And another thing...

"Why in the world does Dillard end her book with a lengthy passage about Dave Rahm? I mean sure, he had an impact on her life and on her style of writing, but the book isn't about that. It's about her writing style as a whole. Of course it would make sense for him to reference him, but have the conclusion of her entire book based off of someone who is most certainly NOT her writing life personified? lolwut"

12-12-10: The HSP Chairman's Seventh Assigned Blog Post

*DISCLAIMER
>Rest assured, regardless of what Google Translate (which is developed by Google inc, a well-known fascist organization) may tell you, Plakát is, in fact, Czech for "Slap-Chop salesman".

"I find myself inclined to disagree with Dillard on several points, the most prevalent being the metaphor involving the writing process that portrays it as a path leading to a large box canyon. The writing process is assuredly NOT a set path, but is in fact a maze, with several dead ends that any author must encounter before finding a way to adequately create a story. During my writing sessions with Docta Haus, I have repeatedly found this to be the case.

"Furthermore, I think a good comparison to this process would be in fact that of running for the United States Senate. The threat of a deadline and of not making your stories believable is just as prevalent when writing a story as it is when running for office. Not to mention, similar setbacks may occur. Just as you may have to sell certain products to various Eastern European Plakáts in order to obtain funding for critical campaign advertisements, such products must be bought from such sources and then ingested in order to write a popular story, as esteemed director Quentin Tarantino has proven with his scriptwriting. All in all, the writing process requires time and effort that can only be mirrored by the most difficult of political campaigns."

-Interview with Docta Jim, on "Radio Hawaii's Smart Time with Sammy Swimmy", 9-12-10

HSP Memo: 12-1-10

So I'm thinking of making a musical about Docta Jim. seems like it might be a good idea now that my story is done.

Also, I've made over A Gajillion dollaz by selling the rights of my short story to be developed into a movie directed by and starring my esteemed colleague Vince Shlomi.

Anyway, I'm tired. Until later, my fellow Hawaiian Secessionistas.

Also, this is our new mascot:

*DISCLAIMER:
>PUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDI PUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDIPUDDI PUDDIPUDDIPUDDI

HSP Memo 11-14-10: "Shock"

*DISCLAIMER:

>This is a work of fiction

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, storytime with Docta Haus!"

Shock

By [Docta Haus]

They call him the Tea Kettle Murderer.

About once a week, this guy decides that his morning coffee simply isn’t as exciting as he’d like, and decides to make his kettle of boiling water a little bit more interesting. So, he runs outside in his bathrobe, charges up behind the first person he sees, and pours the piping hot water all over them. Then, before they have a chance to react, he smashes them upside the head with his tea kettle, generally causing massive brain damage and killing his targets instantly.

The thing is, this guy always skips town after the act, and no one has been able to find him. Still, descriptions from witnesses have always been similar, so it makes sense that it’s the same guy every time. And, I thought, if it’s one guy, what are the odds of him finding me? I used to joke about it with my boyfriend all the time.

So, you can imagine my shock when I was walking to work last week, and out of nowhere I feel something agonizingly hot blazing across my neck and seeping down my back and arms. Before I could register that I was about to be murdered, a brilliant flash of silver light filled my vision, followed by a roaring pain, and then darkness.

* * *

I scraped the last of the dog crap off my shoe and got ready to clean up the porch. I sighed, staring at the mess of brown goo that had recently been deposited on my doorstep inside a burning paper bag. Seething with silent anger, I go inside and pick up the mop. I hate cleaning up other people’s messes, and I get pissed whenever someone tries to mess with my mind. Why can’t these idiots just leave us alone? This is Washington, dammit. I thought this sort of stuff didn’t happen here.

The cleaning took more than an hour, but fortunately George was there with me. Our movie night ruined by some high school punks, he decided he might as well help his boyfriend clean up the mess.

We cleaned up the doorstep without a word. We were used to this kind of thing happening. Ever since I came out of the closet with George a year earlier, people had been giving me crap about my lifestyle. Although people were mostly accepting of our life together, there was always the occasional Issaquah redneck that wasn’t comfortable “the gays” messing up his town.

I threw the mop down and stormed into the house. George anxiously followed me and tried to calm me down. Blinded by my rage, I started yelling in spite of myself.

“Why can’t they just leave us alone!?” I screamed in his face.

George calmly sat down next to me. “Just don’t let people like that get to you,” was his calm reply.

“I can’t! I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but get pissed! God, I feel so stupid sometimes. I can’t help but let it get to me, you know? It’s just so stupid.” I stood up. “I’ll finish cleaning it tomorrow. I’m so mad I can’t think straight!” I yelled, slamming the bedroom door in a fit of anger.

* * *

“I’m alive.”

The doctors are overjoyed to hear that I can still talk. The coherent, albeit unusual sentence that escapes from my lips signals that at the very least, the brain damage isn’t as extensive as everyone had previously thought. The doctors and family members standing around my bed all stare into my eyes with shining, happy smiles, thrilled to see that their loved one is still alive. They are all anxious to tell me about how I miraculously survived an attack from the Tea Kettle Murderer, and that soon everything will be back to normal. I stare at all of their faces and soak up their words, but all I feel is exhaustion. Over the next few hours it occurs to me about how very little I care about anything that’s happening, and how immensely tired I am after countless police interviews and family visits.

At the end of the day, George arrives with flowers, ready to welcome me back from the grave that I came precariously close to when the Tea Kettle Murderer paid me a visit this morning. I look up into his ecstatic face as he stands over my hospital bed, grinning from ear to ear.

“How are you feeling, Vin?” he asks expectantly.

And I feel nothing.

Not one ounce of joy at seeing my boyfriend’s face. Not a single shred of relief that I get to see him one more time. I’m not even surprised at my utter lack of emotion regarding George’s visit. I simply don’t care. I know that he’s expecting me to say something to him, after hearing stories about how I miraculously maintained my cognitive abilities despite being smashed in the head with a teapot. Looking up, I remember that he said he was going to get a haircut this morning. His hair, once an unruly mop sitting atop his head, is now combed and wavy, in a very symmetrical fashion.

“I love your hair.” I say blankly, without any inflection in my voice. George’s smile slowly fades from his face.

Days later, I am out of the hospital, and the verdict is in: I am suffering from Acute Stress Reaction. Apparently, my brain didn’t handle getting jolted by a flying teapot as well as everyone had hoped. Of course, while my family is mortified to learn that I am in shock, I can simply stare blankly at their faces and offer a few words of encouragement.

“Don’t feel bad,” I flatly tell them. “They told me it would wear off after a few weeks, maybe months.” I try to flash a friendly grin to let them know I’m alright. The lack of emotion in my face makes it look like I’m having a stroke.

My first Saturday out of the hospital since the incident, I decide to go to the park while George is out shopping. I’ve always felt calm in the presence of nature, and Lake Sammamish State Park offers it in bounds. A crisp win brushes through my hair as I wander over to my favorite park bench, overlooking the lake. The water is a dull grey, but this only serves to compliment the fiery colors of the leaves. As I breathe in the crisp, fresh scent of the air, I wait for the feeling of tranquility that I’ve come to know so well to wash over me as it has so many times before.

And I wait.

And wait.

It never comes.

I’m sitting on a park bench, wasting my time. What is the point? I stand up, as it starts to rain. Great, I think. Now I’m going to get soaked. This will cause me significant discomfort during the ride home—discomfort that could simply be avoided if I’d found something better to do.

As I walk out of the park, I can’t help but remember how good it felt, to relax and let go of all of my worries by sitting in the park, under the leaves of maple trees. On the other hand, I suppose it doesn’t matter, seeing as how I don’t have any worries at this point, having lost my ability to feel any emotion.

Whatever.

* * *

I anxiously sat in the doctor’s office, as the nurse rushed out the door. After a few minutes of waiting, Doctor Esuoh knocked, and opened the door slowly, so as not to disturb me.

“So?” I asked him, with a hint of desperation rising in my voice. “Can you help me?”

The doctor sighed, and sat down next to me. “You aren’t depressed. We can prescribe medicine to calm you down, but—“

I cut him off, leaping up and smashed my fist on the table. “I want a surgery! You know the drugs haven’t been working! I don’t care if you…” I ranted for at least a minute, as the doctor calmly stared at me. As soon as I calmed down, he put his hand on my shoulder and continued.

“Vin, I’ve told you, there is no surgery that can get rid of your anger. Emotions just don’t work like that. If there was another way I could help you, I would. I’m sorry that therapy hasn’t helped, but aside from the drugs, you’re just going to have to take care of your anger on your own.”

I sunk to the ground in cold despair. “I’ve been so mad lately I haven’t been able to concentrate. I just wish I had some way out of all this. Can’t you help me?” I begged.

* * *

I broke up with George earlier today. It was relatively painless, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. Two weeks after my failed assassination, my emotions haven’t returned, and this has put a serious strain on our relationship. After awhile it has become too difficult for us, at least for George anyway. The emotional attachment has always been important to us both; it has always been strong enough to get us through whatever hardships we’ve had to face as a gay couple, even in a particularly liberal part of the country. But not anymore.

I really shouldn’t complain. After all, what do I have to complain about? It’s not like he means anything to me anymore, now that my ability to feel any such attraction for a significant other has been dulled. He took it hard at first, but we have decided to “take a break”, at least until the shock wears off, and my emotions hopefully return—if they ever do, of course.

So now I’m sitting alone in my apartment, while George bunks at his friend’s house up in Kirkland. Unsurprisingly, I feel nothing about my new predicament. I absentmindedly turn on the television and begin to lazily browse the channels. As car insurance and Shamwow commercials blaze by, it slowly sinks in; I have lost someone important to me. I should be sad. As I realize this, I realize for the first time how close we were, and how much the attachment we had really meant to me. It’s not that I miss him; where there was once great pleasure in being around the person I love, there is now only numbness. Where love once flowered, there is now nothing.

I turn my gaze out the window to the trees, which are quickly losing their leaves to the wind. For a second, I almost feel something—self-pity? Longing? Sadness? It passes before I can tell for sure.

Feeling more tired than anything else, I close the shades and get ready for bed. Maybe I’ll have better luck tomorrow.

* * *

Understandably, I’m not worried when I hear a loud crash in the middle of the night.

As I get out of bed to go investigate this new mystery, I look for a decent weapon to arm myself with. My eyes settle on the aluminum baseball bat in the closet, an ancient relic from my little league days. As I carry it into the hall, I remark how utterly unconcerned I am about my current predicament. What if he has a gun? What if I’m about to die? Unsurprisingly, I don’t care.

As I reach the top of the stairs, I clumsily fumble for the light switch. I can vaguely make out the faint figure of a person standing at the end of the hall. Without any feeling of dread, I decide to turn on the lights so I can tell this intruder off for interrupting my perfectly good sleep.

As light fills the room, I get my first look at the guy; he’s dressed fairly blandly, the sort of average dark sweatshirt and jeans you would expect from some delinquent braking into your house. On the other hand, his weapon is not what you would expect at all. I had expected a gun, or some sort of crowb

ar or an ice pick, but it quickly registers that the item in his hand is not a crude blunt instrument of the sort at all. The man is holding a shiny silver tea kettle.

“How rude of you,” he drawls, a maniacal glint in his eyes. “You never gave me a chance to dry you off after your bath.” He begins to slowly advance towards me, and I can hear water swishing around in the teapot. “And look! You’re all dirty again. Well we’ll soon fix you right up.”

I clutch the bat limply, groggily staring at my assailant. There is no adrenaline coursing through my veins. No desire to save myself from this immediate threat to my life. All I really want to do is sleep.

I drop the bat. The Tea Kettle Murderer appears confused at first. “You aren’t going to run? It’s always more fun when they run,” he croons.

My voice shakes as I reply. “I don’t want to run. I want to end this.” I look into his eyes. I can’t keep living like this. There’s just no point.” My voice becomes even more unsteady, and I feel a lump forming in the back of my throat.

For a second, the man looks a little disappointed. “It’s too bad. I thought that our fated second encounter would spark a little bit of fear. Too bad!” He swings the kettle high over his head.

Without any awareness of what I’m doing, I dive to the side, and pick up the bat. As the teapot hits the floor, I wail on his legs, shattering a kneecap. The Tea Kettle Murderer screams, rolling to the side and clutching his left leg.

* * *

“Don’t feel bad,” they told me, as I lay in the hospital bed with a freshly-bandaged cranium. “I don’t,” I lazily replied.

“They will come back. It may take weeks, or months, but it will happen. You won’t be without your emotions forever.”

“Meh,” I retorted.

* * *

It’s like having a massive headache, and then feeling the utter relief that only painkillers can bring. It’s not the my emotions are rushing back; I can only feel a slight reduction in the utter numbness that has been clouding my senses for so long. But it’s fantastic. I can feel adrenaline begin to flow through my body, as a mixture of fear and anger begin to surface for the first time in weeks.

For the first time, I chuckle at the irony. It turns out I’ve been running away from the wrong thing this whole time. And to think that it took some lunatic with a teapot to make me realize that! Suddenly, I can’t stop laughing, even as the Tea Kettle murderer stands up, brandishing the tea kettle. “I need to give you your bath!” he screams, and staggers towards me.

Even as I’m face to face with someone who wants me dead, I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a long time. “Come at me bro!” I swing the bat as he raises the tea kettle once more.

Fin.

-"Radio Hawaii's Smart Time with Sammy Swimmy", 11-12-10

11-12-10: Sneak Preview

Docta Haus has been currently unable to update his blog due to his haste to finish his latest story, tentatively titled "Shock". In the meantime, he is offering the Party a sneak preview of the first page. Enjoy!

They call him the Tea Kettle Murderer.

About once a week, this guy decides that his morning coffee simply isn’t as exciting as he’d like, and decides to make his kettle of boiling water a little bit more interesting. So, he runs outside in his bathrobe, charges up behind the first person he sees, and pours the boiling water all over them. Then, before they have a chance to react, he smashes them upside the head with his tea kettle, generally causing massive brain damage and killing his targets instantly.

The thing is, this guy always skips town after the act, and no one has been able to find him. Still, descriptions from witnesses have always been similar, so it makes sense that it’s the same guy every time. And, I thought, if it’s one guy, what are the odds of him finding me? I used to joke about it with my boyfriend all the time.

So, you can imagine my shock when I was walking to work last week, and out of nowhere I feel something agonizingly hot blazing across my neck and seeping down my back and arms. Before I could register that I was about to be murdered, a brilliant flash of silver light filled my vision, followed by a roaring pain, and then darkness.

tbc...

HSP memo 10-31-10

*DISCLAIMER:

>Rest assured that Docta Haus dressing up in drag is in no way reflective of his sexual preference.

>Also rest assured that as the midterms draw near, The Docta will in no way attempt to alter the election results by using a freeze ray or a large tube of toothpaste filled with honey imported from a small island in the Puget Sound.

>Also happy Halloween from the HSP!

>Also The Game.

10-27-10: The HSP Chairman's Sixth(?) Assigned Blog Post

*DISCLAIMER:

>Docta Haus is has never smoked any illegal substance, and any rumors of him throwing a wild "Birthday on Molokini" hempfest with all of his political supporters are nothing more than pure conspiracy theory.

>Rest assured, no wonder what the liberal and/or conservative media tells you, the following transcript was not taken from such a party at all, but was instead recorded in a wholesome "Ohana, God, and Hawaiian Values" interview for 4tron.com.

Hey.

Dude. Hey.

Listen. Dude. I think...listen. Like...yeah. Just listen.

So, like, what if we weren't actually human?

Like, no, like, listen.

Like, what if we were like something else, like everything *coughs* like all at the same time?

I was like, reading this story, and it had this thing in it. This thing. Like a dog. It was, like, speaking to me, man. The story. I mean, like

The dog.

Yeah.

I loved it man. I love you guys too, man. I read this @#$% man, and I was all like...like WOAH.

And it had like COLORS. EVERYWHERE. And it was all like blue and orange and rainbow. And it made, like I...I don't...

And this guy, like, he makes like weapons and @#$%. And it's like good...yeah...real...nice...

I...like...*cough*

I...hey.

Guys. Listen.

*descends into a fit of coughing and is pulled off of the stage

>Rest assured, stage is just hood for "chair"

HSP memo 10-23-10: "Flashback"

*DISCLAIMER:

>Of course skydiving is a monotonous everyday activity. Docta Haus and his alleged gay lover Docta Hurribull do it all the time.

>Also rest assured Docta Haus is not gay.

>On the other hand, if her were gay, he would totally go for Docta Jim. After all, the forest nymphs taught him the secrets NO MAN was meant to know!

“Alrighty, Kate! Your first solo! You ready?” Peter had to yell to be heard over the sounds of the airplane’s engines and the noise of the wind rushing past the open door. “Let’s do this!” After months of private lessons, Kate was ready to do her first solo dive. Her training had left her well-prepared for this, and it was time to get the show on the road.­­

She anxiously stepped towards the doorway, looking nearly two miles straight down. All that was left now was the OK from her instructor. Peter appeared calm as he slowly counted back from three.

With the passing of the final digit, he yelled “Jump!” and Kate abruptly threw herself off of the plane, surrendering her body to the forces of gravity. She seemed to hang there, in the sky, for a split second before plummeting back towards Earth, accelerating every second.

The familiar exhilaration she had felt during her earlier rides swept over her. A feeling of giddiness accompanied the roaring of the air rushing past her ears, as she began to reach her terminal velocity. As much as her parents warned her against ever skydiving, she loved the feeling of flying through the air, even if it was only in one direction. After what felt like several hours, a faraway voice called out from her earpiece. “Okay, Kate, hit the chute.” Snapping back into reality, and still lightheaded with excitement, she grabbed the nearest cord she found and pulled. Nothing happened. Puzzled by this, she pulled again, even harder. She heard a gentle click, followed by a much larger wooshing noise as the whole backpack apparatus flew off of her body, throwing her off balance.

At first she didn’t realize what was happening. Then, slowly, she reached for her headset. “Peter…” she called weakly, “I accidentally…the entire backpack…”

“My god.” She could barely hear Peter’s horrified response over the ringing in her ears. She looked down, at the ground that was rapidly coming up to greet her. Calm down, she told herself. I just have to think. Without warning, a familiar feeling of terror poured over her. She had only felt it once before, but it was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Suddenly, she was six years old.

She was zooming along on her first bike, with her father running along behind her, calling out encouragements.

“Careful, honey!” he hollered. “Don’t go too fast. Your mother will never forgive me if you crash!” he joked.

“It’s okay, daddy! I’m gonna go fast! Watch!” Kate reached the top of the hill and looked down, at the gentle slope as the ground curved to the right. “Kate, wait! I still need to teach you how to brake!” her dad yelled, running up to her. She didn’t hear him. Pushing off with her feet, she blasted down the hill faster than she had ever gone before.—too fast, in fact, to make the turn. Horrified, Kate uttered a single piercing cry as her bike flew off the path.

She closed her eyes and braced for the impact.

The bike dumped her into the gravel ditch on the side of the road. Her screams coupled with her father’s as he ran down the hill to where she lay, bleeding onto the rocks, her bicycle now a crumpled hunk of metal and wire.

Her mom didn’t talk to her dad for the rest of the day. Even afterwards, for years, the ghost of the bike incident hung over her head. Can I go to a party, mom? No! You might get something slipped in your drink! Can I go to a movie? Sure, but be home by 9. But the movie doesn’t end until 10! Sorry, honey, but I just don’t want you hit by a drunk driver.

This was just how things were. Ever since the crash, her parents treated her like she was still a small child, always worried that she would be killed in some freak accident. After all, God had given them a second chance with their only daughter, and they weren’t going to mess up again. For 12 years, Kate always lived in her parents’ constant sight and under their suffocating protection.

So naturally, she sought ways to assert her independence when she finally turned 18. What better way than skydiving?

How ironic, Kate thought, as she plummeted towards a gravel road leading to a barn house. Well, at least they’ll be able to find comfort in the fact that they were right along. Too bad I won’t be there to gloat.

She closed her eyes and braced for the impact.

By Docta Haus

HSP memo 10-18-10: (Untitled)

DISCLAIMER:

>Rest assured, we are not implying that the following conversation took place anywhere near the Democratic Party of Hawaii's Honolulu headquarters. Although it is your right to believe that if you choose to do so.

*Arrives at bus stop. Two shady-looking guys are there, shouting at each other. The faint smell of alcohol is in the air*

A: “So I’m thinking of quitting, man. I-I just don’t give a @#$% anymore.”

B: “Yeah, do it! Do it!”

A: “You-you know what? *pauses* I will! I’m… I’m gonna go home and tell [my girlfriend] the news, man!”

B: “Yeah? Oh yeah? Then what? *chuckles*”

A: “You know dude! I’m a be plowin’ that all night!” *both parties find this hilarious, dissolve into drunken laughter*

B: “@#$% man. How you gonna m-make money?”

A: “*Laughing* I-I dunno. What…time is it? I… forgot.”

B: “Uh…let’s ask him. *Chuckling* Hey bro! What time is it?!”

*I [The Docta]

check my phone and reply, staying a good several feet away from them*

A: “Dude…dude. Where’s the b-bus?”

B: “$@#% if I know. Y-you’re the one who told me not to drive.”

A: *Laughing again* “You’re so drunk, man!”

B: *Laughing too* “Naw, man, you are!” *hiccups*

*Bus comes around the corner*

B: “Finally…oh my god.”

A: *To the bus driver once the doors open* “Where the @#$% were you?”

*Bus driver is silent*

*I watch the two guys in the window as the bus speeds away, while I wait for the other one.*

DISCLAIMER:

>Rest assured, just because Docta Haus's new and exciting short story will most likely involve suicide, attempted suicide, or accidental self-inflicted fatal or near-fatal injury, the chairman would like to stress that he has no plans of suicide for himself at this time, regardless of the results of Docta Jim's poll results for his senatorial race.

>Additionally, this theme in no way implies that Senator Hirata's opponent, Madrid Toledo, will be accidentally jumping out of an airplane without a parachute any time soon.

>Of course, if such an accident were to occur in the run up to election day, such an occurance would most certainly be human error, and not caused by intervention from the HSP in any way.

HSP memo 10-14-10: The Burning Haus

Dear Party Member:

Please be advised, that the boring and confusing babble that was allegedly endorsed by the party known as "The Burning House" has not in fact been endorsed by any member of the party. In the aftermath of Docta Haus's recent "controversial" speech, it was found that his glass of "Mauna Kea Mornin'" guava punch was spiked with high amounts of Weelwedwagon, an illegal hallucinogen that was most likely planted by the Hawaiian Nazi Party. Since his recovery, the Chairman would like to strongly reiterate his belief that the story is convoluted and does a very inefficient job of getting its point across, points that may not have been clear while Docta Haus was under the impression that his podium was, in fact, a three-legged prostitute. We at the HSP deeply apologize for this misunderstanding and will do everything we can to not allow such terrible accidents to occur in the future.

Best Regards,

Worr Tortall

Vice-chairman of the Hawaiian Secessionist Party Spooky Mystery Investigatory Committee

10-9-10: The HSP Chairman's Sixth Assigned Blog Post

*DISCLAIMER:

>Rest assured, only half of this story was written by Docta Haus, and the other half was written by his close friend and associate, the honorable drug dealer Docta Hoo. Additionally, there are no Wicker Man references in this story.

Part I

What? No! Why are they back already? The guys told me that the owner was at work! I gotta get out of here! Where's the door? No, wait, that's the study. They're inside! I'm screwed! And not in the good way!

Why do the Omega Thetas want me to rob the biggest house in Hanover? What kind of initiation is this? They didn't even tell me who owns the place! I mean come on, who can blame me for wanting to join a frat? How am I gonna get laid otherwise? It's college, man!

OH CRAP! I didn't mean to knock it over! This is bad, that noise was hella loud! And look at that dent in the floor! Why do they have a bowling ball display anyhow? On second thought, why haven't they come up here yet? Maybe they didn't notice the broken window? Hold on, what's that noise? OH GOD THEY'RE COMING UP THE STAIRS!

You know what, I bet this is all a trick! What if it isn't the owner at all? I bet it's those frat jerks, waltzing up here right now, expecting to get a kick out of humiliating some freshman! Well I won't have it! Where's that sword I saw earlier? Here it is! Well, we'll see who scares whom tonight. Oh boy, here they come! Just a little closer...closer...

COME AT ME, BRO!

Part II

Dr. Cuddly stared blankly at the gaping hole where her front window used to be. At first, she was just angry. Hadn't she moved to Hanover to get away from this sort of thing? Vandalism was the last thing she needed, what with the new quarter starting. Exasperated, she opened the front door and, careful to avoid the broken glass, began to assess the damage.

It didn't look like a robbery. Nothing was missing or out of place, save for the brick that had been lobbed through her single-pane window, which was lying on the floor amidst a sea of broken glass. Now annoyed at the immature display, she tossed the brick out the window and gingerly picked up the glass.

Then she heard the noise.

It wasn't all that loud, just a muffled bang from the sword room. Nevertheless, Cuddly recognized a gunshot when she heard one. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized that someone was still in her house, someone who obviously didn't know how to handle a firearm properly.

There was no way she was letting them take the sword. A 20-year professor of East-Asian studies, Cuddly's Katana was her most prized possession. Desperate to stop the burglar, she bounded up the stairs three at a time, whipping out a handgun of her own: the two-tone Desert Eagle she kept loaded at all times ever since being assaulted in a Taxi in Los Angeles.

Without warning, she burst through the door with a loud "COME AT ME, BRO!" Someone was stealing her sword! She unloaded three shots in quick succession, landing two in the target's torso and one in his leg. Finally, she got a look at his face. To her horror, she recognized the visage of Edwin Thebes, the son of one of her friends from back in California. As he crumpled to the ground, she could do little more than stare in horror at her victim. Eventually, her anguish got the better of her, and Cuddly let out an Earth-shattering cry. "OH NO! NOT THEBES!"

The End

By Docta Haus and Docta Hoo

9-27-10: The HSP Chairman's Third Assigned Blog Post

*DISCLAIMER:

>It would appear that, in the unfortunate hacker episode we had last week, a handful of the Docta's blog posts were deleted, including the mandatory third post. It would also appear that the hacker set a slow-recursive multi-layer virus in place at every IP address that accessed the aforementioned post, set to erase the memory of any user who attempted to access http://hawaiiansecessionistparty.blogspot.com/ since the episode. Rest assured, it has been dealt with.

Mildred was, in fact, the 37th woman to marry Josef Meng. She didn't mind; the other wives treated her with respect, and her husband loved all of them the same, as required by the Church of Latter Day Saints.

She was a plump woman in her 30's with a large build which, coupled with her bright orange clothing, gave Mildred the appearance of a big, walking peach. As such, the name "Peaches" was widely circulated throughout the household, generally used as a term of endearment.

Despite the convincing act she put on, Peaches never converted to Mormonism. Marrying Josef was simply the most conventional and logical choice for her to make. After all, what better place to run an international group of computer hackers than in a humble abode in southern Idaho which just happened to be home to 15 computers, all with separate IP addresses?

She met Lisa at a coffee shop in Salt Lake city. Lisa was quite a nice lady, and she struck Peaches as being particularly interesting. She had just moved to Utah from New Jersey, five years after the death of her husband to cancer. Even now, she iterated how terribly lonely she was, without even being provoked.

Peaches pondered this. Another patron in the household would doubtlessly provide more of a distraction should the FBI ever knock on her door, possibly buying her enough seconds to activate the irreversible quick-releasing thermite canister under her desk so as to completely melt the hard drive of her computer before it was confiscated. Besides, she had taken quite a liking to Lisa in time they had spent, talking about everything from politics to which one of Vince Shlomi's infomercials was the most interesting. Perhaps, Peaches thought, She and Lisa could work out a deal.

"Girl, you should come back to my place."

"What?" Lisa stared at her blankly.

"My husband will treat you good. He hasn't married someone in almost three months. Just think, you could be #38!"

The End

By Docta Haus

10-6-10: The HSP Chairman's Fifth Assigned Blog Post

In the style of one of Docta Haus's short stories, "Girl":

Focus; concentrate; if you wanna play piano like Gershwin, you gotta get used to sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench for an extended period of time; you gotta sit up straight; let your hands rest lightly over the keys, ready to drop one note or two or ten; breathe; the worst thing you can do is get al

l tense; don’t panic; just focus; concentrate; it’s really not that hard; no, don’t do that! What you think this is, a Team Fortress 2 server?; don’t mash the keys down like a cat hopping across the surface; let gravity work on your fingers, and let them fall onto the keys; don’t let your hands tense up; you have wrists you know; roll them so your fingers don’t have to move as far; there, now you’ve got it!; focus; concentrate; look at the dynamics; if the right hand has the melody back off on the left, even if it says to play it forte; ignore the pedal for now; try to feel what the song is supposed to sound like so you know if you mess up; and if you do mess up, keep going, nobody will notice or care; and if they do, so what?; just say you’re improvising, like Gershwin did; focus; concentrate.

By Docta Haus

9-30-10: The HSP Chairman's Fourth Assigned Blog Post

*DISCLAIMER:

>Rest assured, we are deeply sorry for the incoherent ramblings that were posted by a hacker two nights ago. We apologize sincerely and assure you that such a travesty will not happen again. In return for your patience, we hereby present an original short story from Chairman Haus, which is in no way influenced by the message left by the aforementioned hacker.

It’s been three years since the death of my dear, sweet husband, Joseph Meng. Stricken by this loss, the other wives and I only stuck together for a while before going our separate ways. As, for me, I fell in love with a small fishing village up in New England, about 80 miles out of Boston.

Well, to be honest, Carillon Point is more like two cities. Divided by the Rivier van Klokkenspel, the town consists of a primarily Dutch quarter on the north shore and everying else you can imagine on the south side of the river. Embracing my Dutch heritage once and for all, I moved into a small apartment on the north side of town looking out over the pier, in a quiet neighborhood called “Nieuw Rotterdam”.

At first I was terribly lonely without my Joseph, but I managed. I fell in love with the town’s peaceful way of life, and eventually my sadness dissipated. Of course moving here had its challenges. On the river, there is a lonely houseboat owned by a WWII veteran named Thurgood Marshstomp, and something tells me he’s stepped on one too many land mines in his day! The noise of his 12-gauge shotgun firing at any overpassing aircraft used to rattle me at first, but I’m certainly used to it by now.

My view is still obscured by that ugly rusted old crane out on the docks. What a legend it has! They say it moves around on its own and drags children into the ocean when no one’s looking. I always get a little sad when I hear this story. Joseph never wanted to have children.

But maybe I’ll get another chance. I met a lovely man today, a janitor at the “Reptile House” on Belangrijkste Avenue. He’s a young man named Wilhem Keehl. He immigrated here 20 years ago and joined the LDS church shortly after. And here’s the most interesting part: he only has four wives! Imagine that!

The End

By Docta Haus

LOL HAY GUIZE I HAXX0RD THIS BLOG TROLOLOLO

LOL IM SO FUNNY IM IN UR BLOGG BECUZ I HACCKED IT LOLOLOL LOOK AT ME!!!!!!1

ALSO U CANT BACKTRACE ME BECAUSE IM BEHIND SEVEN PROXIES LOL! I TROLE U!

HAY GUIZE WHAT IF THERE WAS LIKE A CITY WHERE WIERD STUFF HAPPEND ALL THETIME!!!!!!! LIKE. THERE COULD BE A WWII VETEREN NAEMD THURGOOD MUDKIPZ (LULZ) AND HE STEPPED ON ONE TWO MANY LAND MINEZ AND NAO HES CRAZY AND LIVES IN A HOUSE BOAT IN THE IN THE RIVER AND SHOOTS AT AIRPLANEZ!!!!!1one!!!1

OR THERE COULD BE A STORE WHERE IT LOOKS LIKE THEY SELL GROCER33Z BUT INSTEAD!!!!!!! THEY ACTUALLY SELL NUKEZ AND STUFF LIEK DAT.

AND THEN FINALLY IN THE PARK THERES THIS GIANT FOUNTAIN AND IT

IS SAID THAT IF YOU SWIM AROUND IN IT U GET TO LIVE FOREXER!!!!!! IM SO ORIGINAL L0L OMG!!!!!1ONE!!!!/1!!!

U SHOULD TOTALLY PUT THIS IN UR SOSHULUST DICTATERSHIP U GUIZ LOL ANONYMUS IS LEGION1!!!!11/1!!

HSPSMIC memo 9-26-10: "Robert Kennedy Saved From Drowning"

Dear Party Member:

We regret to inform you that our research has come up with very few results thus far. Although the panel has been in place for over a week now, we are unfortunately no closer to deciphering the message in the short story Robert Kennedy Saved From Drowning. Although a central purpose most likely exists, what it is specifically continues to escape the watchful eyes of the committee. As such we will require continued donations from you, the people of Hawaii, to allow us to continue our research in this field so as to one day hopefully come up with an answer to this complex conundrum.

Best Regards,

Stem Hammerfest

Chairman of the Hawaiian Secessionist Party Spooky Mystery Investigatory Committee

9-23-10: The HSP Chairman's Second Assigned Blog Post

Hello again! It's me, everybody's favorite sinister diabolical Hawaiian-secessionist politician!

Let me start off by saying that I thoroughly enjoyed Junot Diaz's short stories, Nilda and Fiesta. I was, however, surprised to see how similar the two stories really were to each other. On one hand, the writing style was fairly similar in that the author generally focuses his entire story on the descriptions of one or two characters. In Nilda, Nilda and the narrator's older brother Rafa receive the vast bulk of the story's character descriptions, while Diaz merely mentions the the narrator's significant life moments only in passing. It isn't until the death of his brother that the author goes more in-depth with what the story's narrator thinks.

To a degree, the same is true in his other story, Fiesta. This time, the story focuses more on the narrator himself, and his reactions to the events in the story as they develop, and only centers on Rafa marginally, while barely detailing the reactions of the parents at all, just enough to describe what is going on. Not only does this allow the reader to identify more with the protagonist, it also allows the audience to create their own mental pictures of the other characters, and lets the reader connect with the story's minor characters in this way.

As I'm sure my fellow Hawaiians have no doubt noticed, my stories follow distinct patterns as well. More than anything, I tend to focus almost entirely on plot in my stories. Everything else just seems so boring! Do the men and women of Hawaii care about feelings? Do they care about long-winded explanations? NO! They care about getting things done, and moving right along to build that shiny new subterranean/aquatic missile defense system that may or may not have been funded by rogue Marine Biology agents. This can be found in my writing. I don't develop characters that much, and stop only to give the characters enough sustenance to keep the audience's attention. I seem to get distracted from really going in depth. There's a word for that...the "talky-talk voice?" The "white noise sound?" I don't remember. I need a to get some rest before my alleged illegal workers' rally in the slums of Honolulu tomorrow. In the meantime, to distract you from the ongoing investigation about me accidentally only hiring rich Jewish attorneys and importing them from west Manhattan...

THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE IS TRUE.

THE PREVIOUS SENTENCE IS FALSE.

Sleep tight.

HSP memo 9-15-10: "Jealous Husband Returns in Form of Parrot"

*DISCLAIMER

>Rest assured, this review does not in any means imply that any member of the Hawaiian Secessionist Party was involved in last week's tragic accident in which opposition leader Vince Edwardjacob inexplicably fell out of the tree that he was climbing and miraculously landed on a pile of bullets, causing his death to look like a gruesome murder.

"Personally, I found the story to be quite interesting, to say the least. I find the whole concept of a dead man returning to his ex-lover as an animal very difficult to picture, mostly because of the way that the author fuses what the main character actually thinks with the way he acts. I liked the way the author portrayed the parrot as being able to think entirely as well as a human could, but being unable to express that. I found it communicated a sense of entrapment, that I wouldn't have otherwise picked up on, even with the cage showing literal entrapment of the bird.

"On the other hand, I was a little dissatisfied with the title. 'Jealous' often has a negative connotation, and yet in this story the husband frankly had every right to be jealous. Clearly, he loved his wife more than anything, even willing to go so far as to risk his life to ensure that he wasn't being cheated on, and for her to move on so quickly after the death of her husband made me a little sad.

"That being said, I still appreciated the story. While the subject matter of 'Nilda' was interesting to say the least, and the portrayal of characters in 'Brownies' was engaging as well, I found that I really got immersed in 'Jealous Husband' to a degree that I never was with the other stories that I have read so far. Anyone who has not read his works should check them out.

"Also, rumors of Mr. Butler funding my midterm campaign have been greatly exaggerated."

-Interview with Docta Jim, on "Radio Hawaii's Smart Time with Sammy Swimmy", 9-12-10

9-8-10: The HSP Chairman's First Assigned Blog Post

Hi everybody! I'm the Hawaiian Secessionist Party's co-founder and chairman, Benjamin "Docta Haus" Saunders. I've gotten a lot of feedback about my last riveting short story, as well as a lot of questions about the $4.3 billion that mysteriously disappeared from the U.S. treasury and was recently found inside a large shipping container in the back parking lot of our Lihue office. Unfortunately, I only have enough time to answer one of these topics, and so, after legal council from several high-powered attorneys and my associate, HSP co-founder and U.S. Senator Kevin "Docta Jim" Hirata, I have decided to talk about the former.

On the topic of truth in my writing, I find that I merely take events in real life and extrapolate them to apply to my characters. Generally, my characters become more like what I want to be like in real life. Aside from that, anything goes. Take my last story for example. The name "Ben" is so boring. In reality, I wish my parents had named me something different. Something bold. Something deadly. Something whose venom can paralyze its political opponents and stop them dead in their tracks. Something like "Krait". Hence the name was born.

But on a more direct note, I do find myself putting traits of my own personality into the characters I create. Krait is fastidious and ruthless, but above all, he's a nice person. He knows that it's up to him to save these college students from turning their own brains to mush by watching a terrible remake of an excellent British horror movie. In this way, Krait echoes my own capacity for empathy and compassion.

Moreover, he is extremely dedicated to work that he finds interesting. When I am interested in a subject, such as learning Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" on the piano, or making under-the-table deals in Washington, I become very meticulous in how I execute my job. Such is characterized in the way Krait refuses to let a single detail go past his inspection when looking for "the goods", as he put it.

Basically, this is the role that truth plays; it allows me to take parts of my own personality and give them a new form to work with. Anyway, I'm afraid that's all I have time for. I must return to my undying service to the people of Hawaii. I thank you all for your continued support, and everyone have a nice day. And I'll see you at the polls! Thank you...have a nice day.

HSP memo 9-6-10: "Looking For Something"

*DISCLAIMER:

>Rest assured, the following intense and suspenseful story is in no means intended to distract you from the fact that we are in the process of building a scale replica of Kowloon Walled City in the clouds of Mount Wai'ale'ale, within which we may or may not partake in sinister and illegal activities pertaining to the establishment of the People's Democratic Republic of Hawaii. Nor is it intended to imply that pouring bees on someone's head will be used as a form of "Happy Fun Interrogation®" upon the establishment of the aforementioned socialist dictatorship.

Without warning, Krait burst through the door, accompanied by five other heavily armed police officers. “Freeze!” he shouted, pointing his firearm at the residents of the apartment. A quick analysis of the occupants told him everything he needed to know: three college kids in their early twenties, empty pizza boxes everywhere, and the shades closed to insure that nobody could see what was happening inside. A classic setting for the diabolical activities that Krait knew occurred in places like this.

“Listen up!” he barked, as all three students were apprehended. “You can either tell us where you hid the goods and save us all the trouble, or we can tear apart every inch of the apartment until we find what we’re looking for!” Without waiting for an answer, Krait barreled past them and began to tear apart the sofa. Krait had been on the force for several years, and had performed several high-profile busts in the past, but nothing could prepare him for the monumental task he was performing tonight.

Finding nothing in the sofa, he moved into the bedroom, and blasted apart the pillows. Again, he came up empty. Leaving the rest of the bedroom to his team, Krait went into the bathroom and began furiously emptying the cabinets. Again, he found nothing. A search beneath the rug on the floor and above the light fixture on the ceiling provided Krait with the same result.

He began to get desperate. Krait knew that more than anything, it was his duty to save these kids from the fate that he had seen so many bright young people inflict upon themselves. Krait knew all too well what would happen if he failed in his search, and the thought made him shudder in disgust. He kept looking.

Angrily, Krait began to tear off the wallpaper. As he did so, he revealed a large cavity in the wall, with a shiny plastic box inside. “Aha!” He shouted, as he ripped open the box and took out the contents. Marching triumphantly back into the living room and turning towards the apartment’s occupants he tauntingly brandished what he found in the box: a DVD of the 2006 remake of “The Wicker Man”, starring Nicolas Cage.

“You know what this is?” he taunted, waving the DVD in front of their faces.

One of the kids began to reply. “I’ve…I’ve never seen that before in my li-“

“Quiet!” Krait bellowed. “You think it’s funny watching Nicolas Cage get bees poured on his head? Do you know how many brain cells you destroyed by watching this?”

The kids were speechless.

The job done, Krait snapped the DVD in half. “We’re done here. You guys are under arrest.”

The End

By Docta Haus

*DISCLAIMER:

>Rest assured that, as of now, the HSP consists of one Jewish guy living in the Seattle area, and one presumably non-Jewish guy who actually does live in Hawaii. As such, I will not be seceding from the United States to form our own socialist dictatorship any time soon. Indeed, this blogspot account was created for essentially two reasons:

1. I find tumblr Visually Unappealing®
2. I need a blog so I can write interesting and engaging short stories, and not flunk my first-ever college class.

>Rest assured that the short stories and thoughtful blog posts found on this page are not, by any circumstances, a sinister attempt to lull the masses into a false sense of security while we plan our inevitable rebellion and reestablish a separate Hawaiian state :)

>Also rest assured that if such a state were to be formed, the national anthem would most certainly not be the 1980 song "I Love You to Death" as performed by David Hodo in the critically acclaimed film "Can't Stop the Music" starring the Village People and featuring "The Musical Sounds of the '80s."