Overview

The year was 2025. 'Twas the first week of summer... Black Patrick thanked the weather gods for the lovely day, admired the ladies on the patio, and savored the bookstore alley's ambience. Exuding his typically cool demeanor whilst enjoying an ice-cold pint of IPA, life was but a dream. Then-BAM! An asshole appeared. Even worse-a weak little bitch of a cunt, believe it or not. What the fuck? ""Echo Park deserves better,"" Black Patrick thought to himself, because he was brainwashed. ""What the fuck!"" Black Patrick believed the hype, that all of the assholes and cunts had already moved to Texas or Orange County. ""That's what you get for believing,"" Satan said. ""And thinking."" ""Satan, fuck you, you're always right,"" Black Patrick admitted. ""You know what to do. After you're finished eliminating every billionaire. Don't let anything get in the way of that. What's the holdup, by the way?"" Satan pretended to be deaf and ignored Black Patrick's needling. At the end of the day, there are worse people you can have on your team than Satan. There's no worse enemy you can have than Black Patrick. The Satan/Black Patrick combination of good ol' evil is a kinder, gentler form of evil than the one seventy-seven million American dumbfucks voted for. Start learning some of those field songs, you stupid motherfuckers. You bought the ticket, take the ride.

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Black Patrick is America's greatest novelist. When in doubt, he whips out some of the most elegant and magnificent prose ever generated in the brain of an English-speaking human being. Although his influences are many, Black Patrick's inspiration is a trade secret. Maybe that's why he's in the hospital so often. Who Knows?

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