(Reader: GK) Cold Blooded Chapter 6


Reader Post | By GK

Chapter 6: Breathe

This story has passages written at all ages. Stuff I wrote in my teens, twenties, thirties, forties, 50’s and 60s. It would be way too simplistic to say my tone took on a dour dire urgency once I had been on the internet for several years reading about the satanic cults that target kids, such black market enterprises as organ harvesting for elite devils who need a fresh young set of kidneys. That is in fact a reality that turns a person’s face white when they realize just how evil the world really is.

When a writer starts an action adventure story when he is 32 years old about two kids, a dog and an alligator, or the illustrated book about two 21 year old lovers fighting each other for the lack of integrity that is betraying their own relationships in 1982, then deciding to to expand both stories into an autobiographical testimony of both darkness and the defiant light of laughter, has to pause and recalculate. 

Like the GPS mapfinder getting its bearings straight in a race with its own mortality, I pretty much spend 80% of my weekly awakened hours in tune with this plan to tell my story. Claim what is rightfully mine and has always been mine.

The clock is ticking for my intentions now. I think I can, I think I can. Train analogies and metaphors are mine since I bounced off an Amtrak train when I was 14. They called me the miracle boy in the hospital. Rightfully so, I will never forget that impact. The realization that “fuck” I was being hit by the engine of an Amtrak. Full sentences of logical awareness followed that thud I made bouncing off the engine. 

My first thought reasoned that I had only taken two strides to my right and that the train was on the other track, that I had run the wrong way and that the width of the train was why I was being hit.

I can rationalize going forward that some of this stories more childlike innocence is a brilliant contrast to the adult themes getting older exposes all of us to. But the readers here need to be respected. We are all adults. I do not want to pose as the artist who took a tale that bordered on something the whole family would enjoy and act as if it was planned fiction. If anything, the story is about to crash head on with harsh realities few know exist.


Even later in this compilation when I tell the story about Janet and I when we are 21 and engaged in fornication in a reckless hedonistic abandonment of morality, that part of the story is almost as childlike as the two kids who think they can seek revenge on an alligator. Or the child that laughed at his mother when she frequently voiced her fears that I could get hit by a train by walking on the tracks. Parents live in fear for good reason.

Janet and I were playing with a loaded gun as we thought we were adult enough to be having constant carnal relations before either one of us considered the consequences of such things as pregnancy and abortion.

Even the idea that I could be trusted with the responsibilities of telemarketing public service announcements for a company that should have instead been facing criminal charges of fraud. The second I became a so-called adult collecting a paycheck I was engaged in questions of morality I was not adult enough to comprehend.

Hell, I began writing a book with cartoons that I had the audacity to think I was adult enough to offer up– as if my sense of humor knew what it was talking about.

Let’s regress even further back when this child was only 13 and his love of Beatle music had him start a band without knowing an instrument and writing lyrics when he had no idea what he wanted to say. I had no idea whether the lyrics were any good but I sensed they were not. One day I parodied my pitiful attempts when the words turned into the following:

Hilda the whore

She gives me more



She’s so damn cute, she’s a prostitute


My sisters laughed because they knew I had realized how horrible my song writing had been. Then I was getting laughs from the neighborhood boys who were even more juvenile than me, and later on–on the playground at school– as I sang it like Elvis might have. Especially trying to make Peggy laugh who asked, “what is a prostitute? A religion?” True story I swear to God.

There is so much wrong with this. I was being validated by laughter when what the hell business did I have joking about prostitution. Again, adult concepts beyond my years like a drunk monkey with a machine gun.

Let’s fast forward to my political blog when I am 42. I was waxing philosophic about the CIA murdering people in third world countries. I knew no more about state sanctioned murder than I did cute prostitutes at 13.

This is why I tried to screech to a halt and reconsider what the hell I was doing with this book. Cringe. It’s like watching a video that someone shot of me drunk at a party. My 60 years of thinking I was being clever is here in this book and I am embarrassed. There are pictures and videotape of me burning much of it up in a campground fire and perhaps I should have realized long ago, it should all be ash in the wind.

Making an ash of one’s self may be the only adult thing I ever accomplish. How can this be a good thing pretending I am a writer of books? I guess I am pleading with myself to stop what I am doing before I regret every word and page. No one would know what a jackass I really am without me telling them in a 700 page book. Why would you confess to how much you secretly hate women? Laugh out loud.

But what if I take it so over the top it can’t be seen as anything but satire? Satire of a world and a lifeform in it who made the mistake of thinking he was clever. That I’m afraid is the only hope for salvation of this endeavor.

The Pee Wee Herman rationalization. “I meant to do that.”


Breathe Sean.

A concept that is quite funny when you consider my 50 years of being an asthmatic is worse than ever. Each day I suck on rescue inhalers knowing my time is seriously limited. And to be questioning my marathon at the finish line, dead last, unable to gasp for air like a fish on land. But I want to matter.

Does it really matter if I matter? Aren’t we all eventually dust to dusk– ashes to ash?


If anyone is interested I think this book will be ready for purchase on the 26th of January.


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