My name is pistol Peter and if you’re reading this, I’m dead. You’ve likely watched me on channel 11 evening news, my soothing voice has undoubtedly echoed throughout your living room at 6pm every weekday. But that was merely an act. I had been living a double life. At first glance you might have thought I was a passionate news anchor, eager to share the forecast with you and your family. Truthfully it all meant nothing to me. The stories, the weather, the sports highlights…..all empty lies. The reality of pistol Peter parkinson is far more complex, far more imperfect and tragic. I was a desperate addict, a terrible husband and a failure of a pet owner. Only my beagle “Liam” truly knew the monster behind my tailored suit and my flawless skin and hair. Well tonight folks, pistol Peter is signing off forever. But first let me tell you how I ended up like this.

Cocaine has always been my vice. I had been romanced by heroin, amphetamines, pills and even various cough syrups but the devils dandruff was my first and only true love. My highschool sweetheart if you will. As a young man I used to have a paper route I would work every summer. I was 27 and frustrated, I had never seen a breast in real life and my bike was a rusty hunk of shit and the allure of the internet was turning people off of newspapers. I remember one brisk spring morning, a blanket of dew rested peacefully on the yards of my faithful customers. I veered off the sidewalk and was ensnared by the moist grass. My bike overturned and my body was violently slammed into an unsuspecting garage door. My helmet slammed through the metal and my head was fully in a man’s garage. A middle aged man sat on a lawn chair, surrounded by cold concrete. In front of him on a water cooler was a pack of cigarettes and a mysterious white powder I had never seen before. “Are you government?” The wide eyed man asked “you must have read my files” . I was hopelessly confused and likely suffering from a traumatic head injury. “Bump?” Asked the man as he held a CD case to my face, 4 neatly arranged white lines staring me in my eye. I inhaled and felt the powder enter my nose. It was love at first snort. He was my new best friend and together we crafted ideas and plans never before conceived by mortal men. We talked and talked, within minutes we had mastered such issues as politics and religion. He revealed to me that his wife was a bitch who never cleaned even though she had no job and was home all day. He really seemed to hate her in a very very intense and concerning way. After smoking dozens and dozens of cigarettes he drove me home. My mom could tell by my bloody nose and my lack of my bike that I had been up to mischief that night. My paper says were officially over, as were my bike riding days. That chapter of my life ended in that smoke filled garage but the rolled up bill I used to snort the mystery man’s magic powder doubled as the pen I used to begin writing my life’s newest chapter. The blow chapter.

My parents were both nerds. They spent their days hiding from each other and being a shell of a marriage. Mom had gotten fat and dad had buried himself on crosswords and sudokus in an attempt to avoid her fatness. Dad used to burn wood in the backyard for hours, anything to avoid mom and her flabby underarms. Their nightly lovemaking began to sound different and it was obvious that their love had evaporated into a dark cloud of sadness. Meanwhile in my room the bunk bed was littered with blow and porn. I was 30 now and my dreams of being a paperboy were long gone. I no longer had any use for the outside world. For the next 8 months I imprisoned myself within the semen stained walls of my bedroom. I snorted and stroked as days turned into months. I no longer heard mother and father bickering from beyond my chamber of sin. I later learned that they had died, father broke his spine trying to hug mother and was trapped beneath her wretched tummy. It didn’t matter. We only had one channel and it would play the news repeatedly throughout the night as I wildly launched my ropes deep into my collection of pleasure socks. As my bloodshot half dead eyes gazed at the television I began to fantasize of life as a news man, as a tv bad boy. I would memorize and recite his catch phrases. The lines between reality and fantasy and reality began to blur. At some point during my evolution Peter ceased to exist and “pistol Peter, the voice of the evening news” was born. My audience consisted of a mirror and a stuffed teddy bear, plastered in semen. At first they hated me. But I grew on them and eventually they loved me. This satisfied me at first but like all pleasures, I eventually grew bored of it. One night in a horny rage I slaughtered the helpless teddy bear and held a knife to my own throat. I was a joke and no amount of jacking could cure the pain of being a failure. I waded through the knee deep semen to my door and kicked it open. As I stepped over my parents skeletons and into the hallway I decided that it was time to rejoin society. I had no idea how difficult it would be. What the fuck is a bus? What the fuck is a job? I gave up immediately.

My parents Buick was desperate for a new owner following their inexplicable death. I had seen people driving on the news and it didn’t look hard so I decided I owned it now. It had pedals and a wheel inside it, a complex system, completely foreign to me. The only thing I had ever drove up until then was a shit bike and that nearly killed me. It was risky but I decided to roll the dice. I sat in the back seat and yelled at the car to start. No luck. I began sobbing, completely defeated. The driveway was my prison that year. Countless cars drove past my house, almost as if they were taunting me. This plan was a complete bust and quickly realized that adult cars were nothing like dinky cars. I began to wonder how much news I had missed while driveway bound. I missed my room, and even more so missed my dad and kinda my fat mom. I considered going back in the house but new owners had moved in and they looked nerdy and not worthy of speaking to. Besides, my front door was atleast 4 feet away, my frail malnourished body was no longer capable of a journey so gruelling. I was sure my dream of being a newsman playboy was dead.

One morning after an especially violent questionable wet dream I woke up to what I thought must have been a feverish hallucination. It was him. The newsman man from the news, Mere feet away from me in my driveway. He was pointing at me. “This can’t be real” I thought to myself. I had been using a grocery bag as a toilet for 14 months, and it had begun overflowing onto the seats and floor surrounding me for quite some time. Atleast 13 and a half months. I had been noticing a foul smell in the car and even though I had been strategically placing air fresheners amongst the booty mud it was as if the smell was getting worse by the day. Could it be? Was I going to be on the news? I cracked the door open and flopped out onto the gravel. My body hit the ground and made a sound reminiscent of a wet bag of raw meat being thrown in a bucket. I stood up and awkwardly approached my hero, arms outstretched looking for a hug. He looked at me and it was clear that he hated hugging. I decided I would be willing to settle for a kiss on his cheek but yet again he hated that. I was devastated and embarrassed, I told him that I watched him throughout the night for years. He hated that. This guy seemed to hate everything and if I’m being honest, he was kind of rude. He told me to fuck off and I couldn’t believe that we had already crafted our first inside joke together. I noticed multiple cameras aimed directly at me and suddenly realized that all my work had finally paid off. I had finally made it on the news.

Life in the spotlight was even more incredible than I ever could have imagined. The evening news had given me the clever moniker “The Doo-Doo Demon”. Men wanted me and women wanted to be me. I had hellish wet dreams in which I was transformed into a ferret with car tires instead of legs. Wet nightmares, if you will. I tried kissing women as they passed me on the streets. Nearly all of them inexplicably denied my smooch. The idea of kissing a Hollywood hunk intimated them to the point of calling the police and pepper spraying me and not allowing me to leave until the police came. My dads skeleton continued to rot on the porch of my old house. Worms wriggled from out of his eyeholes and I could sense that he was proud of me. Moms skeleton was ugly and kinda gay. Not many people know this but the word news actually stands for “never ever wet sandwich” which to this day still rings true. Only dry sandwich. I waltzed into the channel 6 headquarters with the confidence of a young heartthrob. “It’s me, pistol” I said to the receptionist. “I’m the news hunk” I said to the same receptionist. She was deaf, doing computer things. I slipped past her with ease. I was greeted by a nostalgic sight, as if my past was punching me directly in the face. The channel 6 news desk, unoccupied and practically begging for my butt to sit behind it. I sat on the desk with my back to the camera. “ check out my news” I said. “In local times a storm is winning the match so drive safe uncle gordy “ the words dropped out of my mouth, bringing a gallon of drool along for the ride. I felt like a fish that had finally been put in the water after decades on land. This was where I belonged. I bit into an extension cord and was brutally electrocuted. The city turned to black, all streetlights left without power. Flames erupted atop my head and a cacophony of screams filled the room. They loved me. Dogs wildly howled in the darkness and I even heard a homeless man scream something vaguely referring to aliens. I had firmly planted my flag atop newsboy mountain.

I literally was the most important guy in the world. I was doing a ton of cocaine every day and I was the fucking man. You should have seen me. Mere months ago I was a nobody and here I was, a newsy. My electrocution wounds were healing nicely and feeling was returning to my legs. Peter was back. The big wigs were desperately searching the country for a co-host who could match my intense passion. I told them “ good luck with that”. I didn’t even mean it, truthfully I didn’t give a shit whether they had good luck or not. I could do it myself, same way I always did. I had lost 65 pounds and my nose was essentially permanently destroyed. I slept once every 3 weeks for a maximum of 17 minutes and for some reason I kept thinking someone else was with me but they had left. There might have been a dog at some point. I would rehearse during the day, trying to guess what news stories would take place that night, it was near impossible. My dad was no help, him and my mom had essentially cut ties with me. Maybe this news life wasn’t for me after all. Nah it for sure was . It’s so obvious it was. I forgot how to park a car and killed 11 interns in the parking lot one evening. I tried to blame them for standing too close to me while I was parking but the security footage revealed that they were at fact at a restaurant 3 miles away. I felt no remorse or sympathy for them or their families. People die a lot like all the time , 9/11 killed dozens more people than I ever did and even that barely got any attention on the news. I don’t care about anyone or anything. I started wearing sunglasses while doing the news and as you’d expect my pussy fuckin output skyrocket . I had sex 4 times in June alone, 7 if you count jacking off. Hookers began to fear me, I had developed something of a reputation. They called me “the hooker killer” but thankfully I kicked that habit after the city ran out of hookers due to a serial killer killing all of them. It was as though I was in the spotlight every night, I was literally though. My parents had abandoned me and I began hearing rumours that they had began living secret lives as skeletons. My mom and I never really saw eye to eye, she was a fat cunt with fucked up nipples and she jogged weird. Stupid fuckin bitch fuck man I hate her retard face. Wish she was dead. Although I enjoyed the news, sometimes the headlines felt trivial; “Local boy ages and becomes local man, local man builds Time Machine and reverts to local boy, my mom is a cunt, news anchor kills hookers then writes book, tall dog robs yet another bank”. Truthfully between you and I and the millions of people reading this book and the millions of people that will be told the contents of this book by the millions who read the book, I still wasn’t satisfied. I needed a change, so I replaced my diaper with a fresh one and skipped down the street holding hands with a man I did not know. The government and the local beekeepers were conspiring against me but it wasn’t a big deal and it never really crossed my mind. It’s crazy how the news works. I noticed the weather seemed to have a pattern, it would be cold and then just when you felt like you had a handle on things it would change to warm, then Halloween would come.

I decided it was time to confront my parents. It was as if they hadnt even noticed their sons meteoric rise to stardom. I grabbed the bumper of a city bus as it passed and was dragged across town to my old house. I gave the bus driver a generous tip as i released the bus and slid teeth first up my old driveway. My father was resting in a whebarrow with his limbs detached and a family of pigeons living in his skull hole. He didnt even acknowledge me. “Its me pa” I struggled to speak as tears streamed down my face. “Its your boy pa” his head rolled gracefully off his collarbones. “So thats how it is huh?” I was enraged. I squared up to my old man and began fighting him with the intensity of a wolf. He absorbed my punches, barely flinching. “ DONT U EVEN CARE PA? WHY WONT U LOVE ME PA?” I tipped his wheelbarrow over in a blind rage and noticed he had clearly been dead for atleast 4 years. I glanced in the shrubs bordering our yard and noticed ma getting raped by an army of chipmunks. Good, i thought. I gave my dad one last kiss and spit on my