MASTER BAITER

I was drawing miku to gabber!!

This idea was revealed to me in a dream and a sleep deprived conversation with a friend

Brain Curd #13

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction, posted daily and usually written with the intention of being terrible… in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is The Frank Program.” The middle-aged balding man took a swig out of his flask - a cocktail of Red Bull and whiskey. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, already stained. “Today, we have a special guest who requires no introduction, Mr. Chuck Tangent. Welcome to the show, sir.”

“Are you entirely sure I need no introduction?”

“Well, o’course not. You’re the wealthiest man in America.”

“Wealthiest man on Earth.”

“Same difference.”

“I hope to be the wealthiest man on Mars, soon, as well.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. I’ve hired the brightest engineers on this planet to design a spacecraft that is also an all-terrain sports car that runs on nuclear fusion.”

“How’s that going?”

“It’s a tall order, to be sure, but I’m a confident enough inventor to know that if I tell them what to do loudly enough, they will deliver.”

“Alrighty.” Frank adjusted himself in his seat, and it squeaked underneath him. “So tell me, Mars Man, what are you doing now in this world?”

“Right now, I’m really focused on my political ambitions. I’m running for president, as you know.”

“Certainly.”

“I think, in this country, we have a problem when it comes to our fundamental rights. For example, and I don’t think this is controversial, but I could be wrong (God knows I’ve had people try to cancel me before) - I should not need to disclose my political campaign donations. Okay? That’s a matter of privacy. That’s free speech. And what I say with my money is between me and about twenty-seven senators. It’s not for the whole world to know.”

“I hear ya. That’s what I’ve been sayin’ this whole time. Right, Daryl?”

The producer, sitting on a folding chair in the dark corner of the studio, nodded and gave a thumbs-up with the thumb he still had.

“Yeah, it’s what I’ve been sayin’.”

“Anyway,” Tangent continued. “Some of my political opponents have been saying I’m not qualified to run for office because I grew up in South Africa. But what they’re not telling you is that I was born right here in the heart of Texas. And today, I’m going to prove it.”

He pulled an accordion folder out from under the table and rifled through, finally retrieving what he was looking for: a folded-up piece of paper in the shape of the state of Texas, with a handwritten note on it that said, “Charles Nepotic Tangent III was borned here.” He handed it to Frank.

“Huh,” Frank said. “This isn’t what mine looks like.”

“Yes, it’s very special. They only made them like this for a brief period in the 70s.”

“That’s fascinatin’. Thank you for sharing that with me, Mr. Tangent, sir.”

“You can just call me Chuck.”

“Thank you kindly, Chuck. You’ve got my vote.”

“I hate to leave so suddenly, but I really have to go. One of my many children, Seven, has decided to emancipate herself from me and I must put a stop to it.”

“Seven children, you say?”

“No, five. Seven is her name. Goodbye Frank.” Chuck put on a helmet, goggles, and a seventy-pound experimental jetpack, and crashed through the ceiling to fly away into the sky.

Frank was speechless as he looked up through the billionaire-shaped hole in his studio’s roof. A piece of debris fell from it into Tangent’s abandoned coffee mug.

“Well, uh…” Frank stumbled. “I’m sure he’ll pay for the damages.” He took another swig from his flask and continued speaking. “That, uh, I suppose, wraps up The Frank Program for today. Daryl, does that look like rain to you?”

Daryl, who scarcely was allowed outside, nodded in agreement just to reinforce Frank’s own thoughts.

“We’d better get a tarp. But until next time, viewers, thank you for listening and thank you for letting me be Frank with you.”

Brain Curd #37 - Twenty-Minute Tuesday #5

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to The Frank Program.” Frank took a pull from his vape and blew it out onto the microphone. “You hear that? That’s the sound of freedom. But the government doesn’t want you to have access to Sticky Maple Peanut Butter THC/CBD/NCT/CBT E-Juice! Right, Daryl?”

Daryl nodded. He had patchy burned splotches on his skin.

“That’s right. They’re banning all the good flavors because it ‘encourages children to vape more.’ Ridiculous.” He took another pull from his vape and started coughing. “God damn that tastes delicious. I couldn’t enjoy myself so much if I had to vape that smoke-flavored crap. So that’s why Daryl and me cooked up something special, and I’m happy to share our recipe with ya, America, because that’s what a good radio host does.”

“Podcast…” Daryl said with a small voice.

“Yeah, yeah, ‘podcast host,’ whatever. Same difference. The point is, we got a big cauldron from some kinda forest witch at the Home Depot parking lot, and we loaded it up with ingredients. Make sure you listen close, because if you don’t, you might have some problems.” He glared at Daryl, who cowered on his wooden stool in the corner. “First, get a jar of peanut butter. Smooth kind, not lumpy or crunchy or chunky or what-have-you, just smooth or you’ll clog your atomizer. Put a whole jar in there. Then, a bottle of your finest grade B maple syrup.”

“They don’t have grade B anymore, it’s all grade A with different levels of -”

“Goddamn it, Daryl, you know that don’t make no goddamn sense! There has to be another grade or grades ain’t even a thing!”

“But they changed -”

“Don’t argue with me, boy!” Frank took another puff to relax. “Right, you pour the syrup on in. Next step is you get one of those tea infusers with the metal basket and fill it with tobacco and Mary Jane. Chuck that in too. Next step, a gallon of propylene glycol. And after that, the most important step, which you do not want to get wrong! It’s a gallon of vegetable glycerin. VEGETABLE, Daryl!”

“I thought nitro meant it would go faster.”

“It did go faster, it went faster enough to burn through yer damn left eyebrow, ya idiot!”

“I’m sorry, Pa.”

“Hey man, it’s your fuckup. I don’t care. But to the listeners out there, uh… listening: the recipe is fantastic.” He took one more puff and choked on a chunk of peanut. Between coughs, he managed to say, “this has been… The Frank Program… Thank you for letting me be Frank with you!” He collapsed to the floor, wheezing.

Brain Curd #61

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is The Frank Program,” he said with a wobble in his voice. “Welcome back to the show. In case you’re listening to the audio version of our podcast, you should know that I’m currently receiving a back massage. The masseuse is doing that choppy thing.” He exhaled slowly, still modulated by the rhythmic massage.

Daryl, like a mouse, spoke. “I think they prefer to be called massage therapists.”

“Ah, hell, Daryl, don’t ruin this for me with your woke bullshit. Anyway, our guest today is none other than esteemed political commentator, Howie West. Mr. West, welcome to the program. And of course, welcome to all your many fans.”

“Thank you for having me, Frank.”

“Tell me, what do you make of all this ‘woke’ stuff?”

“Well, actually, a lot of what we call ‘woke’ is a very deliberate attempt by the extreme left to control how you think. If they can control how we think, they can control what we think, and in extreme circumstances, why we think.”

“That’s fascinatin’.”

“If they can do that, well, it’s not much of a stretch to who we think as well. That’s how they accumulate more power.”

Daryl raised his hand. “Can they control where we think?”

“They absolutely can, but I didn't think it was worth mentioning.”

“It’s called ‘school,’ son. And it’s rotting your brain.” Frank rolled over to his side and the towel fell off.

Daryl shielded his eyes.

“Ah, shoot, we’ll have to blur that part out. Daryl, quit yer hysterics! Ain’t nothing you haven’t seen before!” Frank adjusted his microphone as the massage therapist replaced his towel. “So, thinkin’ and such - where is it taking America as a nation?”

“America is in big, big trouble, Frank. Big. People are afraid to speak their minds because they know the far-left communist corporate media will silence them…”

Daryl raised his hand again.

“SHUT UP, DARYL!”

“... Americans are afraid of even voting for the candidate they really want, for fear of social rejection by their peers. That is why Republicans keep losing the popular vote. It’s lucky that the electoral college evens things out, but the radical left is trying to dismantle that as well.”

“How can we be sure that Americans only vote for the candidates they really want?”

“The brightest minds in the country are working to figure that out as we speak, but I can tell you for sure that it’d be easier if we had as few people voting as possible.”

Frank got a cramp in his leg. “Ow! Ow! Charlie horse! Charlie horse!” The massage therapist squeezed the knot and he relaxed with a sigh. “I’m listening.”

“Did you know, Frank, that when this country was founded, only wealthy white landowners were allowed to vote for president? And only government employees were required to pay income tax? This is the America I want to live in.”

“I really like that last part. Taxes are killing me. Can’t afford nothin’ these days with all the inflation.”

The massage therapist started massaging his feet.

“Oh… oh yeah, that’s the spot. Now, hold on just a second, Howie, that reminds me a question I was meanin’ to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“So, you’re a Jew, right? Always wearin’ that little hat?”

“Yarmulke.”

“Bless your soul. Anyhow, my question: are Jews white?”

“Uh…” West rubbed the back of his neck. “It depends.”

“I just mean scientifically, that’s all. None of that social-whatever stuff the woke mob is on about, just science.”

“If you’re wondering whether I’d be allowed to vote, I’m sure I would. I own three houses.”

“No, no, just genetically. DNA-type genetical.”

Howie gulped. “I’m not black! Look at me, it’s obvious.”

“Mexicans aren’t black either, are they?”

“Yeah… you know, uh, that’s a good point.” He looked at his wrist, but not the one with a watch on it. “I really have to be going, actually, so I’ll see you around, Frank.” He got up and ran out the door, slamming it behind him.

Frank growled. “Goddamn it, Daryl, you scared him off with yer stupid questions!”

Daryl retreated into himself. “Sorry, Pop.”

“It is what it is, I guess. I’ll just enjoy the rest of my massage. For now, y’all, I’m Frank, this has been The Frank Program, and thank you for letting me be Frank with you.”

Brain Curd #81

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is The Frank Program! According to these here anal-lickits, most of y’all out there are more the gentlemen type than the lady type, so to attract more of the feminine persuasion, I’m happy to announce today’s guest: ‘heart-throb’ comedian, James Siegfried! Welcome to the show, sir.”

Siegfried smirked and leaned into the microphone. “Thank you so much for having me. I just flew in from Florida, and boy are my arms tired!”

A laugh track emanated from the corner of the room. Daryl held a box with several buttons on it, the first of which he had just pressed.

“Daryl,” Frank growled, “What the hell are you doing over there?”

“It’s okay, Frank, it’s okay. I asked him to do that. Laughter makes me more comfortable.”

“Ah, I get it,” Frank said. “From your time in that sitcom way back when.”

“Exactly. It helps me get into the flow. The sad thing is, nowadays I need that little machine even when I do stand-up.”

“People aren’t laughing?”

“People aren’t laughing. They’re afraid to laugh because nowadays, you can’t joke about anything without being called awful, vile, things by people with no social lives who spend all their time on the internet.”

“And that stops you from making jokes?”

“Of course not! I’m not afraid of them. But I am afraid of what it’s doing to my art form. Other comedians cave in and crack jokes that make people laugh. I refuse to stoop so low.”

Frank gave Sigfried a military salute. “You’re doin’ God’s work, son.”

“I’m telling you, my joke about the Queen being a transvestite would have killed in the nineties. In fact, that’s when I wrote it.”

The laugh track played.

Siegfried looked at Daryl, annoyed. “That wasn’t a joke.”

“Now, I’ve got a quick question for you…” Frank picked up one of about a dozen boxes of Toaster Turnovers from the table. “What’s with all the frozen breakfast food? Marketing deal?”

“No, not at all, they’re not paying me a dime.”

“So you paid for all these?”

He shrugged. “I like them.”

Daryl interjected. “We have a freezer in the back room, if you don’t want ‘em going bad.”

Frank frowned. “Shut the hell up, Daryl.”

Prerecorded booing played from Daryl’s corner.

“Anyway,” Siegfried continued. “My new comedy movie, which is in theaters now, is about the invention of these little treats! It touches on other snacks too. Plus a lot of breakfast cereal, which I’ve always been a big fan of.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Siegfried, that sounds like a commercial.”

“No, no, no, we didn’t get permission from the company to make the film. It’s not a commercial. It’s satire.”

“Fascinatin’. So you make fun of their products?”

“Not really. Everyone likes their products. More of the humor comes from ‘what-ifs’ - like, if they made bran cereal without the raisins, or unfrosted flakes - or if the slogan for orange juice was some kind of sexual innuendo.”

“They do make those things,” Daryl said.

“Those are just examples. There’s a subtlety to the humor, and an intelligence to it, and I think that’s why a lot of people don’t get the joke.”

“It sure doesn’t sound offensive to me,” Frank said. “Are people these days really so sensitive?

“Don’t worry, Frank, we didn’t forget to push boundaries. There are at least three jokes about fruit.”

“Fruit?”

“You know, the queers. The gays. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but they need to learn to laugh at themselves.”

The laugh track played.

Siegfried turned to look at Daryl. “Can you really not tell when I’m making a joke? That was not a joke.”

“You say everything like it’s a joke. I thought maybe that was why people laughed at you?”

Siegfried sighed and took a box of Toaster Turnovers from the table. “I’m taking a break.”

Daryl played the ‘awww’ sound as the door slammed.

Frank huffed. “Well, that’s just great. He went out the door to the parking lot. Thanks a lot, Daryl.”

He played the applause sound.

“I’m gonna smash that thing. Anyway, folks, since it doesn’t look like our guest is coming back, this has been The Frank Program. Thank you for letting me be Frank with you.” He took off his headphones and threw them to the ground. “Get over here Daryl! Goddamn it! Every fucking day with you! I swear to the God you don’t believe in, I brought you into this world and I can take you -”

Brain Curd #95

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please enjoy.

Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, this is The Frank Program. My guest today is a great friend of mine. We go way back. Ever since high school, this asshole hasn’t left me alone for a minute, ha! Here’s Big Mike! Why don’t you introduce yourself, jackass?”

Big Mike, a six-foot-four man with a radio voice to rival the greats, scooted his chair up closer to the microphone and adjusted it to be closer to his mouth.

“How’s it going out there in podcast land? I’m Big Mike, the guy you know from the Morning Thunder block on the radio. In case you couldn’t place me, that’s where you recognize my voice from - you hear it while you’re stuck in traffic at eight AM.”

Frank giggled. “It’s great to have you here, man, how have you been?”

“I’ve been doing great. Couldn’t be better. My show’s been syndicated and the royalties are pouring in. I can almost afford a new toothbrush.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, but the toothpaste on the other hand… Well, hey, we can’t all be aristocrats.”

“That’s funny, I really woulda thought you were making more than I was. We’ve been having technical difficulties around here on The Program, but the sponsors still pay great.”

Mike shrugged. “Hey, if you need a co-host, I need a side-hustle. Who would have thought spending two hours a day in air conditioning wouldn’t pay the bills, huh?” He rubbed the goatee on his chin. “How many listeners did you say you got?”

“Average about half a mil’ per.”

Big Mike whistled. “That’s nothin’ to sneeze at!”

“Then I read a couple spots about buyin’ gold bars and commem-o-whatsit coins, and the cash rolls in.”

“Well, heck, I’m sold. Where do I sign?”

“To tell you the truth, Mikey, I’m in need of a producer too. My last guy had to leave the position in a hurry.”

“That explains the lack of danishes around here. No fucking hospitality, Frank.” Mike smirked. “God, it feels good to curse on air. Anyway, don’t you worry your pretty little head, man, I know a guy.”

“Fantastic. When can he start?”

“I can start right now! Ha! What, you thought I didn’t know how to handle equipment?”

“I only ever heard you talk about handlin’ your own equipment, Mikey. In yer bedroom, in the locker room showers, the back of biology class…”

“Yeah, yeah, very funny, Frank. At least I never stuck it anywhere it didn’t belong.”

Frank growled. “Don’t go there.”

Mike held up his hands. “Okay, okay! Where is the little crotch goblin, anyway?”

“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, now seems like a good time for us to start re-toolin’ without the mics running and wasting tape.”

“Tape? You use tape? For a podcast? I knew you were backwards, man, but that’s a step too far.”

“Shut the hell up, Mike. It’s a figure’a speech. This has been The Frank Program. Thank you for letting me be Frank with you. See you next time.”

Brain Curd #105

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“The Frank Program is sponsored by HelpYourself. HelpYourself is founded on the belief that everyone deserves therapy, and that it should be affordable for all. No need for insurance - just download the app and your first psycho… psycho… what does that say?” Frank showed the script to Big Mike.

“It says, ‘psychoanalysis.’ Can you even read, man?”

“Yeah, o’course I can read! There’s two vowels in a row, it’s confusin’! Now stop interrupting.” Frank cleared his throat. “All ya gotta do is, download the app and your first psycho-analysis is free with promo code FRANKPRO2024. Share your experience with therapy.”

“Uh…” Mike leaned over. “Pretty sure that part is instructions for you. You aren’t supposed to read it.”

“I know that! I said that because I wanted to ‘boost engagement.’”

“Sure you did.”

“Hmm…” Frank tapped his fingers on the table. “My experience with therapy… do ya think physical therapy counts?”

“No.”

“Well I never got none of that, neither, so I guess it don’t matter. My ex-wife always used to tell me I needed therapy for my anger issues…”

“She was right, you jackass.”

“Shut the hell, up, Mike!” Frank groaned. “How about I just make something up, huh? Like I tell a story about how therapy saved my life or some crap?”

“What, like you got locked in a looney bin?”

“Not a fucking looney bin! For fuck’s sake, Mike.”

“Hey, hey, no shame in it. Half the girls I’ve dated have been to one of those places. They’re packed with babes.”

“I’m not gonna tell everyone I’m nuts just to make the sponsor happy. You wanna do it, go right ahead.”

“I actually have been to therapy, Frank.”

“No shit? What for?”

“Like many folks our age, I grew up not treating my mental health with the concern it deserved. My dad and I didn’t talk about feelings, and my mom was too busy with my older sister and my younger brother. I was the loud one, but I was never heard.”

“That’s deep, man.”

“I’ve been a professional radio host for the last decade. I know what I’m doing. Anyway…” Mike paused to make it easier to cut down. “So when I moved out at eighteen, I was a complete disaster. I couldn’t hold down a job. Roommates always got sick of me. My relationships never lasted.”

“Probably ‘cause you kept dating psychos, Mikey.”

Big Mike ignored that comment and continued. “When I finally got a therapist and opened up to her, it was like I was clearing out the garbage from the back seat of my pickup truck. And you find the craziest junk buried in there, like fast food toys from when you were seven.”

“Really?”

“It’s a metaphor, Frankie. You gotta clear out the garbage in the back of your head so you can fit more people into your life.” Mike took the paper from Frank’s hand. “And that’s why we suggest HelpYourself, the easy way to get the help you need. Download the app today, and don’t forget that promo code FRANKPRO2024 for your free consultation and first psychoanalysis. That’s HelpYourself on the app store. And now back to The Frank Program.” Mike stopped the recording. “See, that’s how you do it.”

“I appreciate the help an’ all, but shouldn’t I say the last part?”

“What, ‘cause your name is in it?”

“Well… yeah.”

Mike waved his hand. “We’ll get it on the next one and cut it together.”

“How many we got left?”

“Seven. Today, anyway.”

“Ugh.” Frank rubbed his face and took the next paper from the table as Mike started up a new recording. “The Frank Program is sponsored by GrapeCrate, the first word in weekly fruit boxes sent right to your door…”

Brain Curd #117

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen, this is The Frank Program. I’m Frank -”

“- and I’m Big Mike. Today’s guest is the most popular streamer on all of Twitch.TV, here in the studio we have Mr. Hellspawn!”

“How’s it going?” Hellspawn spoke softly into his microphone.

“Uh…” Frank shuffled through his notes, which Mike had prepared for him. “Wasn’t I supposed to ask you that?”

Mike patted him on the back. “Don’t worry about that, Frankie. Anyway, Mr. Hellspawn, why don’t you tell us a little about what you do for the listeners who aren’t aware?”

“Sure thing, Mike. My job is a little hard to explain, but I’ll start at the beginning. When I first started streaming, the hot thing to do was to play videogames. People want to see other people play games because it’s a social activity, at least originally, but on Twitch, it’s different. We don’t really know each other, we’re not really friends, but instead it’s more like a substitute for that. That’s why I really blew up about four years ago. Everyone was stuck inside, nowhere to go, nothing to do. They wanted some company.”

“So, uh, what makes you special, then?” Frank asked.

“If you ask me, I think I just got lucky. But I guess people liked my specific way of interacting with the audience. I’d say, ‘chat, help me out here, should I go down this tunnel or cross this bridge?’ and, you know, they’d vote on it basically.”

“That doesn’t seem so hard to understand.”

“Sure, but now it’s a little different. Instead of mostly playing games and talking to the audience here and there, people seem not to want me to play games so much anymore. I always give them the option, but whenever I put it up to a vote, my subs just want to see me doing normal everyday stuff. I’ve got cameras set up all over my house. Game room, kitchen, bedroom…”

“Bedroom?”

“Some of my fans pay for a little extra, if you catch my drift.”

Frank’s eyes popped wide open. “You’re a prostitute?!?”

“Hey, hey, hey…” Mike chuckled nervously. “How about we don’t go there, Frank?”

Frank was indignant. “It’s a simple question!”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine, guys. It’s basically an after-dark stream that costs money to watch. I don’t have sex with anyone for money.”

Frank glared at Mike. “See? It was a good question!”

“I only get a little naked. A little. But more people like to watch me cook and just chat about life. It’s kind of meditative for me, you know? I’ve got my Hell Squad over for dinner every night. And they’re happy to send me money to keep the whole thing going. I haven’t worked a traditional job since 2019, so I can spend all my time on this. Five days a week, dawn to dusk.”

“So, tell me Mr. Hellspawn, where did you come up with that name?”

“Not a lot of people know this, but I’ve had that name since kindergarten. I was a real troublemaker as a kid, and my father would always call me Mr. Hellspawn whenever I did anything he didn’t like. I don’t really talk to him anymore, but that name has stuck with me. I wear it as a badge of honor. Barely anyone in my life calls me by my legal name… which I guess he also gave me.”

Frank looked over at the empty corner. “You… don’t talk to your father anymore?”

“No, not at all. We were never very close at the best of times. He kicked me out when I was fifteen and we haven’t spoken since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It doesn’t really bother me anymore, to be honest. He used to haunt my dreams, but… Now, I don’t think I can even remember his face.”

Frank’s hands shook. He gripped the microphone stand to keep them stationary.

Mike cleared his throat to break the dead air. “What are some of your favorite moments from your livestream?”

Hellspawn chuckled. “I think that might be when I tried making veal schnitzel from scratch. I ended up breading my hand by mistake, and the chat just kept saying, ‘glove hand! Glove hand!’ It’s become one of many inside jokes with my community.”

“And how was the schnitzel?”

“Oh, it was terrible. I had no idea what I was doing. It was like a piece of shoe leather with burnt grease on the outside. I had to order takeout.”

Frank breathed heavily. “I have to go.”

Mike was confused. “Buddy, we just got started! Do you always end your shows early?”

“I just… I can’t…”

“We can take a break -”

“No, no, no! I need to get out of here!”

“Fine! I’ll finish the damn show. I’m doing most of the work anyway. Do your closing line before you leave.”

“I… I’ve been The Frank Program. Thank you - Thank you for letting me be…” he made eye contact with Hellspawn and panicked. He quickly ran out of the studio and slammed the door.

Brain Curd #127

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Welcome back to The Frank Program. I’m Big Mike, your host for the day, since Frankie-boy couldn’t make it. But you won’t want to miss this episode, because our guest is rising pop-star icon, Rhonda Pope! Welcome to the program.”

“Thank you for having me, Mike.”

“On this show, we usually jump right into the questions, but I know you’re nervous, so let’s loosen up a little, shall we?” Mike pulled a bottle of whiskey from under the desk and set a couple shot glasses next to it on the table. He poured both of them and slid one over to Rhonda.

“Oh… uh… I don’t drink, actually.”

Mike had already downed his shot. “Oh well, more for me.” He took hers and threw it back. “Anyway, I’m relaxed now. The great thing about podcasting is no one can tell me what to do. It’s great. It’s like a vacation. Anyway… Let’s try an ice breaker: If you had to choose between Donald Trump, Joe Biden, and Kamala Harris, who would you fuck, marry, and kill?”

“I do not feel comfortable answering that question.”

“Yeah, ha ha ha,” Big Mike giggled. “I don’t blame you. Actually I wrote that question down a few weeks ago, it’s got nothing to do with recent events.” He held up his hands. “Okay? It’s a perfectly normal edgy kind of question.”

Rhonda sat in quiet discomfort.

“The internet is gonna have a field day with this. They hate me. They all hate me because I’m not afraid to tell it like it is.” Mike remembered what he was supposed to be doing. “Sorry about that, let’s get back to you. What’s it like finally catching your big break, years after the release of your first single?”

“It’s amazing, actually. I’ve always just, mostly tried to make sure I was making something I like, something I want to listen to, because I think as an artist you need to start from a personal place. So yeah, I stand by all of my previous releases even if they didn’t get the same attention as Bi-Bye Bitch. And I think my new fans are diving into my singles from last year, and even earlier, and they’re finding more of what they love about that song, but still unique. It’s a beautiful thing.”

“I can tell you that for me, personally, I’ve had Cigarette Burn stuck in my head every minute since I heard it. It’s exceptionally catchy.”

“Thank you. I -”

“Like, no, no, no, listen. It’s too catchy. I can’t get it out of my head, it’s driving me off the edge.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“You’re good.”

“Thanks. Uh…”

“Is it true that your record label dropped you last year?”

“It is, yeah. I had to get a job as a waitress to make ends meet.”

“Their loss, huh?”

“Yeah, I think indie pop really is the way of the future. My label never knew what to do with my music, you know? They couldn’t decide if it was for the gays or the girlies, but it was always for the gay girlies, you know what I mean? It’s that intersection.”

“Is there still a place in the pop world for megahits and superstars?”

“I guess so? But it’s never going to be like it was when I was a kid. Everyone knew the top forty because it was on the radio, and people were listening. Every year had its signature biggest song, but now? Monoculture is dead. Pop culture is dead. Nothing gets that big anymore. Everything is regional and demographical and, like, calculated to appeal to the most people and they still can’t do it. I’m lucky, you know? Because I’m getting popular enough to be self-sustaining, but I don’t have all the overhead the labels do. They spend more than anything else on marketing.”

“That’s old media for you. Do you see them sticking around?”

“I don’t think anyone really knows what’ll happen.”

Just then, the door to the studio slammed open, and Frank walked in with his arm over Daryl’s shoulder. “We… are… BACK!”

Mike furrowed his brow. “We. Are. Recording!”

“Get outta my seat, Michael. Shoo.”

Mike groaned and moved to the next seat over. Frank adjusted his microphone as Daryl returned to the dusty chair in the corner.

“It’s getting really crowded…” Rhonda shrank in her seat.

“Well too bad, darlin’. If you don’t like it, head on out.”

“Hey!” Mike punched Frank’s shoulder. “Do you know how hard it was to get her to come on the show?”

“I don’t know a damn thing about this girl, Mikey. Can’t imagine I care. Nothing you can say to me can ruin my mood. I got my boy back!”

“Wow,” Rhonda said half-heartedly. “Congrats! I think I’m gonna head home, actually… yeah.” She got up, grabbed her purse, and walked out before anyone could stop her.

Mike’s jaw hung open. “Why? Why, Frank? Why couldn’t you just stay home today?”

“Because it’s my show.”

“But you have no idea what you’re even doing!”

“I don’t need to. All that matters is family and making something I’m proud of.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, man? Ugh, forget it.” Mike threw down his headphones and stormed out of the studio.

“Well’n, I guess that’s all for today’s episode of The Frank Program. Thank you all for letting me be Frank with you. See you next time.”

Brain Curd #146

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back to the new-and-improved Frank Program! I'm Frank, over in the corner is my wonderful son, Daryl, and today our guest is a personal hero of mine, star athlete David Helper-Cummings! Welcome to the Program.”

“Good to be here, Frank, good to be here.”

“Be honest with me, David, you'd rather be competing in the Olympics, am I right?”

“I'd love to be able to compete in the Olympic Games, no doubt, but it just wasn't in the cards this year. Maybe next time.”

“I really do think you're good enough to win gold.”

“Thanks, Frank, but there's just been too much happening in my life lately. The affair, the divorce, I mean, you've heard about all that stuff. It's no secret. I can barely play right now. My short game is in the toilet.”

“You've still got the most impressive drive I've ever seen!”

“Sure, sure, I can still get the distance, but there's too much on my mind. I slice the crap out of it every time. It's really throwing me off.”

“Well'n, forget all of that. Let's talk sports in general. I'm really curious to know what ya think about some controversial topics.”

Daryl closed his eyes and shook his head.

Frank continued. “David, what's your take on transgenders in professional sports?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“You know, men who make themselves look like women so they can get trophies.”

“Doesn't seem to me that a real man would do such a thing. That's downright embarrassing.”

Daryl spoke up. “That's not how it works. There are very specific requirements for -”

“Daryl, will you shut the fuck…” Frank caught himself and cleared his throat. “Daryl, you don't even like sports. Stay out of it. Ya got no business talking about things you don't understand.”

“But you don't -”

“Shh! Anyway, David, it's real and it happens. There was a boxing match between a woman and a transgender, and he beat the shit out of her in one round!”

“That's awful.” David scratched the side of his head. “Can't believe they'd let that happen.”

“Actually, Dad, neither of those women is transgender. The one everyone thinks is trans just has long arms.”

“You're too damn gullible, son. You believe everything you see online? I know more about this than you do.”

“Oh yeah? What are their names?”

“Huh? Who cares about their names?”

“Did you even watch the fight?”

“Pfft. Ain't nobody got time for women's boxing! Hahaha!”

Frank put his hand up for a high five and David quickly slapped it, but realized that might not be a good look.

“Uh, for the record, I respect women's sports. I rescind that high-five and would like to apologize to all the women athletes who were offended by it.”

“Aww, come on, Davey, have a little backbone! You got no spine, man, that's why you keep slicing!”

“Hey, I take offense to that, okay? I love women.”

“No kidding,” Daryl muttered under his breath. Frank glared at him.

“Alright, alright. Forget that topic. I've got another question for ya, David, if that's alright?”

“Yeah, uh, sure.”

“Do ya think we ought to have a separate basketball league for Whites?”

Daryl put his face in his hands and groaned. David looked at his watch and pantomimed shock.

“Oh, damn, Frank, look at the time! I gotta be going. I got a divorce hearing in a few minutes.” He got up from his seat and patted his pockets to make sure he didn't forget anything. “I'll see you around, okay? Alright.”

David Helper-Cummings was out the door before Frank could even react.

“What the hell?”

“You gotta stop making guests uncomfortable, Dad.”

“I didn't make him uncomfortable! You got him thinkin’ about PC and woke! It made him nervous to say what he wanted to say.”

“I couldn't let you spread misinformation…”

“Why the hell not? It's my show, boy.”

Daryl crossed his arms. “You want me here, you gotta treat me with respect. And quit lying.”

Frank sighed. “Whatever you say, your highness. Anyway, folks, this has been The Frank Program. Thank'ya much for letting me be Frank with you.”

Brain Curd #146

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome back to the new-and-improved Frank Program! I'm Frank, over in the corner is my wonderful son, Daryl, and today our guest is a personal hero of mine, star athlete David Helper-Cummings! Welcome to the Program.”

“Good to be here, Frank, good to be here.”

“Be honest with me, David, you'd rather be competing in the Olympics, am I right?”

“I'd love to be able to compete in the Olympic Games, no doubt, but it just wasn't in the cards this year. Maybe next time.”

“I really do think you're good enough to win gold.”

“Thanks, Frank, but there's just been too much happening in my life lately. The affair, the divorce, I mean, you've heard about all that stuff. It's no secret. I can barely play right now. My short game is in the toilet.”

“You've still got the most impressive drive I've ever seen!”

“Sure, sure, I can still get the distance, but there's too much on my mind. I slice the crap out of it every time. It's really throwing me off.”

“Well'n, forget all of that. Let's talk sports in general. I'm really curious to know what ya think about some controversial topics.”

Daryl closed his eyes and shook his head.

Frank continued. “David, what's your take on transgenders in professional sports?”

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

“You know, men who make themselves look like women so they can get trophies.”

“Doesn't seem to me that a real man would do such a thing. That's downright embarrassing.”

Daryl spoke up. “That's not how it works. There are very specific requirements for -”

“Daryl, will you shut the fuck…” Frank caught himself and cleared his throat. “Daryl, you don't even like sports. Stay out of it. Ya got no business talking about things you don't understand.”

“But you don't -”

“Shh! Anyway, David, it's real and it happens. There was a boxing match between a woman and a transgender, and he beat the shit out of her in one round!”

“That's awful.” David scratched the side of his head. “Can't believe they'd let that happen.”

“Actually, Dad, neither of those women is transgender. The one everyone thinks is trans just has long arms.”

“You're too damn gullible, son. You believe everything you see online? I know more about this than you do.”

“Oh yeah? What are their names?”

“Huh? Who cares about their names?”

“Did you even watch the fight?”

“Pfft. Ain't nobody got time for women's boxing! Hahaha!”

Frank put his hand up for a high five and David quickly slapped it, but realized that might not be a good look.

“Uh, for the record, I respect women's sports. I rescind that high-five and would like to apologize to all the women athletes who were offended by it.”

“Aww, come on, Davey, have a little backbone! You got no spine, man, that's why you keep slicing!”

“Hey, I take offense to that, okay? I love women.”

“No kidding,” Daryl muttered under his breath. Frank glared at him.

“Alright, alright. Forget that topic. I've got another question for ya, David, if that's alright?”

“Yeah, uh, sure.”

“Do ya think we ought to have a separate basketball league for Whites?”

Daryl put his face in his hands and groaned. David looked at his watch and pantomimed shock.

“Oh, damn, Frank, look at the time! I gotta be going. I got a divorce hearing in a few minutes.” He got up from his seat and patted his pockets to make sure he didn't forget anything. “I'll see you around, okay? Alright.”

David Helper-Cummings was out the door before Frank could even react.

“What the hell?”

“You gotta stop making guests uncomfortable, Dad.”

“I didn't make him uncomfortable! You got him thinkin’ about PC and woke! It made him nervous to say what he wanted to say.”

“I couldn't let you spread misinformation…”

“Why the hell not? It's my show, boy.”

Daryl crossed his arms. “You want me here, you gotta treat me with respect. And quit lying.”

Frank sighed. “Whatever you say, your highness. Anyway, folks, this has been The Frank Program. Thank'ya much for letting me be Frank with you.”

Brain Curd #162

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

Frank sighed. “Welcome to The Frank Program. I’m Frank.”

Daryl crossed his arms and scowled at his father, then cleared his throat.

“So, uh, Daryl was upset with me for the last episode not bein’ fair to the transgenders. In retrospectacle, I can understand that I was a little wrong about what them types are.”

“Ahem.”

“Okay, I was way off. Transgenders are not men who dress up like women to win sports trophies. To explain things better, I have invited today’s guest, Luna Fengari.” He gestured in her direction.

“Hello, everyone!”

“Go ahead and tell everyone exactly what it is that you do.”

Daryl rolled his eyes.

“What? I don’t know what she does! You’re the one who’s such a big fan!”

“So, basically, I’m an influencer. I’m paid to promote products and services.”

“Like Billy Mays?”

“Uh, sorta… I’m also a lifestyle vlogger. People like to check in and see what I’m up to.”

“And you… don’t play sports?”

“Not at all. I’m really bad at sports. I watch baseball sometimes.”

“You look very fit.”

She placed her hand gently on her well-endowed chest. “Aww, thank you! I jog and do yoga.”

“Hmmm.” Frank undressed her with his eyes. “And do you still have your, ahem, your ‘downward dog’?”

“Dad! You can’t just ask her that!”

“He’s right, Frank, it’s very rude to ask a trans person what their downstairs bits look like. Don’t do it again. However, I personally no longer have any concept of privacy.”

“So, uh…” Frank moved his hands like a pair of scales. “Did you get a sex change?”

She smirked. “Yes. Does that disappoint you?”

Frank blushed. “Uh, no, I… I hardly think it matters to me what’s going on down there.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t. Now where were we?”

Frank shuffled some papers for an excuse not to make eye contact. “Given that this is an ‘educational’ episode, I think I gotta ask ya… are those real?”

“They’re very real, and very educational. Some trans women opt to get breast implants, but I didn’t feel the need.”

“No kidding…”

“I grew these myself by taking Hormone Replacement Therapy, which also softened my skin, widened my hips, lowered my muscle mass, and rounded my face. Among other things. Two little blue pills a day.”

“Hey Dad, don’t you take blue pills, too?” Daryl giggled.

He covered the microphone with his hand. “Quit tryn’a humiliate me!”

“It’s alright, Frank,” Luna chuckled. “You never had a chance anyway.”

Frank rubbed his face. “Well, sorry for thinking you look like a beautiful natural woman! Sorry for givin’ out compliments!” He held up his hands. “Won’t happen again, officers!”

“You’re just being creepy, Dad!”

“Fine!” He stood up and threw his headphones on the table. “It’s your show now, then! I’m out of here!” He leaned into the microphone. “This has been The Frank Program. Thanks for lettin’ me be Frank with you, because I’m all Frank’d out!” He stormed off and slammed the door behind him.

Daryl shrugged and took the host’s seat. He adjusted his headphones and asked, “So… how did you get this ‘Hormone Replacement Therapy’ anyway?”

Brain Curd #175

Brain Curds are lightly edited flash fiction - practically first drafts - posted daily (haven't missed one yet!) and sometimes written with the express intention of being terrible… but, you know, in an endearing way. Please like and reblog if you enjoy - the notes keep me going!

He's gonna be Frank with you. Read the rest of The Frank Program here on Tumblr!

“Welcome back to The Frank Program. I'm Frank, and over there in the corner is my son, Daryl. Say hi, Daryl.”

Daryl looked up from his phone and nodded. “Yeah. Hi.” Then he looked back down and resumed typing.

Frank contorted his face, trying to find a comfortable resting place for his tongue. “Uh huh. Well, anyway, Daryl and I are huge fans of today’s guest! Welcome to the show, Mr. Chad Graves!”

Chad leaned in close to the mic. “Hello, everyone.”

“Oh, uh, you don't have to do that, Mr. Graves. The microphones are set up for a normal sort'a speaking volume.”

“Oh,” Graves chuckled. “Force of habit.”

“Now, for the viewers an’ listeners who aren't familiar with your show, is it alright with ya if I play a clip?”

Chad nodded.

~

“I'm Chad Graves, and these are my Ghost Visions.”

A creepy backwards violin sound played, accompanied by the image of a bleeding skull.

“Together, my friends - Gary, Mick, Junior, and I - investigate strange happenings of haunted places.”

“No way, dude!” Said Junior, holding a voice recorder up to his ear. “Did you fucking hear that?”

The camera panned over to Gary. “I don't think we're alone here.”

“Oh shit.” Chad held his head. “I'm getting a… Ghost Vision.”

~

Frank giggled, giddily. “Man, that ghost voice gives me chills every time. Isn't that right, Daryl?”

Daryl pulled out an AirPod. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, he does get chills. Every time.”

“Great stuff!” Frank grinned. “Great stuff!”

“Thank you, Frank.”

“Now, I gotta ask you, is everything on the show real?”

“Oh yes, very real.”

“Haha! Wow! Real life ghosts! I told you so, Daryl!”

“Real dead ghosts.” Chad responded.

“You’re clever, Mr. Graves. What was the most spiritually active place you've ever investigated?”

“Easy question. That's gotta be that insane asylum-turned-hotel-turned-apartment building-turned-college dorm.”

“The Princeton Loon's Home? Season nine episode thirty?”

“That's the one. We picked up so many voices, it was unreal. We didn't even have time for everything in the cut of the episode that went to air.”

“That's fascinatin’. And am I correct in sayin’ that you brought your laptop with you?”

“Yeah, it's right here.”

“You wouldn't happen to have any unreleased recordings, would you?”

“I do, actually, I do.” He clicked on a file on his messy desktop. “Here, I'll pipe it in.”

~

Mick’s voice could be heard, distant, from the echoey other side. “Are there any spirits here with me in the laundry room? If you’re there, please make a sign.”

Seemingly in response, there was a creaking next to the voice recorder.

~

“Hot darn! What d’ya think that said?”

“Well, Frank, if we slow it down a few notches, de-emphasize the reverb, pull it out of phase and artificially enhance it with machine learning, it sounds like this:”

~

“Are there any spirits here with me in the laundry room? If you’re there, please make a sign.”

“Get me twelve of those nuggets, son.”

~

Frank chuckled. “That's one hungry spirit.”

“I find that most of the ghosts we come across desperately crave the comforts only afforded to the living. Then again, we usually fill in the subtitles on these right before lunch. So it's anyone's guess what they're really saying.”

“Daryl is great at figuring out what these ghosts are sayin’. Ain't ya, Daryl?”

Daryl was deeply engrossed in watching… something.

“Daryl?”

He remained oblivious.

“Daryl!!!”

Daryl shook and immediately paused the video. “What?”

“Come listen to this and tell me what ya think it's sayin’!” Frank turned back to Chad. “I'm tellin’ ya, he gets ‘em like that.” Frank snapped his fingers. “An addition to your team, maybe?”

“We really just like to keep it to the four of us. But sometimes we do bring in guest investigators. You guys seem really enthusiastic, so I'll talk to my producer.”

Daryl held half a headphone to his ear and listened back to it a couple times. He nodded. “It says, ‘don't forget to wash colors on cold.’”

Chad gasped. “No way!” He listened back to it a few times. “I'll be damned, the kid's right! He's a real talent.”

“That's my boy!”

Daryl returned to his seat in the corner and resumed watching.

Frank scowled. “What the hell is so interestin’ over there that you can't pay attention to yer damn hero sittin in the room with ya?!?”

He got up from his chair, walked over, and took the phone from his son's hands. He gasped when he saw, and dropped the phone to the ground. The screen shattered.

Daryl pressed himself into the corner as he looked up at his father and saw rage in his eyes.

“I hate to kick you out like this, Mr. Graves. But I'm afraid we're in need of a father-son chat.”

Chad held up his hands. “No problem. Totally understand. I have to talk to my kids, sometimes, too.”

“As far as the listeners are concerned…” Frank walked up to the microphone, pulled it close, and whispered. “We'll be right back.”

The Frank Program will be back tomorrow in Brain Curd #176. Follow for more.