was bad enough working here, what with the low, water-stained acoustical tile ceiling that often let go in places during heavy rain. Once right over my register. I almost quit that day. Should have! I can get a better job with better pay. Why do I stay here? Am I stuck? I went to a psychic who told me I was in a stuck mode. She got her info off the Tarot cards. When I asked if I could see the particular stuck card, she quickly turned it over and went on to the next.


At lunch break I phoned Tad. I explained the situation. I heard him taking an annoyed breath.

“Well,” he said. “The thing is, it’s hard to get the later dinner slots. I’ll try… but I can’t promise. It’s a very popular eatery,” he said. “I was really looking forward…”

I broke in with gusto, “I was so looking forward!” Not to him, to the tails. To the whole schmear. To the fresh strawberries that topped their cheese cake. Cookie’s Steak House was a major Mall player in great food served with simplicity. I pictured the waiters carrying the big round trays heaped. I almost started crying.

“I’ll phone you on my break to see what happened,” I told him. “Good luck.” But somehow those words came out hollow because I didn’t feel lucky. Not lucky for a long time.

When I got back from my 15 minute break I phoned Tad. The line was busy. I tried repeatedly but couldn’t break through. My next shot at getting him on the phone was the end of the day. This made me even more blue and hopeless.



Naturally when I phoned him at 5:30 it was bad news. “We’ll have to reschedule,” he said.

“Sure.” I put on my good sport voice. Then I went to Stu’s meeting in the cramped crummy beige room.

When everyone had gathered, Stu began: “Today we lost 3 typewriters.”

Typewriters! People looked stunned. How could anyone possibly steal a typewriter? The size and weight being a natural deterrent. It would crash through the bottom of any paper shopping bag. It would be a noticeable heist. I’d started thinking of all this in terms of a heist.

“It’s a popular item,” Stu said. “Retro and all that. First I noticed the antique-looking one was gone. The shiny black one. It was just after the lunch breaks when less of you are out on the floor. I started to roam the store, but I couldn’t nail anything down. Of course I couldn’t detain anyone without sufficient reason. Law suits and all that. You don’t want to get into that.”

Several people were shaking their heads in agreement.

All I wanted to get into were those lobster tails that I pictured flying through the store on patrol.

“Anyways, I grabbed a quick bag of chips from the machine,” Stu said, “and continued to roam the floor. And all of a sudden I spot this woman in a long winter coat almost to her ankles, and she’s kind of hobbling. Like maybe she has a crippling disease. I felt sorry for her. She had no shopping bag just a small purse.”

People could be heard murmuring about the woman’s condition.

“I decided to approach her and see if she would like to use our golf cart to get around the store. Make things a little easier for her.”

So nice, Stu, that’s so nice, people were saying.

“When all of a sudden there’s this crash and we both look down. Me and her. And the red Royal typewriter had landed on the floor between her feet.”

In the cramped room there was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Vinny said, “Are you telling us she was carrying the typewriter between her legs?”

“That’s about the size of it.” Stu slapped his palms together like getting off dust and told us we were free to go home.

“What about the woman?” I said.

“I let her go.”

Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres.  Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.