Single Serving Stories Series- ‘Circular Journey’

Posted on September 22, 2024 by Brad Oates

In addition to regular blog articles and my published novels, I’ve also written several Single Serving Stories over the years. Some have been published in anthologies like ‘Between the Shelves’, ‘Edmonton: Unbound’, and ‘All Mapped Out’. Others have been shared exclusively on this blog via the publication platform Smashwords.

Recent changes to the Smashwords platform has made it a less reliable option however, and therefore an exciting change has come to Brad OH Inc.

I will be re-sharing in full—un-edited and un-abridged—all Single Serving Stories previously published on Smashwords with Brad OH Inc. as the new, exclusive provider. All text will be provided in full, with no download necessary. If Smashwords don’t like that, they can message our complaints department.

This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.

Today’s article is a bit of a change up, not a short story, but rather an old essay examining one of my favourite artists through one of my favourite psychological lenses. I hope y ou enjoy it as much as I do.

A Psycho-biographical Study of Joseph Bruce (AKA Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse)

Terror Management Perspective

Joseph Bruce, aka Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse (ICP), is one of the creative forces behind what could be described as one of the most perplexingly twisted musical forces of our time. With lyrics fueled by violence, profanity and rage, ICP has found itself on the receiving end of multitudes of protests, and have been all but completely marginalized from the mainstream music industry. Despite this, the diehard fans of the ICP- called ‘Juggalos’- have sworn a near-religious loyalty to their music, painting their faces to attend shows and swearing that there is more behind the music than most people seem to believe. The intention of this paper is to explore, from the perspective of Terror Management Theory (TMT), which processes may have led to the creation of music that is so commonly reviled by the public, yet so highly revered by those who take the time to put together the pieces. The main focus of this paper will be to explore the psychological function (based on Terror Management Theory) of the lyrical concepts and album themes underlying the 12-year, 7-album saga: ICP’s 6 Joker Cards.

Terror Management Theory (TMT) stems from the research of cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker, and has been conceptualized in full by others since the original work (Greenberg et. All, 1991). TMT serves as a broad social theory that attempts to explain the rational motivations for various facets of human belief and behavior. Its’ focus is the way in which people buffer themselves against the terror that naturally arises from our awareness of death. Because people have a natural instinct to stay alive, yet have the temporal capacity to know that death is inevitable, we are faced with death anxiety. TMT asserts that we deal with this death anxiety by investing in what is known as a cultural worldview. A cultural worldview is essentially our belief system; it serves to give the world order, predictability, meaning and permanence, and provides a reassurance of our ability to transcend death. The cultural worldview is comprised of an idea of who we are, moral conceptions of right and wrong, and an idea of what will happen to us after we die.

The cultural worldview acts to buffer us against death by assuring us that, if we follow the dictates of our worldview, we will be able to achieve some level of immortality in the sense that we can live on through our children, our creations, the memories of loved ones, etc. It also buffers against the anxiety of death by assuring us that if we are to follow the moral principles of our worldview, we may be rewarded in the afterlife. This works only to the extent that our cultural worldview is supported by others; as the more widely received it is, the more plausible it seems, and thus the more effective its’ function.

Jock Abra supports many aspects of this theory in his paper (1995), in which he asserts that artistic creation is a process of self-immortalization, and functions as a cathartic relief of the fear of death, often in the reflection of it. This, along with the prime dictates and focus of TMT, does well to explain the works of the ICP. Throughout the history of the 6 Joker Cards, death, along with violence, depravity, and cultural exclusion, is a highly salient theme. The reasoning behind this thematic focus, the conceptual changes in the Cards progression, and the need for the specific theme of the final Jokers card, can easily be understood through the understandings of TMT.

Joseph Bruce was born in the tiny suburb of Berkley, Michigan. One of his first reported memories was of his father, Richard Bruce, building a Halloween haunted house in the basement of his home for him and his brother Robert to play in. This was a time of happiness and security for Joe, but it was short lived. At the early age of 2, Joe can still remember the violent breakup of his parents, as father Richard became abusive, and finally moved out in a cathartic fight which saw Joe in the middle.

At the age of 4, Joe had an experience that affected the rest of his life. He and his brother Rob managed to capture a large butterfly, and put it into a bottle. They took it to their room, and kept it for the night, intending to release it the next day. In the morning however, they found it dead, and were crushed. It was their first experience of death, and they held a tiny funeral for the butterfly in their backyard, swearing to each other that they would one day go to heaven and apologize to the butterfly for killing it. With this experience came the concept of death, and thus death anxiety. It was presumably here that Joe first truly realized that living things are temporary, and that even he would someday cease to be.

Joes’ mother, Linda Harwood, was a devout catholic, and worked nights cleaning the basement of a Church in a neighboring suburb. With such limited means, and being a single mother of 3, she could not afford life in their pleasant suburb alone for long, and thus had no choice but to remarry; this time to an older, well off man named Lester Wool. Lester provided Joes’ first notion of evil. A rich man, he would provide lavish gifts to Joes’ mother Linda, but when Linda was away, a different side came out. A serial molester, Lester had been an unwanted member of several families before Joes’, and presumably several after. He molested Joe, as well as his two siblings, until his older sister Theresa left a note telling their mother of his acts, before running away. Lester was thrown out.

Another violent family breakup- the cycle of tribulations continued for Joe. Without any constant father figure, and a well-conditioned distrust of any who took the role, Joe had clear reason to harbor bitter feelings towards authority. Further, with the anxiety of death instilled in him from the butterfly incident onward, Joe was in need of a stable cultural worldview to buffer against this terror. But with no lasting family structure, few friends, and a pile of bitter experiences, it is presumable that any concept of steadfast morality seemed unlikely for Joe.

Things only got worse. Once again on her own raising 3 children, Linda had to move the family out of the expensive Berkley neighborhood, and into a tiny house in Oak Park, a low rent suburb on the outer limits of the Detroit ghetto zone. Violence and death were everyday realities for Joe now, as gang activity and shootings were common occurrences here. Further, Joe found himself a cultural minority in the heavily Afro-American neighborhood, and was constantly the target of the disgruntled and dangerous local teens. When traveling to nicer neighborhoods however, he was once again discriminated against due to his association with the Oak Park area. A reject in every level of society, it was clear that Joe would have trouble fitting himself into any existing cultural worldview.

Hated locally for his color, and in other areas for his class, Joe witnessed a constant stream of violence and death. In childhood, Joe coped by staying in a constant state of make-believe with his brother. As time passed however, his brother shipped off to the army, and he found himself joining the gangs that he once feared. It was a matter of protection and survival. In these gangs, rapping was always viewed as a goal, a way to escape and move beyond the local scene. So Joe and the gang started a group/gang: ICP, which then stood for Inner City Posse.

This group floundered, got into many dangerous fights, and eventually all but broke up, leaving only Joe and his friend, Joey Ustler (Shaggy 2 Dope). Joe knew that he would go nowhere as things were, and suddenly decided to re-frame the Inner City Posse as the Insane Clown Posse, keeping the old ICP initials. They donned racially-ambiguous clown paint, and made a cryptic announcement: Their albums would each be a separate aspect of what they called the “Dark Carnival”, each one in turn being called a Jokers Card. Inside of each Joker Card were 2 constant quotes. The first proclaimed: “There will be 6 faces of the Dark Carnival, after all 6 have risen, the end of time will consume us all”. The second, in tiny print on the inside cover of each card: “Dedicated to the Butterfly”.

With no basis for an understanding of morality in their violence strewn life, no friends, little family to support anything they cared about, and every reason to have a fear of death, ICP were left with no means of dealing with this death anxiety. As social rejects, the group had no means of identifying with any existing cultural worldview, and so, started their own.

The first Joker Card was called the Carnival of Carnage (1992), and the idea behind it was the events that would take place if all of the violence and suffering that they saw in the ghetto they lived in was suddenly tossed into the upper class towns of suburban America. It was violent, graphic, and filled with death, with lyrics that brought Joe’s reality home, such as:

“You wake up to gunfire,

thinking it was a dream

until you hear your neighbor howl

and a young child scream…”

In this album, Joe brought the mortality salient life he had lived to the eyes of anyone who bought his CD, and with it, the unaddressed death anxiety that he had lived with for so long.

As his work progressed, Joe began more and more to feature ideas of morality, justice, and distrust of authority. He sang of people suffering as penance for evils they had committed, and of people being forced to deal with the consequences of actions they’d assumed they were free of, as in the lyrics:

“Buy a richie home or two

This reflects the things you do

others starving down the block

richies heart is like a rock…/

/even though some down and out

you keep what you could live without…”

After only 2 albums, the ICP had created the start of a dynamic cultural worldview. They had shown people death as they saw it, and taught them of justice as they perceived it.

They had established their own death anxiety in others, and they had determined their moral attitude, but as explained earlier, a cultural worldview needs the support of others in order to function. ICP needed a focused and well-defined fan-base, a group who would relate in full to their line of thinking, and who would understand their methods. In the era around their 3^rd Joker Card, The RiddleBox (1995), ICP sang a new tune. While maintaining the original levels of mortality salience and vigilante justice, ICP began to express the rejection they felt, alongside the brotherhood they perceived possible among other rejected people; people that felt as forgotten, vulnerable, and scared as they did.

Death once again came into play, and using death as an active metaphor for societal rejection, they sang of the dead rising up to dance, of cast-aways forming their own carnival shows, and of learning to disregard the beliefs of others in order to cultivate understanding of yourself. The idea exploded, and they earned a nationwide, underground fan-base, all intent on understanding reality on their own terms, with lyrics such as:

“Throw all your (gang) signs in the air

what’s that I don’t check I don’t care

‘cause I’m down with the clown everywhere

and much clown love is in here”

Over the years, ICPs’ focus on unity and internal support only grew, and by the time they had released their 5^th Jokers Card, they had an enormous international fan base of ‘Juggalos’, who would follow the group around the country, buy every piece of merchandise available, wear the face paint on every possible occasion, and most importantly, argue enthusiastically that, behind the profanity of ICP was a clear cut, simple message to it’s followers: stay true to your friends and family, be prepared to own up to your unjust actions, and accept yourself as you are: a reactionary set of rules opposed to the family trauma, societal rejection, and evil deeds that Joe had been exposed to in childhood.

With music that provided its own source of mortality salience, and a moral code and sense of belonging to buffer against it, ICP was a self-made and independent cultural worldview. However, prior to the release of the 6^th Jokers card, they were missing one very important thing. ICP would certainly be able to live on through their music at this point, and had certainly confronted the concept of death within their art. Their creation had formed a conception that gave the world order, predictability, meaning and permanence, but a cultural worldview is most effective at buffering against death anxiety if it includes some conception of what happens to us when we experience death. Before the 6^th Card dropped, Joe knew it had to be significant, and before deciding what it was, reports feeling very empty. In his book, he writes “I was lost without the 6th…. Like we were running from the ending and it was killing me off”. He knew, consciously or not, that the conclusion of his cultural worldview would be an intricate part of its efficacy in dealing with death anxiety.

The 6^th Jokers Card was called “The Wraith”, and was an allegory for the experience of death. It came in the form of 2 separate albums; Shangri-la (2002) and Hells Pit (2004). Hells Pit was the final word in their construction of morality, and featured songs such as “Walk into the Darkness” and “Burning Up”; cautionary tales about the results of a life lived poorly. Shangri-la was the other side, it opened with “Walk into the Light”, and was a positive album focusing on the rewards of a good life, the comfort of friends and family, and the promise of belonging and happiness resulting from just choices. The album concluded with a track called “Thy Unveiling”, which explained that the “Dark Carnival” concept was a metaphor for God.

“It ain’t about Violent J or Shaggy

the Butterfly or 17

When we speak of Shangri-la

What you think we mean

Truth is we follow God

We’ve always been behind him

The carnival is god

And may all Juggalos find him!”

The 6^th card had dropped, and as prophesized since the first, the end of time had consumed its listeners. The end of time was death, and it had arrived to ensure protection against the fear of death, by completing the cultural worldview started 12 years prior. Therefore, the circularity of ICPs’ journey was fitting in that it began because of, and ended with, death. The faithful reminder and predictor of this remained; as the first of the Wraith albums, Shangri-la, was dedicated, just as all previous, to the Butterfly that had first shown Joe the reality of death. This was also among the first occasions they chose to explain the significance of the ubiquitous butterfly dedication. Hells’ Pit however, lacked this reference; the first album to not include it. While Shangri-la served as the completion of the cultural worldview, and promise of salvation to those that fit within it, Hells Pit was the completion of their moral constructs, the promise of punishment to those who deviated. Referencing the Butterfly in this album would be unfit, as the Butterflies significance had already been dealt with. Instead, the album was dedicated to “The Underground”: the forgotten, tossed aside, and misled of the world. It was a beacon to find understanding before it was too late, the final inclusion in a cultural worldview that had been a journey from forgotten and vengeful, to belonging and faithful; from fearing the uncertain eventuality of death, to accepting the purpose and freedom of it.

So the artistic journey ended by the same means it had begun. By tying their creation to as understandable and abstract a concept as God, Joe assured that his artistic creation, and the worldview created within, would have a level of permanence that he knew since the age of 4 he could not attach to himself. Joe did not know the exact path that his works would take at the beginning, but reports that it progressively made more and more sense as they went. It started out with an album that was angry, vengeful, violent and ungrounded, and ended with an album series justifying a morality of acceptance, honor, and faith. Due to his traumatic childhood, unstable youth, and violent, dangerous adolescence, we have seen how Joe was left with very little means to buffer against the anxiety of death, and thus created his own cultural world view. With a progressively defined concept of self, belonging, morality, and transcendence, Joe met with the existential terror of death head on in his work, and proceeded to build a belief system which helped him and countless fans deal with both the feeling of exclusion, and the anxiety of death.

Without in depth comment on his own planning of the work, we cannot say with certainty exactly how conscious this process was. There is certainly evidence that he had a clear vision of what he wanted to create, but the underlying psychological reasoning for this was likely a subconscious drive. However, the transformation Joe experienced- from a street tough punk to a well off, self made family man- is clearly representative of the effectiveness of his artistic process to encompass a functional cultural worldview now embraced by Juggalos worldwide.

References:

Bruce, J., & Echlin, H. (2003). ICP: Behind the Paint. Detroit: Psychopathic Records

Greenberg, J., Pyszcynski, T., & Solomon, S. (1991). A Terror Management Theory of

Social Behaviour: The Psychological Functions of Self-Esteem and Cultural Worldviews. Academic Press

Jock, A. (1995). Do the muses dwell in Elysium? Death as a motive for creativity.

Creativity Research Journal, 8, 205-217.

-Brad OH Inc.

Single Serving Stories Series- ‘A Conversation of Inconclusive Results’

Posted on June 30, 2024 by Brad Oates

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Recent changes to the Smashwords platform has made it a less reliable option however, and therefore an exciting change has come to Brad OH Inc.

Starting today, I will be re-sharing in full—un-edited and un-abridged—all Single Serving Stories previously published on Smashwords with Brad OH Inc. as the new, exclusive provider. All text will be provided in full, with no download necessary. If Smashwords don’t like that, they can message our complaints department.

This project will culminate in a couple of heretofore unpublished Single Serving Stories, so even the most dedicated of readers will have something to look forward to.

Today we share our second story, ‘A Conversation of Inconclusive Results’, which the sharp-eyed among you may note was a heavy inspiration for my first novel, ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’.

The events of that Saturday night were ultimately a complete waste. Ethan had gone out with the sole intention of finding some means of distraction from the stress of his impending graduation, and failing that, had chosen to get exceptionally drunk. Sadly, his fixation on the future had accompanied him into his intoxicated state, rather than being alleviated by it.

With these distractions playing through his head, Ethan had chosen a bar far off campus, one seldom frequented by his academic peers.

So now he sat, absentmindedly spinning his beer around in the golden puddle spreading slowly out from beneath it as the small speakers mounted in each corner churned out muffled approximations of songs he’d never heard. It was an hour from closing time, but only minutes before everything really began going to hell.

“Everything’s fucked,” Ethan groaned.

Ethan was unhappy.

“Pretty much,” replied Desmond, seated comfortably to Ethan’s right.

“It’s not that bad,” Andrew chimed in to his left.

The room was mostly vacant- the dim light cast by the two battered old chandeliers barely reaching its furthest edges. Ethan’s table sat, somewhat lopsided, at the far right corner beyond the thick metal door leading outside. With his back to an old grey wall decorated with a strange variety of oddities and memorabilia, Ethan faced the bar at the other end of the room.

Made of polished redwood, the bar stretched from just beyond the entrance all the way to the far wall. A lone man walked back and forth behind it, alternatingly polishing glasses and running a sloppy grey dishrag over his workspace.

The tables were low and heavy- big wooden structures whose shine had worn off long ago. Each was lined with long scars and crags from years of drunken abuse, with small illegible etchings carved into many of them- forgotten declarations of eternal love, announcements of specific patronage, and assorted obscenities.

Few of these were populated, though one lone man sat near the entryway at a single table wedged awkwardly between a worn pool table and the hallway leading to the dilapidated restrooms.

An old disco ball sent a shower of light twirling around the empty space opposite the stranger- likely the only activity the dance floor had seen in a good while. The entire room reeked of stale beer and old eggs, though the source of only one was immediately identifiable.

“What’s left now?” asked Ethan, sprawling across the table as his brown and green striped polo shirt drank deeply of the beer still remaining from a spill hours prior.

“Nothing,” Desmond flipped a toothpick into his mouth with a grin.

“Everything!” insisted Andrew, casting an irritated glance across the table. Desmond took no notice.

Ethan peeled himself up slowly from the mess of cloth and booze, a long wet slurp accompanying his efforts. He glanced over briefly as a small group entered the bar and took one of the many empty tables near the dance floor. To Ethan’s chagrin, they seemed in fine spirits. “I don’t even know what I’m meant to be doing.”

“Isn’t that up to you?” Andrew leaned over the table, unconcerned about his elbow, which drifted precariously close Ethan’s little lake of wasted but unforsaken beer.

“Isn’t that the essence of his problem?” Desmond’s expression of innocent intrigue fit him as naturally as empathy on an alligator.

“It really is!” Ethan nodded his head enthusiastically, then let it roll in a long looping circle before finally bringing it to rest facing no one in particular as he resumed his woeful diatribe. “What do I have to look forward to? Now I’ll just get some job I’ll hate, raise kids who won’t appreciate me, and finally I’ll accept the cold embrace of death.”

“Well at least there’s that death part then,” quipped Desmond, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his hands behind his head. Desmond was tall and lean, and wore his shock of dark hair mussed up with intricate apathy.

“Don’t be morbid,” Andrew said with a sigh. He shifted in his seat, rotating to better face Ethan, or perhaps to better avoid facing Desmond. Andrew wore a vibrant t-shirt depicting a wizard riding a wild boar. No one really understood his affection for such irreverence, nor did it ever seem to fit his stoic demeanour. The shirt did fit his strong arms particularly well however, and was therefore seldom the cause of significant chastising. “I’m sure when you sober up you’ll look back and realise how rewarding your life has been so far.”

“I thought looking back at your life was exactly what death was for,” mused Desmond before taking a long swallow of his thick red ale.

Ethan laughed despite himself- a sloppy, frantic sound that sent a pale trickle of beer running down his lightly stubbled chin. “That’s just what I’d need- to endure a rerun of my sorry fucking life before I died. Do you think there’s any option to skip that whole to-do?”

Andrew pushed his chair against the wall with a long screech, leaning his large frame back and crossing his legs. On his face was fixed a baleful, disappointed expression. “Are you really going to sit here and lament everything you’ve ever accomplished Ethan? You’re being ridiculous. You’re a great guy, and have plenty to be thrilled about going forward. Can’t you think of anything you’re proud of?”

“Do keg-stands and courtesans count?” Desmond asked, but went ignored.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole here.” Ethan answered the first question put to him. Perhaps trying to mimic Andrews’s adjustment, he slid back in his seat, and then downward, slouching like a wax sculpture left in the sun. “I know I’m lucky. I have a lot to be thankful for, I’m not arguing that. But right now, all that only makes it tougher. I know who I am, what I was given, and what I’m capable of. I know all the expectations on me, all the different opinions of what I might be. It’s just that I have no clue what I really want.

“It’s a lot to handle- I don’t know how you guys are so calm about it,” he finished.

“Well that’s what good company is for, isn’t it?” Andrew reassured, swallowing back the last of his beer.

“No, that’s what beer is for. Happily, good company serves good beer. Isn’t it your round Andy?” Desmond asked with a smirk.

“I told you not to call me that. And no- in fact it’s your round Desmond, if you’d be so kind.” Andrew slid his empty cup across the table.

“Damn.” Desmond rolled his eyes back and placed the back of his hand to his forehead in a faux expression of grief. Standing, he spat his gnawed toothpick into an empty glass and turned to make his way to the bar with a merry declaration- “Be right back Drew!”

With a chuckle, Ethan stared down into his empty cup, sighed, and began to drag his finger back and forth through the spilled beer in front of him, leaving little yellow lightning bolts zagging towards him and dripping down onto his legs. “I know what you’re gonna to say Andrew. ‘This is only the beginning- an exciting new chapter in my life.’ You’re right too. But all that talk about having your life flash before your eyes- that ending point really gets to me. It’s been pretty great, I’ve had a lot of laughs and experienced nothing but success. But I’m not sure how much of that was me and how much was predetermined. I’ve been on a direct path for so long- now I have to begin making my own decisions. Now it’s all up to me to fuck up. ”

“Well maybe you need to consider this flashback differently. You’re not dying tonight to the best of my knowledge. You’ll die a long time from now, and this choice will just be another one of the many events you look back on then. The question is, how will you feel when you look back on it?”

“Hopefully better than he did when we reminded him what he did last time he got this drunk… What are we talking about?” Desmond interrupted, speaking primarily for his own amusement, as usual. Sitting back at the table, he divided out the drinks. A short, stout glass filled with thick red ale for himself. For Ethan there was a tall glass of pale beer, and for Andrew, a thin, colourful drink with a melon wedge sticking out of it like the mast of a sunken galleon.

“You’re such a fucking dick Desmond.” Andrew complained, dredging out the melon and tossing it at Desmond, just missing his shining white grin.

“That’s a pretty mean thing to say to your friend Andrew.” Desmond stared across at the bigger man, holding his gaze until he saw the expected blush creeping up his neck and reddening his cheeks. Andrew could never hold his ground if he felt someone else may have been hurt by his actions. “… Christ you’re a pussy.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it.” Ethan refocused the conversation, taking a small sip of his new beer. “It certainly doesn’t take the pressure off it though- if I fuck up this decision, not only will it ruin the rest of my life, but I’ll have to reflect on how it all went wrong before I kick it. Jesus, would time ever drag looking back on that!”

“You’re focussing on the negatives again Ethan. Maybe we should switch drinks- this one seems a bit more… fun?” Ethan laughed again, while Desmond cast a cautionary glance to ward against any unforeseen drink switching. “Take your time with this decision, do what’s right for you, and time will fly by. Think of how amazing it would feel to look back at that, and all the other times where you just kicked ass in life. It sounds like a pretty good way to go!”

The smile that spread across Desmond’s face now was not one of mocking insincerity. His lips curled into a self-satisfied sickle as he leaned over the table, examining each of his companions in turn. “Happy memories or not Ethan, time is hardly going to fly. It’s your fucking deathbed we’re talking about here. Death! The one, absolute thing humans are evolved to avoid. That’s the pinnacle of unpleasant right there.”

“He’s right.” Ethan slouched back down in his chair and took a long pull from his cup. “Shit… if time slows down when we’re having a bad time, and death is the worst thing that can happen- wouldn’t time stand still when we die? I mean, think of it graphically- wouldn’t death form an asymptote where the experience of time is infinite in that one single instant?”

“You know why you’re always so down Ethan?” asked Andrew.

“Because he’s the kind of asshole who goes to a bar with his friends and uses words like ‘asymptote’?” Desmond smirked momentarily, but caught himself at the severity of the topic, and bit his lip to fight off the temptation of further heckling.

“No!” Andrew was getting frustrated. “Because when he looks back on his life, he only looks for negatives and regrets. It’s no use living with your mind fixed on what’s already done. You need to look ahead.”

“At the very least, it’s a helpful perspective on life.” Ethan mused absently.

“What?” Andrew asked.

Desmond smiled in silence.

“Think about what we have here,” Ethan’s voice rose in excitement, his hand grasping tightly about the stem of his half empty glass. “Here we are, imagining me at the second of my untimely demise. In that moment I’m granted, mercifully no doubt, an opportunity to look back on my life- all my successes and regrets.”

“So what will you see?” Andrew asked, sipping slowly from his long black straw and leaning forward in his seat.

“A close-up of the floor, smeared in your own vomit?” offered Desmond, leaving his sense of propriety where he’d found it.

“Shut up you idiots. Not only that, but we’ve agreed that time slows down when you’re having a bad experience, and that death is the worst possible experience. That means this event would theoretically- and certainly in the graphical sense- last forever.

“So, I lie dying- my experience of which is eternal- and look back at my life, reflecting on my decisions.”

“Heaven,” promised Andrew.

“Hell,” Desmond chided simultaneously.

“Jesus…” Ethan lamented, sliding further down in his chair as his eyes grew distant and glassy.

“Well does that help you make your decision?” Andrew swallowed the last of his drink, wiped his mouth with a napkin he’d had folded in his pocket, and leaned his weight onto his elbow.

“Or just further terrify you as to its magnitude?” Desmond asked, smiling as he held his glass up, tipped it skyward, and held it until the deep amber liquid disappeared down his throat. He belched loudly.

“What decision? Let’s get more beer.” A thin trace of saliva dropped from Ethan’s chin, down onto his polo.

“Last call is done buddy, but you can owe me for next time.” Desmond mumbled, stretching as he rose from the table.

“Oh leave him alone, he’s had a long night,” cautioned Andrew, rising and circling around the table. Evening off with Desmond, he stood patiently. Ethan leaned to one side, and then the other as his legs began to straighten in turns under the old wooden table. Leaning forward, he placed one hand heavily onto its surface for support, and slowly worked to elevate his midsection as he wavered back and forth under the effort.

Just as his ascension was all but achieved, Ethan’s hand slipped in the puddle of beer on the table, sending his mass careening forward onto its surface, taking it off balance and sending him pouring over its far end. He was left buried beneath the tables upturned frame.

“Holy shit! Are you ok Ethan?” Andrew shot around to one side, hooking his arm under Ethan’s as he heaved the table off of him.

Laughing hysterically, and entirely unable to catch his breath, Desmond did the same on the other side.

“Get out, you damned idiots!” bellowed the bartender.

Working together, Andrew and Desmond managed to hoist Ethan up, and began their way across the bar on the long trek for home. “What were we talking about just now?” Ethan’s voice was slurred, and came in fits and halts.

“You were doing some real soul searching Ethan, I’ll tell you about it in the morning,” Andrew assured him as he held the door open with one large hand.

Helping guide the human tangle over the threshold, Desmond could feel the cool night air against his face. “Now won’t that be a treat. Don’t worry Ethan, I’ll be there too. Wouldn’t want it to take too long, would we?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

Together the three friends made their way down the quiet streets. Ethan sagged heavily between them, but supported at each shoulder he continued to trudge along. A dying streetlight flickered above them, its efforts supported only by the dim light of the moon, hidden between buildings.

Ethan’s feet caught and dragged on the broken cement of the roadway, finally ceasing to move at all, causing the procession to halt long enough for him to empty the contents of his stomach down onto his shoes. Then, after a short bout of weary laughter, they continued on.

“Oh Ethan my wayward friend, why do we always need to carry you?” asked Desmond.

-Brad OH Inc.

‘The Election’ Published on GonzoToday

Posted on July 19, 2015 by Brad Oates

Here at Brad OH Inc., we’re happy to announce that our Single Serving Story ‘The Election’ is now available for reading on GonzoToday.

A direct link can be found right here.

Further, the downloadable version of ‘The Election’ over at Smashwords is very fast approaching the 100 Downloads mark. That’s even more reason to celebrate! Click on the image below to access a free, downloadable copy of ‘The Election’ on Smashwords.

We want to take this occasion to thank everyone who’s downloaded it for your support—we truly appreciate it, and hope you enjoyed the read. For those of you who haven’t yet read ‘The Election’, now is as good a time as any. So click here, or on the image above, and check it out absolutely free in any e-reader format that suits you! Alternatively, you can view it (along with many other fantastic articles) in-browser over at our friends ‘GonzoToday‘ by clicking right here.

-Brad OH Inc.

‘Town of Truth’

Posted on June 28, 2015 by Brad Oates

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Today we have another song/ poem from the intellectual property vaults of Brad OH Inc. For your enjoyment, we present the lost ‘Basic Human Indecency’ song: ‘Town of Truth’.

In the city with no lies

Things are not the same

Love is very rare there

There’s no such thing as blame

There are many ideas

And each one has a name

They name them for a dreamer

A man that’s not quite sane

In the city with no faith

There is no metaphor

They keep their eyes upon the ground

And guard dogs at their door

They know just where they came from

And where they’ll go forever more

Their science killed their magic

And life is such a bore

In the city with no soul

Each man is his own slave

He walks his path all by himself

Up to his lonely grave

Their medicine will cure a man

That he could never save

It can bypass the dreamer’s heart

Of which he only gave

But in the Town of truth

The eyes follow the mind

Dreams blossom to vision

Men smile and are kind

Yes the city may be ugly

But the town-folks they are blind…

-Brad OH Inc.

‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’ Update

Posted on June 14, 2015 by Brad Oates

Here at Brad OH Inc., we’re happy to announce that the beta-reads of our upcoming novel ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’ are coming to a close, and the book is moving into its final revision phases as we research publishers. This is a pretty exciting moment for everyone here at Brad OH Inc., as ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’ will be our first full length novel to seek publication.

To celebrate, we have a gift for all our dear readers—a sneak preview of ‘Edgar’s Worst Sunday’.

We Hope you enjoy it.In life, Edgar Vincent had always maintained one great passion—himself. A semi-successful composer, his rock star lifestyle suited him well, and his narcissistic outlook had always ensured he was a man with few regrets. Callous comments, thoughtless promiscuity, binge drinking, and excess sufficient to shame Caligula were standard Saturday night fare.

Sundays for Edgar had always been a painful haze of sickness and regret.

But when Edgar finds himself in the cloudy planes of the afterlife on one particularly bleak Sunday morning, he must put aside his ever-present hangover and try to figure out how he ever got to this point…and where he’s meant to be going now. But as Edgar traverses the spiritual realm, he comes to find that facing his death is hardly as difficult as facing himself.

However, heaven also presents Edgar with an unending smorgasbord of hedonistic entertainment, so he’s in no particular hurry to change his self-serving views. After all, considering that he’s already dead, what more could he possibly stand to lose?

Edgar’s Worst Sunday

A Novel by Brad OH Inc.

-Chapter 1: The Pearly Gate-

[Text Redacted due to Contractual Obligations]

-Brad OH Inc.

‘A Song for Alec’

Posted on May 31, 2015 by Brad Oates

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

Today we have another song/ poem from the intellectual property vaults of Brad OH Inc. For your enjoyment, we present the lost ‘Basic Human Indecency’ song: ‘A Song for Alec’.

Old Alec McPhee
Was a man of the sea
He’d traveled all over the globe
But now his boots sat
In a house on a road
Where old Alec shouldered his load

He moved into the house
To care for his family
Who offered him no word of thanks
He worked for the army
To pay for his children
But poor men don’t rise through the ranks

Every day he worked hard
Every night he lay cold
His dreams and his future denied
Old Alec sat
In a chair at a table
And looked out his window and cried

Old Alec walked down
To the water one night
Kept walking as it reached his chest
He carried with him
The clothes on his back
Some memories and left all the rest

Walked into the water
Up past his neck
Through the water he pushed out so fast
Away from the land
Out into the water
Alec walked away from his past

A man that is living
Must live in the present
A man that has run carries shame
But a man that’s found dead
Will live on in memory
And not scar the worth of his name

Alec turned around
With the water at his nose
And knew he had made a mistake
Remembered his duty
To care for his children
And knew there was no choice to make

The sounds of his life
Were silence or screaming
His friends from the past never called
His kids barely knew him
His wife didn’t love him
Alec’s house was no home at all

His family was cruel
As if sent by the Gods
To punish him for all his sin
But they needed a man
To survive in this world
And damned if it wouldn’t be him

Old Alec walked dripping
Into his kitchen
And up to his wife for a hug
She shrugged him away
And tossed him a towel
And told him to stay on the rug

In his chair by the table
He looked out the window
As dreams of the past filled his head
He stared at the ocean
And knew he’d been foolish
For he was already long dead

A man he will live
For the Gods that he chases
And see them wherever he’ll roam
And he’ll chase the shadows
Make gifts into shackles
And a prison out of a home

Alec can you find
Alec does it seem
Alec won’t you learn
That you’re chasing dead dreams

Alec are you lost
Alec are you blind
Alec don’t you know
You’ve lost more than you’ll find…

-Brad OH Inc.

Yours Truly

Posted on May 24, 2015 by Brad Oates

Under the Green Desk Lamp…

I’ve missed you.

I know that may come as a surprise, given my apparent absence. But you’ll have to trust that I’ve held you close in my thoughts, no matter how distant I may have seemed at times.

And it certainly has been a while, I won’t deny it. I’ve been quite busy, although explaining the nature of my work might be a little too heavy at the moment. But you’ve been busy too. Yes, you certainly have. Things have changed around here, even more than I might have imagined.

Not all for the worse mind you. No, I’ve seen some things since my return that have brought a much needed smile to my face—and that’s a rare thing indeed these days, I confess. The decoration I’m a bit split on, but there’s a lot beyond that to appreciate. You’ve had some great ideas, no doubt about it, and there have been moments when you really lived up to your potential.

…It’s just that they’re so damn rare.

Part of it may be my fault, I know—I’ve been derelict in my duties. In truth, I’d been hoping my presence was no longer quite so imperative.

I see now that I was misled. You’ve had a rough go of it lately. It’s hard to say where it all started to go wrong, but it’s far gone now, and it’s time we faced the truth.

I’ll start by apologizing once more for my distance. You deserved some assurance that I still remembered my promise. More importantly, you clearly needed it.

If I’m being entirely honest—and I am, without fail—I actually thought I’d left you with enough to get by. I gave you my word, and I told you everything you needed to know. I tried to make it as simple as I could, but even the clearest instructions grow blurry with the passage of time. And it has been a long time, to say the least.

You must have known I’d be watching though. If not, you should have.

I watched as you forgot who your family was, and turned your back on all the things which really mattered. I saw when you began to use me as a source of justification rather than strength. That’s really what hurt me the most.

What we had was a beautiful thing; at least I thought it was. But you’ve let your passion ferment into a bitter brew, and the intoxication it caused within you has become a blight on everything we once had. We never used to be about the fancy things, but now it’s all you seem to remember about me.

When I first laid eyes on you, I couldn’t help but adore your every fault. All your naïve desires were a wonder to me, and I revelled in your successes and failures alike, as each one made you more and more…you. The way you could be so content in your own head, the way you appreciated everything around you. I lived vicariously through you in some ways, and I adored your passion for creation. I could see myself in that.

But you’re so angry now, so defensive. It seems like whenever my name comes up, you’re ready for a battle. The constant anger is shocking—it’s almost like you wanted to keep me away. Things are different I know, but you can handle it without the blood and teeth and bile. I know you can, because I know you.

Still, I don’t blame you for being bitter. You needed more from me, when I only wanted you to find your own way. You called my name, and I didn’t answer. I tell myself that you needed to learn for yourself, but I know that’s only half true.

I’m not sure what I intended by reaching out again. When I left, I was certain that things could never change between us. Now, I only wish they could once more. You’ve grown unwieldy in my absence, and managed to become something entirely detestable to me. But it works two ways, and I know in truth that the change was at least in part because of my absence.

So what to do now?

It comes down to needs, I suppose. Needs, and wants. I want things to go back to how they were, but I know it’s unlikely. What do you want from me? I can scarcely imagine. Some assurance? Some comfort? I can offer neither. The road is long and hard, and I cannot carry you for all of it.

Maybe the cause is the cure as well. If nothing else, I’d like you to speak of me without the rage, without the need to do battle in the vainglorious hope of proving to others what you doubt in yourself. If that’s too much, then I’d rather you not speak of me at all.

Forget about me.

That’s all I can ask now.

We had a good run together. Great even, at times. But it’s clear we’re beyond each other now. The longer you hold onto the past, the greater damage you do to your present, and I worry that your time is growing short.

So let me go. Just pretend I never existed. Forget my words and burn my letters. Tell yourself you never needed me. Scream from the mountains that you’d be better off without me, that you are beautiful and worthy and glorious just because you are.

…Because you are.

Please, don’t ever forget it. And more import still, please don’t prove me wrong.

Yours Truly…

-Brad OH Inc.

Album Review: Insane Clown Posse’s ‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Lost’

Posted on May 3, 2015 by Brad Oates

On April 28^th, 2015 Insane Clown Posse’s Violent J celebrated his 43^rd birthday. This is no trivial accomplishment. With a childhood steeped in gang violence and accentuated by poverty, Violent J (aka: Joseph Bruce) may be lucky to have made it even beyond 20.

But something happened along the way which changed Violent J’s life forever. He formed a band. Along with his childhood friend Joey Ustler (aka: Shaggy 2 Dope), J built the Insane Clown Posse from the bones of defunct street gang Inner City Posse.

On October 18^th, 1992, ICP released their debut full length album, ‘Carnival of Carnage’. The first in an album series known as the ‘Joker’s Cards’, ‘Carnival’ set ICP onto their lifelong musical odyssey. The Joker’s Cards are a series of thematic albums, each revealing some aspect of the listener’s inner-self—they display moral quandaries and psychic terrors like so many carnivalesque freak-shows.

Since then, ICP’s career has stood as a blazing contradiction to the ‘mainstream’ music industry. With the formation of their record label, ‘Psychopathic Records’, Joe and Joey have created an underground industry for themselves, bringing up countless other acts along the way.

With this sense of purpose, the lives of these two Detroit youth have morphed from nightmares to dreamscapes. Both describe their lives now as being filled with all the happiness and fulfillment they could have ever dreamed of. For more information about the genesis of the Insane Clown Posse, see the Brad OH Inc. article ‘Circular Journey’ (Link).

This all brings us back to April 28^th—as this year, Violent J’s birthday also marked the release of the 3^rd Joker’s Card of the second deck—‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Lost’.

Click image above to buy the album.

‘Lost’ is only one half of ‘The Missing Link’, with the other half—‘Found’—dropping later this year, on July 31^st.

Like all Joker’s Cards, there is a very specific theme behind ‘The Missing Link’. As a whole, ‘The Missing Link’ refers to our internal link to belief—our connection to and faith in whatever keeps us on the right track.

Specifically, ‘Lost’ is about the experience of having no belief. Its dark tales tell of loss, death, and torment—the experience of any soul living in such a depraved world without any belief to buffer against the daily anxieties of such a life.

With tracks such as ‘Lost’, ‘Apocalypse’, and ‘Vomit’ painting hellish stories of misplaced anger and suffering, ‘Lost’ is accordingly one of the darkest albums the Clowns have ever released.

Without long-time producer Mike E. Clark at the helm, ICP have instead placed their faith in the talents of Psychopathic collaborators Mike P, Michael ‘Seven’ Summers, Brian Kuma, and one of the label’s up-and-coming stars, James ‘Young Wicked’ Garcia. This results in a daring change to the sound. While every album has certainly represented a significant shift in musical style—ICP have continued to explore their artistic range even after nearly 25 years together—this stands as one of the most radical departures for the group yet.

Marked by the heavy use of DJ scratching and industrial-style bass drops, the backing tracks are fast and heavy—contributing an often frantic pace to an album about the madness of lacking a sense of purpose. The disc plays at times more like a soundscape than an ordered collection of songs, with lyrics often sampled and repeated over and over—the usual raps slipping on many occasions into something closer to a Gregorian chant. In this way, the album is reminiscent of ICP protégé-band Twiztid’s stellar 2009 release- ‘W.I.C.K.E.D.’.

Garcia’s efforts deserve special credit here. Contributing many background vocals and several choruses including on the songs ‘How’ and ‘I See the Devil’, Garcia brings a fresh and welcome sound to the album—acting often as the distant voice of hope amidst the dark rumblings of ICP’s verses.

ICP’s delivery here is significant as well. While never competing amongst the most technically skilled rappers, the Clowns have always turned out crisp lyrics meshing well with their energetic beats. Not here. While frantic at times, the beats seldom flirt with anything close to ‘energy’—opting rather for a more frenetic, plodding, and often vulgar feel.

ICP’s raps follow suit perfectly. When not stuck in repetitive loops, the lyrics often come in disjointed bursts, as if being made up on the spot by a mind too occupied with more pressing concerns. This is especially noticeable in the song ‘Shock’, and fits well with the theme of being unable to control your own deranged impulses, despite how off-putting it can seem at first.

This attention to detail is consistent throughout the record.

While the intro can be somewhat brazen in its repetition, and even disturbingly overt in hammering the point home—it does much to illustrate the earnest message behind this brooding album: Find something to believe in, or risk being lost. Despite this theme however, the album does little to provide any idea of just what one should believe. If internet memes are to be believed, ICP are a couple of evangelical Christians, and thus the easy conclusion would be faith in the Christian God.

But you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet, and this is a perfect example. While the ultimate message of how to find your way will inevitably be addressed on ‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Found’, a recent interview in ‘The Detroit News’ did a good job showing the flexibility of Violent J’s views on the matter:

“Faith, for ICP, isn’t about any particular religion; Bruce admits he’s never read the Bible. It’s about finding something to believe in, whether that’s in one’s relationship with their spouse, their children or with art.” (Source).

But this isn’t to say that ‘Lost’ is entirely bereft of guidance. Several songs cover the issues of false beliefs—Money, Sex, Power, and other such temptations which distract people from finding a true sense of purpose. In ‘Vomit’, ICP tell the stories of two people who used sex and money respectively as their guiding principles, and end up lost in the depths of hell as a result.

Notably missing from the album is the familiar sense of humour so ubiquitous to other ICP releases. The lyrics and concepts are consistently bleak, with only brief glimpses of hope in songs such as ‘How’, which laments the confusion of trying to live a decent life amid such lurid distractions.

The album is moreover barren of any deep metaphor—which of course requires belief, as covered in depth in the former Brad OH Inc. articles on ‘The Metaphorical Imperative’ (Part 1 and Part 2). In an indirectly humourous twist, the song ‘Falling Apart’ accordingly eschews metaphor entirely. It tells the story of a man literally falling apart—fingers and limbs snapping off as he tries in vain to keep himself together. The song is punctuated by a surprisingly earnest chorus, in which Violent J channels his inner Rock Star to ask ‘What’s become of me/ I’m falling apart…’.

It pays off wonderfully.

The rest of the album plays out as a series of macabre stories and scenarios depicting the pitfalls of a life devoid of meaning. In stark contrast to most other ICP albums, the protagonist’s endeavours seldom end well, as evidenced in the song ‘Flamethrower’, where the Clown’s characters are ultimately killed. This subtly negative detail is similar to many songs from the group’s 2004 release, ‘Hell’s Pit’.

To me, one of the especially interesting things about this album is that it’s really not the album ICP probably ‘should’ have made at this point. Based on the huge surge of mainstream attention they garnered from songs like 2009’s ‘Miracles’, contrasted against the comparatively underwhelming reception they’ve received in the last few years, it would have made commercial sense to create a much more goofy album; ripe for public lampooning.

Instead, the Clowns opted to make a brazenly sincere album, focused on earnest meaning with a great sense of personal introspection. In theory, it’s the ‘wrong’ album to release just now, and that’s part of what makes it so damn interesting.

‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Lost’ is a daring album and bold new direction for ICP. Its heavy themes and plodding delivery often make for an uncomfortable listen, but that’s just the point. As is their wont, ICP have focused very intently on creating an LP that fits with their own artistic priorities rather than mass-appeal. This shouldn’t be surprising, as the band itself may be seen as the very ‘Link’ which raised Joe and Joey away from the fate of most children born to inner city poverty and set them on their purposeful path to happiness and fulfillment.

‘Lost’ is a dark, moody album. It’s not going to cheer anyone up, and this era in ICP’s career may be remembered as one of the least traditionally pleasant—challenging us with a barrage of negativity before moving on to the inevitably lighter tone of the ‘Found’ album. But ‘Lost’ does provide an important impetus for all of us to consider what really matters in our lives. It’s imperative that we take the time to recognize and cherish these things. Otherwise, our own Missing Link may never be ‘Found’.

‘The Marvelous Missing Link: Found’ is out on July 31^st, 2015.

A Note to the Reader: This is the first ever album review from Brad OH Inc. We hope you’ve enjoyed this new avenue, and encourage all of our fans to reply in the comments section with their thoughts on the review, or suggestions for other albums to review in the future.

-Brad OH Inc.

‘Circular Journey’

Posted on March 18, 2013 by Brad Oates

At Brad OH Inc. we can relate to a good underdog story. After all, you don’t become a corporation without climbing over your share.

Today, for your reading pleasure, we here at Brad OH Inc. present an older work for your consideration. This was a piece written for a psychology class, back when our personhood referred only to ourself. This work is a psycho-biographical study of Joseph Bruce, known as Violent J of the Insane Clown Posse (ICP). The piece is written as a study of the artistic process experienced by Violent J, as viewed through the lens of ‘Terror Management Theory’, a psychological perspective originating from the works of Ernest Becker.

More information about Terror management theory can be found at:

http://www.psychologytoday.com/basics/terror-management-theory

More information about the insane clown posse can be found at:

Insane Clown Posse

Or visit them at:

ICP- Facebook

As ever, the free e-reader version is available at the Smashwords.com link below. Thanks for visiting Brad OH Inc. and remember to share anything you like—after all, a good reader is judged not by what they read, but by how many of their friends read it too.

Circular Journey Cover

Circular Journey- Smashwords

-Brad OH Inc.

‘A Conversation of Inconclusive Results’

Posted on January 20, 2013 by Brad Oates

‘A Conversation of Inconclusive Results’ is the story of a group of college kids out to have fun. As perhaps some readers of Brad OH Inc. can relate to, they end up imbibing heavily, and their discussion begins to steer towards some very metaphysical topics. Will the slobbering-drunk Ethan find the answers he’s looking for from his friends? Or will the conversation only lead him down a path lacking in intellectual succour entirely? Well we here at Brad OH Inc. are strongly opposed to spoiling the surprise for our dedicated troop of fans (it’s one of our key tenets!), so you’ll just have to read the story for yourself.

Find attached as always a free PDF version, or if you’re one of our darling technophile readers, follow the link to Smashwords.com to get your free e-copy!

Thanks again for visiting Brad OH Inc. and remember–the only thing more important than loyalty, is brand loyalty.