My screen turned into a mixture of neon green and hot pink outlines. The program stopped working completely. I couldn’t tab out. I couldn’t bring up the desktop. I couldn’t even enter the task manager. Quickly, I picked up the phone, navigated to the contact “Gayfat” and hit the “Send” button. Nine rings later…

“You probably called the wrong n-”

“Dave, it’s John!”

“Oh. Hey. You ok? You sound panicked.”

“Dave, they’re back!”

“What? Who- calm down. You’re not making sense.”

“The shadow people, Dave. They got into my World of Warcraft and greenpinked the shit out of it. You have to get over here right away.”

There came a sound that was sort of like a subdued sigh, followed by five seconds of silence.

“Dave? You still there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a second; I’m still trying to decipher what you just said. Ok, so you were playing World of Warcraft. That part I get. Then the shadow people came and… ‘greenpinked’ the game? Oh, wait, you mean the game graphics turned green and pink?”

“Yeah. They turned them that way. It was fine before. By the way, one chick almost sent me pictures of her tits. I need to get back in there as soon as possible, so bring something holy when you come over so we can-”

“Please stop talking for just a second. When that happened, did your game freeze up? Like you couldn’t do anything else? Not even get back to the desktop?”

My heart skipped a beat. I knew right then that he was on the sauce.

“Dave. What did you do to my computer?”

“I didn’t do anything to your computer. Your graphics card is burnt out.”

“You son of a bitch. Why the hell would you burn out my graphics card? Did they get to you Dave? Whatever they paid you, I’ll double it!”

“What? I didn’t do anything to your computer, and nobody paid me anything. Besides, you don’t have any money. Your graphics card just went bad and needs to be replaced. Turn off your tower and go to bed. I’ll be over in the morning, and we’ll use my credit card to get your tower fixed.”

“And how do I know I can trust you?”

“I’m hanging up the phone now, John. Go to bed.”

*Click*

I had a quick sixteen more beers and headed to bed.

—————————

“Wake up, shithead!”

My bed jarred from the foot of someone who must have been absolutely enormous. A man the mass of a thousand gay suns. I opened my eyes and jerked my body upright. Dave threw a shirt at me and told me to get out of bed.

“What time is it,” I asked, groggily.

“Four in the afternoon. I’ve been working on your tower since nine this morning. You left the damn thing on all night and it burnt out your processor and half of your motherboard, you dumbass.”

“Did you get all the shadow people out?”

Dave coyly sidestepped the question. I made a mental note to beat the information out of him later.

“I spent six hundred dollars replacing your components. But on the bright side, your computer was pretty old, so everything in there is now an upgrade.”

“Oh, awesome.” I pulled a notebook off of my milk crate nightstand and flipped through to the fifth page of the Dave section. “Ok, so I still owe you twenty-five cases of my homemade beer. Looks here like it’s just regular Johnbeer. What I’ll do is upgrade that to a full lager.” I put an asterisk beside the debt and wrote “Upgrade to Stinkhunch.” “God, that’ll take weeks. I hope you appreciate this.”

Dave stared at me for a few seconds as if waiting for me to say something else. I had no idea what he wanted.

“Yes. Yes, it most likely will. I’m going home now.”

As he walked away, I called after him, “Ok. Oh, hey, do you have like a cross or a Bible or something I can put in the bottom of the tower? Just in case they come back?”

My front door slammed.

So anyway, I guess the point is that I’m back online now. I’m on the Garrosh server if anyone plays. The battlegroup there sucks, but it’s a nice quiet server.

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Q: When is the next novel in the John Dies at the End series coming?

Let’s say somebody paid you in advance for a 55 gallon drum full of your poop. How long would it take you to fill it up? I doubt you know. You could estimate, try to give them a deadline, but there are all these variables. Your diet, the weather (evaporation would reduce volume). How much of it the flies eat.

Writing is like that. How can you make promises about a function that is largely involuntary? You just poop as fast as you can.

Or, it’s kind of like watching the Dick Slangin’ video.

You know how long the video is, but you have no way of knowing how many times you’ll watch it. Ten? Twenty? You don’t control it. Once they start slangin’, you go into a trance and wake up hours later, a pair of long bruises on each side of your scrotum.

Writing is like that. For me, anyway. I set aside all last weekend to do nothing but write on the novel. I spent the entire weekend working out a single plot point, specifically, how John gets his car back in a certain scene where he needs his car (he loses it in the previous scene). It’s one sentence, but it took me two days to figure it out.

The good news is I’ve got a deadline; I signed a deal with St. Martin’s Press to dick slang/poop the sequel, and I am around page 70 at the moment (as I mentioned on Facebook the other day). It’d be great to have it out next year, since we have the paperback of JDatE coming out next month and then we could have the new hardback out a year after that. But even if a whole novel shot out of my ass tomorrow morning and I crammed it in the mail the day after, that doesn’t guarantee it’d be on shelves by a certain date. The publisher has their own schedule. Remember, it’s always in their interest to wait as long as possible to see if in the interim the author goes crazy and tries to shoot the Pope or something, which would obviously drive up buzz.

Q: Is the movie still coming?

Yes.

Q: I’ve never actually bought your book because I won’t pay more than $11 for entertainment. What can you do about that?

The paperback of John Dies at the End comes out September 14th, it’s only $10.11 at Amazon.

Q: Have you seen the new Dick Slangin’ video? It’s a bunch of guys demonstrating a new dance called dick slangin’. Are there plans to incorporate this into your next novel?”

I have, but let me watch it again:

The guy on the far left, in the gray shorts, you can really see his dick. I wonder how many dick slangin’ outfits he had to try on in front of the mirror before he found the perfect one. Maybe he has a wordpress blog where he keeps fans apprised of that kind of thing.

-DW

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Truthfully, and all comedy aside, I’m not sure how to answer that. Partly because Dave wouldn’t want me to answer it. He’s never came right out and said, “Don’t tell people what I’m really like,” but I know him, and that isn’t something he’d put out there for the world to see. And before you say, “Since he didn’t tell you not to, it’s an open doorway,” you have to understand something about him.

When we were in school, nobody got him. Most everything he said was met with a look of genuine confusion or revulsion. Most of that was crafted – he wanted that look. Someone would ask him a simple question, and he always knew the perfect response to make them regret that interaction. People would walk away from a fifteen second engagement, feeling used and a little dirty. However, whereas those people (and by “those people,” I mean “everyone else in the entire world”) had trouble grasping what Dave was all about, I could finish his sentences.

That’s the main reason we became friends. When we got together, it was us against the world, and we didn’t even have to discuss battle plans. One would say something and the other would finish it off, leaving the poor bastard who dared talk to us feeling duped and ashamed.

I do it because I think it’s funny. Dave has his own reasons. If he wants to tell you those reasons, that’s his thing. But I won’t do it for him. That’s not my place. And just to squash the glimmer of hope while it’s still sparking, he won’t ever, ever, ever, ever divulge that information.

But where we were concerned, the reasons behind our actions didn’t matter much. We were both fighting the same battle, and we were good at it. When you go through life with that kind of connection with a friend, trust becomes absolutely everything. Dave trusts that I won’t give out certain details of his life even though I have control of this website and could easily do so. Dave trusts very few people in this life. Losing that trust would destroy him.

I can tell you that he’s smart. Frighteningly smart. Like smart enough to use it as a weapon. One time, I called him a big ol’ fatgay, and he solved a math problem at me, and I started crying. I once heard Amy voice her objections to him naming their NBA Live team “The Undisclosed Child Molesters.” In response, Dave recited history dates at her until Amy gave up and left the room. He scored three times as many points by himself than with her playing on the same team.

What’s he like? Read the book. That’s pretty much him. He downplays a lot of his physical attributes (he doesn’t talk a lot about all the back flips or that time he spin kicked a dude’s chest off), but that’s him. I guess that doesn’t really answer your question, though, does it? Here, let me tell you this about Dave, and I think you’ll understand a little better where I’m coming from:

Edit by DW: John, I just removed four pages of you telling very personal details of my life, including my phone number and a lengthy psychoanalysis of why I act the way I act. You have absolutely no training in psychology, whatsoever, even though you claimed to have a bachelor’s degree in “thought doctor stuff.” You did this even after admitting in the above post that you knew I wouldn’t want you to. If you do that again, I’m taking away your administrator privileges.

And so when they cleaned up all the fish and finally got the hair chiseled off the side of the courthouse, Dave just looked at me and smiled. We didn’t have to say anything. We just knew.

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Buy the book, if you wish.

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For instance, if you were to catch me right as my head enters the mouth of a being that’s shaped exactly like a severed human ass… I’d say it isn’t all that great. I mean, it’s kind of cool to see it floating there in mid air because it has no legs or arms. It’s just a suspended, smooth, disembodied ass. But when it opens its mouth – it’s exactly where you’re picturing its mouth to be. I don’t want my head in that.

And I don’t give a shit what you say, I will call it a mouth until the day I die. Probably by one of those things.

Other times, it’s awesome. One night, I got really drunk and watched a Ghost Hunters marathon. Normally, I watch it because it’s funny to me to watch them bullshit their way through an episode. But on this night, they were trying to sound all skeptical and “balanced” by claiming that there was no evidence of any haunting at this particular building. Meanwhile, as they compiled their retarded collection of fake data, three transparent women with gigantic breasts and necks like giraffes shit into their own hands and flung their ghost poop at the hunters’ laptop.

Most of the time, though, it just feels like a job. Wong and I just happen to be very good at that job. Not as good as Marconi, but pretty damn good.

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“The portal to Hell in my bathroom is acting all stupid.” I said it fast, knowing I only had about a second and a half before he would hang up on me. Instead of a click, there was a long moment of silence.

“I’m going through all of our code phrases in my head, but that one isn’t ringing any bells, John.”

“No, it’s not code. Well, it will be after this conversation. Remind me later, and we’ll assign that to something. Maybe make it code for, ‘my copy of Madden broke in half again.’ Or ‘Don’t worry, it’s not real urine.’”

“John…”

“Oh. Yeah, the portal. Remember the portal that appeared in my bathroom a few weeks ago? The one that sucked my girlfriend into Hell?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, after that happened, I got tired of looking at it every time I had to take a crap, so I cut up an old refrigerator box and put it up around it. Like one of those things that people change clothes behind in old black and white movies.”

I waited for him to respond, but he didn’t. After a few seconds, I heard the crunching of potato chips.

“Anyway, it stayed like that for a few weeks without a problem. Nothing was coming out of it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going in. But over the last couple of days, it’s been acting all stupid.”

“Annoying stupid? Or retarded stupid?”

crunch crunch crunch

“It’s been farting out toys. Little kids’ toys.”

“Anything you can sell?”

crunch crunch

“I have some of them in a box, but no, I don’t think I can. They’re kind of creepy looking. They’re like normal toys if Tim Burton made them as a punishment for bad children.”

“So just throw them back in. I’m not sure I see the problem.”

crunch crunch crunch crunch

“That’s the first thing I tried, and that kind of led up to the predicament I’m in now. See, I’m sort of… in the portal right now. I tripped.”

Dave sighed, and I swore I smelled Pringles.

“So,” he continued, “what am I suppo- what the fuck?”

I heard his voice from behind me and over my cell phone at the same time.

“Ok, I’m going to go because it looks like you’re actually here now.”

I hung up and turned into Dave’s glare. Pringles crumbs seasoned his brown, Dickies button-up shirt.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know it would do that.”

David turned from me and began searching for an exit. Just as I found earlier, there was no backside to the portal. Once we were inside, it just disappeared. While he searched the closet, I turned my attention to the night stand.

“Well, this definitely looks like the source of the toys,” he said, holding up a pantsless G.I. Joe doll with an erect penis half the size of its legs. “Look at the detail on that thing. You can even see the veins.”

“Yeah,” I said, picking up old comic book from the drawer, “I saw it earlier. If you look close, you can even see bruises on the side. But don’t look too close because, you know… you’ll have a cock really close to your face.”

“I think it’s throbbi-”

Just then, a black blur whipped ass across the room and football tackled Dave into the back wall. Pringles crumbs shot off of him like a supernova made out of potato chips. Quickly, I stuffed the comic book into my jacket and back flipped over the bed, landing a monstrous heel kick into the creature’s ribcage.

Dave, spotting the opportunity, raised his feet over his body and kicked upwards like Shawn Michaels right before he unleashes some sweet chin music. He landed perfectly on his feet and pulled two nine millimeter semi-automatics from the back of his beltline.

“It’s going for the closet,” I yelled. “Don’t let him get the cock doll!”

Wong pointed both weapons and let loose with a flurry of lightning fast shots. Chunks of wall and toys exploded around the beast as it bolted across the room. I took off after it, running so fast that I had to sprint sideways up the wall like Trinity from The Matrix in order to avoid Dave’s firepower. Just as it dove for the closet, I double back flipped off of the wall and punched its whole fucking ear off.

It let out a high pitched, childlike scream and lunged at David. My heart skipped a beat as I realized that the cock doll was clutched firmly in its hand.

I screamed a warning, “He’s gonna put it on your face!”

The nine millimeters clicked empty, and Dave dropped them to the ground, taking an ancient Kung Fu stance in the form of Praying Mantis. In mid leap, the thing drew back its claw and stabbed the boner at Dave’s chest. I began winding up for another back flip.

Just as the doll entered Dave’s kill range, he sidestepped. In one smooth, sweeping motion, he disarmed the demon and jammed the erection deep into its eye socket. And I do mean deep. That thing was hung.

It dropped to the ground in a fit of screaming and flopping. Man, the flopping. Before it could get up and find something with a bigger cock to stab Dave with, I back flipped across the room and straddled the beast. Grasping its head on both sides, I gave a sharp twist, snapping its neck and then pulling its head completely off of its body, like opening the lid on a mayonnaise jar.

“The portal,” said Dave, pointing to the corner of the room.

It wasn’t there before, but sure enough, it was now. We wasted no time in stepping back through, and just as we entered my bathroom, it vanished.

“Huh. Killing the demon must have resummoned the portal,” I said as Dave strode past the toilet and into my bedroom.

“Do you have any beer left? You teleported me after I ate all those chips. I’m parched.”

“Yeah. We may have to make a run later for more, though.”

“Did you steal anything cool before we left,” he asked as we entered the kitchen.

“No, I didn’t have time to g- Oh, wait,” I pulled the paper from my jacket. “I found this comic book.”

Dave opened a beer and chugged down half of it before looking.

“Cool. When you’re done with it, just put it in the shed. I’m gonna go play some NBA Live if you get bored later.”

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I turned and immediately picked up on the source of his worry. It was a woman. Dressed in a short, white tennis skirt. She was carrying a racket and a small bag of tennis balls under not one but two boobs. And she was headed right for the court.

“Great,” gayed Dave through his fatness. “We can’t even go to the damn park without them following us. Is there nowhere safe anymore?”

“I dunno,” I sexily said with my chiseled manface, “it could just be a regular chick out to get her tennis on.”

Dave sighed and it made his cheeks jiggle. “John, that tennis court hasn’t had a net in over twenty years. What kind of freak plays tennis alone without a net?”

“Dude, you’re just being paranoid. And also enormous. I know a lot about women, and what I’m looking at right now is 100% pure American hunch-flesh.”

Wong gave me a look like he was going to ask me to clarify something, but he must have decided against it.

“How much you want to bet,” he asked.

I pulled another beer from the pocket of my cutoff jean shorts and said, “If I’m right, you buy me a case of beer. Not shitty beer, either. The kind that when you puke, it doesn’t hurt your throat.”

“Done. And if I’m right, you do the website updates until I decide otherwise.”

We shook hands and strode over to the young woman and her boobs. She was setting down her equipment when I stepped up behind her.

“Hi,” I smiled and extended my hand. “I’m John.”

She smiled back and introduced herself as Sarah. I wasted no time in finding out whether she was human or not. I pulled out the most surefire ghost test I knew.

“So there’s a bathroom right over there. Wanna go whip around my dong?”

She stared at me in horror for a few seconds and then spat out, “Uh… no thank you. I’m just… no.”

I walked away, pulling Dave with me. “You win. She’s definitely not human.”

So as a man of my word, I’m doing the updates for a while. Here’s Episode 2 of my ghost video investigation… video.

Also, I totally ended up fucking that tennis chick.

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NOTE: If you’re reading John and Dave and the Temple of X’al’naa”thuthuthu, finish it soon. I will take it down in about a week, due to exciting things that are happening behind the scenes.

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The schedule:

Friday: 2:30 – 3:30, Gardenia Room:

Meet me and have me answer questions and sign books etc.

Friday 5:30 – 6:30, Azalea Room:

Me and author Jana Oliver will talk about self-publication and alternative publication methods.

Saturday 10:00 am – 11:00 am, Azalea Room:

I’ll be on a panel about the future of publishing with the other authors at JordanCon.

Saturday 4:00, Azalea Room:

I’ll be giving a solo presentation on using the internet to promote your writing.

Details about costs etc are here:

http://www.ageoflegends.net

Between the sessions I’ll presumably be wandering around the building aimlessly.

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Anyway, a little while ago I wound up with a box full of the rare Australian edition of my horror novel John Dies at the End…

…and offered to give them away (signed by me, even!) to whoever could write the best piece of short and hopefully erotic John Dies at the End fanfiction. You came through, and here are the winners:

The phone rang twice before John picked up. “Dave, it’s six in the morning. Is Amy dead?”

John made it clear he was annoyed. “You can’t wait until a reasonable hour to discuss this, Dave? By my count, I believe I told you a million times that, no, I kept the can in the shed. Molly did not eat the sauce. Why don’t you just take her to the vet?”

Read the full story

So one night, I’m plastered off my ass, drinking to forget, really, and I black out, and when I wake up? The silver box is open, empty, and the stuffed animals are all gathered around me, with Ted, the wombat, sitting on my chest and telling me that it’s about fucking time I woke up, where the fuck is breakfast? Zippy, the wallaby, Slim and Jim, the frilled lizards, Liar, the lyrebird, and Bobo the baboon, who’s doing this giant grin thing that shows off more teeth pointy than a stuffed animal should have.

So I made breakfast.

Read the full story.

That is the entire comic.

THWAP!

“Oh, well, Dave ran over a dog, well it ran into the road and he hit it, and ever since then animals have been committing suicide around him. We haven’t quite figured it out.”

Read the full story.

“The desert shimmered around us, nothing moving in the midday heat. As we walked, John started humming the overture to ‘Camel Holocaust’, the orchestrated version of which had recently been awarded the Best New Opera Prize at the biannual Viennese Opera and Chilli Cook-Off Festival, despite a rumoured voting scandal. He broke off humming at the start of the intermezzo.

“Dave, why are we here again?” he asked…

Full story here.

He looked down at the baggie. Crammed into the corner of this small sandwich bag was the blackest fucking weed I have ever seen. Again, I’m not an expert in this field, but I was almost certain that weed was supposed to have some semblance of a shade of green. My hands moved into position. I flicked the lighter to life. Just get a little hit, and be done with it, I figured. I moved the piece to my mouth. Back to the hotel room after this. Nice relaxing sleep. As the lighter got closer to the bowl, I prepared to take a tiny inhale. Scorching hot smoke shot into my lungs, WAY too much. Did I even get the flame onto the weed? Fuck. It was like drowning in boiling water. My eyes turned into faucets. I could feel the veins in my face bulge as I hacked and coughed. I looked up at Sean. He was looking down, smirking and glassy-eyed, at me as I was doubled over. I tried to say something along the lines of “Fuck you, shit-whistle” but nothing came. I think the two dealers were laughing. Then I… Well, shit, what happened then?

Only chunks of memory after that…

Full story here.

Imagine if you will, how you feel when sober, and how you feel when drunk. Now, imagine going from drunk to sober in an instant, and then going above sober, so that you’re anti-drunk, and then above that, again and again and again, until you’re so sober, you’re almost at the point where you’ve reached drunkenness from the opposite side.

That is what I felt, and in an instant I could tell the story about every object in the room around me. The chair I was sitting in, although purporting to be Australian made, was actually made in Taiwan. The paint on the walls isn’t actually “Vanilla Sunset” but “Twilight Orange”. And James, sitting right in front of me, isn’t actually human.

Read the full story.

“Honestly officer, they were dead when we got here”. John said nonchalantly, as if he wasn’t aware of the ramifications of what he just said.

“There were rabbits.” I started, piecing together the bloody mess that the past half-hour had become. I kicked at a stain on the earth where a twelve-legged furry abomination dragged a still-kicking pair of legs back down into whatever labyrinthine Hell it emerged from. “I’m no rabbit biologist, but I’d say there was probably a fuckton of rabbits, Officer. I don’t know metric units, so-”

Read the Full Story.

“Hey,” I said, waving the canister like a toy in front of him, “This is yours. Take it,” I tossed the canister at his feet. His face went slack and for a second I was haunted by an image of this freak leaping on top of me and ripping my throat out. Instead, he leaned down, farted, and began to bury the canister in this tiny hole. He sat his bony ass on the fresh hole and looked at me, gesturing at a spot in front of him, “Sit.”

Just when he shouted at me there was this piercing screech and running around my car was this huge bird, cocking its head between me and the car as it suddenly changed course and charged at me, screaming its head off. I bolted the other direction, not even thinking of looking back at the bird as it chased me. Governor was beating his hands on the ground, hooting madly as I slid on my ass in front of him.

Read the full story.

Dave checked his waterproof watch and looked around. Nothing but desert in every direction. Nothing, that is, except for the ramshackle haunted hut. To the untrained eye it looked like any other ramshackle hut, but Dan was a professional ghostologist and he knew haunted when he saw it. He checked his watch again and sighed. There was a glint of light on the horizon. A dust cloud of an approaching vehicle.

‘I’d give it a ten point five on the spookometer. If I had one.’

Read the full story.

Each of you need to send me your name and mailing address so you can collect your winnings: davidwong@johndiesattheend.com

I’ll be back with a new update soon, in the mean time:

Buy the book, if you wish.

You can meet me in person if you’ll be in the Atlanta area next month. I’m giving a talk at JordanCon, a fantasy book convention about my ridiculous, roundabout path to getting my book published. It will be held at the Crowne Plaza Ravinia at Perimeter April 23-25th in Atlanta, GA.

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