“That’s it. Keep the stock tight against your shoulder because this gun KICKS. Site your target. Now a lot of people say you should breathe in and then exhale gently while you pull the trigger, and maybe that’ll work for you, but not me.”

“What works for you?” asked the incongruously intense, yet still unchanged, pre-teen voice.

“Just yank away. It doesn’t matter. You’ve got the body and the muscle to hold it steady, that stock ain’t going anywhere.” And it was true, the kid had the body. Those Grabber genes. The little fuck was already nearing 6’0 and that was about 6 feet of young muscle and bone. Solid bone. Pretty much through the whole male side of the Grabber clan the bone was almost entirely hard with just the thinnest streak of marrow running through the very center. Just enough marrow to stay alive. Too much marrow for Jack Grabber. Too much marrow, also, for his little bastard of a son.

The child yanked the trigger repeatedly, putting his whole body into it each and every time, the muzzle jerking up and down, side to side, bullets unseen but nonetheless travelling through the muzzle flash, out into the world, and shattering their targets. They didn’t necessarily hit the targets where the little fucker had been aiming, but they hit alright. And those that didn’t hit something. And as Jack Grabber had said for years, “‘something is a target, too”. Some people could use such logic as a kind of fuzzy math to obscure their lackluster shooting skills. Grabber said it because he meant it. Completely. That creeped some people out. Grabber had saved the lives of just about eighty percent of those people.

The kid looked up from from the smoking barrel. Smoke was even leaking from the firing mechanism and out of just about every seam of the old Viet Cong sniper rifle. Sniper rifles aren’t meant for rapid fire. At all.
Ahead of them was the target area. They crossed the street and walked toward it. Most of the diners were still on the ground, covering their heads. Almost every wine-glass on the outdoor cafe table was shattered. The wall looked like it had been painted in a combination of light brown and duck confit. One child, a little older than Grabber’s, was crying.

Just as Jack was about to make a remark he was seized from behind and dragged back about 20 yards by an absolute monster of a human being. His arms were pinned. They weren’t pinned physically, of course, no one could accomplish that. They were pinned in the sense that he was letting them be held down because a gun was being held to his head. A very large gun. The kind of gun that when you pulled the trigger didn’t just spout out a flag that said “bang.”

Grabber looked at his son. Saw hesitation in his eyes, and fear. He was still an untested warrior. By the time he turned 13 that fear would be gone. There was fear but there wasn’t much. He just needed encouraging. “Take him out”, Grabber said, feeling the grip holding him get tighter. The kid raised the gun and sited but didn’t shoot.

“I can’t, dad, I’m not accurate enough to hit him with you in the way.” Which was true. He wasn’t. At all. Didn’t need to be. He could sense the figure (undoubtedly an old enemy) behind him beginning to feel that he had won. Could sense the man thinking, beginning to phrase together his demands.

“Son,” Grabber said with all the intensity he could muster, “who said I was going to get out of the way… TAKE HIM”, he roared.

The little asshole didn’t need time to think or process it, he UNDERSTOOD. Yanking the trigger four times he saw his father’s body convulse at four points. The man behind staggered more, beginning slowly to fall to the ground. The son yanked the trigger nine more times for good measure until with the last shot the barrel burst into flames and fell from the stock. He spiked the barrel into the ground and ran over to his father.
The kid offered Grabber a hand to pull him up. Grabber pretended he needed the assistance. 13 holes smoked in his chest and thighs. His son took a now burnt out half cigarette from one of the scattered cafe ashtrays and lit it off the smoking hole closest Grabber’s heart. Grabber looked, adrenaline pumping, at a priest who had been sitting nearby. The priest looked back at him, stunned by what he had just seen. “Now there’s a stigmata,” Grabber said. “THERE is a stigmata,” both Grabber’s said in unison.

They began walking to the local whorehouse. It wasn’t far away.

In an effort to better make ourselves known to you, we here at LBS decided to take 9 or 10 seconds to look up movies whose titles are our first names and post the plot summaries as they pretty much say it all.

Dan:

Dan is only 10 years old and is caught between a younger and an older sister who tease, manipulate and tell him off. Dan is always the loser of the battle for the affection of their busy parents and the scapegoat who ends up doing the dishes on his own. And when the family relax together, there is not really room for him. (IMDb link)

Keith:

17-year-old Natalie thinks she’s got it all figured out until she falls for a guy who has nothing to lose! (IMDb link)

Adam:

A lonely, autistic man, Adam, develops a relationship with his upstairs neighbor, Beth. (IMDb link)

It’s a fun game. Try it yourself and post your movie summary/link in the comments. Play it with your friends and grandparents! Why won’t you play it??

In 1925 and 1926, the two volumes of author Adolph Hitler’s political treatise “Mein Kampf” saw their original release in Germany. The book was a success, selling approximately 240,000 copies in its first ten years. However, Hitler’s next work, a book of comedic observations and irreverent anecdotes called “Hitlerious!”, saw the author’s sudden decline into the obscure ranks of literary one hit wonders. He passed away in 1945.

A pleasant-looking, Ivy-League educated young man with plenty of go-get-’em who nonetheless can’t land a job because his $375 dress shoes are ALWAYS inexplicably covered in spit.

It was a town he could understand because it understood him. It was Santa Fe, New Mexico. He was Jack Grabber. Most places nowadays have a problem with drifters. Not this place. If it didn’t exactly embrace them it didn’t look down on them either. Whereas in most places you can’t easily hitch a ride anymore, it was not so here. Drivers in the Southwest still tended to sympathize with the down-and-out and were willing to help a stranger in need. When their bodies were found a day later you couldn’t help but admire their big hearts. They still had faith in humanity.

“Faith”. Grabber said it out loud and smiled. The driver who had picked him up glanced over at him like he was crazy. And maybe he was. Maybe he was. Grabber loved the clean mountain air that streamed into the car through small slit where his window was rolled down a little. He wanted more of that air so he turned, grabbed the window at the top with both hands and forced it down further with all his might. “Jesus, man, use the goddamn switch”, the driver protested. “I don’t use machines”, Grabber said, pulling the cell phone from his pocket to see if he had missed the call. He hadn’t. Where was Samir Godot? They had agreed to meet today and he had never known Samir to go back on his word.

Samir was a hard man. Ex-Republican Guardsman from Iraq. Like Grabber, Godot had been run out of the military against his will. Grabber for issuing commands to an officer who outranked him. Godot for an alleged rape. He hadn’t done it, but unfortunately the massive amount of evidence presented at the trial convinced the jury of twelve peers. An ugly smile formed on Grabber’s lips. “I bet if there were thirteen he would have gotten off” he said out loud. The driver began to sweat. “STOP” he roared. The man jammed the brakes on before the sound had ceased echoing off the dashboard. His hands were trembling. “I MEANT STOP SWEATING” Grabber yelled. The guy started the car back up. “STOP”, Grabber shrieked again. “I can’t”, the driver feebly protested. “ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS HIT THE BRAKES”, Grabber yelled. “To stop sweating” the man asked with fear streaked throughout his faltering voice. “NO, I WANTED TO GET OUT THERE” Grabber yelled louder than anything the man had ever heard. He pulled over. Fast. Grabber got out. Before the man could take off, Grabber leaned back in the window. The man cringed. “Thanks for the ride,” Grabber said, “no one ever stop to pick me up. I can’t say that I blame them either. Not a great idea to take on a hitchhiker who is 6’5, 250 lbs, so it really makes things hard for me, as you can imagine. But you were different. It really means something to me. I don’t show my emotions on my sleeve, but… (and here his voice faltered touchingly) it’s little things like this that really touch my heart. Now it’s time to see some titties jiggle.” The man almost looked more scared now. “What?” he managed to say quietly. Grabber pointed back behind him to the dark little building. The neon sign said “Cheeks” and had a nude woman on it. He looked back to Grabber. “Uh, ok” he said, “no problem.” Grabber didn’t say a thing, just put two outstretched fingers so they pointed out from where his nipples were, nodded, and started walking toward the club.

The inside of Cheeks was small, darkly lit, and teaming with the smell of soured beer and low self-value. Girls born with little other than beauty milled around in little outfits picked out for them by fat, balding, old men. In a way they had chosen it but in a way they hadn’t. If they had been born to another family or in another town maybe they be a normal level of slutty. Instead they turned out a little more slutty than that. These girls gyrated and fellated for the basest of reasons. Money. While the luckier, classy girls fellated for a sense of acceptance, a nice new dress or part-ownership of a cute little Miata. A very pert little stripper walked by Grabber. He slapped her ass once, hard, and sarcastically said “oops, I don’t have any ones on me, I’ll have to remember to pay you later” with a wink. She feigned disgust but then smiled as she walked away. After all, he was 6’5. “Nice flapjacks” he said to another. Then he got her digits and headed over to the main room. Grabber was on his fifth personal table dance and had just slid an IOU under the girl’s (for she was but a child) strap when a huge commotion went up in the hallway that led to the shitters. A girl was yelling and screaming in real distress and pain. It was hard to tell what she was saying because the voice was so manic and anguished, so Grabber sat and listened intently until he was sure that she was being accosted by some hooligan who didn’t realize that he was currently in the last minute of his life.

“That’s it” Grabber yelled, picking up his table in one big hand and smashing it on the edge of the stage, knocking the dancer down. He stormed back toward the restrooms, grabbed the back of the attackers collar so hard that three buttons in the front of the shirt ripped off and his pants fly burst, and was turning him for the first (and probably fatal) right hook when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. An enormous smile spread across his face like a storm of happiness. SAMIR GODOT!

The woman was crying and trembling on the ground. “You old joker,” Grabber said, “I thought she really was in trouble! That someone was actually trying to rape her!” He laughed hard for what felt like ten minutes. He laughed hard for what also in fact actually was ten minutes. His friend Samir laughed with him with a wild look in his eyes. Something bulged in his pant-front that Grabber assumed was a gun though the placement was a bit odd. Grabber slapped him on the back as they both calmed down. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. Then, looking at the woman who still gazed up at Godot, her hands crossed defensively between her legs, he added “and you, my lady, are quite the actress” before taking Godot’s arm and leading him away. Godot turned once and told the girl “this isn’t over.” Grabber guessed it meant that they had another prank in store for him.

Booth was actually at John Brown’s execution. To most present, it was a momentous thing to witness. To Booth, however, it was just another humiliating experience of being near a man who was “hung” more than he.

Growing up, Booth would attend the Bel Air Academy. However, he would fail to become its freshest prince.

John Wilkes Booth had a grim fortune told to him by a palm reader early in his life. The palm reader proved to be correct when his turn as the Earl of Richmond in Shakespeare’s Richard III was markedly ill-received.

Booth began his acting career at Baltimore’s Holliday Street Theatre, which was ironic since anytime he was on stage it was as if he was taking a “holliday” from being an accomplished actor.

By the age of 16, Booth had become a delegate to the “Know Nothing” political party. He was a wild success among party members, as he had put very little effort into school and was possessed of a startlingly low intelligence quotient.

Booth was known to practice elocution in the woods around Tudor Hall and, indeed, became a master of pronouncing words while remaining profoundly deficient at retaining their meanings.

In 1857, Booth joined the stock company of the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia , where he played for a full season. That is to say, he played with himself in the theatre restroom stall while the other actors turned in stellar performances that have not been forgotten through this very day.

In 1858 Booth would play the role of an indian on stage. It was one of his better turns, as he was quite used to being a “red skin” as he would always blush with shame when he had to shower with the other guys in his gym.

Booth claimed a newspaper had called him the “handsomest man in America.” The title, however, was later disproved by the fact that he was only 5 foot 8.

It is known that Booth had an “astonishing memory.” This trait, which would have been a blessing to many others, was the bane of Booth’s life as he could never forget his many “astonishing failures” to win his parents love and admiration or to bring in a steady paycheck.

Booth reprised many roles throughout his life, but he reprised no role quite so often as that of the “cuckold” in his real-life relationship with Lucy Hale.

Booth’s last words were “useless, useless.” Why he chose to die uttering his father’s nickname for him is unknown.

Booth made a brief attempt to become an oil baron. However the most oil he ever found was in the numerous blackheads that plagued his face and rear.

never hesitatin’ never wastin’ no time / Jack Grabber gon’ bust through / wit da rock solid 9 / whether a bitch be in trouble or prostratin’ in bed / spit spit spit go the bullets from da barrel da head

Grabber was breathless from slapping, so he pulled an empty crate over and sat for a moment. It was hard work in the New Orleans heat. This guy wasn’t going anywhere anyhow. Grabber had been wailing away at the suspect for about four hours now trying to get him to talk. Sometime during the third hour he had forgotten what he was even hoping to get the guy to talk about. He didn’t care anymore. Jack Grabber knew that some people said that torture yields bad information. He even admitted they were right about that most of the time. It didn’t make a difference, though. He needed the practice anyway. He didn’t get into the gym to spar much anymore. Call it an interrogation / workout. Whatever. He had caught his breath. He barked at the prisoner again to tell him where the child was hidden. The prisoner didn’t answer. Would have needed a functioning mouth to have done so even if he wanted to. Grabber threw his issue of People to the ground and got back up. He slapped and slapped and slapped and slapped and slapped and slapped until it sounded and looked like he was slapping something more liquid than solid. He finally stopped and took a look at what remained of the guy. It was nothing more than chunks of meat and wetness everywhere. The blood, hot from the frenzied whipping, smelled almost spicey. Grabber mopped it all into a corner and then scooped it into a large ceremic bowl. Looked at the concoction again and muttered “looks like we’re having Jambalaya tonight” and walked out of the garage and back toward the French Quarter.

Wrap yourself in rubber, O ruddy-headed Dick
As soon as the surface you tread becomes slick
We all like the touch of a texture wet like dew
But even the warmest precipitation can bring sickness unto you
You may feel constricted, you may feel less free
But it is nothing like the inconvenience of when it burns when you pee
And remember, anon, when you protest that your pleasure in her it does diminish
That without your rubber she may grow full with child, her beauty eternally finished

It made him wish he hadn’t stopped working out three years ago. It took every once of strength inside him to make it stop. The sound of the gears as they ground to a halt was awful. Sparks bit at his hands. But he wouldn’t let go. Finally the struggle was over and the ride came to a halt. Grabber smiled. The ferris wheel car he was after was right there at the bottom. But Grabber didn’t get into it. He wasn’t in the mood for another ride today. At least not this moment. He had other business. Instead he pulled someone out the car, roughly. They called this thug Frederick “Soft Spot” Sambig because although he had grown normally as a child into an adult, his soft spot had never filled in. Grabber grabbed him by the throat and pulled him down the steps and over to a food booth. He smacked the attendant’s hands away from the machine he was working at and shoved “Soft Spot’s” head in the space where they had been. Over his shoulder the crowd couldn’t see what he was doing, it just looked like he was swirling the head around and around. Then he pulled the head back up into view. It was fully encased in pink and green cotton candy. Muffled screams came from inside the webby mass, creating a person hell of short breath and noise for the criminal. With each hot breath the candy half melted and crystalized, the webs turning hard and cutting off the remaining passages for oxygen. He couldn’t afford to stop breathing. But he couldn’t afford to breathe either without making breathing impossible. Grabber laughed at this catch 22. He let go of “Soft Spot’s” neck. No need for handcuffs on a suffocating and blinded man. But he wouldn’t let him die this way. Not even a pornographer like this asshole. There was a difference between good guys and bad guys. Grabber had always believed that. So he snatched a glow stick out of a child’s hand. Broke it to light it. And then drove it home through the soft spot in the pornographer’s skull. Sambig collapsed. Blood mingled with the cotton candy mask, adding a third color. Children from all over pulled out from their parents grips and went over and started licking at it. “Cotton candy is on me today,” Grabber said and then walked off toward the Scrambler. The line was short and he knew that if he walked fast he could make the very next ride.