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About four on a Friday afternoon, as I was eating my evening Wheaties, there was a loud knock at the door, followed by repeated pressing of my doorbell. I slammed my bowl of cereal down on the coffee table, for in front of the television is where I eat, and grumbled all the way to the door. Whoever was out there didn’t stop holding down the doorbell until I opened the door.

I flung the door open and clapped eyes on a middle-aged man who looked suspiciously like [Author:Brian Evenson], one my favorite authors. Same face, same curly hair, same beard, exactly the same build. He was dressed in a gray-blue suit with a maroon tie.

I didn’t even have time to process this all before he said: “Hi, I’m running for public office. Could I have a moment of your time?��

“I’m sorry,�� I said. “What is this about?��

“As I said, I’m running for office.��

“Which office?��

“I’m running for the office of Brian Evenson.��

“How is that a public office?�� I asked, unsure.

“My campaign staff have led me to understand that you are quite a big fan of Mr. Evenson’s work. You’d feel a great loss if he were to die or, heaven forbid, just decide to stop publishing new fiction.��

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“This has been declared a public service and the office is being officially created after the next election.��

“The office of�� Brian Evenson? It’s just�� Aren’t you Brian Evenson?��

“No. No, no, no. Oh, heavens no. No, no, no,�� he said, followed by a chuckle. “At least not yet. That’s why I need your vote.��

“Then who are you?��

“I’m Brian Hartly,�� he said, handing me a business card. On the card were two tiny black and white headshots. On the right was Brian Hartly, on the left was Brian Evenson. Above the photos were the words “Brian Hartly is running for Brian Evenson�� and below, “These are not the same person.�� The man on the right did look slightly older than the man on the left. But they had the same impish glint in the eye.

“Are you, like, related to him or something?�� I asked, still not fully convinced this wasn’t Brian Evenson. “You look so much like him.��

“I just dress for the job I want to have,�� he replied. “So, if I could get you to sign this petition, I’m one step closer to serving the public in the capacity of Brian Evenson.��

“I’m not sure I can just sign off on you that quick, if you are in fact not already Brian Evenson. What are your positions on the issues?��

He paused and stiffened his lip. “Which issues are most important to you, as a reader?��

“I think what I want in Brian Evenson is threefold: economy of language, dispassionate reports of violence, and doppelgangers.��

“I’m for all that. I also promise to increase cognitive dissonance and identity confusion by at least ten percent in the next quarter.��

“Your pitch is tempting me, but I still don’t understand how we can elect a Brian Evenson. Like, we don’t even elect a Stephen King.��

“Of course not,�� he said and giggled. “That’s a hereditary position. Plus, would we really miss Stephen King if he just gave up writing to start a farm? He’s already written over eighty books. Brian Evenson barely has twenty if you count the commercial B.K. stuff.��

“And who does?�� I said without thought, still mulling over the confusing proposition that one of my favorite authors could be voted out of office. “Isn’t King a little old to be starting a farm?��

“Oh, you are out of the loop. We are already on our third King. You think one man wrote eighty books?�� He guffawed like the hippo in a back and white cartoon. “Oh, goodness me. My, my, my. Heavens no. It’s scientifically impossible.��

“How’s that?�� I asked.

“You can’t write more than one chapter per month. That’s physics. You can’t physically move a pencil any more quickly or type more rapidly than the Speed of Words.��

“I hadn’t realized there were a fixed number of words in a chapter.��

“No, there aren’t, but they do balance out over the course of a book. One short chapter necessitates a long chapter. This is the Law of Word Balance.��

“This isn’t making me want to vote for you,�� I said honestly.

“You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about the nitty-gritty details,�� he said. “Leave that to the elected officials.��

“Okay, I’ll sign the petition, but I have a lot to think about before I give you my vote.��

“Terrific,�� he said, handing me a clipboard, and rubbing his hands together. “Say, where is your vote right now?��

“Where is my vote? Right now?�� I repeated.

“Yes, I’d really like to get a glimpse, if I may.��

I did not want this man knowing the whereabouts of my vote. For all I knew, he would steal it in the night while I slumbered, dreaming of future Brian Evenson publications.

“It’s resting,�� I told him. “Hasn’t been feeling at all well.�� I quickly scrawled a fake signature on the petition.

“That is a shame,�� he said, eyeing the clipboard uneasily. “But thank you for your time, Glorb. I’ll be back with vote medicine tomorrow.�� He trotted down the walkway toward the street.

“Be back with what?�� I said faintly.

I’m sure he heard me, even though he simply said, “I’m from back East, cran, carmel, wooder,�� without turning to face me, and kept walking right across the street to the house of that woman who looks just like Margaret Atwood.

(It is 500 years in the future. MOTHER, FATHER, SPACE DOCTOR, and FUTURE GAL sit around a typical American family table 2460 AD. It is the interior of a spaceship, not in flight, but looks like just like a typical American family home 2460 AD. Perhaps a typical space cat or future dog wanders the room if the stagehands can keep it under control. The sounds of lazer jazz or galactic lounge music can be faintly heard playing on an extremely advanced looking hi-fi. Each member of the family is dressed in matching silver outfits made from asbestos to keep the family safe from future heat. The planet has heated up because the sun is being drawn in by its gravity. Everyone appears sweaty, even the pet, should it be there. The doctor holds a device about the size of an adding machine.)

Space Doctor: I have finished scanning you all for parasites. Unfortunately, I have found none, and so we will all starve.
Father: Woe is me. Simply dreadful.
Mother: Check the fridge. I’m sure we’ve some leftovers.
Future Gal: (Opening the refrigerator door and poking her head inside) We’ve a whole can of worms here. Shall I open it?
Space Doctor: Heavens, no. If we eat it all now we’ll have nothing for when we get hungry later.
Mother: Is that all there is?
Future Gal: There is also the corpse of my brother Thomas.
Father: Thomas?
Future Gal: He was your son.
Father: Yes, I thought the name rang a bell.
Space Doctor: I believe we were saving that for a special occasion.
Mother: His funeral, if I’m not mistaken. We were waiting for the ground to cool down enough to dig a grave.
Space Doctor: (Rising, taking his device with him) Then I shall go and take the ground’s temperature.
Father: Tell me, Space Doctor, is this fever contagious?
Space Doctor: Only for the incredibly obese. I should think. (Exits stage left)
Future Gal: (Grabs a CorningWare container from refrigerator and returns to table)
Father: Hullo! What on earth is this?
Future Gal: Auld lasagne.
Mother: I wonder if it hasn’t gone bad.
Future Gal: (Removes lid and gazes into the dish) It certainly hasn’t gone well.
Mother: That bad?
Future Gal: Neutral, perhaps.
Father: Perhaps we should feed a bit to our pet, should we have one on set, to see if it is safe to eat.
Future Gal: Oh, I’m mistaken. This isn’t lasagne at all.
Father: Then what on earth is it?
Space Doctor: (Rushing back in in a panic) It’s a phone call from Ionesco! Auld lasagne is a PHONE CALL FROM IONESCO!!!!
Father: Rather dramatic, what?
Space Doctor: (Collecting himself) I was alarmed by the readings. They are off the charts.
Mother: (Stands and walks to window, pulls apart draperies) Ah, yes. I see now. That’s the Statue of Liberty. We’ve been on Earth the whole time.
Father: (To Future Gal) Honey, tell Ionesco we’ve been on Earth this whole time.
Future Gal: (Grabs megaphone and puts it to mouth, pointed at the casserole dish) Mister Ionesco! Can you hear me?
(All wait, placing hands to ear as if listening extra-attentively. There is no audible reply.)
Father: I’m rather sure he’s hung up by now.
Mother: Why does he toy with our emotions so?
Space Doctor: He’s a genius, and all genii are cruel. That’s why we keep them in lamps and bottles and CorningWare.
Mother: Maybe one of them will put aside their sadistic tendencies and figure out how to blow up this bloody sun to save the world.
Space Doctor: Not likely. They are far too keen on human suffering. Last things they’d want to be are heroes. They quite likely have already deliberately not blown up the sun, just to spite us.
Future Gal: All this grim talk is bringing me down. I’m going to put on the new album by Space Herb Alpert and the Jupiter Brass to brighten up the mood, you silly-billies. (Changes record)
Mother: Oh, darling? Why so blue? I thought you knew our purpose here was to blow up the sun.
Father: Maybe we can heat up Thomas early to cheer my little gal up, what? (Father begins dragging Thomas’s corpse from the refrigerator to the science oven.)
Future Gal: No, Father. Let’s dance instead. (Does a hip dance in the style of the futuristic 1960s.)
Father: (Drops Thomas and immediately space Watusis.) Yes, I’ve forgotten all about our troubles already. Come dance, Mother.

(The CorningWare casserole dish begins to ring. The whole scene fades out of reality.)

“It’s like you don’t respect the spiritual views of my culture!�� she screamed, tearing down my teepee.

“I don’t even respect the spiritual views of my own culture,�� I said. “Why do yours get a pass?�� I reached down to pick the teepee up.

“But I’m indigenous. You’re a colonizer,�� she said, knocking the teepee from my hands.

“This is the worst thing that ever happened to anyone!�� I cried to the heathen gods I had no faith in. “My teepee! I worked on this for, for, for hours!�� I hugged the rumpled carcass of my teepee.

She smacked my arms. “Drop that teepee, cracker!��

“But I haven’t even colonized,�� I said between sobs, “in, like, months and months!�� I fell to the floor, clutching my teepee close to my chest, barely able to keep from wailing. I settled on a petulant pout and a loud sigh. Her halfhearted blows landed almost firmly on my prone form.

I was saved when an alarm went off. She whipped out her cellular phone.

“Oh, it’s time to influence.�� She removed her traditional garb from the 18th Century to reveal a scanty bikini. I could not ascertain whether this was appropriate to her tribe. It seemed to my eyes to be more Shanwnee. Or was it Pawnee? I have trouble keeping the -nees straight.

She selfied herself saying, “Hi, guys! You should totally buy stock in energon cubes. It’s like the only way to save the environment. Our people used to live in perfect harmony with nature, until the white man showed up, bought us a Coke, and told us to smile like the misogynist he is. From that moment on, we vowed to live only in disharmony with nature until our one true king was returned to us from his heavenly sky-voyage.��

“Is that why you are always watching those UFO documentaries?�� I asked weakly.

“Click like and subscribe. Follow me on Inst-o-Picture. Ring the bell. Push the button. And hold the elevator, because we are going up, up, up, up. Tune in tomorrow for accidental nipslip and more rumors of war.�� She pushed the DONE icon, and the clip was instantly glamorized by an AI into something similar to pink-hued, candied pop-porn.

“This is not our way,�� I whispered, attempting to rise.

She quickly redonned her skins and beat me about the head and neck with a rolled newspaper. It was The Indigenous Times, adding insult to injury.

“Overall,�� said our therapist, poised cautiously on the arm of a nearby recliner, “you two have one of the healthiest relationships I’ve seen in a while, all things considered.��

She ceased with the languid trashing, and I rose, leaving the teepee on the floor, and took my seat beside her on the sofa.

“How did you two meet?�� the therapist asked.

“She was my war bride.��

“Can you expand on that?��

“I was colonizing her people’s land, and I decided to bring her home with me. I gave her her first cellular phone and told her about TakTuk.��

“And you don’t see why she might be resentful of that arrangement?��

“She’s got, like, 450K subscribers,�� I explained.

I looked over at her, but she would not make eye contact.

“Don’t you think,�� she said, “I’d rather be on Indigenous-Space?��

“Is that even a thing?��

“See!�� she threw up her hands. “He doesn’t even understand the basics of my culture.��

The therapist made a note on a pad of yellow paper.\

“He never even learned my language,�� she said.

“Now, that’s not fair,�� I said. “I’m much older, and white brains aren’t made for learning languages.��

“My advice,�� the therapist injected, “is to move to Africa, where you are both foreigners, and start a bed and breakfast.��

“We aren’t paying you for financial advice,�� she said.

“Besides,�� I said, “I’ve already put all my money into a new form of currency. It’s like crypto, but you dig it out of the ground.��

“I can tell when I’m not wanted,�� the therapist said, clutching the notepad, and leaving through the gaping hole in the sitting room wall.

She embraced me tightly.

“Let’s never let anyone come between us again,�� I said.

“Sure, we have our problems, but the world is full of emotional vampires. Of course they would go into fields like therapy and guidance counseling.��

“That’s where they find the weakest minds. But not us. If we put our minds together, we have one perfectly formed whole mind.��

“I’m still not going to let you erect that teepee in the house,�� she said.

“Goddamit!�� I shouted. “You never let me do anything fun!�� I ran around screaming and shitting my pants.

A: I’ve been working on something new.
B: And that affects me how?
A: I just want to read you a little bit of it. It’s really good.
B: What is it?
A: A short story.
B: What’s it about?
A: Blowing the lid off Die Hard.
B: Die Hard, the movie?
A: Yes. I haven’t read the book yet, so it’s based on the movie.
B: Um, okay. I’ve got a few minutes to spare while I finish my coffee. Shoot.
A: *clears throat* “There is something sinister in Die Hard that many people miss. Yes, sure, it’s a classic of the action movie genre, some would argue a Christmas classic. But it is also full of contradictions. Yes, it has great special effects and battle choreography. But let’s talk about the elephant in the room: Hans Gruber.��
B: I’m confused. Is this a story or a review?
A: It’s a story. The narrator is a character, you’ll see. “Hans Gruber is ostensibly a German. The best evidence of this is that he has a German name. He was also a member of a German terrorist group before being kicked out for being too extreme. But here’s the elephant in the room: Hans Gruber’s accent. Most of the time he talks British, but then he also impersonates an American very convincingly, tricking Bruce Willis into thinking he’s an American. But we never hear him talk English with a German accent, which is what most Germans do.��
B: Is there a story here?
A: Be patient. “My Uncle Fritz was also a German. He helped me join the force. I am a police officer just like Bruce Willis. My Uncle Fritz has a German accent when he speaks German, unlike Hans Gruber. This has led me to a radical new theory: Hans Gruber is not a real person at all. He’s a character being played by famous English actor Alan Rickman.��
B: Um, what the hell does this mean? Of course he’s a character being played by Alan Rickman.
A: It’s meta.
B: How is it meta?
A: The narrator lives in the universe where Die Hard takes place. He’s figuring out that it’s all movie.
B: But he literally just said Die Hard was a movie, so it would have to be a movie in whatever universe he’s in, right?
A: It’s double meta.
B: I think you need to think this through a little more.
A: Hold your horses, it’s building up. “I used my police knowledge to track down Alan Rickman and I asked him, ‘Did you play Hans Gruber in Die Hard?�� He said, ‘That question is absurd. We are in the universe that Die Hard took place in.�� But I could tell he was hiding something. ‘You were in Galaxy Quest, weren’t you?�� He said, “Of course I was. Everyone knows I was in that movie. It won twenty-four Academy Awards and several British Globes as well. It is one of the most well-received science fiction franchises in our universe.�� Then I had him. ‘Mr. Rickman, that film also takes place in the universe where Die Hard is set.’��
B: What the hell? How is there even a connection there?
A: Oh, you’ll see in chapter twenty.
B: Also what’s with all these dated references.
A: Dated in what way?
B: In the “specific to era�� meaning of dated, not in the sense of “took out for a romantic meal.��
A: Oh, well what year do you think they think this story is taking place in?
B: Your story?
A: No, our story. This conversation.
B: What year does who think this is taking place in?
A: The readers.
B: Well, I’m going to assume that since there haven’t been any clear indicators of the year, they assume is it more or less present day.
A: Right, and it is present day. This is 2001, two years after the biggest action sci-fi comedy of all time, Galaxy Quest, was released.
B: Well yes, of course I know that.
A: You know that, but perhaps they did not. Now it is clear and that puts my story in context.
B: I’m not clear what additional context was provided.
A: The first Harry Potter film hasn’t been released yet, so that would explain why that’s not the touchstone I’m using to identify Rickman.
B: Good point. I’m almost done my coffee. Any last thoughts?
A: What if my story, in addition to being a Die Hard exposé, was also a prequel to Braveheart?
B: Annnnnd, I’m done my coffee. Back to work.

My latest collection is available now in and ebook versions. Nine stories collected from various chapbooks and anthologies, and three never before published tales of insanity and absurreality. Pick up a copy today, or the fascists win.

My latest novel, God's Mean Older Brother, is available now from Eraserhead Press!

It's full of that religious irreverence that is driving all the kids wild today.

You can snatch a copy .

Some of you may worry you are not big enough M*A*S*H fans to understand , but I assure you that with minimal use of M*A*S*H trivia flashcards, you too can enjoy this meta-adventure.

Let's start with some facts about Colonel Potter, known as Col Pot to his close friends and regime. He's an easy one because he's not in the book.

Member how a little while back I was releasing punk rock zine-style chapbooks of my flash fiction? Well, now we at The Strange Edge are going to be doing a zine-style zine, except it's going to be digital--an EZINE, the kids are calling it. We can mail it to you, or you can download it, or you can scan with your iTron VIe. And it's going to feature INTERVIEWS, ARTICLES (sometimes... maybe), and FLASH FICTION/PROSE POEMS by authors other than myself. It will still center around the postmodern surreal absurdity of The Strange Edge, but in a more impromptu format. It's all about the underground, kids, and this is the way forward. Professional amateurism.

That said, we are open to UNSOLICITED SUBS! TOKEN PAYMENT even. Deadline for the first issue is March 19th, so put on your thinking caps. Seeking mainly flash fiction (under 1500 words) in the vein of -style Trumpet Rock®. Or imagine a Kafka script being performed by Monty Python. Or possibly Mark Leyner trying to channel Gogol. Or how about the literary version of a Remedios Varo painting being read aloud by Eric Andre. Something like that. Either postmodern, surreal, absurd, irreal, or bizarro, and preferably all five. Put some transgressive psychedelia in there maybe. Or ride the slipstream to the weird. Just make sure it's fun.

My Top 25 Films of 2017... I did a blog about it. Wanna read it? Here it be:

This is coming at you this week, from .

A M*A*S*H spoof that veers so far into the realm of the Meta-Verse that you don't even have to know M*A*S*H to enjoy it.

Released just in time for nuclear war with North Korea!

Check it out.