The Diary of Dan Schanck

By Bub
If you are reading this, I probably am dead. I have shuttered the windows, locked the doors, and spun every dream-catcher in this house. The Hour is upon us. Well, upon me. They have been gathering outside for what seems like ages and what have at least been minutes. I hear their demonic chattering – they hiss, nearly unintelligibly, back and forth at each other verdicts of my condemnation, I assume. I have dreamed of this day. Only, in my dreams my Harley Davidson t-shirt with the wolves and the moon had been clean the morning of and I wore it to give me the strength to meet my fate. Alas, I am forced to wear my ‘Religions of the World’ t-shirt that works the phrase ‘shit happens’ into philosophical outlooks of the world’s major religions i.e. ‘Hinduism – Shit happens, then you come back’. Not so reassuring, Gandhi-Ji. I am sweating. My heart is racing. My hand is so unsteady that I cannot play the vinyl of 2112 by Rush to ward off the evil spirits. It’s a lost cause. I have to die in terror to the sound of the episode of ‘I’m a Celebrity get me out of Here!’ that I Tivo-ed. If you were a celebrity then why would you let me die so horrifically? Get Me out of here! That didn’t make sense. At least it’s not Craig Ferguson…


The doorbell rings. Are these imps polite? No. They are prying into the very depths of my psyche with their razor-like appendages made of the sound waves emitted from my doorbell, in order to process my sense of security into a green, icy goo, like so many margaritas. Mission accomplished. I am quivering now, worse than at the end of The Notebook. My skin feels like it is peeling itself off in order to avoid the Hell that is to come. ‘Knock, knock!’

I am beginning to have my doubts about the sincerity of these Mephistopholi. If I were going to torture and murder a fellow, I’d at least have the sense to authoritatively kick in the door upon the first unanswered door-bell ring. But I am not, and they are, and I am about to be murdered and they will finish their day by watching all the Craig Ferguson episodes on my Tivo and then masturbating on my Martin (the T.V. show) t-shirt and throwing it in the dumpster to hide their shame. As for me, they will spare no mercy toward. I could only wish for a slight semen drizzle and a leisurely romp in a garbage dumpster. These Hosts-of-that-HBO-show-with-the-Crypt-Keepers (ah, Tales from the Crypt [just got to finish the thought, bud]) are planning on harvesting my organs while keeping me conscious in order to relay my medical history. These fuckers have no soul and they’re lookin’ to extract mine. Not if my skull ‘n’ cross-bone bandanna has anything to say about it.

It doesn’t.

The door-knob turns. I swallow my stomach to prevent it from running off without me. The door creeks. I signal the holy cross to my Confederate flag. Always a rebel. A foot or hoof clops down into the foyer. Followed by another, and another, and another. Oh, God, I just waxed the foyer.

‘Happy Thanksgiving!’

Those clops belonged to old ladies! My relative old ladies!@!! It’s Thanksgiving. How could I have forgotten? I mean I invited them over to begin with. Well, thank God they are not here to eviscerate me.

“Dear, where is the carving knife?”

“Aunt Nan, there is no turkey.”

"I know dear..."