The Midnight News 01.24.05

This ‘n’ that

Dear Chris, I am a fan/reader for a while. I also have emailed you many times and you have responded and printed some of my comments which were sent from my old school email address. If you want a gmail account, I can send you one, but I’m sure if you don’t have one by now you don’t want one and are sick of being asked.

Here’s the deal, I can send you an excerpt of the Howard Stern show (audio only) from a few days ago. They convinced Gary the Retard he could get the flu over the phone and gave him strict instructions on how to trick the flu and avoid it. Then…they call as the flu and harrasse him. Funny stuff. Not sure if it is too big of a file for your email, I’m not sure if yours or any email will take the file (6mb) but I can try or I can file transfer it. IM me at ***** if you wish.

Now here’s the favor. Please Mop Up the Surreal Life. Please. So many Chyna jokes plus a few hot women. Please. A model chick has sushi served literally on her, like in those crazy jap(anese) shows. Chyna said if she had a penis she would have a hard on. Which is funny cuz her sex video shows an extreme close up of what appears to be a penis wearing a bad clitoris disguise. Think of all the punch lines! You could fill a column up with Chyna jokes.

As a warning, Chyna’s nipple is hangin out for a good while but she’s idiotically stumbling which is funny. But, my brain hard to function watching her. It want to go away when she around.

Even if you don’t want to do a Mop Up, I understand how time consuming it is, I got the file for you if you wish.


No. I won’t be doing a Surreal Life Mop-Up anytime soon OR late.

And your meager pittance of an enticement is laughable. HOW ABOUT SOME MONEY, JERK!!!

Gah…. yer all cheap bastards.

You are a racist piece of shit. You are an asshole whole has no job, no girlfriend ( if you do, she’s probably fat and ugly) you are a piece of worthless HORSE MANURE!!!

Larry Tenelanda

I like how he emphasised MANURE but not shit….

If I didn’t have a job, how could I afford this high speed internet connection? Oh, right… my parents. But one of them is dead and the other one is dead to me… plus I’m like, WAY too old to be still living at home. Plus it’s GLARINGLY obvious that real life is keeping me from the high quality weekly columns that I used to do, like, ALL the time. Thus you’re ir8 logic is SKEWERED, perhaps driven by this blind rage you have at me.

And make up your mind, dude… am I racist or worthless… I simply canNOT be both.

Regarding various stuff in the column from two weeks ago…

Hey, I was in attendance at last nights RAW show in Toronto. It was just a normal show sitting over by a corner behind the camera view when I heard a dude down a row and about five seats over talking about 411. He kept telling people he was “Stephen Randle” (I don’t know what he looks like, just what he was saying) and he was an editor there. He asked all the people in his general viscinity if they went there or if they knew what it was.

After he said that I was intrigued and kept a partial eye on him the rest of the night.

– He was writing in this little notebook, about what I don’t know. Like play by play of the moves and keeping time of the matches because he kept looking at his watch.

– Like right after the Highlight Reel chant of “Y2J” started to die down he started yelling “Y2J” like 10 seconds later with his friend trying to start it again.

– He started talking to his friend when Randy Orton was beaten by Triple H outside the ring. He kept point at Orton and telling his friend to go down there
to get an interview or something then started yelling “DORKBOY … DORKBOY”

– When Trish was out he started screaming “SHOW YOUR TITS” with the person next to him and like swinging his hand in front of his waist like he was spanking

– During the last match he was on a cell phone giving play by play like REALLY REALLY loudly.

– When Austin’s glass-shattering music hit he jumped up like REALLY fast and tried to start a “3:16” chant with his friend that didn’t work. Then he scribbled
some more in his notebook.

Once again I don’t know what Randle looks like but if that was him he’s an idiot.

I know you probably can’t use this since you wouldn’t want to start something with a 411 editor person but I had to let someone know.

Keep up the good work

Derrick Drazah

….. oh for…

Ya know’…. I don’t go to wrestling shows, and there was a time, not too long ago, when I could’ve probably gotten backstage at a major wrestling show (Scoops was a powerful, POWERFUL site back in the day)… but I never did… and if I ever do… I would never… EVER walk around name dropping my own ass like some douchebag! NOR would I make a spectacle out of myself like that.

I’m quite sure Scooter Keith wouldn’t either. Dave Scherer would, sure. But that’s about it.

Here’s a teeny, tiny little piece of advice to ALL OF YOU NET WRITERS out there… ESPECIALLY in this day and age… you’re not cool. You’re not famous. You’re not popular. You’re not important. You’re just another f*cking asshole with a ticket. SIT THERE AND SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DON’T BE A DICKHEAD!!

And be sure to hold up a “Hyatte Rules” sign.

Now you all know why Widro didn’t recruit HIM… my… heh… 411 replacement.

Jet Li’s Chinese, you putz. Therefore, he wouldn’t be screaming “Bonzai!”. At least get your ethnic stereotypes right.

Jeff Ayers

You are a f*cking homo…….Downing wrestlers….

“Don’t take offense. It’s just a fact. While everyone else was busy getting educated, you were working your body, lifting your weights, and getting all buffed and ready to be a big time professional rassler. Getting in serious shape is a full time job. Things like getting smart must be sacrificed.”

All this from a guy who’s never taken a bump in his life and most likely can’t even bench his own body weight….Cry me a river, you bitter, f*cking pussy…



You must be a pissy wrestler all upset that I’m not honoring the… the… SACRED WORLD of professional graps. Unfortunately, all you did was PROVE what I was pointing out… that wrestlers, for the most part, do not see things for what they are… they JUMP THE GUN AND ASSUME SOMETHING ELSE!!

See, Mr. Iron Outlaw, the whole POINT of that segment wasn’t to “down” wrestlers…. it was to point out the utter STUPIDITY of leaving a paying… a PAYING wrestling gig on the ASSUMPTION that Vince McMahon will hire you… WITHOUT knowing for sure. Much like how YOU clearly glanced at the first few sentences and automatically ASSUMED the whole thing was a long knock on you boys.

In closing, Mr Iron Outlaw. I don’t know you, but all signs point to me being much smarter than you, so please read every word I write before going ballistic with the ir8 e-mails. You might end up agreeing with my logic!


Oh, and I HAVE taken a bump, you doofus… Christ Almighty… it’s called slipping on ice!

PLUS, Malice jumped back to TNA… probably at less pay then their final offer… looks like SOMEONE listened to me!! (okay, yeah, it’s a stretch… but a PLAUSIBLE one)

Hey prags. I’m Chris and this is the Midnight News! I bagged out last week because I always bag out. This is not new stuff. Not a single one of you should be surprised.

And we’re off and running…


Ellmo is a GIRL who helps me run the Inside Pulse forums.

Heh… Inside Pulse has forums?

Oh, right, we do. Ellmo promised me a deep, soft, wet kiss… ON the mouth… WITH tongue if I would kindly encourage many of you to join the forums and participate. It’s more than just stupid wrestling. We got TV, sports, music, comics, and lots of other things that you’ll enjoy gabbing about. Plus I show up from time to time and throw people out for reasons only I know of. So join the forum right now… it’s much cooler than those losers at TOA.

Oh, and Ellmo lives in Connecticut… one state away from me… no more than an hour drive… so it’s not like some girl living a billion miles away is promising me some kanoodling…. this one is right next door and she’s a hottie. Hyatte can always use some fresh hands on knob polishing detail… so hook a brother up. Please?


Relax, the high stacked rasslin’ news is coming in a second…

This weekend, New England, which is really just Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island (Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine can all suck my balls) was f*ckin’ NAILED IN THE VAGINA by a blizzard over the weekend…

And I shoveled.

And shoveled.

And shoveled some more…. like an animal… like a machine…. drifts that were 4 feet high in some spots…. monster drifts. Endless, HUGE drifts…

Sometimes, I took my jacket off because the… the HEAT from my throbbing, JACKED muscles was enough to keep me warm.

For hours I shoveled… all man…. non-stop…. endless stamina…. strength sent from God Himself!

Hyatte rules.

At some point during my shoveling, Flea called me to brag about how he ran up TWO WHOLE FLIGHTS of stairs and “Ah didn’t stop to take a breather once, Hi-Rate! Hyuck!!”

Again… the lesson being…. Hyatte rules.

Okay, so far I bragged about my own physical prowess and how I’ve managed to charm another girl into a low-form feeling of lust for me. Feeling insecure, Hyatte? You jag-off? Oy..


Unless I completely missed it, Erik Watts almost OD’d the other week and no one mentioned it until Meltzer casually dropped it during his TNA PPV recap… a week later.

I KNOW that no one at PW Insider reported it. And I also think that the good assholes at the Torch ignored it too.

IF this is the case, then these rasslin’ reporters can TRULY… TRULY go f*ck themselves… IF this is the sort of news that Meltzer refuses to post for FREE… instead saving it for the paying Observer customers, then he deserves to get AIDS injected in his penis and a tattoo saying “I like black penis” inked to his forehead.

This is something EVERYONE should know… regardless if they choose to buy a newsletter or not. Why? Because all these “reporters” are so devoted to focusing on the PURITY of professional wrestling (and how Triple H and Stephanie are SPOILING THE SANCTITY of the business with their own political wrong-doings) that they choose to HIDE the bad stuff away! And you wonder why there isn’t a real book about this business out there… no one wants to write it and get blackballed!


But once Meltzer let the secret out…. EVERYONE started to talk about it… over in the Torch, Pat McNeil (he’s the one who used to do wrestling themed online song parodys until I shamed him into stopping) devoted a full Newsletter column to how HORRIBLE the drug scene in the TNA locker room is and how that no good ignorant BITCH (my words, not his) Dixie Carter (ain’t she one of the Designing Women?) refuses to do anything about it! “PEOPLE ARE DYING!!” sez McNeil! “TNA WRESTLERS ARE SNORTING THEMSELVES INTO AN EARLY DEATH!!!” “THEY AREN’T GETTING HIGH ON BREATHTAKING SPOTS!! THEY ARE GETTING HIGH ON… ON… ON THE DOPE!!”

Yes, Pat McNeil took a stand and basically said, “Enough is enough and it’s time for TNA to clean themselves UP!!”

And all it took was the near death of Erik Watts to spurn this mini-outrage! (In due fairness, most people are more outraged that Watts still has a job in the business. The boy does suck HUGE and never showed a single SMIDGE of intention towards improving.), and I do mean mini. No one is REALLY raising hell. No one is REALLY screaming about this. After all, it’s only TNA. They’re hardly a promotion!

Hypocrites… the lot of you.

Yeah, by all means… keep the primary focus on the WWE and Triple H and Stephanie and the failed-yet-continued Rock push of Randy Orton and the championship run of that no-talent JBL and the downsizing of female wrtestlers and the increase of female eye candy and the constant ignoring of the cruiserweights and the unfair treatment of Rob Van Jericho and why Kurt Angle should die because he can’t do neck breaking moves anymore because he went ahead and broke his neck and the continued employment of Bob Holly and why is Viscera still allowed to work and why Ric Flair has to kiss Triple H’s ass because anyone who knows wrestling knows that Flair can’t possibly mean it! Yeah…. drugs in wrestling are BORING! LET’S FOCUS ON THE REAL NEWS!!!

Besides, the drug problem is ONLY confined to TNA. There is NO drugs in the WWE… oh no…. Vince runs a tight ship! In fact, before every show they have regular prayer meetings! Snitsky runs them! The WWE locker room is high, alright… they are HIGH ON GOD!!!

And those Divas? How do they stay so trim while working monster road tours? Just good diet and exercise. Yes indeedy!

Ya know… I’m writing this and it’s occuring to me that I’m raging against a silly machine. In a rare occurence, I actually see that I’m just pissing in the wind for the sake of pissing in the wind. What IF everyone jumped on top of this and there were in-depth reports and stones overturned and everyone who ever smoked a blunt in the business was outed? Would that stop anything? No it wouldn’t. WWE wrestlers probably need drugs just to keep their asses going on the schedule they have. Christ, they get ten days off at Christmas and a week off during Wretlemania. That’s pretty much it. The only time they REALLY get off is when they are injured, and on medication.

TNA guys, on the other hand, work one day a week… sometimes two… and get to work all the indy shows they want. THEY have no business doing drugs! How DARE THEY!! THIS IS AN INSULT TO THE PURITY OF THIS BUSINESS!!! WHERE’S DIXIE CARTER TO PUT A STOP TO THIS???

I personally think Triple H is the TNA guys primary supplier! He’s ALWAYS up to no good!

Well, at least wrestling is steroid free! Thank GOD the business has SOME scruples!

By the way, McNeil’s column was a good read… he’s done a million of them, one was BOUND to be decent! I read it for free too… PFFFFTH.


I was THISCLOSE to going to Tampa next weekend for the big WrestleReunion convention! Someone sent me the invite at last minute and I was damn close to getting there… but last minute shit is always a risky proposition. So I’m stuck here.

Damn shame too, because I’m due for a trip to Florida… got someone in Orlando who deserves to meet me. TWO people in fact… one of them is Flea… the other one doesn’t seem interested anymore, but oh well.

Plus I’d love to go if only to hunt down some other IWC f*ckfaces and see how big their mouths are with me in front of them. One asshole from Rick Scaia’s site has been BEGGING me for a bitchslap for a while now.

Plus Bruce Mitchell might be there… would’a loved to f*ck him up too.

Anywho, rather than go through the WHOLE GODDAMNED LINE-UP that would mean hours of cutting and pasting, I’ll just send you to the Wrestle Reunion website and by CHRIST, LOOK at that roster!

Good tickets ARE available! Guys… if you can, GO. Get there… hell or high water, GET THERE!

No, you don’t understand… it’s gonna be MORE than just autograph signings and Q & A forums and lame wrestling from brittle/fat old guys…. you have to read BETWEEN the lines here… you have to go for the UNSCHEDULED stuff…

-You have to go to see who no shows.

-You have to go to see who throws a hissy fits because the limo they were promised didn’t show up.

-You have to go to see who gets drunk and starts cussing out Vince McMahon.

-You have to go to see who refusesd to leave their hotel room because the check didn’t clear.

-You have to see who runs around asking everyone if they have any pot.

-You have to see who starts punching old bookers for not pushing them 20 years ago.

-You have to see which tough guy wrestler starts weeping because they’re broke.

-You have to see how slow Kevin Nash REALLY walks

-You have to see which old fart hits on their hottie bartender

-You have to see who takes extra-hard advantage of the free buffets.

-You have to find Flea (he’ll be at the bar) and ask “What’s Hyatte really like?”

-You have to keep badgering Flea with Hyatte questions and ignore Flea’a attempts to talk about himself.

-You have to get Flea to buy you a few rounds.

-You have to ask… well… THAT deserves it’s own section…


to Bill Apter:

-Were you the one who pretended to be Liz Hunter in PWI?

-How does Dusty’s cum taste?

-Did you ever have hair?

-You lied to me. I spent hundreds of dollars as a child on your magazines and they were all a f*cking work! I WANT MY CHILDHOOD BACK!!

-Do you have any testosterone?

-You’re a fag, right?

to Kevin Nash

-Can I borrow $20?

-I’m gonna shove a hockey stick up your son’s ass in front of you and laugh as you try to run after me, pokey!

-No two men are as tight as you and Hall without being gay for each other. So what’s the deal?

-How on EARTH did you piss away your last WWE run?

-How many stripper have you banged?

-What kind of sadist names his kid “Tristan”.

-Why can’t anyone find a single WWE wrestler other than HBK or HHH to say a nice thing about you.

-Can you even spell “workrate”?

-Hell, can you even spell “effort”?

to Bruno Sammartino

-No one outside of New York cares about you, why are you here?

-Who are you to not suck up to Vince? What makes you so special?

-Couldn’t you take your backhair off and throw it on your head? Homemade toupee, dude!

-Is it true that all Italians like the cock?

To Kevin Von Erich

-Didn’t you die?

-How many of you are left, anyway?

-Can we see both your feet? Me and my buddy have a bet that all the Von Erichs had missing feet.

-Your brother Mike died from toxic shock syndrome… which is a CHICK disease… isn’t that so embarassing?

-Isn’t it time you started bringing your boys into the business so the Von Erich death cycle can start fresh?

-Can you do some of those handstand push-ups you used to do? Perform for us, monkey-boy!

-Am I crazy or did your brother Kerry look like an albino black man?

To “the Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase

-If your so rich then why did I see you panhandling in Newark last week?

-Shouldn’t every rich white guy own a black man?

-Isn’t it highly conveinent that you “found God” only AFTER you spent the last 30 years whoring and boozing and partying and SINNING your baggy ass off?

-What does Patterson’s cum taste like?

-Why is your hair blonde and your beard black?

-You know you dress like a gay pimp, right?

to Wendi Rictor

-Holy crap, what happened to YOU?

-How fast were you going when you hit the wall?

-I heard you like tuna. What’s your stand on tuna?

-Do you crank call Cyndie Lauper and mock her for her downfall or is it the other way around?

-How was Lou Albano in the sack?

-Was it after you let Captain Lou mount you that you started appreciating tuna?

to Jake “The Snake” Roberts

-Aren’t you the REAL “Piper” these days?

-Shouldn’t you be in jail?

-If the cops come, how fast are you running!


-How do you maintain those amazing abs?

-Aren’t crack addicts supposed to be thin and svelte?

-How many promos have you cut in front of a judge?

-Ever stick that damn snake up a girl’s chooch just to see what happens?

-In one hand I’ve got a baggie filled with quality coke. In the other a baggie filled with non-dairy creamer. Dress up like Judy Garland and sing, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and one of the bags is yours!

Oh my… so many names… so many insulting questions to ask… I…

I’m gonna have to do one time only special Midnight News Thursday column to cover all this! It’s on, baby! Show up!


*Montpelier, Vermont is the only U.S. state capital without a McDonalds.*

And just like that, you’re already a little smarter than you were 3 seconds ago!

Hyatte LIVES to inform.

That canNOT be true! Who doesn’t like McDonalds? Why deprive those poor cold Montpelain faggots of the sort of high-fat death the rest of us fatasses devour on a daily… HOURLY basis???

And just because I feel like bragging…


*The record for most snowfall in a day was 78 inches. This was made on February 7, 1916 in Alaska.*

And if I was there, I would’ve shoveled it ALL out of my f*cking driveway!! SHIRTLESS!! RIPPED, BABY!!!!



Flea: Only three writers in the world have ever meant anything, Buy-Rate
Hyatte: Oh yeah, which ones?
Flea: Stephen King, George Orwell…
Hyatte: And?
Flea: (takes a long, drawn-out, desperate pull from his bong – followed by a nice, generous sip from his glass) and… whoever.
Hyatte: Whoever?
Flea: Yep
Hyatte: Who the f*ck is whoever?
Flea: When you know, then you’ll know


As anyone who doesn’t scroll right through these things know, I always try to introduce you readers to a new writer. Even previously successful ones who do not need my promotion are considered new here, because I know you idiots hardly read anything other than the Observer and Scooter Keith… marks.

Anywhoo, anyone who doesn’t scroll through these knows that I also like introducing new writers, if possible, through short story collections.

I like short story collections. Rather than invest heavy time and energy into a new writer’s full novel, the short story collection allows you to sample the writer through a bunch of quick, snappy tales. If you like what you read, you finish the book and head off to the bookstore for one of his/her full novels. If you decide you don’t care for the writer, you can toss the shorts aside and forget about them. It’s nice and easy.

Long-time readers also know that I enjoy exploring new themes. Clearly, the Mighty Hyatte does NOT keep his brilliant imagination and his never-ending thirst for new perpectives regulated to any one, single genre. I’ll read anything and thoughtfully encourage you to do the same.

So this time out, I’d like to profile the twist ending.

The twist ending is, as you probably can imagine, is a story that seems to be heading, no, FLYING into one direction and then makes an abrupt turn… or TWIST… and ends with the reader completely caught unaware. The writer builds his story to a conclusion that, while still gripping, seems readily apparent and logical and then BAM, ends in a way that makes the reader want to flip back to the beginning and look for the signs. It’s the classic bait and switch: you are lulled into one thing and then are jerked into something else. If done right, it can blow your mind. If done wrong, it makes you slap your head and groan at the absurdity.

Jeffery Deaver has made his living on twist endings.

I have heard of Jeffery Deaver only through seeing his name on a lot of books at the bookstore. I also know that he wrote the book, The Bone Collector
that was made into a movie with Denzel Washington as a paralyzed criminal scientist, but I never picked up any of his books. I tend to read enough crime novels. I like to mix up my genres, as I have already stated.

Deaver’s been around for a while and has just under 20 books published. I’m sure some of you have read him. Perhaps you have all of his books, perhaps just a couple. It doesn’t matter. He was new to me and now I’m a fan… I think.

See, the book I’ve chosen is Twisted. It’s a collection of short stories, 16 in all, that showcases Deaver’s specialty: the surprise ending, the bait and switch, the twist. They all involve crime-minded themes: good guys and bad guys (or girls), violence, evil-schemes, dark actions. They are mysteries, but not exactly “Whodunits”, Deaver is more about “Whodidwhatandwhy”. He knows how to create solid, if not sort of cliche characters, he is well-schooled at the art of plot building and narrative flow. Deaver doesn’t know how to drag a story along. He can plot and pace with snap, and his twists are always logical. They make sense. He doesn’t pull twist ending out from his ass. In short, the guy knows what he’s doing.

Yet, the problem with a collection of twist endings are that once you find the groove, the twists start becoming more and more predictable.

Still, the short story collection is the best way to discover a new writer. And Twisted gives you plenty of different scenarios to let you sample Jeffery Deaver’s work. The excerpt I’m going to use for this entry is pretty straight forward, it’s the first few pages from the very first story. It’s called Without Jonathan and it’s about a woman on her way to her first date after the death of her husband. The excerpt runs covers the entire table that Deaver sets up, right up until he jerks the tablecloth away and everything goes flying.

Marissa Cooper turned her car onto Route 232, which would take her from Portsmouth to Green Harbor; twenty miles away.

Thinking: This was the same road that she and Jonathan had taken to and from the mall a thousand times, carting back necessities, silly luxuries and occasional treasures.

The road near which they’d found their dream house when they’d move to Maine seven years ago.

The road they’d taken to go to their anniversary celebration last May.

Tonight, though, all those memories led to one place: her life without Jonathan.

The setting sun behind her, she steered through the lazy turns, hoping to lose those difficult – but tenacious – thoughts.

Don’t think about it!

Look around you, she ordered herself. Look at the rugged scenery: the slabs of purple clouds hanging over the maple and oak leaves – some gold, some red as a heart.

Look at the sunlight, a glowing ribbon draped over the along the dark pelt of hemlock and pine. At the absurd line of cows, walking single file in their spontanious day-end commute back to the barn.

At the stately white spires of a small village tucked five miles off the highway.

And look at you: a thirty-four year-old woman in a sprightly silver Toyota, driving fast, toward a new life.

A life without Jonathan.

Twenty minutes later she came to Dannerville and braked for the first of the town’s two stoplights. As her car idled, clutch in, she glanced to her right. Her heart did a little thud at what she saw.

It was a store that sold boating and fishing gear. She’d notice in the window an ad for some kind of marine engine treatment. In this part of coastal Maine you couldn’t avoid boats. They were tourist paintings and photos, on mugs, T-shirts and key chains. And, of course, there were thousands of the real things everywhere: vessels in the water, on trailers, in dry dock, sitting in front yards – the New England version of pick-up trucks on blocks in the rural South.

But what had struck her hard was that the boat pictured in the ad she was now looking at was a Chris-Craft. A big one, maybe thirty-six or thirty-eight feet.

Just like Jonathan’s boat. Nearly identical, in fact: the same colors, the same configuration.

He’d bought his five years ago, and though Marissa thought his interest in it would flag (like that of any boy with a new toy) he’d proved her wrong and spent nearly every weekend on the vessel, cruising up and down the coast, fishing like an old cod deckhand. Her husband would bring home the best of his catch, which she would clean and cook up.

Ah Jonathan…

She swallowed hard and inhaled slowly to calm her pounding heart. She –

A honk behind her. The stoplight had changed to green. She drove on, trying desperately to keep her mind from speculating about his death: The Chris-Craft rocking unsteadily in the turbulent gray Atlantic. Jonathan overboard. His arms perhaps flailing madly, his panicked voice perhaps crying for help.

Oh Jonathan…

Marissa cruised through Dannerville’s second light and continued toward the coast. In front of her she could see, in the last of the sunlight, the skirt of the Atlantic, all that cold, deadly water.

The water responsible for life without Jonathan.

Then she told herself: No. Think about Dale instead,

Dale O’Banion, the man she was about to have dinner with in Green Harbor; the first time she’d been out with a man in a long while.

She’d met him through an ad in a magazine. They’d spoken on the phone a few times and, after considerable waltzing around on both their parts, she’d felt comforable enough to suggest meeting in person. They’d settle on the Fishery, a popular restaurant on the wharf.

Dale had mentioned the Oceanside Cafe, which had better food, yes, but that was Jonathan’s favorite place; she just couldn’t meet Dale there.

So, the Fishery it was.

She thought back to their phone conversation last night. Dale had said to her, “I’m tall and pretty well built, little balding up top.”

“Okay, well,” she’d replied nervously, “I’m five-five blonde, and I’ll be wearing a purple dress.”

Thinking about those words now, thinking how that single exchange typified single life, meeting people you’d met only over the phone.

She had no problem with dating. In fact she was looking forward to it, in a way. She’d met her husband when he was just graduating from medical school and she was twenty-one. They’d gotten engaged almost immediately; that’d been the end of her social life as a single woman. But now she’d have some fun. She’d meet interesting men, she’d begin to enjoy sex again.

Even if it was work at first, she’d try to just relax. She’d try not to be bitter, try not to be too much of a widow.

But even as she was thinking this her thoughts went somewhere else: Would she ever fall in love again?

The way she’d once been so completely in love with Jonathan?

And would anybody love her completely?

At another red light Marissa reached up and twisted the mirror toward her, glanced into it. The sun was now below the horizon and the light was dim but she believed she passed the rearview-mirror test with flying colors: full lips, a wrinkless face reminiscent of Michelle Pfeiffer’s (in a poorly lit Toyota accessory, at least), a petite nose.

Then, too, her bod was slim and pretty firm, and, though she knew her boobs wouldn’t land her on the cover of the latest Victoria’s Secret catalogm she had a feeling that, in a pair of nice, tight jeans, her butt’d draw some serious attention.

At least, in Portsmouth, Maine.

Hell, yes, she told herself, she’d find a man who was right for her.

Somebody who could appreciate the cowgirl within her, the girl whose Texas grandfather had taught her to ride and shoot.

Or maybe she’d find somebody who’d love her acedemic side – her writing and poetry and her love of teaching, which had been her job just after college.

Or somebody who could laugh with her – at movies, at sights on the sidewalk, at funny jokes and dumb ones. How she loved laughing (and how little of it she’d done lately).

Then Marissa Cooper thought: No, wait, wait… She’d find a man whio loved everything about her.

But then the tears started and she pulled off to the road quickly, surrendering to the sobs.

“No, no, no…”

She forced the images of her husband out of her mind.

The cold water, the gray water…

Five minutes later she’d calm down. Wiped her eyes dry, reapplied makeup and lipstick.

She drove into downtown Green Harbor and parked in a lot near the shops and restaurants, a half-block from the wharf.

A glance at the clock. It was just six-thirty. Dale O’Banion had told her that he’d be working until about seven and would meet her at seven-thirty,

She’d come to town early to do some shopping – a little retail therapy. After that she’d go to the restaurant to wait for Dale O’Banion. But then she wondered uneasily if it would be all right if she sat in the bar by herself and have a glass of wine.

The she said to herself sternly, What the hell’re you thinking? Of course it’d be all right. She could do anything she wanted. This was her night.

Go on girl, get out there. Get started on your new life.


Unlike upscale Green harbor, fifteen miles south, Yarmouth, Maine is largely a fishing and packing town and, as such, is studded with shacks and bungalows whose occupants prefer transport like F-150s and Japanese half-tons. SUVs too, of course.

But just outside of town is a cluster of nice houses set in the woods on a hillside overlooking the bay. The cars in these driveways are Lexuses and Acuras mostlyand the SUVs here sport leather interiors and GPS systems and not, unlike their downtown neighborsm rude bumper stickers or Jesus fish.

The neighborhood even has a name: Cedar Estates.In his tan coveralls Joseph Bingham now walked up the driveway of one of these houses glancing at his watch He double-checked the address to make sure he had the right house then rang the bell. A moment later a pretty woman in her late thirties opened the door. She was thin, her hair a little frizzy, and even through the screen door she smelled of alcohol. She wore skintight jeans and a white sweater.


“I’m with the cable company.” He showed her the ID. “I have to reset your converter boxes.”

She blinked. “The TV?”

“That’s right.”

“They were working yesterday.” She turned to look hazily at the gray glossy rectangle of the large set in her living room. “Wait, I was watching CNN earlier: It was fine.”

“You’re only getting half the channels you’re supposed to. The whole neighborhood is. We have to reset them manually.Or I can reschedule if -“

“Naw, it’s okay. Don’t wanta miss COPS. Come on in,”

Joseph walked inside, felt her eyes on him. He got this a lot. His career wasn’t the best in the world and he wasn’t classically good looking but he was in great shape – he worked out every day – and he’d been told “exuded” some kind of masculine energy. He didn’t know about that. he liked to think he just had a lot of self-confidence.

“You want a drink?” she asked.

“Can’t on the job.”



Joseph in fact wouldn’t have minded a drink. But this wasn’t the place for it. Besides, he was looking forward to a nice glass of spicy Pinot Noir after he finished here, It often surprised people that somebody in his line of work liked – and knew about – wines.

“I’m Barbara.”

“Hi, Barbara.”

She led him through the house to each of the cable boxes, sipping her drink as she went, She was drinking straight bourbon, it seemed.

“You have kids,” Joseph said, nodding at the picture of two young children on a table in the den. “They’re great, aren’t they?”

“If you like pests,” she muttered.

He clicked the buttons on the cable box and stood up. “Any others?”

“Last box’s in the bedroom. Upstairs. I’ll show you. Wait…” She went off and refilled her glass. Then joined him again. Barbara led him up the stairs and paused at the top of the landing. Again, she looked him over.

“Where are your kids tonight?” he asked.

“The pests’re at the bastard’s,” she said, laughing sourly at her own joke, “We’re doing the joint custody thing, my ex and me.”

“So you’re all alone alone here in this big house?”

“Yeah. Pity, huh?”

Joseph didn’t know if it was or not. She definitely didn’t seem pitiful.

“So,” he said, “which room’s the box in?” They’d stall in the hallway.

“Yeah. Sure. Follow me,” she said, her voice low and seductive.

In the bedroom she sat on the unmade bed and sipped the drink. He found the cable box and pushed the “on” button of the set.

It crackeled to life. CNN was on.

“Could you try the remote?” he said, looking around the room.

“Sure,” Barbara said groggily. She turned away and, as soon as she did, Joseph came up behind her with the rope that he’d just taken from his pocket. He slipped it around her neck and twisted it tight, using a pencil for leverage. A brief scream was stifled as her throat closed up and she tried desperately to escape, to turn, to scratch him with her nails. The liquor soaked the bedspread as the glass fell to the carpet and rolled against the wall.

In a few minutes, she was dead.

Joseph sat beside the body, catching his breath, Barbara had fought surprisingly hard. It had taken all his strength to keep her pinned down and let the garrote do its job.

He pulled on the latex gloves and wiped away whatever prints he’d left in the room. Then he dragged Barbara’s body off the bed and into the center of the room. He pulled her sweater off, undid the button of her jeans.

But then he paused. Wait. What was his name supposed to be?

Frowning, he thought back to his conversation last night,

What’d he call himself?

Then he nodded. That’s right. He’d told Marissa Cooper his name was Dale O’Banion. A glance at the clock. Not even seven p.m. Plenty of time to finish up here and get to Green Harbor, where she was waiting and the bar had a decent Pinot Noir by the glass.

He unzipped Barbara’s jeans then started tugging then down to her ankles.

Uh oh… that Marissa chick is in deeeep trouble! She can sure pick’em, eh?

But NOTHING here is what it seems. That’s why it’s called a TWIST ending.

This story had the best twist. One that caught the reader (me) totally off-guard and properly set the table for the other 15 shorts Deaver stuck in here. Stories such as:

-a New York shrink dealing with an unstable patient

-a beautiful cover-girl being stalked

-a man who’s true love is being kept from him by her powerful father.

-a mystery set in Shakespearean times, featuring the Bard himself. (rather boring tale, actually)

-a man convinced his wife is cheating on him.

-and an irate father hunting down his daughter’s deranged stalker.

Some of the stories are balls-out terrific, the twists are sharp and logical without being predictable. Others, however, are pretty clear once you get a few pages in.

In fact, the only major problem I have with this book is that once you understand that every one of these stories will have a twist, you become familiar with the pace and the build-up Deaver sets, and you find yourself figuring out the only plausible twists before you get to them. A few times I had it all figured out. Once you get into the groove, you probably will too.

So then just enjoy them for the stories. Just read the thing and nevermind how brilliant you are for figuring out what happened before the last page. That, in itself, is half the fun here anyway.

Twisted by Jeffery Deaver. Another solid way to introduce yourself to a new author, if you’re into crime/mysteries.

My name is Chris Hyatte and I will rape your momma if it’ll MAKE YOU READ!!!


So there I was, minding my own beeswax, when out of nowhere:

Wayne8223 (2:07:08 AM): any chance I could get you to take a look at a forum that Crucial and I made?
Hyatte1com (2:07:39 AM): 18 words and about 7 of them made any sense to me

Wayne8223 (2:08:12 AM): Would you be so kind as to check out a forum Crucial and I made?
Wayne8223 (2:08:14 AM): is that better?
Hyatte1com (2:08:30 AM): no. who is crucial, who are you
Hyatte1com (2:08:39 AM): and why am I involved?

Wayne8223 (2:08:57 AM): Crucial posts over at Inside Pulse, and I used to be over at 411 till it sucked all kinds of ass
Wayne8223 (2:09:44 AM): after all we are dirty together
Hyatte1com (2:09:45 AM): and you are?

And that was the last I heard of him.

People…. please leave me ALONE! I am WAAAAAAY too busy for this sort of nonsense.

And way too important too, if you must know. Jesus… don’t you people realize that I’m here for (rapidly diminishing) name recognition alone and do NOT involve myself with any day to day stuff?



Whenever we talk, I can always count on Flea to give his opinions on just about anything. And those opinions are usually extremely fascinating to listen to. It also allows me to go to the toilet or something while he lectures on.

So, I decided to grab a pen and paper and start jotting down his thoughts. Everyone likes Flea.

The following is 100% true… more or less:


Oriental Americans?

They’re still Oriental. All America did was teach them how to use their middle finger.

Flea: Making sense in his own goddam way.


I, for one, am so sick and tired of HHH bashing. Thus, I give you this ongoing gimmick.

Every week, I shall list one good thing Triple H has done that makes him a much better person than YOU, John Q. Toecheese, who has never done anything for anyone… and probably a fan of Fusion too, you PERVERT!!

Triple H Is Better Than You Because…

He has the balls to single-handidly bring back the mullet… the NEW mullet for the NEW millenium


But seriously, and for CHRIST’ SAKES…. what the HELL is he doing with his hair?? The frig IS that style???


Okay, I got some stuff to work with now. Thanks to all who pitched in. Keep them coming. I still need submissions… but thanks to those who pitched in.

See if you can spot the secret magic word in this week’s line-up… here’s a hint… think BOOK-ENDS!

01): Gorilla, what’s with you naming all the body parts?

I happen to have a knowledge about it. Why don’t you try it?

(Skinner kicks a wrestler in the stomach)

There’s a kick to the uterus.– Bobby Heenan and Gorilla Monsoon

02): My strategy? You see that? That’s a beer belly – by lowering my center of gravity, it makes it hard for a man to throw me over the top rope. That’s Stone Cold Steve Austin’s strategy!– Austin: Raw ’02

03): Stephanie, do you like wrestling or do you prefer being just a bitch backstage?– Sign in the audience

I don’t appreciate that question and I would like to slap whoever wrote that!– Stephanie McMahon

I think it was Michael Cole– Bradshaw

4) Sit down Aunt Jemima before I send Uncle Ben after you!– Jerry Lawler to a black lady about Junkyard Dog: GWF TV ’90

05): Look, we got nothing against Dusty Rhodes. Just ’cause Ric Flair can’t stand the man, Arn Anderson can’t stand the man, Ole Anderson can’t stand the man, and I can’t stand the man doesn’t mean we mean him any ill will! Tully Blanchard: NWA TV ’86

06): I’m all about fiscal responsibility, Micheal Cole! Ask anyone. Well, don’t ask anyone from ECW!– Paul Heyman: Insurrexion ’01

07): You knew if I was on the card I was gonna give you 100%, no matter how drunk, how hungover I was! – Kevin Nash as Arn Anderson during the infamous NWO “Horsemen” skit

08): And introducing first, standing at an impressive four feet tall and coming from his mother-in-law’s basement! Chris Candido! And his partner… a hard core legend in every male lockeroom across the country. And she’s actually clean and sober for once… Tammy Lynn Sytch!– Lance Storm: ECW ’98

09): Sid is the World Wrestling Federation’s most expensive piece of luggage, because we’ve got guys like me, and other WWF superstars carrying him HERE, and carrying him THERE!– Shawn Michaels on commentary during the Bret/Sid Title match.

10): Ric Flair is out there crying, his nose is running. He’s probably drowning from the size of his nose running.– Roddy Piper

11): I get up early and do a plebeian thing like do the dishes from last night. I’ve gone from wrestling champion to Japanese houseboy.– Lou Thesz

12): Just because your knee is messed up doesn’t mean your uterus isn’t still open for business!– Trish Stratus: last week’s Raw

HA! And just like that, Stratus took the crowd into her hand.

And you people WONDER why I fawn over her… doesn’t matter whether she ad-libbed that line or not… she SOLD IT!

If she ever masters the art of a true heel, angry, vicious promo, she really will be the greaest female wrestler ever. Oh hell, she’s there already.

I wonder if she re-signed yet.

And last but not least…


When he’s not out doing… whatever it is that he does, and when he’s not posting on his Blog, Joshua Grutman can be seen online and in real life, talking to girls and looking for the fabled “one”.

Well, I feel it is my duty, as a writer with a high, HIGH female audience (I mean a LOT of girls read this… not that my female readers get high before reading this… although some of them might, from the way some of them act it wouldn’t surprise me one f*ckin’ bit), to let any prospective Grut dater just who Josh Grutman is.

Or perhaps this is a warning… I’m not sure.

I don’t know ALL that much about Josh, other than he’s a big time Jew and tends to over-react whenever his intentions are questioned (boy’s threatened to leave the net 4 times over silly stuff)… but there is something I know about him… soemthing that will give you ladies a GLIMPSE… a PEAK into his inner-workings

Josh Grutman has NO respect for libraries or the good people who work in them.

Nope, he doesn’t. He sees the Library as a joke. A way to score free books to keep! He never brings them back. He never returns them. He spits on the fines. He eats jelly donuts while reading a library book and wipes his mouth with the pages. Then he’ll take the book to the toilet and use the pages as toilet paper… EVEN WHEN THERE ARE PLENTY OF ROLLS!!

Grutman thinks librarians are overpaid. He thinks the Dewey Decimal system is a joke. He can’t be bothered to learn it when he can just drag some poor librarian away from children in wheelchairs and MAKE her find his book for him.

Grutman’s mission is to piddle on every shrub next to every library in the continental United States.

Grutman thinks Libraries are Anti-American and are secretly responsible for the Kennedy murder, the Reagan Administration, and 9/11.

Oh he may PRETEND to respect the American Library… but he wants them gone. Dead. Eradicated.

He’s also a pretty good writer… HELLO IRONY!!

So, if you share the same feelings about libraries as Josh Grutman, and you are a girl. Look him up. You have something in common!

And if you happen to be a proud, upstanding, value-minded, CARING, HARDWORKING, DECENT, SELFLESS MEMBER OF THE LIBRARIAN COMMUNITY and happen to meet Mr. Grutman… beware, he despises all you hold dear…. and mocks you behind your back!

Hyatte, on the other hand, loves libraries, librarians, and all they stand for. Thank you.

This has been a public service announcement from Hyatte: Hero to the Librarian! God bless you all!

And with that little inside joke that maybe 5 people got… I’m done for the week. Next week… well…

Man, now Grutman has a journal/blog of his own. EVERYONE has one! Not me… oh no… that is the one line I will NOT cross! The line is drawn at a daily blog. No f*cking way… I…. utterly…. f*cking… REFUSE!!!

‘sides, I got nothing to say anyway. I have no daily observations and ruminations that I feel you people HAVE to hear.

Next week there will be NO Quotes: Movie or otherwise, NO Flea, NO fun facts, NO box office reports, NO gossip, NO news and NO AIM chats….

But there will be a column…. a special edition of the Midnight News. See, it’s the Royal Rumble so I’m going to go retro… or maybe old school… I dunno which fits here.

Next week, The Royal Rumble Mop-Up.

And it’s gonna be ugly. Foul and ugly. Angry and foul and ugly. And maybe even funny.

Shit’s gonna go down mean, yo. I’ll be in a bad mood. Expect rage.

R.I.P Johnny Carson… the man merely set the standard for talk shows. And no matter what was happening in the world, when Johnny’s show came on, you knew we would be all right. I’ll bring back “Hyatte-Yak” one day soon to pay proper homage.

I’m sure Eric will have a more fitting eulogy of his own in his column.


This is Hyatte