It was a low-budget gory, horror film. A serial rapist kidnaps, tortures and rapes the young women of a popular sorority at colleges across the country. He quickly spirals into a serial killer, bludgeoning the faces of each woman till their skulls crush their brains.

My character is a budding detective who pledged the sorority under attack some years ago. Although each college attempted to keep their tragedy under wraps, the members were talking on the national internet chat board.

And I, Detective Marcy Hughes, was listening.

On this paticular day, we were filming the culminating scene of the movie. The crew was exhausted after six weeks of 16 to 18 hour days. And my diva costar was also a dick and everybody was looking forward to his demise. Today was his last day on set although we still had a few days left to shoot. We couldn't wait for him to die.

In the scene, Marcy had figured out where the killer was going to strike next. She went undercover as a pledge of the sorority house. She was ready for him to make his move. The cameras were rolling. I was on my mark, gun in hand, waiting for the door to open. The camera was focused on the door.

"Action!" the director yelled.

The door opened. Before I could deliver my line and pull the trigger, he fell over, face first. I'm embarrassed to say my first thought was, that's going to make some plastic surgeon happy.

"Cut!" the assistant director yelled.

The props guy ran on set. "It wasn't the gun. I triple checked it. You all saw."

"It wasn't me. I didn't even pull the trigger yet," I said.

"Stop being a douche, Jack."

But, as it turns out, he wasn't acting.

A knife was embedded in his back.

A production assistant screamed. Someone else said "Get the set medic!"

Yeah, well, no medic needed. He bled out before the ambulance arrived.

The case hasn't been solved yet. There still aren't any suspects. Or too many, maybe. We all hated him. But, not enough to kill him.

Duh. One person hated him enough to kill him.

Jack would have loved this though: They actually kept all the footage in the final cut. They dedicated the film to him (to appease his estate) and rewrote the ending a bit (since clearly Marcy didn't shoot him).

Audiences flocked to the theaters to see Jack the Mack die on camera. It was the blockbuster of the year despite being a B-movie. Once it hit the streaming services, it really blew up. Jack would be in heaven.

Well, you know what I mean.

What happened was they got cocky. When things are too easy, arrogance ensues.

There was no sneaking anymore. No hurrying. They simply knocked and waited, like Trick-or-Treat.

They knocked on doors, was all. And somehow an opening always came, even in this “Paranoia Age” of security cameras and Ring doorbells.

When the door opened they entered. That was it. Any little opening allowed the pair to push their ways in, where they nearly always found themselves incensed at the fear and submission exuded by the pantywaists they encountered inside. Imagine someone so craven they would not fight for their own lives? So it was that what went on once they were inside was always ugly, because this pair went in so hard and mean. Those who pleaded with the twins for mercy only made their horrors last longer.

It is what happens to bullies when there is no fear; no fear of retaliation, no fear of incarceration, no fear of repudiation. With no fear at all left in them they came in strong, as sons of bitches will, until this one time when their previously successful modus operandi proved a colossal miscalculation.

They came into this house bold and hard, just as they had always done, punching, kicking, and biting.

Yet coming in hard and blind creates it’s own risks, doesn’t it? Attacking with purely aggressive tactics can be it’s own trap. Assuming success might lead to trouble, mightn’t it? It certainly has in the past, so let’s not pretend that we don’t know what assuming does.

Three quick shots was all, followed a good minute later by a fourth, “POW, POW, POW…

POW!” This was not at an occasion of sprayed bullets and wasted ammo. Each shot went just where it was intended to go. The ballsy, but unfortunate pair had happened upon that atypical homeowner who ain’t scared of shit. The cops, when they finally showed, called it a clear case of criminal trespass. This pair were notorious, deleterious, nefarious after all. Robbery, rape and murder had followed the progression of their lives.

Comically, the homeowner was wearing a too small pair of tidy-whities when they arrived and nothing else, his naked beer-belly sagging grotesquely over the underwear’s waistband. Our hero sipped a Coors Light, his bath-robed wife nibbled on microwave popcorn (she always ate when she was nervous, she told them) as he acted out with a running narrative for them telling exactly what had happened. The cops could hardly maintain their professionalism as they interviewed this unlikely shooter. Wasting no time they wrote up their report, shook his hand, and headed back to the station to tell the boys about the final minutes of the pair the precinct had dubbed, “The Bopsy Twins.“ And why not? Two were gone that would not end up back on the streets to be dealt with later.

They only wished more of the city’s S.O.B.s would try that crazy old dude‘s house.

1.) Be attractive.

2.)Learn only one song, preferably Wonder Wall.

3.) Bring your guitar everywhere. This includes but is not limited to bonfires, house parties, baby christenings, etc... but under no circumstances, ask permission to play. A guitarist performs no matter how the audience feels.

4.) Always bring it up in conversation that you play guitar, like a person who brags they go to Yale or Julliard.

5.) Live off your parents or a significant other, because you are pursuing your music career and cannot work another job.

5.) Have your whole persona be guitar related. Your room should be covered in guitar paraphernalia, specifically that one poster that has guitar chords on it.

6.) Wear a guitar pick on your person, this will show that you play guitar to the world.

7.) Dress like a hipster.

8.) Exclusively hang out in local coffee shops.

9.) Preform at open mic nights and think you will get your big break.

10.) Think you're hot shit.

And that friends, is how to be a guitarist!

Proser’s have their own holiday set aside.

Tell your friends.

Some of you may have missed this last year, while others see this for the first time. I created this a year ago today as my way of saying we are all in this together regardless of any differences we may have. We all need “our day” to single us out for what we do. Hence, I bring this back as our reminder.

Just hit this link: prosersunited.mailchimpsites.com then click where you see Proser’s United and read. It won’t take long, and you won’t have to give it a like or repost from there. And if you care to, save it to your favorites to come back to now and then.

And if you ever need to be reminded of what you do, go back, and read it again and again and again. Believe in what you do and believe in who you are.

It’s as simple as that.

Whiskey can stop a cowboy,

and age a dog.

Candy can stop a baby,

While water will quench a fire.

Science may (dubiously) stop a pandemic,

and a Bible a bullet.

But if you think it’s the space between that holds back a tiger…

Well then, remove the bars and let’s see.

(Hang on though. I’ll watch from over yonder)

Nudity is natural,

At one point it was a work of art,

Unfortunately, things have changed,

It's been turned into a business,

One that comes at the expense of men,

Addicted, lusting over people they have never met,

OnlyFans, a platform for sex workers,

Who don't get paid as much as they think they will,

It's a destructive habit, lusting for hours,

Touching yourself, violating your soul,

Letting evil have a corridor in your mind,

It seems harmless but it has ruined many lives,

It's not worth it,

Masturbating isn't abstinence,

Also, it can ruin your libido,

The friction can mess you up to the point where you struggle,

Don't let shiny black leather, and sexy illusions,

Steal your time, or turn you into an impotent mess,

Turn it off,

You are a higher being, don't let yourself become a slave,

To the flesh.

There need not be no relation,

Love is more than genetics.

A child is a gift,

Given to us in different ways.

Like a white feather falling from the sky,

In each of our lives a soul to protect, we are assigned.

A child who may look entirely different from you,

Yet love has no race or color, it's you they choose.

To love a child you didn't birth,

That's selfless and beautiful.

When they grow up more and learn the truth,

You can tell them, and know that they will still love you,

Every judgement that strangers made,

Gets erased when you hear your child laugh.

For every mistake you think you have made,

When they are good to others, that self-loathing fades.

The day they become adults, kind and respectable one's,

Then you'll know, you did your best for them.

Choosing children who's parents don't want them,

But most of the time it is the adoptive parents who are chosen

They are saved too, not just the children.