The Sex Issue articles

{Originally published in the C. W. Post Pioneer. The fourth issue of the "Revue", the entertainment section of the paper, the Entertainment Editor let me take the reigns and theme an issue. I, being the rambunctious shit I was back then, decided it should be the "Sex Issue". It's main feature was an article on the "Sexiest Scenes in Movies", as well as small articles of "Sexiest TV Couples", "Songs to have Sex to" and "Shows That Shot Their Wad: Power Rangers" 'cause they let some weird kids write for the newspaper. Below are the articles I wrote, or my contributions to them. Additionally, the final piece, obscured in white, is an article I wrote on a dare from my editor, who swore I couldn't write something so vulgar he wouldn't publish it. I won that dare. It is extremely NSFW, and truly obscene, and reflects very poorly on me out of context. But, hey, read at your own risk}

Sexiest Movie Scene: The Graduate

You’ve just graduated college with no idea what to do. At your party, your family friend asks you to drive her home. When you get there, she offers you a drink, and starts to subtly seduce you. Nervously, you flee upstairs, only to find she’s followed you, stripped down, and has shut the door, telling you she’s “available to you” and asks “Would you like me to seduce you?” This sounds like a fantasy of the average man, and one that Dustin Hoffman got to live in multiple takes on the set of Mike Nichol’s The Graduate, a movie about boy meets girl who‘s the daughter of the woman he‘s been sleeping with. There’s little in this world sexier than a woman who doesn’t care about your worries, she knows what she wants and takes it (Are you listening, honey?). So, to that I say “Here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson!”

Songs In The Key Of Sex

Shut off the lights and turn up the stereo. Whether it’s a lover or someone you barely know, no one likes silent sex. So, please enjoy, give them a try, but remember: I wouldn’t recommend inappropriate or dangerous sexual acts to everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.

• I Want You (She’s So Heavy)- The Beatles: A twelve word long song of sheer seduction hides between “Octopus’s Garden” and “Here Comes The Sun”. So what if you don’t have a god damn clue what “She’s so heavy” means. Odds are, neither did they.
• Let’s Stay Together- Al Green: When it comes to songs for sex, sometimes you can’t avoid the staple soul singers. If the person you’re about to have sex with isn’t in the mood after a little of Rev. Green’s styling, they’re not worth the condom.
• Roads- Portishead: Whenever a show on HBO or Showtime uses slow, ambient music to score a sex scene, they’re just wishing they had this song. The song’s laced with R&B beat, 70’s porno guitar, and Beth Gibbon’s trembling vocals that send the right kind of shivers.
• Chan Chan- Buena Vista Social Club Soundtrack: Sure, it’s in another language, and I don’t know what the f*ck they’re talking about. Sex isn’t about words. (Well, sometimes it is, but that kind costs 10 cents a minute.) This song sweats beach fires, Corona, and scantily clad Latin waitresses. If that don’t get you going, see a doctor.
• Pour Some Sugar On Me- Def Leppard: With a drum beat hand-crafted (with only one hand, no less) for the strip club, Joe Elliott and the boys from Def Leppard create a perplexing plea for a good time (Do…do they want to get covered in semen?) They’re “Hot, sticky sweet” and by the end of Phil Collen’s solo, you will be too.
• Let’s Get It On- Marvin Gaye: Sure, it’s the most cliché sex-song ever. But it doesn’t take much to figure out why. This has been the go-to shag song for decades. Hell, you may have been made to this track.
• Whole Lotta Love- Led Zeppelin: The entire album of Led Zeppelin II is designed for planting your Robert, but the opening track has the line “I’m gonna give you every inch of my love.” I need say no more.
• Crash Into Me- Dave Matthews Band: From a man who’s usually singing frenetic verses about whiskey, it’s touching to hear what sounds like a gentle love song out of old DMB. Then you hear him grumble out “Hike up your skirt a little more, and show your world to me.” Admit it, you’re already turned on.
• Justify My Love- Madonna: If phone-sex were set to music, it’d sound like this. Madonna’s never been one to hide the sex in her songs, but never has it been so…sexy. Hell, all the panting she does on this track, it sounds like she may finish first.
• Hallelujah- Jeff Buckley: Forget the crap track from Watchmen. This song is the pen-ultimate song for making love. “Remember when I moved in you, and the holy dove was moving to.” Leonard Cohen wrote about the pain of love, Jeff Buckley sang about the Hallelujah of the orgasm.

  The Article Made on a Bet

I’ve used the space I’m given in the Pioneer to rant against Lady Gaga, Megan Fox, and Andy Samberg. But I’d like to take this moment to complain about something I hate more than all three of them combined: sloppy blowjobs. That’s right. I said it. Look, baby, I’m touched you’re gonna do that, but do it right. If someone offers to paint my house, and then they just splash a can of paint on the wall, no one can blame me for being pissed, right? It’s the same here. After a night of passion (or a day of passion, or 15 minutes in my car between Major Forces in Film and Cinematography) I don’t want to feel like I’ve got a Doberman’s tongue dangling between my legs for the next hour and a half. It’s not a Popsicle. You can’t just slobber. Your tongue is like a paintbrush. Be Michelangelo, not Jackson Pollock. And while we’re on the subject, with regard to reciprocation: Fuck that. I always get “But I went down on you. It’s the same thing”. No it’s not. You get one shot of baby batter in the mouth, and you have the luxury of choice: Spit or swallow. We don’t. Down there for 5, 10 minutes, lapping up whatever’s going on down there, and we have to swallow every drop. There’s no spitting, unless we wanna do the Olympic swimmer move: Go down, turn head to the side, spit, breath in, repeat. No, that’s just not happening, honey. One last note to wrap this up: During sex, don’t say “Oh, baby, make me come.” What the fuck else am I gonna do, make you a hat? Of course I’m trying to make you come. Oh, and don’t call me daddy.

Getting Used to Life Without Linda

{The opening chapter to a novel I would later complete, and then burn the manuscript of, because college. Shortly after I would write this chapter in a small, red moleskin notebook in some dark Long Island basement, I would receive a call telling me my grandmother had died. For those wondering, it wasn't a terribly good novel.}

“Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?”

    My eyes flew frenetic around the room. Had I no sense of decency? I mean, am I being perverse? Am I committing some sort of social faux pas? Am I a cuddle voyeur, as it were? I mean, I am just sitting here, staring. It is quite the awkward position. But, fuck, this house is empty. The scene: They lay together on the bed, I alone in the chair, the room chilled with the kind of morning “How did I get here?”s are made of. I could get up and leave. I should get up and leave. But then it’ll be obvious I’m upset, and why give that away? She’ll just come in with the “There’s no reason for you to act this way…” yipping away like a dog, rabid, it’s communicable infection: guilt.

    When I woke, I scoured the room from the comfort of whatever ice cold, rock hard surface I had passed out on. Woke up, the room was bare, “he couldn’t see her anywhere” as Dylan put it. Funny how that album keeps popping up in life (I’ll get to that in a bit). I was hoping to see her, I don’t know, asleep in a chair; or fixing her hair in a mirror; or curled up in my lap. (Preposterous, yes, but if you knew her, you’d know all three of those were.) But I expected, logically, to awaken to him splayed out across the bed, and she platonically bundled in blankets inches apart from him.

    But instead, I rose to see him alone on the bed, in the fetal position, his arm wrapped around his…wait a minute, I realized, he’s not in the fetal position at all. That’s HER his arm’s around. He’s HOLDING her. The bastard! The swine! My emotions jumped seemingly with every blink. I was angry, furious in fact, sad, complacent, reflective, melancholy, exasperated, jealous, and staggeringly ill. In the course of the night I had consumed 2 beers, 18 oz. of whiskey, a swig of rum, two cups of vodka, a shot of whatever was handed to me, what accumulated to approximately $10 worth of grass, a Xanax, some coleslaw, a cheeseburger, and a small coke. Personally, I blame the cheeseburger for all my symptoms.

    I glared at the bed. The scene of the crime. Not necessarily a crime of ‘passion’, per say, but one of…well…mutual…affection…ok, regardless, I was pissed. I should have known better. A girl and two of her ex’s alone in a house for a night? I knew one of us would become the proverbial third wheel. But I thought it would be like a tricycle, or one of those Big Wheels you had as a kid, you know, with all the Batman stickers, and the front wheel’s plastic traction all worn down so you couldn’t even ride the fucker on blacktop? I thought we’d be like that. And in a way we were, in the sense that, much like the tread-less, plastic-wheeled transport, what started out kinda fun had overstayed it’s welcome in the realm of boredom alleviation.

    I mean, come on, man, we shared moments today. We smoked together, we drank together, drove together, even talked music. Talked music, sir! I believe, in California, there’s a state law that says once such a bond has been established, it is a felony for a person in your position to perform any acts of affection upon my ex. Of course, despite it’s legal grounding, I would never raise my qualm, as he could, if he were a sharp strategic mind, counter with the stellar defense of “I was here before you.”, as chronologically he predates me in terms of romantic interest. I believe the California Justice System has established statutes for these situations.

    So I remain silent, burying my clenched fists in the pockets of my leather pants. (We’ll return to that later.) Forced to sit, watching him unconsciously cradle her handsome form, ever rising and sinking softly, wisps of air slipping through the slit in her serenely pursed lips. Surely, though, I accept that my misfortune is my own fault. With some effort, or even merely some simple submission, the scene I had awoken to could have been vastly different. I could be caressing her; we could be lying, disrobed, sharing our bodies in the simplest of ways; she could be fixing her hair in the mirror; (I keep going back to that idea. Why?) There are a million other variations coursing through my head even as I’m writing.

    But this way, in the long run, will be the more rewarding path. This is the path I consciously followed. Because tonight, 5 hours prior, I officially ended my relationship with Linda Barnes.

Big Whiskey and the Groogrux King by Dave Matthews Band

{Originally published in the C.W. Post Pioneer, the following was my contribution to an article about the best music of 2009}

Big Whiskey And The Groogrux King by Dave Matthews Band

While I want to give credit to Green Day’s highly underrated 21^st Century Breakdown (Yeah, I know, the cool, hip kids all say “I only like old Green Day”. Well, you all knew the words to American Idiot, so f*ck you), I have to admit that the best album of the year has to be Big Whiskey. This great collection of songs, with that vintage Dave Matthews sound, begins and ends with sax solos from the late LeRoi Moore, who was a founding member of the band. His tragic death, while in mid -production of the album, not only inspired them to name the album in his honor (Groogrux being, among other things, a nickname of Moore’s), but to write some of the more somber tracks on the album. Songs like “Lying In The Hands Of God” and the final track “You & Me” are filled with a mournful tone befitting a band in grief, the incredibly upbeat “Why I Am” seems to be a lyrical thank you to Moore, and a musical memorial for such a talent. Certainly, “Shake Me Like A Monkey”, their most James Brown-esque track to date, didn’t receive the airplay of “Single Ladies” or “Poker Face”, but it’s much less insipid, and I’m sure will better stand the test of time.

 

At Midnight, All The Agents...

{During my senior year high school English class, a friend and I began a "writing competition" out of boredom, wherein the teacher would give us a genre, and we'd have to, within a time-frame, write something in said genre. I had a double-period to do "Horror", and given the parameters and my total lack of experience with the genre, I'd say it turned out alright.}

“The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden”- Bob Dylan

    It was cold when Gregory Samson awoke. Not terribly cold, but just that little chill that the air gives to remind you that it’s there. He shuddered a tad. He pulled at the sleeves of his jacket, only to discover they weren’t there. All he felt was the warm, meaty flesh of his arms. He was very confused by this. He began, with his hands, to survey the rest of his body, to see what else might be exposed. Very slowly, almost disdainfully, as Gregory had never been one for pride in his appearance, he felt his bare arms, his bare chest, bare ass, penis, legs, until he realized that his entire body was, in fact, there for all to see. He quickly motioned to cover his genitals, for he couldn’t bear the thought of looking foolish in front of people. He had worked too hard for the respect he’d gained, he figured, to lose it now. After some sparse minutes he spent cursing the people there for judging him, it occurred to him that he had yet to see one such person, or any one thing for that matter.

    He looked around, only to be greeted with darkness, and emptiness. There were no walls, no ceiling, yet it couldn’t be outdoors, as there was no light, nor trees. There presumably must have been a floor, he thought, otherwise what else could he be standing upon? It was clearly very soft, however, as he could barely feel it beneath his feet. It was a very peculiar place to Gregory. As far out as it stretched in any direction, there was nothing, it just subsisted on and on. It was oddly hazy and vague for such an open space, almost as if a clear fog hung in the air all around him. The whole room, well, it wasn’t really a room, but Gregory wasn’t quite sure what it was. A space? An area? Perhaps an area would be best, he thought. The whole area had no color. It was dark, but it wasn’t black. It wasn’t gray, nor brown. It held no color at all. It was simply bleak. Bleak was the only way he could possibly describe the odd shade and quality the room had about it. Bleak.

    He had begun to wonder where he was, and more particularly, why he was here. He didn’t remember coming here. He tried to remember back to before he had awoken, but the most recent memory was his interview, and he knew at least one month had passed since then, he simply couldn‘t remember the month.

    Gregory had had an interview with TIME Magazine, regarding his newest corporate take-over. Gregory Samson was considered to be the premier business man in America, and was poised to be the wealthiest man alive if his next venture paid off. He attended lavish parties, had a gorgeous wife, three children, a doctor, a lawyer, and a filmmaker, and was considered by many to be the living example of the American dream. His biography was a national best-seller the day it was released, his television network had the highest ratings world-wide, and it seemed as if everything he touched turned to gold.

    His interviews all consisted of silly curiosities these days, as all significant information of his life was as common knowledge as the folklore of Santa, or Hansel & Gretel. The question he remembered as being the most personal from the TIME interview was “How is Liza’s cooking?” Gregory chuckled at this memory. Liza had been his wife for 40 years now. It would be their anniversary in two days. Or perhaps one day. He had no gauge of elapsed time wherever he was now, so for all he knew, it could have passed. Boy, he thought, I’m certainly going to catch hell when I get home. As bothered as he was by the odd circumstances he found himself in presently, he found comfort in the memory of his wife and children. Him and Liza had married in the summer of 1992. Thomas was born in 1993, Germane was born in 1995, and the third one was born in ‘98. “The third one, what was her name?” he thought. “Rose, that’s right Rose! Wait, no…it’s not Rose, it’s…Rose…no…Rose…why does that name keep coming back to me?”

    Gregory was troubled by the fact that he couldn’t remember his daughter’s name, but also plagued by the absent face for the ever-familiar name Rose. Perhaps it was one of his son’s wives, as they were both now married with children of their own. Thomas was married to Eva, and the other one…it happened again. Now he had forgotten his son’s name as well. Gregory feverishly tore at all the annals of his mind to find the name, but all that kept appearing was Rose. Slowly it began to overtake him. His two sons Rose and Rose, his daughter Rose, his wife Rose, his company Rose Enterprises. Everything became Rose.

    He was torrid with frustration now. Who was Rose? What was happening? Did he ever even know a Rose in his lifetime? His lifetime, which to him now felt so separate from his present situation, like a desolate ship drifting farther and farther from an abandoned shore. Rose…Rose…Rose…

    Gradually, the memory took hold of him. He felt himself grow weaker, a slave to the misty visage of the past playing out in his mind’s eye.

    September 23, 1984. Gregory was just 19 years old then. No wife, no kids, no major corporation, just a free-wheeling college kid. It was the prime of his life. The night air was cold. Not terribly cold, but just that little chill that the air gives to remind you that it’s there. He shuddered a tad. He pulled at the sleeves of his jacket, and rubbed the material violently to kill the nipping breeze. Gregory was walking along the sidewalk with a grin. Everything was finally starting to clear up. Gloria, his girlfriend of 3 months, had committed suicide 2 weeks ago, leaving a note to him, saying that “I really thought I loved you.”. He didn’t seem too bothered by the whole ordeal, so the entire community said he was in shock, and needed to be treated with extra courtesy and care. This was fine by him. He’d always been fairly attractive, but now he had the ultimate attraction factor. Chicks love to feel important, he figured, to feel like they’re special. They want to be the one that pulls a guy back from the edge of destruction. So he played up the dead girlfriend bit, and got himself quite a few nights out. Tonight was the night with Rose Viergo. He was particularly excited for this one. All the others had been sluts, 19 or 20, and as he thought “…the kind of dumb bitches who started screwing at 13, and were all worn out by this age”. No, this one was good, he said. Little blonde, sixteen years old, totally innocent.

    She had seen him on the television, as the circumstances of Gloria’s death had been so peculiar for the small college town that it made the nightly news. Gloria had hung herself naked, her body covered in bruises and gashes. They had interviewed Gregory, to see if he knew the motives. He said he didn’t, and that his life would be so empty without Gloria. Rose said she cried when she heard that. They’d corresponded by mail for a few days, a letter a day, and had arranged to meet up. This would be her first date with an older boy, Rose wrote, so she wasn’t sure how to dress. Gregory told her it wouldn’t matter, that a girl as cute as her could look good in a burlap sack.

    He was very formal in his letters. He wanted to come off as mature and sophisticated. She told him she intended to sneak out of her house by saying she was sleeping over at a friend’s place. She knew her parents wouldn’t let her go out with Gregory. They didn’t trust older boys, but she knew in her heart that Gregory was different.

    They met up that night under a bridge on the edge of town. She scurried up to him, in a pink blouse and skirt. It looked hand made. Christ, she looked like she stepped out of a god-damned John Hughes movie, he thought to himself. She looked up at him, her dewy blue eyes gleaming with joy. “So where are we going? I thought a movie would be fun.” she said sweetly. Gregory leaned in to kiss her, he kissed her cheek, and she blushed intensely. He started to move down her neck, and she pushed him back.

    “Aw, look, you’re not gonna be that way, are you, baby?” Gregory said, his voice carrying that ever-false tone of affection. “Listen, Gregory, I really like you, but can’t we do something else for now?” Rose said, sheepishly. “Hey, look, it’s a nice night, let’s spend it right.” Gregory tossed out whimsically, a last ditch effort at playing nice. “But Greg, I’m not really…I don’t do that kind of thing. I’m kind of a…” “What?” he said, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it anyway.
“It’s embarrassing. You‘ll think I‘m a little girl.”
“No, I won’t.”
“It sounds stupid.”
“Stop worrying about it. Just tell me.”
“I’m a virgin.”
“Well, what better night than tonight?”

    With this Gregory grabbed her, pressed her body up against his. He feverishly kissed her, as his hand sashayed  up under the back of her blouse unhooking her bra. “No, Greg, stop.” she muttered, trying to break free. Greg pulled back, his hands on her arms, pushing them at her side. “Stop it, Greg, your hurting me!” Greg stared at her, the animalistic passion in his eyes covered in a sheet of rage. “Listen, you better play along. Don’t be like the last little bitch. Glad she’s fucking dead. Wasn’t any good to me. I wanted to give it to her, but she didn’t want it. One of those kinds, you know? Yeah, your not gonna be one of those kinds, are you? No, your not. Yeah, I kept trying. I waited three fucking months, and all I got was a couple of photos with some dumb bitch for my troubles. One night, I figured I’d try and surprise her. Figured if I caught her off guard, maybe she’d go for it. I climbed into her dorm room window, popped in and said “Hey baby, how about it?” You know what she did? The God-damned whore told me to get out. So I showed her what happens if your rude to me. Now, you’re not gonna be rude to me, are you Rose? No, ‘cause then I’d have to knock you around like I knocked her around.” Rose was terrified now, tears streaming down her cheeks, the smell of urine rising up into the crisp night air as it trickled down her leg, tickling the ground in droplets.

    “You killed her?” she stuttered out, a mix of fear and nausea coming out through the chattering teeth. “No, the dumb bitch did that herself. Stripped herself down, cut up her own body. All after I left, of course. Can you believe I never saw her tits till after she was dead. I know, bullshit, right? Now, you’re not gonna be that way, are you Rose? You’re not, are you?” Rose started to answer. She would’ve done it, she would’ve done anything to get away. But Gregory cut her off. “I know you’re not. You know how I know you’re not gonna be that way? ‘Cause I got this.” Greg pulled out a butterfly knife from his back pocket and flipped it open. “Now, we’re gonna play a little game. I’m gonna ask you a question, and if you answer right, I don’t kill your ass right now. Ready? I said are you ready?!” He slapped her across the face. She sobbed as she nodded. “Ok. What did you do with the letters I sent you?” Rose couldn’t stand it, she yelled with all of her might, but the only response was the echo under the bridge. Gregory laughed heavily at this, knowing no one was around to hear her. She seemed to know it too, so she answered, stammering away in between tears and coughs.

“I burned them.”
“All of them?”
“All except one.”

    “Well, you better hope you kept the right one, or else your folks are gonna get a friendly visit tonight too. And you don’t want that, now do you?” She shook her head. Her sobs got louder as Gregory sliced her clothing off. He cut the blouse open with his knife, an impressive display of finesse and precision, and if there had been anyone around that night, they would’ve barely heard the screams, so muffled were they by the maniacal, child-like laughter of Gregory Samson.

    Rose Viergo is mentioned in Gregory’s official biography. After Rose Viergo’s body was found flayed open and mutilated underneath a bridge, her father raided her room in hopes of finding any clues as to why this happened. There was nothing. Her room was just as normal as ever, school books on the floor, socks hanging out of the drawer in the corner, stuffed animals lining the bed, and on the desk was a letter from that kid from the news she’d written to.

“Dear Rose Viergo,

Thank you very much for your concern over my well being. You’re a very sweet, and caring young girl, and you seem to have a bright future ahead of you someday. Perhaps, years down the line, we’ll meet in person, and I’ll have the opportunity to thank you face-to-face for your compassion and understanding in my time of need. I’m sure you’ll make some lucky boy very happy one day.

Sincerely,
Gregory Samson”

    Mr. Viergo sent a letter to Gregory informing him of his daughter’s passing, and invited him to speak at the funeral. He obliged, and gave a touching eulogy, the content of which was later published in a special issue of Life magazine Gregory had put out to memorialize the 10th anniversary of the tragedy. The killer was never found. It is also believed that Mr. Viergo kept the letter that Gregory had written to Rose until the day he died, and read it every night as he cried himself to sleep.

    All these memories Gregory had kept locked away for years, they all came rushing back. Rose, Mr. Viergo, the funeral, the bridge. They all came back, like the sharp pain of a wound as the anesthesia of repression wore off. No longer did he view speaking at the funeral with the pride of a young man who fooled the world, but as a grieving father, who lost the only light in his life. All the while, Gregory stared out into the abyss, looking for something, anything. Anything to take his mind off of his epiphanic delirium. But there was nothing. Just emptiness, the color bleak. He screamed and cried, but there was no one around to hear him. The sound died as soon as it was uttered, no echo, no reverberation. It was silent, there in the nothingness. But his head was raging with agony. Rose’s sobs and screams, they kept getting louder and louder. He wished there was some outside noise, something that could distract him, but there was nothing. Nothing could save him from himself. His self-inflicted suffering had begun. He could feel guilt creeping over him, like he was slowly drowning. And then he knew where he was. All of a sudden, it all came together, like all the walls in the prison of his mind collapsing, and every thought exploded in a collision of clarity and insanity. And though he knew it was useless, he screamed at the top of his lungs. Gregory Samson dropped to his knees, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

    The news teams all clambered around the cylindrical chamber, next to which Dr. Thomas Samson stood, the media’s new American Darling since his father’s tragic passing from cancer in 2033. His death was declared a national day of mourning, and his birthday, November 24th, is now a national holiday, complete with mattress sales, crappy T.V. specials, and children off from school.

    But today was a historic day. Right before he died, Gregory made a grandiose speech promising he would cryogenically freeze himself, and come back to life with a smile on his face to tell the whole world what death was like. He also promised he would visit precious Gloria and Rose on the other side, and tell them how much the world mourns for them. This speech was then translated into 24 different languages and broadcasted world-wide, both the day after and on the anniversary every year. 20 years had passed since that day, and many books, songs, films, and even a full opera were composed in speculation of what the day might be like. Finally, it was here.

    Thomas lacked the silver-tongued style his father had, so rather than speak, he unveiled the cryogenic chamber, and hit a few buttons, saying he would let his father speak for himself. But rather than the smiling face of the always-young-looking man the world adored, the chorus of cameramen and correspondents were treated to the sight of a old, worn out creature whose first breath of new life was used to weep. He stumbled from the chamber, only to drop to his knees, and after a moment of heavy sobbing, was silent. His son put his hands on his frail father’s shoulders, and tried to comfort him. Then the inevitable question was asked.

“Mr. Samson, what’s on the other side?”

    Gregory stammered, tears filling his mouth as they trailed down his wrinkled, weary face. His voice was almost inaudible, and he was rattling off word after word, in a tone which sounded almost apologetic. Everyone was confused, and almost terrified by this display, but even more so by what happened afterwards.

    Gregory Samson stopped speaking, as if he’d only just then realized the question. His head rose up slowly, wide eyed and awe-struck, terrified and still. His face was devoid of all emotion, and he spoke softly, but plainly and clearly. Gregory Samson was ready to make his announcement to the world. The reporter repeated himself. “Mr. Samson, what’s on the other side?”

“Nothing.” he said. “There’s nothing.”

“O, Death. O, Death
Won't you spare me over til another year
Well what is this that I can't see
With ice cold hands takin' hold of me
Well I am death, none can excel
I'll open the door to heaven or hell
Whoa, death someone would pray
Could you wait to call me another day”- Traditional Folk Hymn