Speaker 1: Cool Zone Media, the Club, the Club, the Club. Hello,
Speaker 1: welcome to Coolzone Media book Club, the only book club.
Speaker 1: Or you don't have to do the reading because I
Speaker 1: do it for you, or should I say welcome back?
Speaker 1: Because today we're going back to doing short stories. I
Speaker 1: know y'all listened very patiently through Dawn of the Frogs,
Speaker 1: and I know you all really like it when Trent
Speaker 1: throw bomb. But don't worry. We've got schemes and dreams
Speaker 1: for more ttprpgs here at cools on Media. But we're
Speaker 1: back to doing short stories on Cool Zone Media book Club.
Speaker 1: And if you knew here or you just don't remember,
Speaker 1: I'm your host, Margaret Kildren, And every week I read
Speaker 1: you a story that I like. Sometimes the stories are chaotic,
Speaker 1: sometimes they're cozy, and usually they made me feel something,
Speaker 1: and occasionally they're bad enough to be funny. But most
Speaker 1: weeks I pick stories that are just fun to read
Speaker 1: and fun to listen to, and I hope that you
Speaker 1: have fun too. And this week we have a fun
Speaker 1: fucking story. This is a romp. It is a who Nanny,
Speaker 1: That's what this story is. Because this week we're reading
Speaker 1: you Macromay Flames, which is a twenty twenty two story
Speaker 1: by the author Eric Roglan. It's from an anthology called
Speaker 1: The Book of Queer Saints, which was edited by May Murray.
Speaker 1: And this story rules because stories about gay people doing
Speaker 1: cult shit rule. But it also rules because of just
Speaker 1: how many rich details there are, like how they all
Speaker 1: use signal the app when they're doing their texting for crime,
Speaker 1: or how they all have knuckle tattoos. And if you
Speaker 1: feel like it, you should listen in for how Eric
Speaker 1: contrasts the familiar and the fantastical in this piece. All right,
Speaker 1: you all ready? Are you ready? For Macromay Flames by
Speaker 1: Eric Roglin. How Thorpe went from being a member of
Speaker 1: the Nightmare Queer's motorcycle gang to a suburbanite with a
Speaker 1: respectable carpentry business is beyond me. When we were committing
Speaker 1: arson once or twice a week, he always threw the
Speaker 1: first Molotov, and boy did his eagerness for destruction win
Speaker 1: my heart. After one arson in Cincinnati, we fled the scene,
Speaker 1: climbed to a nearby rooftop, and went to town on
Speaker 1: each other while the hobby bobby below burned one of
Speaker 1: six hobby bobbies we'd torched that month alone, watching the
Speaker 1: cops scramble to find us and fail only furthered our pleasure.
Speaker 1: They're dumb as shit, Thorpe groaned, is gimly beard buried
Speaker 1: in my ass? Thanks Satan for that. After a couple sweaty,
Speaker 1: sexy hours, we fell asleep on the rooftop reckless, I know,
Speaker 1: but waking up to a sunrise hazy with craft supply
Speaker 1: smoke was magical. Shivering in our leather jackets, we held
Speaker 1: each other and shared a cigarette. Perfect beauty and calm
Speaker 1: enveloped us. I would have loved for the moment to
Speaker 1: last forever, but you rarely get to savor things when
Speaker 1: you're wanted. In seventeen states, before the morning rush hour,
Speaker 1: we were off to the next hobby bobby, not another
Speaker 1: in Ohio. We weren't stupid, but won a few hundred
Speaker 1: miles off the stores growing fewer and farther between. Gang
Speaker 1: leader Ripley greeted our arrival with eyes narrowed and tattooed,
Speaker 1: arms crossed. She gave us shit for spending the night
Speaker 1: so close to the crime scene, but I didn't care,
Speaker 1: and from the way she smirked, it seemed neither did she.
Speaker 1: It was impossible to resent such a goddamn cute couple. Still,
Speaker 1: there were limits to our love. When the gang broke
Speaker 1: up five years back, I refused to settle in the
Speaker 1: suburbs with Thorpe among the golfers, hoa shitheads, and quiverful
Speaker 1: families next door. Loaded with cash from years of robberies
Speaker 1: and inexplicably good financial planning. Thorpe sought stability after his
Speaker 1: homeless teenage years and his on the run twenties. My
Speaker 1: wanderlust hadn't been satisfied, though. I left to bike around
Speaker 1: the country alone, doing odd jobs and keeping a low profile.
Speaker 1: But it wasn't the same without him, Even in the
Speaker 1: company of other men at truck stops and campsites and
Speaker 1: bathhouses and porta potties. I thought of Thorpe constantly. I
Speaker 1: often flipped through pictures I'd taken on the road and
Speaker 1: imagined he was in them, standing among yellowstone bison with
Speaker 1: casual fearlessness, slamming back rotgut shots in a San Francisco
Speaker 1: gay bar, and gazing at the stars through a tense
Speaker 1: mesh roof the two of us together, inseparable. It was
Speaker 1: only after the gang realized or satanic work wasn't done that.
Speaker 1: I saw him again, like a heist movie. He came
Speaker 1: out of retirement for one last job. Maybe because he
Speaker 1: remembered what made us so good together, or maybe because
Speaker 1: Suburbia bored him. Guess I'll never know. I missed my
Speaker 1: chance to ask. Ripley's prophecy promised literal hell on earth
Speaker 1: after we burned down six hundred and sixty six hobby bobbies,
Speaker 1: but somehow we fucked up the count. It's true what
Speaker 1: they say about queers in math. Ripley's partner Xena miscounted,
Speaker 1: so we thought our work was done, which meant hell
Speaker 1: didn't come to Earth, causing Ripley's prophecy to lose credibility
Speaker 1: and the gang to split up. Kind of funny in retrospect.
Speaker 1: I stayed gang loyal longer than Thorpe and most of
Speaker 1: the others, but at some point it got awkward. It
Speaker 1: was only Ripley and Zena plus me third wheeling it,
Speaker 1: and you know how a biker feels about anything with
Speaker 1: more than two wheels. I bounced thing is Zena did
Speaker 1: an Arson recount five years later? Why you're wondering for
Speaker 1: her goddamn scrapbook? Every Hobby Bobby Arson news Clipping got
Speaker 1: its own page, and when she glued the final article
Speaker 1: the page six hundred and sixty five, she must have thought, huh,
Speaker 1: I'd done fucked up. Sure did Warrior Prince. After that,
Speaker 1: Ripley informed the gang of the situation through an encryptied
Speaker 1: group text, though there were fewer of us now. Knox
Speaker 1: had died in a knife fight with some sturgist Nazis,
Speaker 1: Kimp had died in a knife fight with herself, and
Speaker 1: Dozer had fucked off to DJ at a queer nightclub
Speaker 1: in Berlin. Those who remained, minus a stubbornly silent Thorpe,
Speaker 1: hopped on a video conference call like real corporate ghouls,
Speaker 1: but instead of suits and ties, we each had faced
Speaker 1: hats and septum piercings and crooked scheming smiles. We shot
Speaker 1: the shit and plotted for hours. I left the call
Speaker 1: fucking buzzing, thinking if everything went smoothly, how really would
Speaker 1: come to earth? It be a twenty four to seven
Speaker 1: paradise for queers and anarchists and the best sorts of criminals.
Speaker 1: Hobby Bobby still hadn't recovered from the nightmare Queer's campaign
Speaker 1: of terror, but they dared to open one new location
Speaker 1: in Omaha, Nebraska. The corporation had waited a good three
Speaker 1: years after our spree ended to build it, and there
Speaker 1: it had stood ever since, with a store sign glowing
Speaker 1: orange like a beacon for crafty evangelist assholes. Ripley and
Speaker 1: Zena scouted the place ahead of time. There was a
Speaker 1: security camera at the store's southeast corner and a blind
Speaker 1: spot on the northeast side of the parking lot. We'd
Speaker 1: taken on much harder jobs, so this one should have
Speaker 1: been cake, right, And you know what else is a
Speaker 1: piece of cake to you know who else glows orange
Speaker 1: with craft supplies and prophecy destruction. Not any of our sponsors,
Speaker 1: that's for sure. Nope, they are completely without the orange
Speaker 1: glow of prophecy destruction. That's our promise here at cool
Speaker 1: Zone Media. Here's our sponsors, and we're back. The morning
Speaker 1: before our final arson, after too many unreturned voicemails, I
Speaker 1: drove to Thorpe's suburban hellscape to plead my case. His
Speaker 1: lawn was perfect, and by perfect, I mean perfectly fucking boring,
Speaker 1: mowed and watered and monoculture as hell. A wooden welcome
Speaker 1: sign hung from the door. It looked like one you'd
Speaker 1: find it at Hobby Bobby, But as I found out
Speaker 1: later that day, he'd made it himself. Arsonist, ass eater
Speaker 1: and carpenter. Thorpe was a triple threat. When I knocked,
Speaker 1: he answered with a shaved face and his shirt tucked
Speaker 1: into his pants. The shirt thing threw me off. What
Speaker 1: kind of person tucked their shirt in while lazing around
Speaker 1: at home didn't seem like the Thorpe I'd known. Still,
Speaker 1: he was willing to hear me out on this one
Speaker 1: last job, and I was willing to open my heart
Speaker 1: again carefully, like opening a door during a hailstorm. How
Speaker 1: do you feel about fucking up one last craft store?
Speaker 1: I asked, going in for a kiss, Thorpe lurched back
Speaker 1: and whispered, not so loud. Come on. Whether he was
Speaker 1: afraid of getting busted for criminal activity or getting outed
Speaker 1: as a homo in Trump Country, I couldn't tell, but
Speaker 1: I followed him inside. He shut the door, then gave
Speaker 1: me a quick peck on the corner of my mouth,
Speaker 1: a totally unromantic reunion kiss. But it had also been
Speaker 1: five fucking years of radio silence, so who could blame him.
Speaker 1: Thorpe had a black pleath sectional couch without a single
Speaker 1: cracked cushion, a big ass TV covering half the wall,
Speaker 1: and a spinning rack of home improvement magazines. Nice house,
Speaker 1: I said, through a grimace, Please say you've got an
Speaker 1: altar room somewhere, a little satan in the suburbs. I
Speaker 1: don't worship much of anything these days, Thorpe said, scratching
Speaker 1: his shaved neck. Not even a shadow of stubble remained.
Speaker 1: Maybe that'll change tonight. I said, We've got the count
Speaker 1: right this time, so big things could happen. Thorpe nodded
Speaker 1: and gave a polite Midwestern smile, but I didn't make
Speaker 1: eye contact. Silence took cold, filled by the soft hum
Speaker 1: of air conditioning. Not even a window unit. This was
Speaker 1: bouge ass central cooling. Listen, I know this is awkward
Speaker 1: and you don't really want to deal with gang shit anymore,
Speaker 1: but I cleared my throat. Do you at least want
Speaker 1: to have sex for old time's sake? Sure? He said
Speaker 1: that would be nice. A good cum broke the ice.
Speaker 1: Thorpe and I laid in his temper pedic bed. Could
Speaker 1: have gotten used to that bed holy shit. Cuddling naked
Speaker 1: and drinking whiskey and catching up on a half a
Speaker 1: decade of long He braided my hair just like he
Speaker 1: used to, which made me cry a few boozy tears.
Speaker 1: When I stopped crying, it was his turn. I hate
Speaker 1: myself most of the time, he sniffled. I needed safety
Speaker 1: and security, and I sold out for it. This life's comfortable,
Speaker 1: and it's nice, and it's so goddamn boring. The neighborhood
Speaker 1: dads invited me to join an Eagles cover band, the
Speaker 1: Eagles for Satan's sake, Satan, you say? He smiled, then
Speaker 1: kissed me. It was wet and tonguey and way fucking
Speaker 1: hotter than are kiss At the door, pulling away, he asked,
Speaker 1: do you hate me? I almost laughed at the audacity
Speaker 1: of that question. Thorpe. You have to understand, I said,
Speaker 1: two years back, I biked through this town that had
Speaker 1: a custom body pillow shop, no lie, and I seriously
Speaker 1: fucking considered getting one printed with a picture of you.
Speaker 1: I was pathetic and lonely and totally head over heels
Speaker 1: for this bitch right in in front of me. So no,
Speaker 1: I can never hate you. Thorpe smiled, lasted only a
Speaker 1: moment before he sobbed into my armpit and whispered thank you,
Speaker 1: I love you, over and over and over. I cradled
Speaker 1: his head and inhaled him. He was already starting to
Speaker 1: smell more like the man I remembered. Maybe there'd be
Speaker 1: a future for us after all. I wondered if I
Speaker 1: could persuade him to burn down this house but not
Speaker 1: the bed, and collect the insurance money, we'd ride off
Speaker 1: together and enjoy a lifelong road trip through hell on Earth.
Speaker 1: But I was getting ahead of myself. I'd wait to
Speaker 1: ask until after the hobby Bobby burned. Thorpe and I
Speaker 1: pulled into Omaha late, just like the old times. He
Speaker 1: hadn't ridden as Kawasaki in ages, so we had to
Speaker 1: do some last minute maintenance. I felt like a dad
Speaker 1: yelling at his son to hurry up and get dressed
Speaker 1: for church. Your mom's already in the goddamn car, still
Speaker 1: with a little extra speed on the interstate, and void.
Speaker 1: Did that feel good? We arrived just ten minutes past midnight.
Speaker 1: Seven other Nightmare queers were already there, quietly chatting and
Speaker 1: smoking under an awning. They waved at us and whisper,
Speaker 1: shouted and enthusiastic greeting. Standing aways off, Ripley glared when
Speaker 1: we pulled into the dark corner of the parking lot,
Speaker 1: but she grinned at the sight of Thorpe's shaved face.
Speaker 1: I've seen twinks become bears, but never the other way around,
Speaker 1: she said, hugging him tight. Good to have you back.
Speaker 1: Glad to be back, Thorpe said, but his voice trembled.
Speaker 1: Maybe he'd been a suburbanite for so long that returning
Speaker 1: to crime scared him. Light years distant as he was
Speaker 1: from his roots and values. I nudged his ribs and whispered,
Speaker 1: It's going to be great. He gave a brief, lippy smile.
Speaker 1: Before I could give further reassurance, Ripley pushed a Molotov
Speaker 1: into my hands. Still got a good throwing arm, she asked.
Speaker 1: Hard to miss a fifty thousand square foot building, I said.
Speaker 1: Thorpe snorted and looked down. He kicked over someone's discarded
Speaker 1: monster energy can and washed its remnants pool at his feet.
Speaker 1: Ripley approached him with a second molotov. You spilled my drink,
Speaker 1: she said. Thorpe's head snapped up and his eyes went wide.
Speaker 1: Fucking with you, man, I don't drink that shit, Ripley said.
Speaker 1: She rested a hand on Thorpe's leather jacket, which he
Speaker 1: probably hadn't worn in years. You okay, Thorpe nodded. Yeah,
Speaker 1: I really missed everyone. Things haven't been easy, and I'm
Speaker 1: sorry I haven't been around. I really should have no
Speaker 1: reason to apologize. The past is the past and the
Speaker 1: future is hell on earth. Let's torch this craft store
Speaker 1: and grab a fucking beer, just like you can torch
Speaker 1: a U log. There we go. That's one thing I
Speaker 1: can say. You can torch on air. Go torch a
Speaker 1: yule log and grab yourself a fucking beer. You filed
Speaker 1: the animal unrelated anything at all. Here's ads and we're back.
Speaker 1: Thorpe puffed his cheeks out, then hopped up and down
Speaker 1: like an antsy gay football player on the sidelines. Ripley's
Speaker 1: pep talk reminded me of why we'd followed her for
Speaker 1: so many years, and I was grateful she could inspire
Speaker 1: Thorpe in ways I couldn't. Ripley called to the others,
Speaker 1: finish your smokes and come here. Don't want cops arriving
Speaker 1: before we get this party started. Everyone walked over, hugged
Speaker 1: me in. Thorpe then huddled around Ripley. The gang looked
Speaker 1: different after five years away. Zena had gray hair, Murk
Speaker 1: had daddy knuckle pats, and Corsica had a half sagging
Speaker 1: face from her stroke. Despite the changes, it still felt
Speaker 1: like old times. I couldn't stop smiling. After the building burns,
Speaker 1: the ground will start shaking. Don't panic, Ripley said, that's
Speaker 1: supposed to happen. It means he's coming. Hail Satan, Zena said.
Speaker 1: Everyone repeated after her, even Thorpe. I grinned, as if
Speaker 1: I were witnessing his satanic confirmation. Thorpe could still get
Speaker 1: right with the dark Lord. Ripley pushed a Molotov into
Speaker 1: Thorpe's hands. Will you do the honors? She said, But
Speaker 1: it wasn't really a question. Thorpe throwing first was all
Speaker 1: part of the ritual. He was our good luck charm,
Speaker 1: the reason the cops never caught us. At least that's
Speaker 1: what Ripley told us. Thorpe nodded, half smiled, and blushed.
Speaker 1: He cleared his throat. Does someone have a lighter, he asked?
Speaker 1: I know I should have brought one, but I quit smoking,
Speaker 1: and oh, good for you, man, Ripley said, then handed
Speaker 1: him a bit that looked like it had been a
Speaker 1: dog's chew toy. Blinking quickly, Thorpe mumbled a thank you
Speaker 1: before lighting the cloth. That's when the red and blue
Speaker 1: lights of two cop cars lit up the parking lot
Speaker 1: like a fascist disco. Thorpe jumped at the sirens, whoop
Speaker 1: and dropped the lit molotov. It shattered at his feet
Speaker 1: and flames consumed him head to toe. I smelled the
Speaker 1: musk of burning leather, the sharpness of melting hair. Thorpe's
Speaker 1: high pitched scream pierced the night. Everyone else's screams followed
Speaker 1: shit roll Thorpe roll, I said, it felt ridiculous coming
Speaker 1: out of my mouth, but what else was there to say?
Speaker 1: A cop barked through a crackling megaphone. All of you
Speaker 1: hands where I could see them, more flamed than man.
Speaker 1: Thorpe made a shrieking sprint toward the hobby Bobby and
Speaker 1: drove head first through the door. The pain shattered, and
Speaker 1: there he lay motionless. Somewhere behind me, Ripley whipped out
Speaker 1: her gun and fired at the cops. I was frozen
Speaker 1: with horror, Knowing Thorpe and I would never bite a
Speaker 1: desert highway, get pissed, drunk and whisper suite. Everything's under
Speaker 1: the blanket of glittering constellations. We'd never raise a toast
Speaker 1: to the King of Hell, never party with winged imps
Speaker 1: and black latex suits, never see the fruits of our
Speaker 1: satanic labors. More shots, and not the celebratory kind. I
Speaker 1: was out in the fucking open, the rest of the
Speaker 1: gang ducking behind their bikes and pulling out their pieces.
Speaker 1: I could only tilt my head towards Thorpe, lifeless and
Speaker 1: flaming in the hobby Bobby entrance, his body the accelerant
Speaker 1: and one final beautiful act of arsen Something was different
Speaker 1: about this fire. It spread through the store and possibly fast,
Speaker 1: Thorpe's accidental sacrifice, channeling satanic magic and feeding the flames hunger.
Speaker 1: Firefighters would never put this one out. A dozen deafening shots,
Speaker 1: bullets pinged off the cop cars and bikes. A cop
Speaker 1: yelled at me to get the fuck down, then pulled
Speaker 1: the trigger not a second later. I was lucky he
Speaker 1: had shit aim, because I was still paralyzed watching Thorpe
Speaker 1: turned to ash. Fifty feet away, another cruiser pulled into
Speaker 1: the lot with lights spinning. Ripley screamed, fuck, fuck, fuck,
Speaker 1: and emptied the rest of her clip toward the back
Speaker 1: of but the red and blue lights paled in comparison
Speaker 1: to the Hobby Bobby, shining bright as the morning Star.
Speaker 1: A bullet clipped my ear, and I only realized it
Speaker 1: when hot blood tickled my cheek. Everything was ringing, more
Speaker 1: shots than a gut wrenching scream from Ripley. I couldn't
Speaker 1: see her, but I knew she'd been hit. Xena shouted
Speaker 1: to Ripley, her panic shredded voice, repeatedly promising everything would
Speaker 1: be okay, And then the earth shook with ecstatic violence.
Speaker 1: All gunfire stopped. I fell to the ground, which would
Speaker 1: have made that fucking cop happy, had he not been
Speaker 1: worried about the cracking concrete beneath him. Now he and
Speaker 1: his boys were screaming, and Ripley was laughing, and I
Speaker 1: was crying, and Thorpe was burning and dying and rebirthing
Speaker 1: the world. Flames spouted not from the Hobby Bobby, but
Speaker 1: from the splitting concrete. A screaming cop straddled the scorching crack,
Speaker 1: but the gap widened and the flames licked the hair
Speaker 1: off his balls. He fell into the engines of Hell,
Speaker 1: fuel for Satan's chariot. His car followed, then another car,
Speaker 1: pulling the second cop down with its open driver's side door.
Speaker 1: When the last cop tried running bless his cold, wife
Speaker 1: beating heart, a blackened claw thick as a redwood reached
Speaker 1: up from the quaking crack and gripped his ankle. One
Speaker 1: tug and he was gone. Soul not claimed, but rather
Speaker 1: immolated out of existence. Hell didn't want him, I'm sure
Speaker 1: of that. When the claw extended back into the burning night,
Speaker 1: it stretched endlessly, towering over the hobby Bobby, the city,
Speaker 1: the world, Glowing magma hissed through its veins, and shards
Speaker 1: of volcanic glass fell from its fingers, clinking to the ground. Ever,
Speaker 1: the dumbass I didn't register what the beast was at first,
Speaker 1: but I just lost my lover and my one good
Speaker 1: ear so cut me some fucking slack. Ripley, on the
Speaker 1: other hand, giggled and rejoiced through labored breath. Hail, Satan,
Speaker 1: come at last. My attentions strayed to the hobby Bobby entrance,
Speaker 1: where not even one of Thorpe's briny balls remained. At
Speaker 1: least his death meant something. I sobbed and screamed and
Speaker 1: thanked him and praised Satan and yearned to fill the
Speaker 1: emptiness inside me. I'd never get to know this reborn
Speaker 1: world with the man I loved, the man who'd made
Speaker 1: it possible. Crete splintered as the colossal beast's head surfaced,
Speaker 1: leaving half the parking lot a sinkhole to hell, Smoke
Speaker 1: rising from his horns. It turned toward me. That's when
Speaker 1: I'd realized I'd given up hope too soon. Meeting my
Speaker 1: gaze from a mile above, the beast grinned with stalactite
Speaker 1: fangs hanging over a gimly beard, the beard I'd long
Speaker 1: to feel against my face for so long. A great
Speaker 1: warmth filled me. Love and hell would rain together for
Speaker 1: eternity the and I really like this story. Sorry, I
Speaker 1: know I always say that I don't know. It's just fun.
Speaker 1: Like I don't believe in any of this shit. It's
Speaker 1: a terrible theology. Don't go do this, but like whatever,
Speaker 1: like this idea of wanting to see it all burn
Speaker 1: and then picking this like way of doing it and
Speaker 1: this way of doing it. There's that great new podcast
Speaker 1: about the Satanic Panic that just came out from Sarah Marshall.
Speaker 1: But like, I read a lot about the Satanic Panic
Speaker 1: and like these things that people accuse us all of doing,
Speaker 1: and so sometimes it's nice to just like revel in
Speaker 1: that and be like, no, no, no, that's the plan,
Speaker 1: that's totally what we're doing. Yeah, Hazel, who helps me
Speaker 1: pick out the stories? They say? I read through a
Speaker 1: lot of stories for this show, but as soon as
Speaker 1: I read the first line of this one, I knew
Speaker 1: I wanted to try to get it. A good first
Speaker 1: line should set up with the main action in the
Speaker 1: story will be, and this line does it so masterfully.
Speaker 1: How Thorpe went from being a member of the Nightmare
Speaker 1: Queer's motorcycle gang to a suburbanite with a respectful carpentry
Speaker 1: business is beyond me. It gets us a named main character.
Speaker 1: The two worlds will be torn between for the story,
Speaker 1: the gang and the suburbs, and the hint that will
Speaker 1: be coming out of retirement and one hell of a concept.
Speaker 1: So yeah, I hope you enjoy the story too. Eric Raglan,
Speaker 1: the author. He him, I'm going to read his bio
Speaker 1: to you. Eric Raglin is a horror weird fiction writer.
Speaker 1: His short story collections include Nightmare, Yearnings and Extinction Hymns.
Speaker 1: He owns Cursed Morsels Press, which focuses on short horror
Speaker 1: and weird fiction with an anti capitalist, anti fascist, pro
Speaker 1: queer spirit. He has also edited The Writhing Verdant End
Speaker 1: and No Trouble at All, co edited with Alexis Dubon
Speaker 1: and Bitter Apples and Shredded, a sports and fitness body
Speaker 1: horror anthology, and Antifa splatterpunk. You can find him on
Speaker 1: Blue Sky or Instagram at Eric Rogland nineteen ninety two
Speaker 1: which is e. Eric R. A. G l I n.
Speaker 1: Nineteen ninety two and I'm Margaret Kiljoy and you can
Speaker 1: find me wherever you want. My latest book is called
Speaker 1: The Immortal Choir Holds Every Voice. It has kind of
Speaker 1: pretty similar themes to this, And everyone who backed out
Speaker 1: on Kickstarter is about to get a digital copy of
Speaker 1: a companion story for the dayl Okaine series called and
Speaker 1: the Clean Bone's Gone that's coming out from Strangers in
Speaker 1: a Tangled Wilderness. It might actually be out to the
Speaker 1: Kickstarter backers by the time you hear this. But if
Speaker 1: you want a zine of it mailed to your very door,
Speaker 1: you can back our publishers Strangers in a Tangled Wilderness
Speaker 1: at patreon dot com sus Strangers and Entangled Wilderness, and
Speaker 1: anyone who backses to ten dollars a more a month
Speaker 1: gets a zine every month in the mail, and our
Speaker 1: January mailers are the biggest mailing of the year where
Speaker 1: we make like bigger zines and stuff and send them
Speaker 1: out as well as like a poster that's also our
Speaker 1: catalog and all this shit. But importantly, the print zine
Speaker 1: version of and the Clean Bone's Gone, which you can
Speaker 1: absolutely read standalone. If you want really similar themes is
Speaker 1: this and the Clean Bone's Gone. Yeah, you can get
Speaker 1: it if you back us before December thirty first this
Speaker 1: year twenty twenty five, you'll get a copy of that
Speaker 1: in the mail, but I don't know, you can also
Speaker 1: just back it anyway and you'll get a zine once
Speaker 1: a month. And then if you really want for something
Speaker 1: that's completely unrelated to Hobby Bobby, which is of course
Speaker 1: the entirely fictitious thing that is referenced in this episode,
Speaker 1: you can also go and listen to Behind the Bastards
Speaker 1: episodes from twenty twenty how hobby lobby funded terrorism and
Speaker 1: try to destroy democracy. For just something completely unrelated, I
Speaker 1: just wanted to shout out another cool Zone Media podcast,
Speaker 1: Behind the Bastards. Maybe you've heard of it. Anyway, talk
Speaker 1: to y'all next week. It could happen here as a
Speaker 1: production of cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from cool
Speaker 1: Zone Media, visit our website coolzonemedia dot com, or check
Speaker 1: us out on the Iheard Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or
Speaker 1: wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for
Speaker 1: It could Happen Here, updated monthly at coolzonemedia dot com
Speaker 1: slash sources. Thanks for listening,