Cinco Minutos! (I don't know how to do the upside down exclamation point)

(It's like five minutes, but spicy!)

The last green until Easter courses through my bloodstream, so I'm being fancy with the word sprint. And by fancy, I mean multi-lingual.

Vaminos!

-----

With the gun placed to his head, Toby realized he had no choice but to write.

You know that thing you do when you have writer's block? That whole "What would I write if I had a gun to my head?" Welp, now he knows. Thanks to the worst birthday gift of ever consisting of Sharon hiring a real-life hitman to break into the house, put a loaded .380 to Toby's head, and tell him to start writing, the words flowed from Toby's fingers like they never had before.

They were glorious words, words with meaning, words with passion. They were the best words to ever be written. By Toby, anyway. He was delirious with joy and wonder. "Sonuvabitch," he thought, "it actually worked!"

Toby continued to write as though his life depended upon it, which it quite literally did. An untapped reservoir of ideas and concepts continued to fly upon the page, unbidden. He looked at what he was writing, realizing he had the bare bones foundation of a brilliant story. It would be the Great American Novel. It would be everything Toby ever dreamed he would write.

But Sharon, being a total bitch, couldn't let him have that. After an hour, the gunman made Toby delete everything he had written and then stole the laptop. Fucking Sharon.

Five Minutes to a Healthier YOU!

(OK, maybe not so much healthier...)

I got five minutes to kill, so let's sprint it up.

-----

Some forgettable grunge-lite pop song was playing in Eddie's head as he cautiously looked around the corner. Robbing the bank had been the easy part. The hard part was getting that goddamned Filter song out of his mind. That, and the masked idiot chasing him.

Everything Eddie'd read and seen about Spider-Man led him to believe he was fake. No one could be that stupid, but that powerful, while leaping around and shooting webs. Eddie was finding out the hard way he was wrong.

He had been wrong about a great many things over the course of his lifetime, but this mistake was going to put him away for a very long time. His uncle had gotten him out of some tight jams in the past, being a Yale-graduated lawyer, but now Eddie was looking at real time.

The judges always added extra time whenever you were brought in by one of the capes. Eddie didn't know if it was out of spite or if they thought since a super hero had to come in, that made the alleged crime more heinous. All he knew was, he needed to get the hell out of Dodge with a quickness.

Five Minutes of MAYHEM! (and word sprints)

I got five minutes, I'm stoned, and I'm near a keyboard. Giddyup.

---

The man went by the absurd sobriquet of Barracuda Joe, despite being named Fred and never actually having seen a barracuda. Ever. Not even in a book or online. He had no idea it was a fish. Fred—or Joe, I guess—thought it was a bird of some sort and believed it to be resplendent. His word. Seriously. I know, right?

Anyway, Joe arrived at the address in the email at around two in the morning, several hours early. He had been taught from an early age to always respect those who want your company by arriving early, letting them know you literally could not wait until the mutually-agreed upon time. Using this logic, Joe was about to enter the home of a mob boss who was going to give Joe $100 to stand look out for a thing they were doing Thursday morning. The meeting was scheduled for 1 p.m.

Tomorrow.

Joe’s about to get his ass beat.

Five Minutes of Funk, er, Writing!

(Add Whodini to anything to make the funk happen.)

I can't promise it'll be funky, but I can promise the following words were written in five minutes.

Hit that timer.

---

The timer went off and Tony came out of his daze.

Shit. The cookies are done.

The cookies represented everything that was Tony's life at the moment. If they came out fresh, soft, and warm, they would allow him to continue along the path of his life similarly. If not, well, his destiny was wrapped up with that of those cookies.

He didn't smell anything burning, just the heavenly smell of fresh, chocolaty baked goods. As he was about to open the oven door, another chime erupted. This time, it was his doorbell.

Tony's life also revolved around answering the door before the unknown bell ringer was able to push the button twice. He knew he was in danger. Cookies or door? Burnt to a crisp or his family suffering five years of mediocre inconvenience because he was unable to answer the door in time?

By the way, if you're thinking this is about his being afflicted with OCD or a similar mental illness, it's not. Tony was cursed by a witch seven years ago and even now, is realizing he's more annoyed with the fact that witch was an asshole rather than the fear of a practicer of dark arts.

If You Want Word Sprints, You Got It!

(What's better than a five-minute word sprint?)

An interview I had prepped for is actually in another hour because I don't understand time zones, so I have some time to tear into a five-minute word sprint like a honey badger eating Pop Tarts.

Start that timer.

---

The Penguin stared at the clock, anger making his face even more a caricature than normal. The contact was supposed to be here by now. Oswald Cobblepot was many things. Rich. Successful. Short. But tolerant of tardiness was nowhere on that particular list.

He had discovered a street hood who could finally bring Batman to his armored knees. Armor. Penguin remembered when Batman was just some guy prowling rooftops, beating up muggers. The Gotham cops would use him to solve some cases because he worked for free and they were (are) too stupid to do the jobs themselves.

He took on the wacky costumed criminals that seemed to appear weekly, of which, Cobblepott was more than a little ashamed to say, he was one. The great thing about rising through the ranks of the criminal underworld to its apex is that anyone who remembered him in that ridiculous top hat and tails are either too smart or too dead to mention it in Penguin's presence.

Nowadays, though, Batman was like some armored comic book super hero with any and every device he could think of not only there, but instantly available for use.

---

Decided to go with a comic book motif, as I've been reading a bungload of them lately. There you have it. Five minutes of a Penguin story that didn't exist until now. You're welcome.

Apparently, Five Minutes is a Boy Band As Well as a Writing Sprint

(I got nuthin'.)

The analogy of using my word sprints the way a musicians plays around on their instruments continues to resonate with me. I'm enjoying these little writing bursts. I'm also liking putting them instantly into the world instead of hiding them away. One, it's not THAT brave; only a couple people visit here & I have to beg for those hits, and two, maybe someone sees them and gets something from them. Not necessarily the content itself, but the idea that not every writing sesh has to result in something permanent. Or even good. Even crawling is forward progress.

Start the clock.

---

The band was loading their gear into the back of their "vintage" '87 Ford AeroStar when they saw it. It was behind a dumpster, beneath a homeless man who literally smelled like the living personification of a sour egg fart.

Johnny, the guitarist, was the first to recognize what it was. Given his upbringing in the food industry (his mom worked at Hardee's in the 80s), he quickly understood what was happening and moved to coerce Farty McChristthatstinks to move over a couple feet.

Bassists get a bad rap, but Bill sussed out what was happening within seconds of Johnny. He'd seen it and recognized, thanks to his patience and lack of ego, what it could mean for the band's future. Problem was, it apparently belonged to the homeless man.

Which, how exactly do you define ownership? Don't you have to be an actual person? Look, it can't be overstated just how bad this guy smelled. Someone who smells like that can't have a solid grasp on their sanity, much less their humanity and the concept of ownership. Fact is, it belongs where it belongs and we are the best capable to get it there.

A Heavenly Five Minute Word Sprint

(You ARE my heaven, Liam.)

In the midst of crippling (but not the suicidal/self-harm type so, win?) depression & various familial whatnot, I found my instrument again. Maybe not the Gibson Les Paul (lefty, obvs) of my dreams, but the little novelty ukulele I can plink a passable "Imperial March" on. Instead of the pressure of having to write Harry Potter every time I sit down, I'm just playing around, setting the timer, and seeing what springs forth. I never come into these with a specific idea. Or any idea. I set the timer and as soon as I hit start, I start writing whatever pops into my head. It's like sketching the tree stump in the front yard or noodling with your clarinet from high school. Nothing big, nothing scary; just a careful, consequence-free stretching of the artistic muscle (can you not?).

Headin' for Heaven.

---

Her head was killing her.

Had been all morning, for no discernible reason. She wasn't prone to headaches. Sure, everyone got them from time to time because reasons, mostly, but this didn't feel like an ordinary, everyday headache.

There were a couple things she could point to as the cause of this headache, but she had to admit, the large, green, scaly face retching from the right side of her face could be the one.

She hadn't noticed the new face until she was halfway to work. While she only then noticed it, she realized, looking back, it had probably been there all morning. For example, she now understood why, when trying to put her right earring in, she kept feeling a biting sensation. She pulled her hand back after each of the three attempts to find chunks of flesh removed, enabling her to see the tendons and bones usually hidden from view.

Hand bandaged and sans earrings (she hadn't worn just the one since college when she was dabbling and didn't think the one earring look even was a look anymore), she had headed to work.

I Live at the End of a Five and a Half Minute Word Sprint

(#swoon)

In honor of the incredible musician that is Poe & one of my favorite songs of said musician, I'm finna hit a five and a half minute word sprint. The ground is white, the blood is green, and I'm a writin' machine.

Kick it.

---

The bear had no feet, which was unfortunate. More unfortunate was his son's choice of a Father's Day present: vintage 1987 Nike Air Jordans. There are several levels as to how this borders literally on a horrific idea for a gift. The first, obviously, is how did a small bear obtain these kicks? Seriously, the more you dig into this story, the more levels it has. It's like a ridiculous onion.

So, not only does this bear manage to get a hold of shoes that human beings have murdered each other for, he provides them to a father, who not only has no feet, but harbors a deep hatred of all sports due to, again, the fact he has no feet.

Possibly the most troubling aspect of all this is, how did the small bear get the money to pay for the shoes? He had no money, no job. All the money his dad had in the world, other than his stock in Dover Motorsports, was the $12.53 he thought was hidden outside under a rock. Fact is, that money was stolen years ago by a kid who gave it to the local wino for two bottles of grape Mad Dog 20/20 and a quick tug job behind the gas station.

EDIT: Five-Minute Sprint STORY

(I guess we'll find out together.)

EDIT: My wife shot me the idea of doing a word sprint every week about this story because she really wants to know what happens. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm high now, watching ECW's Massacre on 34th Street PPV, and taking my lunch break. So we're going to do this now. Five minutes, stream of consciousness, who knows what's going to happen.

ORIGINAL POST: I'm high, I'm listening to Iron Maiden's "Fear of the Dark" from their concert in Rio, and I've got the timer set for five minutes. Let's see what happens.

--

Mabel turned to Agnes and said, "I've had enough of this nonsense."

It wasn't the words Mabel used that gave Agnes a start. Heavens no. Agnes had taken 93 trips around the glowing center of their solar system and there was blessed little that would surprise her now.

It was the fact Mabel had been dead for at least 25 of those trips that gave Agnes pause.

I'm just fuckin' with you. Mabel isn't dead. She hasn't spoken in probably three months, so Agnes was a little surprised by the comment.

And no, she still wasn't surprised by her words. Mabel was always carrying on about one thing or another. We want a library card. We want to vote. I want an abortion. No, seriously, I'm pregnant and didn't find out until pretty recently, so if we don't do something quick, it's going to go from regret to murder, so really...let's find a a doctor. Or a Mexican. But someone. And quick. Because like I said...

"What nonsense is that, dear?"

"Ugh, just all of it."

"Mabel, you haven't said much in a bit, so you'll have to forgive me if I don't remember what had you in a state when you went all non-verbal last spring."

---
NEW POST 9/6/18

Mabel was dumbstruck. Which was kind of funny, if you think about it. She's said one thing in three months, and her sister's response shocked her back into being a mute. Maybe it's me.

She was right, though. Mabel struggled to think back to what had infuriated her into silence for month after month after month. She knew she was right. That much was certain. She had had no doubt regarding the strength of her convictions. Mabel was prone to dramatic extremes, true; also true was that Mable was prone to taking handfuls of pills without having the slightest idea to their origins or effects. Or side effects.

Actually, that could explain a lot of the memory loss. Something to think about, Mabel thought. Or she thought she thought it. She may have forgotten it by now. Or not. Yeah, she really needed to stop doing that. But man, what an interesting day...

She looked back at her sister. "Oh, shut it down, Agnes. You know what I'm talking about." She hoped Agnes knew, because she had no idea herself and was just fishing.

---
NEW POST 9/8/18

Agnes sighed, loudly. A little too loudly, if we're being honest. Mabel could be dramatic, but Agnes wasn't afraid to embellish, either.

"You're still mad at Mother, aren't you, dear?" Agnes asked, making a noticeable, albeit insincere, attempt at something like empathy.

Mabel racked her brain. Being pissed at Mother wouldn't be anything new, but that didn't sound right. But close. Maybe Mother had something to do with it? Like, maybe Mother said something that pissed her off and then she held that anger in and took it out on someone else, and THAT'S what she's really pissed about, the fallout between the other person as a result of whatever the shit it was that Mother said?

Fuckin' Mother.

Still, that didn't sound entirely accurate.

DON.

That named popped into her head with the suddenness of surprise sodomy. She remembered. She remembered it all. It was Don. That goofy little prick actually did it. And he got away with it. Goddammit.

"No, Agnes, for once, it's not about Mother," Mabel spat. Not literally spat. That would be gross. Like, figuratively. Like, she spat the sentence out because of the low regard for which she holds her mother.
---
NEW POST 9/12/18

"It's Don," Mabel said. "You remember Don, don't you, Agnes? Don't you?"

"Of course I remember Don," Agnes said. She couldn't forget Don and his swarthy good looks, his charm, his huge bank account, and his even huger cock. It was massive. It waddled around the farmyard as though it owned the place, but at 76 lbs., it was hard to argue.

His enormous black cock notwithstanding, he also had a bigger-than-average penis as well and Mabel had spent her youth as a size queen, so it's not hard to comprehend that she would remember Don. She had spent a couple months post-WWII as Don's steady girl. It was a heady summer, but when Don left, she shut down for almost a year. She didn't speak, she rarely ate, and she carried a bitter grudge against Agnes after catching her in the bathroom with Don. He claimed he was helping Mabel's older sister with her hair; Agnes claimed he had bent her over the sink and was plowing her like Grandad's cornfield in the spring.
---
NEW POST 9/24/18

"In addition to his--"

"If you mention that cock of his, I'll punch you in the mouth." Mable despised chickens.

"Alright, in addition to his pet," Agnes said slowly, "and his larger-than-average manhood, of course I remember Don. I remember going to his funeral more than 30 years ago. So unless you've become a medium, what does he have to do with anything?"

"I saw him. Yesterday."

"In a dream?"

"No, not in a dream. That's stupid, what you just said. I know the difference between a dream and real life, Agnes. God, you're so dumb sometimes. 'In a dream?' 'In a dream?' That's what you sound like. Mother was right."

Now Agnes was taken aback. Mabel, not even in jest, had ever credited their mother with being right about anything. Ever. Being who she was, however, Agnes would not allow herself to be caught off guard. No matter how badly she wanted to know what Mother was right about, she would not rise to the bait.

"Mabel, I was just asking. Dreams can be powerful sometimes. If it wasn't a dream, then can you please explain the context in which you saw Don?"

---
NEW POST 10/04/18

It was hard for Mabel to describe what she saw. She knew it was Don, but it was hazy now. It had been a while since she felt what she would call normal, but she also knew she was telling the truth. She had seen him. Alive.

"I'm...not sure," Mabel said, knowing she was giving Agnes more ammo to talk down to her in that patronizing little voice of hers. Since they were kids, Agnes knew how to get under Mabel's skin. "Sure you did, Mabel" or "Of course I believe you, Mabel" or "Yes, Mabel, you have incredible bosoms."

"I know you think you saw him, Mabel, and I believe you," Agnes said.

"Goddammit, Agnes, you insufferable cow!" Mabel yelled. "I saw him! As sure as I'm looking at your old, wrinkled face right now, I saw him!"

Agnes looked at her in that way she always had with that "Of course you did, Mabel" look on her fucking puss. Goddamn, did she hate her sister sometimes. Like now. Or like that time she stole Mabel's diary, read the passage about the time she accidentally pooped her pants during Sunday School and blamed it on Davy, the slow kid.

---

And done. Music went from Iron Maiden to a live duet between Metallica & Ozzy doing Paranoid. Kirk is playing THE most gorgeous Les Paul. #Swoon.

Five! Minutes! To Wriiiiiiiiite Something...

(Eddie is never not awesome in any context. Also, I know a guy who knows Iron Maiden's drummer. So, yeah.)

Sammy Hagar's jamming with Chickenfoot, playing Deep Purple's "Highway Star." Sammy's awesome. I met him once at a NASCAR race. I have three celebrity meeting stories that all start with "I was at a NASCAR race & running to (wherever), when I ran passed (celebrity)." Sammy Hagar (which I'm about to tell you), ECW wrestler Al Snow (which I write about HERE), and Charlie Daniels. Which is heretofore known to none but me.

Anyway, I'm running out of the media center at the track in Fontana, Calif., and I see Sammy. The following exchange takes place:

"Holy cow, you're Sammy Hagar!"

"I know!"

"You're awesome!"

"I know!"

"I gotta go, it was great meeting you!"

"You too!"

The Charlie Daniels story was very similar, except when I said, "Holy cow, you're Charlie Daniels!" his response was "Yessir!" His response to "You're awesome!" was "Well, thank you kindly!" The Al Snow story is better, but Charlie was a nice man. A little, um, different, these days, but he was a nice man. So now you know the Charlie Daniels story.

Anyway, George Thorogood is singing about drinking his rent money in the form of bourbon, scotch, and beers. I love him, by the way. It's amazing to me that I haven't seen him live. So there's that, me & BatBong just had a chat & there's five minutes on the timer.

---

She had a beaver that just wouldn't quit. Her boyfriend's little brother had been force feeding it meth for the past hour.

It was disturbing in that they had just watched it gnaw its own tail off, shrieking between fevered nibbles, but they just couldn't look away. Mostly, because they had been force feeding themselves meth for the past three days. I can't tell you what they were seeing through their eyes at that point, but I can tell you it was...unusual.

Prior to this tale of self tail-decapitation or whatever you would call it, Chet the Beaver may as well have been called Chill the Beaver. Because he was pretty relaxed.

For Chet, a normal day consisted of laying around, taking second-hand hits from his person's hot-boxed bedroom while listening to his favorite group, the Beaver Brown Band. It had nothing to do with the name; he genuinely liked them, respected their background, and admired their never-ending-tour work ethic.

---

We're now watching Lynyrd Skynyrd doing "Freebird," pre-crash. I met them, too. Many years post-crash. The live version of "Freebird" my wife & I saw that night included a woman dancing who also looked as though she had been force-fed some meth. The video I'm watching is in the hey-day of the 70s mega football stadium shows. Seeing this crowd of tens of thousands of people getting into the music, that's pretty incredible. That's your stereotype stoner "Profound" Moment of the Day.

If You Can Dodge a Wrench, You Can Write For Five Minutes

(Why am I not actually using this time to work on my book? Look, a bison! #SmokeBomb)

Hoo boy, we're having fun now. Digging the five-minute word sprints. Now on YouTube is Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It." First, RIP Neidermeyer, and second, I have nothing but admiration & respect for the fact Dee Snyder admits that song was brilliant marketing on his part & he planned on selling out from the beginning. It's a great song & they are a solid band. Nothing wrong with using your talent to create an anthem that's easily monetized.

Whatever. High's starting to wear off (but there's always more) & the timer's set for five minutes.

---

He walked through the door more pissed than I’ve ever seen him.

Fred wasn’t a big man; he didn’t fill the door. Didn’t come close, actually. Standing at around five foot, four inches, Fred wasn’t an intimidating presence. A hint of a pot belly hung over his belt. A double chin spilled over the collar of his t-shirt. Male-pattern baldness was stealing the already-whispy hair upon his head. So no, he wasn’t intimidating.

Except for the massive horn in the dead center of his forehead.

It was massive. Remember Berkley’s dream monster from Bloom County? Remember how it had a giant single horn coming out of his head? That’s what Fred’s looked like. A little more proportional to his body, but incredibly massive and more than a little distracting.

The horn had mysteriously appeared one day around mid-afternoon. He was at a bar, flirting with a woman who you could kindly say was out of his league. Usually, Fred stayed in his lane, but hours of day drinking on a Tuesday had given him the kind of courage where rejection is just the first no on the way to a yes. He excused himself to use the restroom. When he came back, the object of his temporary affection was gone and he had a large, curved horn coming straight out of his head.

He didn’t see it in the restroom as he was splashing some water on his face. In fact, in the years he had the horn, he had never felt it. There was no weight to it, despite the size. It was brought to his attention only after the bartender, a young lady of 21 who had led a reasonably sheltered life, screamed and pointed at Fred.

---

Greta Van Fleet's on YouTube now. That voice just shocks the shit out of me every time I hear it.

Another Five-Minute Sprint

(This has nothing to do with nothing, except I saw it & started giggling.)

Watching the video for Diamond Dave's "California Girls." Takes me back to the sixth grade. That was a solid year for me. Plus, his videos around this time are incredibly creative & still hilarious. Anyway. Still high, still watching videos on YouTube. Got the timer set for another five minutes. Let's see if we can catch lightning in a bottle.

---

So Eddie's fucking crazy, right?

Jesus Christ.

You know he killed that guy. He totally fucking killed that guy.

I don't know, man.

I mean, OK, yes. I suggested that Tony was a guy that I would love to see dead. And maybe I kept texting him that if he killed Tony, maybe I would be his best friend. And alright, I may have given him $700 and told him I was giving him that money as a reward for killing Tony.

But sonuvabitch, I didn't think he'd actually go through with it. I know I drove him over there. You don't have to keep interrupting. I was there. I remember how it went down.

Yes, I held Tony down while Eddie shot him. Fifteen times. In the thigh. In front of his mom. Tony's mom. Had he done it in front of his own mom, that would've been weird. I guess no weirder than being the one getting shot in front of your mom. And the thigh thing. No idea.

Dude, I know I'm the one who told him to shoot him there because I wanted to see his dick explode. And I wanted him shot there because he may have banged my high school janitor. I'm a deep guy.

---

Huh. That went in a rather unexpected place.