A Desperate Act of Brevity

Or, Chronic Procrastination

As the sunlit sanity of the waking world burns the night to ash,
embrace the unbound madness of your wildest dreams,
laugh into the endless abyss of your darkest fantasies,
and rage against the coming dawn.

PulpBusters is a presentation of bone-chilling buffoonery, nerve-wracking silliness, and twisted nitwittery by “Amoral Crackpot” Steve Arviso.


STEVE: The most utterly depressing thought I can manage at the moment is... in knowing all this suffering is, quite literally, pointless. All of it. The death toll, the mask debate, social media influencers - all pointless tragedies of equal measure, sure.

And all in the face of certain death. And following that, likely cosmic heat death.

Bit of a hat-on-hat, if you ask me.

I mean, how much deader can it get?

Makes you question the whole divine plan thing. Just a little.

What's divine about anyone who can't sort out a decent ending to their work, huh? That's just sloppy craftsmanship. No love or passion at all. It's lazy.

And you can't blame humanity for having to fill in all the blanks. We're curious things.

I suppose that's why we always have to touch the fire or attempt a morally, ethically, and politically unfounded coup before you realize you've made a big oopsie. Or watch someone else try first. See how it goes.

"Oh, fascist coup? Yeah. Turns out it burns something nasty. Not too bad though - leaves you a bit raw for a day or two. Unless you record it like some flaccid halfwit."

Anyway. I finally got around to watching IT: Chapter Two. I think it disappointed me some.

Bill Hader's a dream, though.

She plucked a man from the flow, and set him down along a path.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied.

He looked down the path, then back to her. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Maybe this was a bad idea."


STEVE: There was this one woman. She was a sweetheart, with hair, arms, two-eyes, some of her teeth, and mostly all the other giblets and suchhaveyou.

We didn't have long together, just a few sciatic-pinching minutes of sloppy, lustless, wholly shameful sexual innuendo-ing.

The next morning, I found myself waking up in a ditch along the northbound lane of Pacific Coast Highway.

Still the best parent-teacher conference I've ever accidentally attended.


There upon my head,
a little spider spun its little web.
Its sisters nibbled at my toes,
their brothers crawled in my ears.
And with my last breath, the rest came out my nose.


STEVE: Y'ever wonder about the first person to die only for some asshole to come along, look down - or maybe up, I don't know - I wasn't there - but they look at what's left of the poor bastard, shake their head, (HALF-HEARTED) "Shame," ("NORMAL" VOICE) and then continue on with their day as if they hadn't seen a dead body?

I wonder what they must've seen.

Not the dead guy, though I am curious about what he saw too. And I'm sure I'll see something similar soon enough.

But what about the other guy? What did he see?

Was the corpse still warm?

How many pieces were there, and did they find it all before the bear made off with it?

Did it happen in front of them? Or maybe they came in mid-scene - no context, just a corpse in a cave with too many pine cones up his ass.


He sits there in the dark,
he watches me sleep.
No eyes, no hair,
only a broken smile full of broken teeth.



The chill of night brings with it a still darkness, brings with it an alluring promise of peace. Till the light of day warms your cold bones,may your eyes never rest,and may those little slices of death never come.

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Steve Arviso