It is the Suffra's goal to bring his adoring fans at least one animated post before this Summer's end.

In hopes of accomplishing this goal, he has pirated massive amounts of highlevel art programs....

if anyone know's how to use these fuckin things... e-mail the suffra

It was slightly surreal, sitting in a chair across from a straightlaced reporter in a posh cosmopolitan coffee house, and answering questions about the writings.

"What inspired you to start writing?" He asked, clasping the knot of his tie with the inside of his knuckle and pulling it down as he sipped on a double frappenated hot iced latte.

"The suffra doesn't answer asslick questions sir," I said twirling my finger around so the caramel and whipcream melded deep inside my Espressinated Cocaramelcream Fluffer Nutter.

Like he was walking straight from a 1930's press room he tilted his fedora just enough to snake his fingers under the backside and scratch his head. Wiping his furrowed brow with an index card inscribed with the word Press he shoot me a beady eye stare.

"Listen Mac," he quacked, " you reffer to yourself in the third person one more time and this interview is over."

He stood up as if to leave, but instead spun around his chair backwards, sat on it facing me with his arms draped over the back and rolled up his white sleeves, and finally resting his hands on the knees of his pant suit.


I've spent the past few months avoiding e-mails from newspapers and weeklies accross the country, which in retrospect, really wasn't too hard, but this guy got me. When a man goes out of his way to find your identity, then shows up at your front door with a five dollar bill and a list of questions... you tend to give him the courtesy of a couple of answers.

"but I'll be damned if those answers are anygood," I muttered to myself as I watched this man strike an anywhere match on his shoe, and proceed to light a cigar.

"not legal anymore man," I said pointing to the smoke circling up above our heads, drowning out the room's color.

"I'm an anachronism," he shot back frankly, working out his lighting puffs,
"that's why I get to talk in this crazy manner, where these cooky clothes, own a press card."


Craning my neck, I search the crevices of the room for some type of sign that what he's saying is true,

"My god man," I say, "that's amazing."

Although it never got quiet, the drone of the rooms collective conversations flatlined, allowing the reporter and I a second to make eyecontact and realize that we had something to do.

"Now Kid," He continued, reading over print outs of my writing, "you got Moxie,"

"What's Moxie?"

"Listen Mac," He stammered visibly peeved, "I'm just trying to say that.."

"who's mac?" I asked, eyes wide open, staring blankly.

"YOU."

"I'm Suffra," I asserted triumphantly in my best, I'm an important person voice..

"That's the dumbest thing I ever heard..." He shot out, as he pulled a buffalo nickel out of his pocked and began to flip it over his knuckles, " What is a Suffra?," he demanded, "what does that mean?"

I did my best to shoot him a look that signified that he was an idiot for not knowing, but he's piercing glare assured me that he knew I didn't really know either.

He leaned in on me close. At this distance I could smell the after shave soaked deep in his five o'clock shadow as his sharp nose slightly brushed my cheek. I did my best to ignore his evil eye, but I could tell he was getting annoyed with me.

"Do you see what I'm doing here Mac?" He said sharply jabbing my cheek with his nose.

"Honestly?" I responded timidly, "I thought you were trying to do a story on the Suffra, but you're just scarin the shit out of me now."

"Story Shmory," He shouted as if it meant something as he grabbed the sides of my head, letting his fingers glide gently down my cheek, tucking his index finger into his palm and sticking it under my chin, using it to hold up my head.

"Listen," I said pulling back, "If you're doing what I think you're doing," I thought back over the past few months, trying to remember the last time I got any action, then sighed... "we should probably go back to my place... because I'm gonna need a shit load of Vodka."

Good to be back home I thought to myself as I walked through my front dropping the handful of boxes, which I'd just lugged 300 miles, on top of my dog.

I gave her a pat on the head before heading into the kitchen, leaving her pinned under my computer case still smiling, wagging her tail, and shooting pug snot on my floor.

The Suffra household seemed to have held itself up pretty well without me. Although it seemed to be doing ok though, I still saw some things falling apart due to my lack of presence.

Leaning forward with my head in the sink, getting a drink of water the proper way, licking it off a rushing tap, I noticed the first problem. I spent a moment eyeing the sink basin, and running my finger across the bottom.

"WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PLATE OF CHEETOS!?" I screamed straight upwards, attempting to elicit a response from the ceiling.

"Oh good, you made it home." The mom said melodically, smiling wide as if she forgot exactly who she was welcoming.

"YEAH BULLSHIT," I screamed pointing at the empty sink.

"oh, the cheetos," she said, with that cold look of dread returning to her face that I've become accustomed to, " I did the dishes."

Trying not to be unreasonable, I decided to calm myself before going on. I closed my eyes for a moment, took q deep breathe, and flung a vase. As the vase crashed through an ugly ass tiffany lamp hanging over the kitchen table, I hugged the mom and headed down to my room.

I took detours, walking through the living room, checking out the bathroom, dad's bank, brother's coin jar, mother's jewelry box, and finally settled into the Suffra shaped groove on my bed, picked up the phone and dialed "Some Jew."

"Dude," I muttered, inside elbow draped over my eyes, head hold the phone against my shoulder, and spare arm hanging lifeless off the side of the bed.

"we had it so easy man," I sighed, "perhaps the highest per capita rate of retards cripples and invalids in the country in Albany, roaming idiots making utter fools of themselves on every street corner," I went on,"not to mention pushers, junkies, bums, immigrants, alcohol, and the worst boss ever."

I pause momentarily and scan my bookcase, noticing that the January Playboy was removed and replaced with the binding facing the wrong way.

"I mean," I finally continued," the stories just wrote themselves up there," tears almost streaming," they just fuckin happened."

I listened to the consoling words of "Some Jew," telling me how things would come back to me, and that I would be able to start writing good stuff again,

"Yeah BULLSHIT," I screamed defiantly,"It took me two god damned days to write this stupid fuckin story..." I gave my balls a quick scratch and switched my conversation to myself, muttering,"throwing a vase because of cheetos... that doesn't even fucking make sense... Christ."