—The following vignette from Fearkiller (Volume 1) happens about two-thirds of the way through the book. It’s late September, 2008. The economy is crashing.

 

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The First Decade of The Third Millennium draws to a close. He is behind his desk. Corner office, fifty stories up. He is the master, of this space. The master. This space.

He loosens his belt, unzips his fly, pulls up his computer’s slideshow program. He has over nine hundred pictures on disk from his recent vacation. Aruba.

Every picture has one commonality: him. A Wall Street Master of The Universe.

Who is about to masturbate to over nine hundred new pictures of himself.

Bow-ch-ch-chi-BOW

Bow-ch-ch-chi-BOW

If people worked less and masturbated to pictures of themselves more, this world would be—

Wait. Why think about that when you can think about yourself? And your Self.

This is Wall Street. Masturbationally masterful.

Fuck the financial carpet being pulled out from under you.

The government will bail you out. Bow-ch-ch-chi-BOW.

The pictures are loading. Afternoon calendar is cleared. The underlings will have to survive.

The, how to put it?—deferred, post-dated—however you put that deal together, whatever you embellished, guess what? This is success.

You wanna fuck with Wall Street? Our motto is “You fuck with us, we’ll hire a kick-ass consulting firm. Then we’ll masturbate to pictures of ourselves.”

Aw yeah.

Now-this-is-HOW-you-Bow-ch-ch-chi-BOW.

The slideshow readies.

Looking for Aruba scenery shots? Buy a coffee table book.

Multi-tasking like a God Among Men. Lubing up, finger-limbering exercises, popping a quick mint.

Some people are better than others.

You soooo bow-ch-ch-chi-BOW.

People don’t know what it’s like to masturbate to pictures of yourself. And your Self.

To those who lost their savings, sorry. But on a more important note:

Spank, monkey, spank.

TARP, bailout, TARP.

Bow-ch-ch-chi—you just learned how to talk dirty to yourself—BOW.

You’ve evolved. Fuck this economy.

You, and every picture of you, are economy-proof.

You slay dragons, navigating funds through the market, finding ways to hide those losses.

This is your boner—bonus, we’re talking about.

You reached that astral plane. Guess what we do up here?

Aw yeah.

Time to squeeze out some questionable sales data.

Aruba.

Spartan warriors look down from the Heavens, wishing they could be you, wishing—

YYESSSS—You. Tailored suit and Spartan warrior helmet. Professionally lit and shot in a studio—masturbating to that, possibly even frame a copy for your secretary—that would bow-ch-ch-chi-SO-BOW.

You, there, on the portside deck, in that fishing chair. That Ultra-Heavy, throbbing pole protruding from between your legs.

No tuna can handle this pole.

And there you are, holding up said tuna you caught with your Ultra-Heavy pole. Oh, yes. Yesss. That tuna must be a female dog. BECAUSE IT IS MOST DEFINITELY YOUR BITCH. Yesss.

Fighter pilot style. Yyesssssssss…

Here you go: a Spartan warrior/fighter pilot/tailored suit outfit.

Pose in some studio wearing that. The checking-the-watch pose…

You’d self-hit that to that. Hell yes you would.

You, jet skiing. So much high-octane power between your legs.

Pause. Lube break—

Play—

The waiter agreed to pose for this next shot. Tipping him a single dollar bill after that $1340 tab, him faking that thankful look on his face. You, staring at the camera like the Master of The Universe that you are. And of course he got his ten percent.

You, posing with those bikini babes from—where were they from—you don’t touch yourself much to this one—wait—good GOD they frame your physique nicely.

Your fish are swimmin’.

You’re thinking Africa next. Oh, the pictorial possibilities. You, with dead animals you paid to kill. Posing with scenery, maybe the land that a company you have interest in is looking to purchase and mine for diamonds. Get a shot of it with you now. Before it is destroyed. Get a before/after shot of yourself with this land.

Masturbating to these two shots, oh that will be the day.

Maybe with some black women. Frame you, in between a couple of them, the skin contrast outlining your body, yesssss.

Plus, you have a set position in the company who produces the lotion you’re lubing Adonis with right now. Not only are you an owner, you’re also a customer.

Back to these pictures. The Aruba pictures.

You, with the view from your hotel balcony, the bay is behind you. If anybody knows how to pose, it’s you, stallion.

You, with that whale jumping out of the water, maybe two hundred feet behind your boat. You have a stake in a Japanese company that hunts whales and processes maybe 50 percent of the body, lets the other rot.

Whales WISH they could masturbate to pictures of themselves.

Here. On the restaurant deck in the bay. That pose, appearing so relaxed. Toasting the camera with that umbrella drink. The seventy-ninth umbrella drink of the day.

She was in this picture too. Wait—the wife??? How did this shot—this is the “Yourself” folder, how did she get in here? This is unconscionable—once you and Adonis are through working your magic, it’s time to fire that secretary.

Take a deep breath.

Oh well, you were tiring of her anyway.

The secretary. Not the wife.

Haven’t had a good firing in a while anyway, rev up the fear, keep the underlings on their toes.

Back to Yourself.

And your Self.

In that tourist shop, trying on funny hats. Why? To show that you don’t take yourself seriously. You try on funny hats.

Good God you are funny when you try on funny hats and pose for the camera and don’t take yourself seriously. Good God.

Adonis is on the prowl. You create wealth.

You have superpowers. Wielding these, manipulating data.

Spank, monkey, spank.

TARP, bailout, TARP.

Spank, monkey, spank.

TARP, bailout, TARP.

——

Fearkiller (Volume 1) is a story about the ambiguous strain of fear that showed up in the world right after Y2K didn’t destroy civilization. “Blurring the lines between the real and the surreal, Maley creates a story full of both fright and hope.” — Kirkus Indie. Like Fearkiller (Volume 1) on Facebook.