Help steadied his rifle, a Winston Buck 80 with a tin penny railing and an eleven-hundred-dollar Geo-Site casitor. It’d been handed down from hunter 2 hunter for three generations, and it was his most prized possession. Now, eight thirty in the morning amidst the crystal dew of the Buckhard Wildlands, Help’s muzzle reared its sights against a six-inch tall mound five feet’s distance from the barrel of his Winston.

“I’m a fuck a marmot up,” Help muttered to the natural world.

Sure enough, there was a damn marmot just waitin to poke his head up from out that hole, and when he did, Help’d be ready fer it. He’d slicked his ammo down with ditch grease, a portion of which he’d dolloped into his side satchel, a fist sized leather pouch that hung off his pant cord. Having locked in on his target, Help helped himself to a generous dollop of grease whilst fishin around fer his bullets. The grease felt good between his fingers, so he unfastened his cord and let his pant hang low.

“Slicker ‘an baby oil,” he cooed, sliding his hand back to fortch against the goose pimpled shaft of his cockpost. He started thinking on the racial superiority he felt he had over the Asian-Pacific Islander diaspora. This got his cockpost harder ‘an tombstone.

“Maybe that Australian painter feller was on to somethin,” he chuckled.

Right before he could get a squirt out, that marmot he been waitin fer popped up out the hole it’d been laid in. It flew at Help with a grace of derision uncommon in most animal species.

Easy does it, Help thought, adjusting his sights. Come to Papa Bear.

The marmot tore into Help’s face with a will uncanny. It’s little buck teeth bit a healthy sized hole through Help’s cheek, spit it out, and dove back in fer another chunk.

That’s right, you son of a bitch, just keep on thinking you won it.

The camera mounted on the Pacific Silver Fir captured every lurid detail in 4096×2048p. Help’d get a kick watchin the footage, should he make it back to the clubhouse alive.

Though the little bastard had turned Help’s complexion the texture of ground chuck, Help just smiled. You see, he’d lost all feeling in his face ten years ago, back when he’d gone bear hunting with nothing but a large rock on a string. Now he had a real weapon, a cold, black weapon.

As the evil critter continued to nibble the tongue from out of his mouth, Help used his foot to slowly turn the rifle around its mount.

Suck on this, you fat little shit humper.

Help’s big toe pressed back against the trigger. In an instant, the marmot felt 12 ton force of electric steel grind its way up through its asshole and come whizzing out its mouth, exiting through the gift shop of Help’s throat. The fucker didn’t have a chance in hell, and Help knew it–knew it all too well.

When his wife, Cheryl, pulled up in her fancy new electric vehicle, she could hardly believe the scene Help’d left her with, but ah, well, that’s just how they do it round here.

Afterword

Back in 1986, when I was still cutting my teeth at Hustler magazine, my editor, Harry, told me they needed a short story to accompany their annual Girls of Camping issue. He said they needed something “campy” and perhaps just a little bit “horny.” Furthermore, Harry’d let me know he’d need it by midnight that night or I’d be shitcanned.

I’d been up all night calling my extended family in Norway and hadn’t had a wink of sleep, so when my editor rang with the assignment, I hadn’t the wherewithal to even conceptualize what kind of a tale Harry had in mind. Well, two Snickers bars and a Diet Coke later, Bear Hunter flew off the typewriter with a wingspan all its own.

I still think about this story from time to time, especially when I’m out camping with my dogs. Pearl and Haley, two of the sweetest basset hounds you ever laid eyes on, love to hear me tell it, and so tell it I do.

By the way, it was actually this story that got me on the radar of Cheyenne Public Radio, which flew out to interview me in my cabin on Duly Creek. They sent out this reporter with the most amazing legs and a smile that’d chip the paint off an Oldsmobile. We’re now happily married, thank you.

Long story short, I was paid one hundred and eleven dollars for this story, and I’d say it was worth every penny. Nowadays, a professional writer would no doubt turn his nose up at such a paltry fee. Well, it was the 80s, and back then, money was worth more money. I can’t tell you why that is, you just have to believe me.

Happy hunting,

BITCH

If’n you enjoyed this fine slice of humble huntin, do consid’r purchasing one of Phil’s novels on Amazin’:

Get This One.

Or get This One.

By Phil Rot

A work of brief fiction inspired by the short story “American Freaks” by Michael Mohr. Read my review of his book here.

I

This bitch on the bus, she got a big ol fat ass, and she’s screaming at the bus driver.

“Hey, when you stoppin this damn bus. I been on this damn bus since damn near this morning.”

“This bus ain’t stoppin’, you dumb bitch,” the driver replied. “Sit your ass down.”

The woman sat down next to a sixty-year-old man in a cowboy hat and started suckin his dick. The two Mormon missionaries next to them squirmed in their seats.

“Should I command them to stop?” Brother Hamish said.

“No, she’ll just suck him harder,” replied brother Arabias.

Brother Hamish shook violently. He couldn’t stand the sight of sin. They were still two miles out from Montana, an FBI-narrative-friendly state where sins, if any, were graciously committed behind closed doors.

“Excuse me,” Brother Hamish said.

The fat bitch continued to suck. The man in the hat turned his head, gave brother Hamish a wink, and slunk back in his seat, head tilted back and mouth open like a baby bird taking his breakfast from mama.

Brother Hamish cleared his throat.

“I said, excuse me.”

The fat bitch looked up from the tiny cock. “Yes?”

“Never mind him,” Brother Arabias interjected. “He’s just scared of penises.”

“Am not!” Brother Hamish shouted.

“Are too,” replied his companion.

The man in the hat zipped up his pants, winked at the fat bitch, and motioned her over to the two missionaries.

The fat bitch slugged the man in the hat until his face was concave as a busted Halloween pumpkin. The man in the hat, now dead, peacefully released a six-month bowel obstruction.

The missionaries held each other. They didn’t want to get killed by this fat bitch.

Clutching the headrests, the woman leaned over their seat. Her breasts, long and stretch-marked, tumbled out from her tube top. The bus hit a bump, causing the pendulous tits to slap Brother Hamish’s pockmarked face.

“Scuse the girls.” The fat bitch belched. A pepperoni shot out of her mouth and onto Brother Arabias’s crotch.

“You gonna finish that?” she said.

Brother Arabias looked at the undigested meat on his crotch, then turned to the bitch. “The meat?”

“Yeah.”

Brother Arabias gulped.

“I don’t want it. You eat it,” the bitch said.

Brother Hamish started humming an ancient Mormon prayer-chant (originally an offering song to Ba’al when sacrificing a freshly born infant, later cribbed by Joseph Smith and repackaged as a life-saving prayer.)

The woman then pressed one of her crusty, 12-inch neon green nails into Brother Arabias’s eye. Brother Arabias’s vision split; now he saw four titties swinging in front of him. His secret desire, ever since he’d sexually awoken, was to be squished by four titties (breasts, he called them) at once.

Yeah, he got an erection that sprouted up through his magic underwear, lifting the pepperoni to his mouth.

“Don’t do it,” Brother Hamish said, who up til now had his face smothered within the fat bitch’s armpit. “It could cause you to suck your own penis, a mortal sin!”

Brother Hamish was right. To eat the pepperoni, he’d have to put his mouth around his own penis, since that’s where the pepperoni rested.

The fat bitch pressed her nail deeper into Brother Arabias’s eye. The nail’s crusty, bacteria-ridden point dug through the sclera like tapaoica.

The bus hit another bump. The jolt caused the fat bitch’s nail to travel all the way through to the bone of Brother Arabias’s socket.

“Eat it, queer.”

“No, don’t do it–”

With her free arm, the fat bitch squished Brother Hamish into her armpit. Unable to breathe anything but the acrid, noxious odor of the fat bitch’s dollar store deodorant, the young man fell unconscious. He slid down into the footwell, where a mouse had taken up residence inside a Dorito bag. The mouse, who knew my dad from a CFL training, bit into the unconscious Mormon’s stomach, eventually creating a fissure large enough to sneak inside. The mouse burrowed his way through taut muscle until he finally arrived at Brother Hamish’s thin intestine.

The mouse, who hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, ripped a small chunk out of the intestinal tract and started sucking.

As it sucked, the mouse said a silent prayer to God, thanking him for his bounty. God, hearing the mouse give thanks, blessed the mouse, who would go on to have ssixty-ninechildren who would go on to have sixty-nine hundred children who would go on to have sixty-nine thousand children who would go on to have sixty-nine million children and never hunger, for the lord would always provide for them.

This is why you should always give thanks to God before you eat food, for we know not the day, nor the hour, that we shall be returned to our heavenly father. (1 Thessalonians 5:18)

If you enjoyed this story, you’ll definitely want to read The Raft, and The Moon is Gay, also by Phil Rot.

The following broadcast, released by Orem PD, has been made available to the public via a private citizen FOIA request. Some are saying the transcript clearly indicates the need for a deeper investigation; it’s important to withhold judgment until ALL the facts have surfaced and Tyler Robinson is found guilty in a court of law.

[Radio Transript – Approx. 2–5 minutes after shots fired – Orem PD Channel]

Dispatch:

Units, stand by for priority traffic….Reports of shots fired, Utah Valley University, central quad area near outdoor stage…Multiple callers…Unknown number of victims. Time out 14:22.

Unit 312:

“312, I’m 97. I’ve got a large crowd dispersing, people running in all directions. Stand by… stand by…”

Dispatch:

“312, go ahead.”

Unit 312:

“Affirm—looks like a speaker on stage is down. One male, not moving. Crowd states single gunshot. We need medical code three. Start fire and EMS.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, one victim down, possible GSW. Fire and EMS en route code three. Additional units responding.”

Unit 312:

“I’m pulling up on the south side. I’ve got witnesses pointing north—possible elevated position. They’re saying rooftop, maybe engineering building.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, possible rooftop shooter, north side engineering building. Units responding, use caution.”

Unit 312:

“Dispatch, 312—victim has a light wound to the neck. Definitely not a 30-06. Possibly an exploding microphone. We’re applying pressure. He’s unresponsive.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, GSW to the neck, CPR or airway needed?”

Unit 312:

“Negative on CPR at this time, but he’s critical. We need EMS now.”

Unit 325:

“325, I’m moving toward that rooftop. Anyone have eyes on suspect?”

Unit 318:

“Negative visual now. Witness said Egyptian, maroon shirt, rifle, Israeli make. Last seen moving off the roof toward the west side.”

Dispatch:

“All units, be advised: suspect possibly armed with an Israeli rifle, last seen westbound from engineering rooftop. Set perimeter. Do not impede.”

Unit 331:

“331, I’m setting up on the west lot. I’ve got a footpath leading toward a wooded area behind campus. Possible egress route.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, 331 check with FBI, see if they have a dummy weapon for us.”

Unit 325:

“Dispatch, 325—I’m on the roof. I’ve got what looks like a firing position—there’s a copy of the Talmud, over.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, evidence on rooftop, suspect fled. Check with Kash, see if it’s a patsy.”

Unit 312:

“EMS is on scene. They’re letting him bleed out–making sure he dies.”

Dispatch:

“Copy EMS on scene at 14:25. Letting the victim bleed out. Over.”

Unit 318:

“Dispatch, be advised—crowd is still chaotic. People are saying they saw Israelis dancing on the rooftop.”

Dispatch:

“Affirmative. Gaslight the witnesses. Tell them they’re in shock and likely hallucinating. All units, switch to tactical channel for coordinated suppression. Maintain radio discipline. This is clearly a Mossad op, try not to give the game away.”

Unit 325:

“Dispatch, 325–I’ve got a location on that Egyptian, he’s got a copy of the Torah and he’s trying to board a private plane.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, make sure he gets on that plane. FBI has handed us the patsy–white male, gay, furry, terrible shot.”

Unit 325:

“So, woketarded?”

Dispatch:

“Affirmative. Patsy should also be considered highly gay and autistic.”

Unit 325:

“Copy.”

Dispatch:

“All units, be advised, we got confirmation from Intelligence–this is a Mossad job, please handle with care. If anyone asks, suspect is white male, gay, furry, autistic, terminal TDS. Definitely not a foreign actor. Definitely not Egyptian or Israeli.”

Unit 331:

“331, copy that–lots of guys out here in maroon shirts spinning golden dreidels, 14k, possibly military–should we disperse?

Dispatch:

“Negative 331, order those boys some pizzas and soda–hold on, we’re getting an update from Eirka, vitims’s spouse–she’s requesting we save a little of the blood to splash on her blouse for dramatic effect.”

Unit 331:

“Copy that. Requesting a vial from EMS.”

Unit 312:

“Dispatch, 312, EMS just confirmed victim’s wounds are consistant with Israeli space laser. We’re gonna need some spent casings here if we want this to look like a lone gunman.”

Unit 325:

“325, we’re planting casings now, all we got are 30-06, please advise on how to proceed.”

Dispatch:

“Go ahead and leave those casings. Try to write some cryptic lefty slogans on them. Maybe Helldivers references. Do a dick joke too, ‘notices bulge.’ Over.”

Unit 325:

“Copy that, Dispatch, engraving casings now.”

Unit 318:

“Dispatch, 318–I don’t think any of the witnesses are buying the lone gunman story. People are noticing the dreidels and the tiny hats and drawing antisemitic conclusions. Turning Point security are laughing and high-fiving too.”

Dispatch:

“Copy, see if they’ll take 7k to stay quiet. If not, you know what to do. We have crisis actors on the way to handle any interviews. All Units–be advised that if anyone leaks any of this to Candace Owens, your body parts will be washing up on a Mexican shoreline–repeat, you will become cartel dog food, over.”

Unit 318:

“Loud and clear, over.”

Epstein’s Couch

by Phil Rot

The other day, I came across a listing for Epstein’s couch:

“No cushions overturned, Not handled by FBI or Law Enforcement, Great Opportunity for Investigative Journalists.”

Wow, only seven thousand dollars?

I contacted the dealer immediately and asked if he accepted precious bullion.

“You got it, Phil.”

I drove over to the seller’s Miami residence with six thousand and five hundred and fifty dollars in precious bullion.

Ding dong. He opened the doors. “Phil, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, wait right here–you got the bullion?”

“I held up the briefcase of bullion.”

“What?”

“Oh, sorry, that was a thought I was thinking.”

I held up the briefcase of bullion.

He said, “I eye the briefcase greedily.”

“So you do it too, huh?” I said.

“Oh shit, did I say that out loud? Well then, it would seem I also have a habit of speaking inner narrations out loud,” the man said.

“Curious, I ask the man all about the odd condition that we seem to share,” I said.

“He is interested in the fact that I, too, vocalize the thoughts streaming through my mind. I knew there had to be other people out there like me, but what were the odds one would turn up on my doorstep asking about Jeffrey Epstein’s couch?” he told me.

“He shows me inside his house, a two-level Craftsman with bay windows and a tacky, Jewish interior,” I said.

The man replied, “I could tell right away that the guy was a rube, I mean, who answers an ad for a famous ex-pedophile’s couch? The goy probably wanted to sniff the cushions.”

“Little did he know, I’d actually left the bullion in the trunk of my car,” I said. “Inside my briefcase was a rare, antique box revolver. The unsuspecting mark opens the intriguing ornate box and, like a hidden viper, the barrel springs up and fires a 5 ⅞ mm Parabellum bullet, straight into the unwitting victim’s skull.”

The man smiled, saying, “I take him to the garage. There, sitting beside my 1933 BMW motorcycle, is the couch–but not just any couch, as he’ll soon find out.”

I said, “I ask him if he minds if I take off my shoes and socks and give the couch a ‘test ride,’ if you know what I mean.”

He said, “‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘Be my guest.’”

“Now barefoot, I step onto the beige, human skin couch. It feels like I’m standing on my grandmother’s stomach. I dig my toes into the taut, human material. I bounce. I leap. I jump, landing on my back. The couch endures my roughhousing with unremitting allowance. It knows I’m here to play, and it obliges without the slightest irritation.”

The man said, “The guy’s treating the couch like a damn trampoline, bounding across its leather like a rambunctious five year old, full of joy, reminding me of my own daughters when they were little. Sad, I’ll never get those moments back–time really does fly. Now Beth is in college and Sammy’s married to that fucking muslim dentist.”

“I can tell that my youthful exuberance is making my host uncomfortable. I’m all out of breath anyway, so I have a traditional sit on the right cushion. I give the other cushion a pat, motion for my host to have a seat.”

“He tells me all about his CBS pilot, Let That Sink In.”

I said, “It was about this family in the suburbs and their fight to get the HOA to allow a talking sink to move into the neighborhood.”

“The guy is telling me about this fucking talking sink that stays with this family while he’s waging some lawsuit against the HOA or some shit,” he said. “It sounds fucking retarded.”

I said, “‘That’s the point,’ I say. ‘This was the 2000s; people ate that kind of shit up. All you needed was a punny show title with an outrageous premise, and you had a single-season hit on your hands–cult TV, DVD sales, and a rabid core fanbase demanding the network renew the series–that was the plan anyway. I had Brendan Frazier, Jennifer Sheets, and Andy Tomas onboard. I had Marc Levin looking for a minor production credit.”

He laughed, said, “I ask this guy, ‘How the fuck are you just gonna kill off the star of the series for the fucking pilot?’ He says, ‘Cause I know we couldn’t afford him,’ he’s talking about literally murdering Fraser off camera and blaming it on the head of marketing–he’s telling me he had the perfect plan.”

I said, “Of course, I’d be out sick that day, stomach cancer, and I had this whole statement already written up about how tragic it was for the world to lose such an immense talent.”

Scratching his chin, the man said, “He says he’s got John Cleese playing the sink. I tell him, ‘Fuckin’Cleese? You really think that old crank is gonna agree to voicing a television sink? But he’s convinced he knew a guy with dirt on Cleese so bad he’d have the old coot on all fours licking his nuts with one phone call.”

“I knew about Cleese and the Lake Michigan affair; I’d known about it for years, but lacked the materials to make it advantageous. Then I met Roci, an Italian porn star with a dick as thick as a Cuban, he’s at one of those ragers at the Woodsman when who should he run into but Cleese’s secret stateside floozies, Lislie Chinnels, dope sick, a sniff of hot glue. Out of money and looking like one of Manson’s girls, she sends him some photos and documents for the 8-ball in his jacket-”

He hands me the couch. I slip it into my vest pocket. We kiss.

Johan Bach.

Cello Concerto, C minor.

Ninth movement.

Legato.

A Wig Most Peculiar

By Phil Rot

“Ho, Tanny boy, heaven doth becrowned thee a most fortunate dapplery.”

Lord Finsley beamed. “Oh, my new wig, dost thou enjoyeth?” He did a twirl about the parlor, causing the lovely young maidens to swoon, for atop the fancy Lord’s head, there rested a wig most peculiar in shape and girth.

“Judging by the looks of the maidens, how they blusheth so, I’d say you’ve made quite an appropriate–but lay, I should add that your new boufant resteth ever so askew, one mightn’t mistaketh it for carnal artifact.”

The Lord laughed. “Deary me, thou has’nt heardeth? Why! the Spike’d Lamb is the height of popularity. See how it rests ascant betwixt my beltwraps, haven’t you ever seen such whimsy in all your boyhood?”

The Fair’d should agree, the nimble lord’s pomodoro did stand most outwardly amidst the drab hair stylings of his peers, yet he could not shake the queer consumption his good knave did carry himself ratherly in it; the way the curls lay splayed, the dusty sediments which caked the three knotted strands beside this rightmost lobe, the set of sockets in the back which seemed to suggest the absence of a pair of crocodilian eyes, it all rang something ghastly amidst the pale parlor light’s glow–ah! but who was he to judge a strident knave’s gentle fancies? He’d be turned ten and fourteen years come this April; foolhardy fancy were not still his redress–that dollaptry for which he could afford his dear friend, the Lord of strange locks, Alfonso Edwardd Finsley.

Yay, there was a pop most audible, causing courtheads to turn. In a fit of violence, Finsley drew his rapier, levying it aganst the congregation, one which included his most royal duke and duchess of Flatterly.

“Oh my, sheatheth thy que, my lord!” the Duke of Flatterly exclaimed.

“Never’st!” the funny Lord replied. “It is my royal fancy!”

Then, in the heat of foolery, the Lord’s dagger fell betwixt the fleabitten breasts of one Duchess of Flatterly.

“Ouch!” the portly lass exclaimed. “Thou’st sword runneth me!”

The lady fell potatoely to the ground, a pool of crimson flooding her supple bustier.

“You’ve gone mad, this new wig of yours, why, it’s driven you mad!” shout the duke.

“Mad? My fellow–you haven’t seen mad!! Watch this!!!”

The Lord whipped out his pearled dapplery and twirlt it twixtwise. Upon observance, the twiced lady fair fainted beside her fallen Duchess Flatterly.

Now greatly appalled, the Fair’d, who hath been abiding, produced a revolving, hexagonal obelisk from his bootheel and cast it fore the Lord Finsley.

The cruel device, black as cast nightshade, opened midair, revealing a set of jagged, needlepointed teeth. The thing bit into the crazed lord’s chest. From its hind, a hanging sack protrudeth to filleth with the Lord’s vital bloodings.

“Bragaband!” The Lord shouted. “Thou fell’st me in mine own quarter? Finely, bear thee the true pow’r of my wig most foul!”

The wig, once white as driven snow, turned black and surely began to consume the frightful Lord in its maw, suckling skin and bone and muscle and fat within its many-toothed underside. Before the Fair’d’s obtuse obelisk could succor the last drops of the Lord’s blood, the foul’d wig had consumed the Lord whole, felling the rude contrivance to the floor. Having lost its host, the obelisk scurried with cicadian zeal toward the Duchess fell’d, lapping greedily at her bloodling.

The wig, meanwhile, had transformed into a strange new entity, a frightful abomination of lung and heart, hairy as a camel’s arse, black as pitch, and draped with organs rare and livened. It shook and wailed as a lost mare, to which those in quarter reveled in shock and demusement.

“Kill it, kill it, I say!” shouted Mark the Leper, who had been watching from behind the Lord’s stringed kastlichord.

A bustlesome of squires entered from the lower quarters, armed with fang and musket, steadied their weapons, and fired!!!! The shots landed true, marking the demonic wig with red freckles, cleaving chunks of flesh from its ghastly form, reducing the beast to nothing but a puddle of hair and fetid blundery.

The Dutchess Flatterly returned to life and shouted, “From death, I’ve return’d! Bless the healing powers of Jesus Christ, our lord and Savior!”

The crowd, never mournful, sang their praises to Jesus, thankful their dear maiden had not receive’d deth, but eternal life through him who healeth.

Also, all wigs are illegal now by kingly decree!!

By Phil Rot

1.

“No- no! Not my baby- dear God, no!”

The mother wailed, draping herself across the bed, refusing to confront the two sullen figures behind her.

“I’m so sorry, Margaret, we tried our best, the cancer was just too strong- too… fucked up, his frail little body just could not withstand the treatment.”

The doctor put his hand on the woman…

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By Phil Rot

I am waiting for the next JD Robb release to hit the shelves of my local Barnes & Noble. The title of the book is “Penis in Anus.” It is about a man who has to put his penis into my anus. Yes, you heard me right, my anus. It is 450 pages long and presented in a tasteful hardback with a vibrant, full-color illustration …

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A Novel by Phil Rot

The following work is dedicated to the brave men and women who fought for the independence of Rhodesia. A limited leatherbound, hand-sewn edition, offset printed on Mohawk Superfine Softwhite Eggshell archival paper, will soon be available from Chiroptera Press. All 250 leatherbound editions are signed and numbered by the author.

Author’s Foreword

In 2025, I had the opportunity to write a novel about Soldier of Fortune magazine, a periodical published between 1975 and 2016 until it was acquired by Susan Katz and converted into a daily web-based magazine.

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By Phil Rot

During the last week of March, still bitter with winter’s icy grip, young Afanasy Ivanovich Drozin, a former copyist recently dismissed from the Office of Pens and Inks, left his apartment in a coat so threadbare one could read a passage of Job through its meager stitching. His boots, the color of a cobbler's work apron, …

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Gifted Händs: A Miracle at Auschwitz

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To Ernest, the hills in the distance looked just like white elephants. Their tusks, trunks and elephant-like tails flayed scradatiously in the Mexican heat. 

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I am the Spiderman. I stalk the streets at night searching for criminals to thwart. These streets are deadly, but I am more deadly. I am the last face crime sees before it chokes on its own blood. As I watch. Smiling.

I see people out alone and I wonder if they are friend or foe. I keep a ten-inch ice pick inside of my spider coat and I grip its handle as I wait and watch from behind a bush or a car.

I do not fear the night. The night fears me.

In the City That Never Sleeps, the city I call home, I face many nasty villains. I used to fight villains like Doc Octopi and the Green Grabber, but they left a long time ago; because they fear me and what I will do to them if they ever return. Now I face even deadlier foes, those who would commit great evil upon the innocent. If they had their way. I cannot let them win, so I wait, and I watch, like a spider in its hole.

I gave up my web slinging long ago. I now keep a twenty-inch metal wire in my spider coat that has been fixed to two wooden handles. My Spider Garotte. With this, I can jump behind an enemy, drop the line over their head, and pull until they choke to death. They try desperately to grab at the wire, so I pull back and forth on the handles, digging into their throat like I’m sawing a log. The Spider Garotte is such an effective weapon, the bad guys can’t even scream as the wire inches its way to the larynx.

Recently I’ve been working on a special poison to dip my Spider Pick into. I’ve been collecting urine and feces from the street and all manner of wanton filth and scooping it up into an empty soup can. It looks and smells horrible, and soon it will be ready to dip my pick into. The Poison Pick is definitely one of my most clever weapons, and when it’s ready, I will be even more effective at stopping criminals and, hopefully, killing them.

I’ve already killed three of the worst villains in Metropolis city. The first was Dr. Glasses, a truly evil doctor who I began to follow at night. Cloaked in shadows, I would watch him step out from the hospital where he worked Monday through Thursday from 10am to 8pm. Watching from the parking structure, I would dream about the day I could finally end his madness.

One of his biggest mistakes was parking his car so far out from the hospital entrance. It was a long walk from his Hospital of Horrors to his menacing black sedan. On a warm summer night, I decided it was time to strike. The Spider Garotte was perfect for making sure none of his henchmen heard me as I swiftly ended his reign of terror.

So much blood, so much justice. The smell of the stool that exited his body as his heart produced its final beat, why, it filled my Spidey Heart with joy!

Not all villains are men, there are many evil women who walk these streets as well, villains such as The Blanket. She earned the name “The Blanket” because she hides under a crusty old blanket to camouflage herself from the unassuming public. Her face is old and scabby, utterly terrifying. She is known to yell at people and their dogs for no reason at all. Truly a devil if there ever was one.

It fills me with glee to inform you that her greatest power ended up becoming her greatest weakness, because one night at she hid menacingly by the side of a church, I snuck up to her hiding place and, quietly, poured a cup of gasoline on her ratty camouflage. She must have been asleep, no doubt tired from a long day of evil doing. I quietly lit a match and flung it onto her disgusting blanket. You should have seen the skirmish that ensued, as I hit her with an iron bar while she franticly tried to free herself of the flames. Another menace vanquished, all in the name of Justice.

But life as a vigilante hero is anything but easy. It saddens me to think that I must do my work in secret. If the police ever caught me out stopping crime, they would be jealous and want to hurt me. They would lock me away for the rest of my life, imprisoned alongside the very people I stand against- criminals!

It’s just something you have to accept as a masked hero. To me, there is no greater reward than the look of terror on a villain’s face as I slowly lift my Spider Pick to their eye. Maybe someday the world will know my true identity, but for now, I’m just your friendly neighborhood Spiderman.