COVID-19 Considerate Mass Shooter Mows Down Innocent People From Home

DES MOINES, IA – Deranged sociopath and local hero Kyle Glasier, 34, announced his plans to unleash his unbridled rage onto the world in a manner that will both inflict the same perceived cruelty he’s suffered his entire life and follow safety precautions of the COVID-19 pandemic.

In his 218 page manifesto, Glasier describes that if he were to finally snap before the pandemic he would have, “…probably opened fire at a Soulja Boy show at the Southridge Mall with an AR-15, shot myself, and called it day. You can’t be too careful these days, though. I would hate to pass along the virus to someone from a hot full-metal jacket entering their chest. It is a respiratory virus, you know? Not only that but Soulja Boy cancelled last minute.”

The part-time busboy and full-time moderator of several incel forums went on to describe how others can follow his lead in being a socially-conscious mass murderer.

“First of all: no pistols or shotguns. I get that they’re fun to use on your delusional projections of that girl that rejected you in college but they’re only effective at short range. There is no way that you could get a clean kill on a mother of three children without breaking the six feet social distancing protocol. The same thing goes for small and medium-sized automatic firearms. If you want to do this right and keep your victims and yourself free from the COVID-19 virus you’re gonna want to use a good, old-fashioned hunting rifle.”

Glasier, who was found pointing his .243 Winchester onto a busy intersection out of his bachelor suite explained that he has been following Stay at Home protocol orders by picking off pedestrians for the past 33 hours. He also assured us that a clean shot was always made as his rifle is resting on his enormous collection of hardcore pornography depicting torture, sexual assault, and humiliation with bodily fluids.

“Look, I’d love to barge in to a female-only campus, movie theatre or a church as much as the next regular entitled, frustrated Joe but that’s just not reality right now. We are living in a crisis and need to make sacrifices for our nation.”

“Now is not the time to be selfish,” Glasier said as he wrote another twisted page in his manifesto describing how he would slaughter all of the ‘Staceys’ that refused to have sex with him and would get off at the sight of their crimson blood flooding the summer Iowa concrete.

At press time, Crawford was found respecting front-line workers by wiping down his ammunition with Clorox wipes and washing his hands before opening fire on police officers and his parole-appointed psychiatric therapist.

Full Steam to Hades

We’re going down, Captain.
Going down where?
Down to the bottom,
the sea will see you there.
She sinks,
with my best mates and me

 

Time to meet our maker,
to meet Davy Jones.
The Reaper of the Deep!
We have been forsaken
by Poseidon’s cruel throne.  

 

A chest and fourscore men,
Plunge to despair.
Full steam to Hades!
Our bounty will be shared.
She sinks,
with my best mates and me. 

 

In just a few leagues,
over just a few more stones,
we could have been free,
to live as Kings
to live as we please.
We have been forsaken.
Icarus foretold,
by our lust for gold.

 

A chest and fourscore men,
Plunge to despair.
Full steam to Hades!
Our bounty will be shared.
Bottoms up.
To my best mates and me.

MENtal Health: A Book Review

Review Dedicated to Kirk Ackerman

Mental health issues, awareness, and destigmatization has been on the forefront social consciousness in the past few years. Mental health has also been the topic of honest discussion now more than ever in modern human history. We benefit from such services as Sask HealthLine, a confidential and free service that can be reached 24/7 at 811, community mental health services, and specific support groups related to mental health issues such as alcohol and drug addiction, problem gambling, crisis intervention, domestic violence support, and others. Despite the fact that more resources than ever exist and that the stigma of talking about mental health issues has dropped significantly, people still continue to suffer in silence from mental health battles.

Unfortunately, many of these battles are waged unknown to the world by men and boys. Due to this silence and societal and physiological factors, Statistics Canada estimates that men are three times as likely to die from suicide than women. Allan Kehler, who has an accomplished career in education and counselling, professional speaking and authoring books such as “Stepping Out of the Shadows: A Guide to Understanding & Healing from Addictions”, implores us to challenge this statistic with his brilliant new book, MENtal Health: It’s Time to Talk. This powerful read not only includes valid research and resources that all men should review but also poignant memoirs written by men from the prairies who have survived their own mental health struggles. Kehler invites a variety of male guest writers on this project to recount their experiences on topics such as addiction, surviving suicide, domestic violence, depression, and facing tragedy.

One of these guests include Chris Beaudry, the former assistant coach of the Humboldt Broncos who was present during their tragedy nearly two years ago. Reading his chapter, I had assumed that he would exclusively write on his experiences on the trauma of the crash but found that he fought mental health struggles well before. The tragedy that he faced was a catalyst towards dark places and old habits for him and it was incredibly inspiring to read his rise and his healing journey, especially considering how close he is to home. This does not just apply to Beaudry, but to all the guest writers that contributed to this work. If I had one reservation regarding this book, it would be that it does cover some very heavy topics; if you are to read it please ensure that you are in a good state of mind and evaluate your own mental health challenges.

Although uncomfortable at times, it is necessary for us to begin speaking more on men’s mental health issues for the sake of our fathers, our sons, and our brothers. Kehler invites us to expose the masculine facade of bottling our emotions as the foolish and dangerous practice that it is. This is a necessary read for all in the prairies to help us protect the men that we love in our lives.

THIS BOOK IS AVAILABLE AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR FROM WWW.SKBOOKS.COM

Gravity Proof… A New Universal Law… Zone State and Other Unusual Short Stories: A Book Review

“Gravity Proof… A New Universal Law… Zone State and Other Unusual Short Stories”
by Karl G. Blass
Reviewed by Ben Charles
ISBN: 9871775110705
CDN $19.99

“Gravity Proof… A New Universal Law… Zone State and Other Unusual Short Stories”, written by Karl G. Blass is the result of a delightful passion project from a truly brilliant mind. As a scientist by trade, the Austrian-born Karl G. Blass has made a new trail for himself with the release of this short story series. That being said, Blass is no stranger to publications as he has been published and patented over eighty times throughout his career on various topics within the field of Clinical Biochemistry. After obtaining a PhD and an M. Sc. from the University of Windsor in the 1970s, Blass went on to become a professor of chemistry at the University of Regina and a clinical biochemist at the Regina General Hospital from the mid-seventies until the new millennium.
Blass’ aptitude for the sciences rings loud and clear in the first chapter of this book, named “Gravity Research Stories”. By the author’s own admission, the third chapter is the most appropriate place of the book to start if the reader is seeking a casual short story experience. The first chapter, however, is a thought experiment that challenges the reader to consider how gravity functions within the context of the reality in which we live. I must admit that Blass’ explanations of slow-motion states, atom density, repulsion forces, and Einstein’s theories were over my head, but I found them to be fascinating thought experiments, nonetheless. I would recommend that anyone with even a passing interest in physics and the sciences check this book out for the first two chapters alone.
Although the book begins with the fruits of a mind well-versed in the fields of science and research, the following chapters are rife with stories from the author’s fencing career, as well as anecdotes of his personal life and the Old Country. A personal favourite of mine comes with a brief story of his grandfather being a respected hunter both in the Old World and the New but promised his wife a fur coat made of coyote. After many unsuccessful attempts of finding one in the harsh Saskatchewan winters of the 1920s, he finally sees two within firing range. Unfortunately, it was also when he was driving his wife ten miles by horse and carriage to the doctors due to a hand injury and never did get his Saskatchewan coyote. The book is also filled with tales of drama and gossip from the University of Regina and a cool introspection into the budding years of the institution.
“A Gravity Proof…” is testament to the fact that academic and creative writing need not be two separate entities. Blass has created a truly one-of-a-kind literary experience that both stimulates the mind and tickles the soul. It seamlessly transitions from complex physics equations and tense fencing duals to the mundane but observant quips on the English language and life in Saskatchewan. This is a must-read for those seeking a unique literary experience.

THIS BOOK IS AVAILABLE AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR FROM WWW.SKBOOKS.COM

Book Review – Corridor Nine: A Novel

“Corridor Nine: A Novel”
by Sophie Stocking
Published by Thistledown Press
Reviewed by Ben Charles
ISBN: 9781771871815

“Corridor Nine: A Novel”, written by Sophie Stocking and published by Thistledown Press is an exceptional novel that expertly encapsulates the extremes of soul-crushing emotions and outlandish behaviour in a way that is very accurate to the human experience. Even though this novel could be read within a weekend, it packs wallop. At under 200 pages this novel makes no room for literary fluff, every word is a thread that weaves into a beautiful and fantastical yet tender and tragic story of life and loss.

The story follows Bernadette Macomber, who thought that she had all but completely cut ties with her troubled father, Fabian, to begin again and start a family of her own. In the wake of Fabian’s sudden suicide, Bernadette finds herself returning home. All is not over for Fabian, however, as he finds himself in a completely foreign afterlife named Corridor Nine and in the company of an angel/griffin-figure named Bune. As Fabian transverses life-after-life, Bernadette or “Bernie”, is left in the mundane to seek the source of her father’s recent insanity. As the twin narratives consecutively play out, they also intertwine to result in the closure that both Bernie and Fabian so desperately seek.

As mentioned, this novel is a relatively short read but a truly delightfully one. Those with an inkling towards supernatural series will have a seriously good time tearing through this novel while also enjoying more mature tones, narratives, and characters than something like the Harry Potter or Twilight series would have to offer. That is not to say that young readers could not enjoy this novel, either. There is a certain exuberance to this novel that exudes from all its aspects, from the mystery of Corridor Nine and this universes’ afterlife, the fantastical qualities and characteristics of Bune, to the bizarre remnants of Fabian that he left behind. There were very few parts of the novel that it was not apparent that this story was truly a passion project of Stocking’s and it was story that she had been burning to tell. In fact, the cover painting of the novel, also rich and vibrant, is a work of Stocking’s as well. While it is not the most unusual thing in the world to see authors create their own covers, it is rarely executed so well and is honestly a breath of fresh air.

In conclusion, this is a delightfully read for nearly all ages. It perfectly blends the relatable themes of loss, guilt, and conflicting feelings about loved ones with the imagination of the supernatural. This far exceeds the quality that one would expect from a debut novel and I am excited to see how Stocking’s career flourishes as a great Canadian author.

THIS BOOK IS AVAILABLE AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR FROM WWW.SKBOOKS.COM

Arrangements

I was 26 years old when the hospital called and told me that my father had finally drunk himself to death. They worded it as a “liver cirrhosis-related rupture” but I knew that it meant the same shit. They had told me that he is still alive but does not have much longer. They asked if I wanted to come in to say goodbye to him before he goes. I said no and hung up my phone.
My father’s routine was the same from the time that I was a child up until his hospitalization, and by extension, his death. He was a heavy equipment operator by trade but had trouble keeping consistent employment as he was pissed drunk most of the time. This fact was never apparent to him, however. He would come home from a shift of running back-ho and plop himself straight onto his battered recliner. After downing a pint and half of Alberta Premium, he would preach his tirades to me, or to anyone within an earshot, about how the immigrants, the faggots, and the Liberals were leeching off of the hard-working man to “go-on and live their lavish lifestyles off of his back!” The man never did have much self-awareness. When he wasn’t sitting on his ass choking down cheap whiskey and Players cigarettes, he kept himself busy by either sneaking off to the bar or slapping my mom around. He never did know that when I was 15 years old I started a job as a night janitor at my high school to help Mom keep up with the bills and the mortgage. I wasn’t given the job legally. It was given to me out of charity, or pity, depending on your point of view. I still thank Mr. Krasinski to this day for setting that up. I was paid under the table to work four three-hour shifts every weeknight aside from Friday and one four-hour shift on Sunday nights. As far as the Canadian Revenue Agency was concerned, my wages were filed under Welding Education Supplies: Miscellaneous. I saved what I could to free myself at 18 but I gave the most of the money I earned to Mom. We had a silent understanding that dad could never know.
I remember the Easter of 1998. After two years of working under Mr. Krasinski, he awarded me with an extra $50 one March Friday night. He expected me to get some beer or maybe take a girl out. Neither of those interested me – instead, I bought my mom a large bouquet of daffodils. They were her favourite flowers and she especially loved having them around at Easter time. I spent the remainder of the money on a tin of Skoal for myself and a bottle of Mr. Clean for the house. The flowers were only perched on the kitchen table for about ten hours. After a drunken squabble based on one of my father’s paranoid delusions that mom was cheating on him, he smacked the vase and flowers on to the floor. I’ve watched the man beat my mother’s face to the point of unrecognizable with his bare hands, I’ve seen my mother struggle to walk for two weeks due to the bruises that he left on her legs with his belt. But never did I see her cry as hard as she did on that day.
My father died the same way that he lived – bloated, miserable, and in the absence of a son that never loved him. When I did arrive at the hospital, the nurse informed me that he hung on for ten hours in the palliative care wing before passing away. I had a hard time suppressing a smile knowing that the son of bitch spent his final hours suffering and alone. 
“So, what now?” 
“Well, now you need to make your arrangements. Did you and your dad have a conversation about his wishes after his death?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. You know that we legally can’t keep him here for more than twelve hours, right? He will be moved to the hospital morgue for tonight and then to Zens’ Funeral Services first thing tomorrow morning. Will you be okay to continue this process with them? Do you need any time?” The nurse mumbled as she smacked her gum under the buzzing fluorescent lights. Her coffee breath fiercely overpowered the piece of Excel that she started chewing three hours ago.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Alright, hun. Go home. The death certificate and his cremation request have been faxed to them, you can pick him up next week to continue with your arrangements. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Before I could respond, the nurse readjusted her frizzy, red ponytail and marched away from me with as much conviction as someone wearing white
New Balance runners could muster. If I were in the hospital for anyone else, I would have been pissed at how fast I was being pushed out. Instead, I laughed to myself as the nurse stormed off around the corner.
   

When I turned the ignition on my 2003 Honda Civic the next week it barely started. Despite its alternator problems and the fact that I drove across town with the gas-light on, I made it to Zens’. The place was dreadfully drab, even by funeral parlor standards. As I walked in, I was assaulted by the stale stench of formaldehyde and that unmistakable “church-smell.” I walked to the front desk to be met by an overweight woman who was visibly annoyed by my presence. Her eyes were glued to her computer screen and she mindlessly tended to her nails. Her perfume was overwhelming. I think her technique was if she ignored me for long enough that I would go away.
“Excuse me.”
She released an exasperated sigh, “What?”  
“‘What?’ I’m here to pick up my father’s remains and that is all that you have to say to me, ‘what’? Is Mr. Zens here so that I could speak with him?
“Rob’s busy,” the impatient woman snapped, “but if you want to start talking to me politely then maybe I could help you out. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, sugar.”
I was ready to throttle this bitch, but I was more ready to leave this place and all of this behind me. I decided to pick my battles and took a deep breath.
“I am searching for Darren White, Mr. Darren Lee White. He would have been moved from the hospital to here last week. I was told to pick him up at this location. Further arrangments will not be necessary, that has all been taken care of.”
“Lemme take a look for you, gimme a couple minutes. This old computer takes forever to do anything.”
After a few minutes of apathetically searching her files and making various breathy noises, the receptionist had found the file.
“Here he is, Mr. White. Brought in last week and has been cremated. Are you sure that you have your arrangements made? Aside from the cremation request made by him a few weeks ago, there is nothing on his file about funeral arrangements.
“Yes, it has been taken care of. My dad always was a private man, it is no surprise to me that he requested the details on his death be kept close to the chest, too.”
The receptionist gave me a skeptical look but could not be bothered to put in the effort of questioning me. Instead, she lazily mumbled that Robert Zens’ office is through the hall and the second door to the left. I will be able to speak with him when he is ready and will get my father’s remains then.
“Thank you,” I said as I headed towards the hall.
“Yeah.”
Mr. Zens’ office was in a sad state of affairs. The cramped corner office had stacked documents and files scattered everywhere, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the chaos. The desk was littered with newspapers, empty Diet Pepsi cans, and envelopes with PAST DUE stamps on them. One single 60W lightbulb hung over the office and even that was on its last legs. The only positive within the depressing office was a picture of what I had to assume to be Mr. Zens standing with two young girls, probably around ages eight to ten. A tired, middle-aged man wearing an ill-fitting suit entered the office. I extended to shake his hand and he obliged.
“Mr. White, I presume? Thank you for coming in to meet with me.”
“Please, just call me Marcus.”
“Fair enough, Marcus. Your father’s ashes are ready for pick-up. All you need to do is sign a few release forms and you can be on your way. Your father made arrangements with me to be cremated but there’s no indication of any sort of arrangements after that. If I may pry, which church will you be hosting the services at? I can recommend you some good ones in town, depending on your denomination, of course.”
“We’ve made our arrangements. With all due respect, Mr. Zens, this process will be kept between my father and I. Just know that he will get the proper burial that he deserves.”
“Fair enough. Please sign these release forms and you’ll be on your way.” Mr. Zens extracted two forms from the mountain of papers like magic. There was no way in Hell that anyone but him would know where those papers were. As I signed the surprisingly pristine documents he sifted through a series of black boxes in the corner, muttering to himself.
“Ackerman, Rhyhorski, Li, Scott, McCarthy, Verne… ah, here we go, White.”
He hoisted the box onto the desk. It was about the size of a household printer and completely black. The only defining features on the box were the latch to open it and the label on the top, “White, Darren Lee.”
“We’re all set, Marcus. Is there anything else can that we can do for you? Would you like some help carrying this out to your car? Don’t let the fact that its ash fool you, these boxes are heavy.”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”
“In that case, thank you for choosing Zens’ Funeral Services for taking care of you. I am sorry for your loss.”
“Somebody’s gotta be.” I lifted the box out of the building and into my car.
I drove around with my father in the backseat for a couple of hours, only stopping for gas and a drink at McGee’s, the shitty dive bar that my dad spent most of his time at while he was on this side of the grass. After reaching the end of the second hour, I had found my father’s final resting place. It was on the outskirts of town at a Husky truck stop. I pulled up behind the building, away from the prying eyes of underpaid employees and overtired truckers. I turned my car off and pulled the box containing my father out.
“Well, Dad, someone should probably say a few words. But that person ain’t gonna be me, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”
I peeled the name that he gave to me off of the box, lifted the lid of the dumpster up and slid the box inside. As I drove back home my only regret was that there was a lot of other shit in my car that I should have thrown out while I was there.       

  

 

 
      

High and Dry

High and dry,

satisfied.

Memories flood me
of the waves slapping, crashing, bounding, and lashing.
The sea’s ceaseless battery.
Helplessly panicking, beating, and thrashing.

Sinking like a rock, and heavy as one too.
Soaked as a dog with mange
Shivering, descending into the blue.
Saturated, destined to a watery grave.

Yet here I am,
my land legs still intact, my body still sound.
The sun warms my face, my skin supple and tanned.
I smile at my time in the water, the times that I almost drowned.

I appreciate the warmth
and look forward to the coasts.
My back to the tides.
Onwards I go,

to stay high and dry.