Transcript
Margaret Killjoy (0:00)
This is an iHeart podcast.
Trashy Advertiser (0:02)
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Trainer Games Announcer (0:32)
T R A S H I E I 10 athletes will face the toughest job interview in fitness that will push past physical and mental breaking points. You are the fittest of the fit. Only one of you will leave here with an IFIT contract for $250,000.
Margaret Killjoy (0:54)
This is where mindset comes in.
Trainer Games Announcer (0:55)
Someone will be eliminated.
Whimsound Advertiser (0:58)
Pressure is coming down.
Trainer Games Announcer (1:00)
This is Trainer Games.
US Ski and Snowboard Insider Announcer (1:02)
Watch it on Prime. Starting January 8, the world's best ski and snowboard athletes are chasing medals. Now you can follow their every move. Join Insider, the official US Ski and Snowboard fan loyalty program, and get premium viewing at World cup ski events, exclusive athlete meetups, discounts from brands you love, and a custom welcome gift mailed direct to your doorstep. This winter, show your support as they race for the podium. Head to insider.usski and snowboard.org and join today.
Whimsound Advertiser (1:35)
Bring incredible sound into every corner of your home this holiday with the new Whimsound Smart speaker. Get high resolution Audio with a 1.8-inch touchscreen, smart control and modern design in one powerful speaker for just 299. From Quiet Mornings to lively holiday gatherings, Whim sound makes every moment sound better and feel better too. Get the gift of the season for the music enthusiast in your life or for yourself. Whimsound Beautifully designed, effortlessly connected. Shop now at Amazon and search Whim Sound. That's W I I m S o u n d.
Margaret Killjoy (2:07)
Cool Zone Media. Club Buh Club hello. Welcome to Callzone Media Book Club. The only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. Or should I say welcome back because today we're going back to doing short stories. I know you all listened very patiently through dawn of the Frogs and I know you all really like it when trant throw bomb. But don't worry, we've got schemes and dreams for more TTPRPGs here at Coolzone Media. But we're back to doing short stories on Cool Zone Media Book Club. And if you're new here or you just don't remember I'm your host, Margaret Kildray, and every week I read you a story that I like. Sometimes the stories are chaotic, sometimes they're cozy, and usually they made me feel something. And occasionally they're bad enough to be funny. But most weeks I pick stories that are just fun to read and fun to listen to. And I hope that you have fun, too. And this week we have a fun fucking story. This is a romp. It is a hootenanny. That's what this story is. Because this week we're reading you Macrame Flames, which is a 2022 story by the author Eric Roglin. It's from an anthology called the Book of Queer Saints, which was edited by Mae Murra. And this story rules because stories about gay people doing cult shit rule. But it also rules because of just how many rich details there are, like how they all use Signal, the app, when they're doing their texting for crime, or how they all have knuckle tattoos. And if you feel like it, you should listen in for how Eric contrasts the familiar and the fantastical in this piece. All right, are you all ready? Are you ready for Macrame Flames? By Eric Roglin How Thorpe went from being a member of the Nightmare Queers motorcycle gang to a suburbanite with a respectable carpentry business is beyond me. Back when we were committing arson once or twice a week, he always threw the first Molotov. And boy, did his eagerness for destruction win my heart. After one arson in Cincinnati, we fled the scene, climbed to a nearby rooftop, and went to town on each other while the hobby bobby below burned one of six hobby bobbies we'd torched that month alone. Watching the cops scramble to find us and fail only furthered our pleasure. They're dumb as shit, thorpe groaned, his Gimli beard buried in my ass. Thanks, Satan, for that. After a couple sweaty, sexy hours, we fell asleep on the rooftop. Reckless, I know, but waking up to a sunrise hazy with craft supply smoke was magical. Shivering in our leather jackets, we held each other and shared a cigarette. Perfect beauty and calm enveloped us. I would have loved for the moment to last forever, but you rarely get to savor things when you're wanted. In 17 states before the morning rush hour, we were off to the next hobby bobby, not another in Ohio. We weren't stupid, but one a few hundred miles off, the stores growing fewer and farther between. Gang leader Ripley greeted our arrival with eyes narrowed and tattooed, arms crossed. She gave us shit for spending the night so close to the crime scene But I didn't care, and from the way she smirked, it seemed neither did she. It was impossible to resent such a goddamn cute couple. Still, there were limits to our love. When the gang broke up five years back, I refused to settle in the suburbs with Thorp among the golfers, HOA shitheads, and quiverful families next door loaded with cash from years of robberies and inexplicably good financial planning. Thorpe sought stability after his homeless teenage years and his on the run 20s. My wanderlust hadn't been satisfied, though. I left to bike around the country alone, doing odd jobs and keeping a low profile. But it wasn't the same without him. Even in the company of other men, at truck stops and campsites and bath houses and porta potties, I thought of Thorp constantly. I often flipped through pictures I'd taken on the road and imagined he was in them, standing among Yellowstone bison with casual fearlessness, slamming back rot gut shots in a San Francisco gay bar and gazing at the stars through a tense mesh roof, the two of us together, inseparable. It was only after the gang realized our satanic work wasn't done that I saw him again. Like a heist movie. He came out of retirement for one last job. Maybe because he remembered what made us so good together, or maybe because suburbia bored him. Guess I'll never know. I missed my chance to ask. Ripley's prophecy promised literal hell on Earth after we burned down 666 hobby bobbies. But somehow we fucked up the count. It's true what they say about queers and math. Ripley's partner Xena miscounted, so we thought our work was done. Which meant hell didn't come to earth, causing Ripley's prophecy to lose credibility and the gang to split up. Kind of funny in retrospect. I stayed gang loyal longer than Thorpe and most of the others, but at some point it got awkward. It was only Ripley and Xena plus me third wheeling it, and you know how a biker feels about anything with more than two wheels. I bounced. Thing is, Xena did an arson recount five years later. Why you're wondering. For her goddamn scrapbook. Every hobby bobby arson news clipping got its own page. And. And when she glued the final article to page 665, she must have thought, huh, I done fucked up. Sure did. Warrior Princess. After that, Ripley informed the gang of the situation through an encrypted group text, though there were fewer of us now. Knox had died in a knife fight with some Sturgis Nazis Kip had died in a knife fight with herself, and Dozer had fucked off to DJ at a queer nightclub in Berlin. Those who remained minus a stubbornly silent Thorpe hopped on a video conference call like real corporate ghouls, but instead of suits and ties, we each had face tats and septum piercings and crooked, scheming smiles. We shot the shit and plotted for hours. I left the call fucking buzzing, thinking if everything went smoothly, hell really would come to earth. It'd be a 247 paradise for queers and anarchists and the best sorts of criminals. Hobby Bobby still hadn't recovered from the Nightmare Queers campaign of terror, but they dared to open one new location in Omaha, Nebraska. The corporation had waited a good three years after our spree ended to build it, and there it had stood ever since, with the store sign glowing orange like a like a beacon for crafty evangelist assholes. Ripley and Zeena scouted the place ahead of time. There was a security camera at the store's southeast corner and a blind spot on the northeast side of the parking lot. We'd taken on much harder jobs, so this one should have been cake, right? And you know what else is a piece of cake, too? You know who else glows orange with craft supplies and prophesied destruction? Not any of our sponsors, that's for sure. Nope, they are completely without the orange glow of prophesied destruction. That's our promise here at Cool Zone Media. Here's our sponsors.