Cool Zone Media, the Club, the Club, the Club.

Hello, welcome to Coolzone Media book Club, the only book club.

Or 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 y'all listened very patiently through Dawn of the Frogs, and I know you all really like it when Trent throw bomb.

But don't worry.

We've got schemes and dreams for more ttprpgs here at cools on Media.

But we're back to doing short stories on Cool Zone Media book Club.

And if you knew here or you just don't remember, I'm your host, Margaret Kildren, 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 who Nanny, That's what this story is.

Because this week we're reading you Macromay Flames, which is a twenty twenty two story by the author Eric Roglan.

It's from an anthology called The Book of Queer Saints, which was edited by May Murray.

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, you all ready?

Are you ready?

For Macromay Flames by Eric Roglin.

How Thorpe went from being a member of the Nightmare Queer's motorcycle gang to a suburbanite with a respectable carpentry business is beyond me.

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, is gimly 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 seventeen states, before the morning rush hour, we were off to the next hobby bobby, not another in Ohio.

We weren't stupid, but won 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 Thorpe 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 twenties.

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 bathhouses and porta potties.

I thought of Thorpe 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 rotgut 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 or 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 six hundred and sixty six hobby bobbies, but somehow we fucked up the count.

It's true what they say about queers in 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 Zena plus me third wheeling it, and you know how a biker feels about anything with more than two wheels.

I bounced thing is Zena 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 when she glued the final article the page six hundred and sixty five, she must have thought, huh, I'd done fucked up.

Sure did Warrior Prince.

After that, Ripley informed the gang of the situation through an encryptied group text, though there were fewer of us now.

Knox had died in a knife fight with some sturgist Nazis, Kimp 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 faced hats 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, how really would come to earth?

It be a twenty four to seven paradise for queers and anarchists and the best sorts of criminals.

Hobby Bobby still hadn't recovered from the nightmare Queer's 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 a store sign glowing orange like a beacon for crafty evangelist assholes.

Ripley and Zena 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 to you know who else glows orange with craft supplies and prophecy destruction.

Not any of our sponsors, that's for sure.

Nope, they are completely without the orange glow of prophecy destruction.

That's our promise here at cool Zone Media.

Here's our sponsors, and we're back.

The morning before our final arson, after too many unreturned voicemails, I drove to Thorpe's suburban hellscape to plead my case.

His lawn was perfect, and by perfect, I mean perfectly fucking boring, mowed and watered and monoculture as hell.

A wooden welcome sign hung from the door.

It looked like one you'd find it at Hobby Bobby, But as I found out later that day, he'd made it himself.

Arsonist, ass eater and carpenter.

Thorpe was a triple threat.

When I knocked, he answered with a shaved face and his shirt tucked into his pants.

The shirt thing threw me off.

What kind of person tucked their shirt in while lazing around at home didn't seem like the Thorpe I'd known.

Still, he was willing to hear me out on this one last job, and I was willing to open my heart again carefully, like opening a door during a hailstorm.

How do you feel about fucking up one last craft store?

I asked, going in for a kiss, Thorpe lurched back and whispered, not so loud.

Come on.

Whether he was afraid of getting busted for criminal activity or getting outed as a homo in Trump Country, I couldn't tell, but I followed him inside.

He shut the door, then gave me a quick peck on the corner of my mouth, a totally unromantic reunion kiss.

But it had also been five fucking years of radio silence, so who could blame him.

Thorpe had a black pleath sectional couch without a single cracked cushion, a big ass TV covering half the wall, and a spinning rack of home improvement magazines.

Nice house, I said, through a grimace, Please say you've got an altar room somewhere, a little satan in the suburbs.

I don't worship much of anything these days, Thorpe said, scratching his shaved neck.

Not even a shadow of stubble remained.

Maybe that'll change tonight.

I said, We've got the count right this time, so big things could happen.

Thorpe nodded and gave a polite Midwestern smile, but I didn't make eye contact.

Silence took cold, filled by the soft hum of air conditioning.

Not even a window unit.

This was bouge ass central cooling.

Listen, I know this is awkward and you don't really want to deal with gang shit anymore, but I cleared my throat.

Do you at least want to have sex for old time's sake?

Sure?

He said that would be nice.

A good cum broke the ice.

Thorpe and I laid in his temper pedic bed.

Could have gotten used to that bed holy shit.

Cuddling naked and drinking whiskey and catching up on a half a decade of long He braided my hair just like he used to, which made me cry a few boozy tears.

When I stopped crying, it was his turn.

I hate myself most of the time, he sniffled.

I needed safety and security, and I sold out for it.

This life's comfortable, and it's nice, and it's so goddamn boring.

The neighborhood dads invited me to join an Eagles cover band, the Eagles for Satan's sake, Satan, you say?

He smiled, then kissed me.

It was wet and tonguey and way fucking hotter than are kiss At the door, pulling away, he asked, do you hate me?

I almost laughed at the audacity of that question.

Thorpe.

You have to understand, I said, two years back, I biked through this town that had a custom body pillow shop, no lie, and I seriously fucking considered getting one printed with a picture of you.

I was pathetic and lonely and totally head over heels for this bitch right in in front of me.

So no, I can never hate you.

Thorpe smiled, lasted only a moment before he sobbed into my armpit and whispered thank you, I love you, over and over and over.

I cradled his head and inhaled him.

He was already starting to smell more like the man I remembered.

Maybe there'd be a future for us after all.

I wondered if I could persuade him to burn down this house but not the bed, and collect the insurance money, we'd ride off together and enjoy a lifelong road trip through hell on Earth.

But I was getting ahead of myself.

I'd wait to ask until after the hobby Bobby burned.

Thorpe and I pulled into Omaha late, just like the old times.

He hadn't ridden as Kawasaki in ages, so we had to do some last minute maintenance.

I felt like a dad yelling at his son to hurry up and get dressed for church.

Your mom's already in the goddamn car, still with a little extra speed on the interstate, and void.

Did that feel good?

We arrived just ten minutes past midnight.

Seven other Nightmare queers were already there, quietly chatting and smoking under an awning.

They waved at us and whisper, shouted and enthusiastic greeting.

Standing aways off, Ripley glared when we pulled into the dark corner of the parking lot, but she grinned at the sight of Thorpe's shaved face.

I've seen twinks become bears, but never the other way around, she said, hugging him tight.

Good to have you back.

Glad to be back, Thorpe said, but his voice trembled.

Maybe he'd been a suburbanite for so long that returning to crime scared him.

Light years distant as he was from his roots and values.

I nudged his ribs and whispered, It's going to be great.

He gave a brief, lippy smile.

Before I could give further reassurance, Ripley pushed a Molotov into my hands.

Still got a good throwing arm, she asked.

Hard to miss a fifty thousand square foot building, I said.

Thorpe snorted and looked down.

He kicked over someone's discarded monster energy can and washed its remnants pool at his feet.

Ripley approached him with a second molotov.

You spilled my drink, she said.

Thorpe's head snapped up and his eyes went wide.

Fucking with you, man, I don't drink that shit, Ripley said.

She rested a hand on Thorpe's leather jacket, which he probably hadn't worn in years.

You okay, Thorpe nodded.

Yeah, I really missed everyone.

Things haven't been easy, and I'm sorry I haven't been around.

I really should have no reason to apologize.

The past is the past and the future is hell on earth.

Let's torch this craft store and grab a fucking beer, just like you can torch a U log.

There we go.

That's one thing I can say.

You can torch on air.

Go torch a yule log and grab yourself a fucking beer.

You filed the animal unrelated anything at all.

Here's ads and we're back.

Thorpe puffed his cheeks out, then hopped up and down like an antsy gay football player on the sidelines.

Ripley's pep talk reminded me of why we'd followed her for so many years, and I was grateful she could inspire Thorpe in ways I couldn't.

Ripley called to the others, finish your smokes and come here.

Don't want cops arriving before we get this party started.

Everyone walked over, hugged me in.

Thorpe then huddled around Ripley.

The gang looked different after five years away.

Zena had gray hair, Murk had daddy knuckle pats, and Corsica had a half sagging face from her stroke.

Despite the changes, it still felt like old times.

I couldn't stop smiling.

After the building burns, the ground will start shaking.

Don't panic, Ripley said, that's supposed to happen.

It means he's coming.

Hail Satan, Zena said.

Everyone repeated after her, even Thorpe.

I grinned, as if I were witnessing his satanic confirmation.

Thorpe could still get right with the dark Lord.

Ripley pushed a Molotov into Thorpe's hands.

Will you do the honors?

She said, But it wasn't really a question.

Thorpe throwing first was all part of the ritual.

He was our good luck charm, the reason the cops never caught us.

At least that's what Ripley told us.

Thorpe nodded, half smiled, and blushed.

He cleared his throat.

Does someone have a lighter, he asked?

I know I should have brought one, but I quit smoking, and oh, good for you, man, Ripley said, then handed him a bit that looked like it had been a dog's chew toy.

Blinking quickly, Thorpe mumbled a thank you before lighting the cloth.

That's when the red and blue lights of two cop cars lit up the parking lot like a fascist disco.

Thorpe jumped at the sirens, whoop and dropped the lit molotov.

It shattered at his feet and flames consumed him head to toe.

I smelled the musk of burning leather, the sharpness of melting hair.

Thorpe's high pitched scream pierced the night.

Everyone else's screams followed shit roll Thorpe roll, I said, it felt ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but what else was there to say?

A cop barked through a crackling megaphone.

All of you hands where I could see them, more flamed than man.

Thorpe made a shrieking sprint toward the hobby Bobby and drove head first through the door.

The pain shattered, and there he lay motionless.

Somewhere behind me, Ripley whipped out her gun and fired at the cops.

I was frozen with horror, Knowing Thorpe and I would never bite a desert highway, get pissed, drunk and whisper suite.

Everything's under the blanket of glittering constellations.

We'd never raise a toast to the King of Hell, never party with winged imps and black latex suits, never see the fruits of our satanic labors.

More shots, and not the celebratory kind.

I was out in the fucking open, the rest of the gang ducking behind their bikes and pulling out their pieces.

I could only tilt my head towards Thorpe, lifeless and flaming in the hobby Bobby entrance, his body the accelerant and one final beautiful act of arsen Something was different about this fire.

It spread through the store and possibly fast, Thorpe's accidental sacrifice, channeling satanic magic and feeding the flames hunger.

Firefighters would never put this one out.

A dozen deafening shots, bullets pinged off the cop cars and bikes.

A cop yelled at me to get the fuck down, then pulled the trigger not a second later.

I was lucky he had shit aim, because I was still paralyzed watching Thorpe turned to ash.

Fifty feet away, another cruiser pulled into the lot with lights spinning.

Ripley screamed, fuck, fuck, fuck, and emptied the rest of her clip toward the back of but the red and blue lights paled in comparison to the Hobby Bobby, shining bright as the morning Star.

A bullet clipped my ear, and I only realized it when hot blood tickled my cheek.

Everything was ringing, more shots than a gut wrenching scream from Ripley.

I couldn't see her, but I knew she'd been hit.

Xena shouted to Ripley, her panic shredded voice, repeatedly promising everything would be okay, And then the earth shook with ecstatic violence.

All gunfire stopped.

I fell to the ground, which would have made that fucking cop happy, had he not been worried about the cracking concrete beneath him.

Now he and his boys were screaming, and Ripley was laughing, and I was crying, and Thorpe was burning and dying and rebirthing the world.

Flames spouted not from the Hobby Bobby, but from the splitting concrete.

A screaming cop straddled the scorching crack, but the gap widened and the flames licked the hair off his balls.

He fell into the engines of Hell, fuel for Satan's chariot.

His car followed, then another car, pulling the second cop down with its open driver's side door.

When the last cop tried running bless his cold, wife beating heart, a blackened claw thick as a redwood reached up from the quaking crack and gripped his ankle.

One tug and he was gone.

Soul not claimed, but rather immolated out of existence.

Hell didn't want him, I'm sure of that.

When the claw extended back into the burning night, it stretched endlessly, towering over the hobby Bobby, the city, the world, Glowing magma hissed through its veins, and shards of volcanic glass fell from its fingers, clinking to the ground.

Ever, the dumbass I didn't register what the beast was at first, but I just lost my lover and my one good ear so cut me some fucking slack.

Ripley, on the other hand, giggled and rejoiced through labored breath.

Hail, Satan, come at last.

My attentions strayed to the hobby Bobby entrance, where not even one of Thorpe's briny balls remained.

At least his death meant something.

I sobbed and screamed and thanked him and praised Satan and yearned to fill the emptiness inside me.

I'd never get to know this reborn world with the man I loved, the man who'd made it possible.

Crete splintered as the colossal beast's head surfaced, leaving half the parking lot a sinkhole to hell, Smoke rising from his horns.

It turned toward me.

That's when I'd realized I'd given up hope too soon.

Meeting my gaze from a mile above, the beast grinned with stalactite fangs hanging over a gimly beard, the beard I'd long to feel against my face for so long.

A great warmth filled me.

Love and hell would rain together for eternity the and I really like this story.

Sorry, I know I always say that I don't know.

It's just fun.

Like I don't believe in any of this shit.

It's a terrible theology.

Don't go do this, but like whatever, like this idea of wanting to see it all burn and then picking this like way of doing it and this way of doing it.

There's that great new podcast about the Satanic Panic that just came out from Sarah Marshall.

But like, I read a lot about the Satanic Panic and like these things that people accuse us all of doing, and so sometimes it's nice to just like revel in that and be like, no, no, no, that's the plan, that's totally what we're doing.

Yeah, Hazel, who helps me pick out the stories?

They say?

I read through a lot of stories for this show, but as soon as I read the first line of this one, I knew I wanted to try to get it.

A good first line should set up with the main action in the story will be, and this line does it so masterfully.

How Thorpe went from being a member of the Nightmare Queer's motorcycle gang to a suburbanite with a respectful carpentry business is beyond me.

It gets us a named main character.

The two worlds will be torn between for the story, the gang and the suburbs, and the hint that will be coming out of retirement and one hell of a concept.

So yeah, I hope you enjoy the story too.

Eric Raglan, the author.

He him, I'm going to read his bio to you.

Eric Raglin is a horror weird fiction writer.

His short story collections include Nightmare, Yearnings and Extinction Hymns.

He owns Cursed Morsels Press, which focuses on short horror and weird fiction with an anti capitalist, anti fascist, pro queer spirit.

He has also edited The Writhing Verdant End and No Trouble at All, co edited with Alexis Dubon and Bitter Apples and Shredded, a sports and fitness body horror anthology, and Antifa splatterpunk.

You can find him on Blue Sky or Instagram at Eric Rogland nineteen ninety two which is e.

Eric R.

A.

G l I n.

Nineteen ninety two and I'm Margaret Kiljoy and you can find me wherever you want.

My latest book is called The Immortal Choir Holds Every Voice.

It has kind of pretty similar themes to this, And everyone who backed out on Kickstarter is about to get a digital copy of a companion story for the dayl Okaine series called and the Clean Bone's Gone that's coming out from Strangers in a Tangled Wilderness.

It might actually be out to the Kickstarter backers by the time you hear this.

But if you want a zine of it mailed to your very door, you can back our publishers Strangers in a Tangled Wilderness at patreon dot com sus Strangers and Entangled Wilderness, and anyone who backses to ten dollars a more a month gets a zine every month in the mail, and our January mailers are the biggest mailing of the year where we make like bigger zines and stuff and send them out as well as like a poster that's also our catalog and all this shit.

But importantly, the print zine version of and the Clean Bone's Gone, which you can absolutely read standalone.

If you want really similar themes is this and the Clean Bone's Gone.

Yeah, you can get it if you back us before December thirty first this year twenty twenty five, you'll get a copy of that in the mail, but I don't know, you can also just back it anyway and you'll get a zine once a month.

And then if you really want for something that's completely unrelated to Hobby Bobby, which is of course the entirely fictitious thing that is referenced in this episode, you can also go and listen to Behind the Bastards episodes from twenty twenty how hobby lobby funded terrorism and try to destroy democracy.

For just something completely unrelated, I just wanted to shout out another cool Zone Media podcast, Behind the Bastards.

Maybe you've heard of it.

Anyway, talk to y'all next week.

It could happen here as a production of cool Zone Media.

For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website coolzonemedia dot com, or check us out on the Iheard Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts.

You can find sources for It could Happen Here, updated monthly at coolzonemedia dot com slash sources.

Thanks for listening,