Little Red

mohawk haan crows close up

Sit down everybody and listen closely, for I have a story to tell. You all know about things that go bump in the night, the mystical and mysterious creatures of legend. You all know about werewolves, witches, and vampires. You’ve all heard about The Jersey Devil and El Chupacabra, but how many of you know about Little Red?…

My name is Rob and I’m documenting what I know about Little Red on my voice-recorder. Why am I speaking into this machine instead of writing this down? Let’s just say that it’s easier to speak it than it is to write it down.

This all happened a few years ago when I lived in an apartment complex called “The Redwood.” The Redwood was, well, I’m not going to mince words, the Redwood was a shithole plain and simple. It was an apartment complex in the “bad part of town,” and it of course had its share of less than desirable people.

There was Paula from 2263 who I found out was only a few years older than me, but if you were to look at her, you would think that she was in her late 60’s or early 70’s. A lifetime of bad decisions from drinking daily to smoking 2 packs of cigarettes a day will do that to you. She had dingy, stringy black hair that was the worst dye job that you had ever seen on a woman. If Marilyn Manson had been a woman, this is what he would look like.

There was Linda from 2060 who had a string of failed marriages and had also made a bunch of bad decisions throughout her life and she ended up at The Redwood as well. I could always hear her coming while I was out and about in the complex because she had a bluetooth speaker that she wore attached to her belt loop and she would play the pop music that the Zoomers today find popular. Linda had short blonde hair and at first glance she looked sort of like a Q-Tip with her hairdo. She loved her whiskey, her weed, and her Lortabs though.

And then there was “The Troll.” I say that because I don’t even want to know her name. All I know is that she lives across from me in 2166. The first thing that I see when I go to leave for work is the Troll sitting out on her balcony every morning or every evening, depending on my work schedule. The Troll would sit out on her balcony and she would be blasting whatever horrible music that it was that she liked to listen to and usually she would be drinking and screaming at Jeff, her boyfriend. She would be so loud sometimes that her voice would carry over the entire complex. How else would I know that she hadn’t been properly laid in months and that she had chronic pain from an injury that she received in a car accident?

I remember the first time that I had any interaction with the Troll and it was one of the many times that she was screaming at Jeff about whatever. It was early August and I had the window to my apartment open, hoping to catch a little breeze to cool me off. The cheap, tiny air conditioner unit that was stuck in my window was dead. Again. And my apartment was an oven. I stared out the window at the Troll who happened to look in my direction at the same time. She screeched at me, “Mind your own fucking business!” Normally, that’s exactly what I do, but it was a hot afternoon and I had had enough and so I yelled back at her, “That’s what I’m trying to do, except you’re making your shit my fucking business! Go inside!” And it was “on” from there.

My war with the Troll never really escalated beyond sneers from her and smiles and waves from me and although she never tried to hide the fact that she didn’t like me, I just acted all the more nicer just to piss her off. It worked. Her daily yelling and screaming became so normal and so tiring that one day I couldn’t stand it anymore and so I turned her in to the apartment management and to my surprise, they actually did something about it for once. They called the cops on her.

While the police had corralled the Troll in her apartment with Jeff, I was standing out in the courtyard, having a cigarette. That’s when I first met Linda and Paula that I mentioned earlier. They were giggling like a couple of schoolgirls and I could smell the weed and the booze on them. It wafted and exuded out of their pores like a toxic fog.

Even though it was building management that had called the cops on the Troll, everybody in the complex just assumed it was me that did it. In a roundabout way, I guess they were right.

So there I was, having a cigarette and trying to cool off and relax when Linda and Paula came over to talk to me. Like I said earlier, both of them ended up at The Redwood due to poor life choices. Now that I think about it, what does that say about me? Nevermind. While I was standing there, listening to these two drunk, stoned women prattle on about the comings and goings in the complex, I noticed a young couple with a young child and a very large dog, walking through the complex. The dog’s name was “Bee.” I have no idea what it stands for or if it’s a shortened version of something else, I just know that I’ve heard the guy when he calls for the dog, he calls it “Bee.”

Paula noticed me looking at the couple and the dog, and she said, “Lots of pets in this complex. You got Bee over there, a mangy, yellow tabby cat named Rufus from 1839 that runs around here, pissing on everything like he owns it, and somewhere around here, there’s a three legged, one earred, half blind mongrel named Lucky. He looks good compared to his owner.”

“Sure are a lot of animals around here,” I agreed noncommittally. “I’m still waiting to wake up and see deer in the common area.”

“Oh for sure!” Linda cackled. “It’s only a matter of time before they come in.”

“Hey have you seen the chicken?” Paula butted in.

“Chicken?” I asked.

“Lord yes! There’s a chicken that hangs around here!” Linda piped up before Paula could get the chance to continue.

I started wondering about this chicken and where it was and where it had come from. I guess I got so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t realize that Linda and Paula had started fighting with each other. All I know is that I had to jump in the middle of these two older ladies and pull them off of each other. Both of them had small clumps of each other’s hair in their hands.

I told them both goodnight and went back to my apartment, I don’t have time for that kind of bullshit and I don’t want any part of it. Besides, the police were still there dealing with Jeff and the Troll and the last thing that I needed was them turning their attention towards us.

I woke up early the next morning since I was on the morning shift at my job that day and when I went outside to go and get into my car, that’s when I saw it for the first time.

The chicken.

I didn’t know what to expect when I saw it, but it was somewhat disappointing. I guess I was hoping for a big, red rooster. This bird was a little, brownish colored hen. She was sitting on the landing of my building, next to my neighbor’s door. She had been sitting there, roosting from last night if I had to guess, and if she hadn’t stood up, done that head bobbing thing that chickens do, and flapped her wings, I would have stepped on her. That’s how close she had been to me.

I stopped and slowly backed up and went back inside my apartment. I had some bread in the fridge that I wanted to feed to her because to me, she looked hungry. I came back out and she was still there. I pulled pieces and chunks from the couple of slices of bread that I had and threw them towards her. She initially flapped and kind of ran away from them, but when she realized what they were, she came back and began pecking at them and eating them. I finished throwing the pieces of bread towards her and then I left and went to work.

If she was still around later when I got back, I would feed her some birdseed, I thought. If she’s still around when I get back, I’m going to give her a name. I’m going to call her, Little Red.

When I got home from work that afternoon, Little Red was down by the dog run. Pecking around, looking for worms I imagine. I tore open the bag of birdseed that I had picked up after I got off work and threw a couple of handfuls towards her. She immediately darted towards where I threw the seed and began pecking away.

I felt so happy that she was eating my birdseed and I knew that I was doing a good and kind thing. I kept sprinkling out little handfuls of seed and was working my way closer to her, I wanted to see if I could actually touch her.

So there I was, sprinkling and moving ever closer, and Little Red, the now unofficial mascot of The Redwood, was pecking and clucking at the seed. I finally ended up right next to her and I slowly leaned down and touched her.

She was soft and sort of silky and she didn’t seem the least bit scared of me. In fact, she cocked her head to the side and looked at me quizzically, as if trying to decide something. She made a couple of clucks and pecked at the ground while I had visions and fantasies of this chicken being the mascot and sort of “pet” for the apartment complex. Paula and Linda would “ooh and ahh” over my taming of the bird, and everybody would come around and want to see and pet my new friend.

I was talking softly to Little Red about this, about her status as the mascot for The Redwood and how everybody would want to pet her and feed her and how everybody would go looking for her after that day, telling each other and anybody who would listen about her, when it happened.

Although it’s been several years since it happened, I can see it in my mind’s eye plain as day as if it had happened yesterday.

I was talking to Little Red about all of these wonderful things that were going to happen for her here at The Redwood, when she cocked her head as if listening to me, and maybe she actually was, and then she opened her beak, clucked once, and then she flapped her wings and attacked me.

I was so startled by her change of behavior and demeanor that she totally caught me off-guard. I was too slow and had my hands full with birdseed in one and the bag of seed in the other that I wasn’t able to fend her off or defend myself.

The pain of her talons scratching my face was excruciating and when she went for my eyes, it was as if someone had poked me with a white-hot poker. I saw blazing white and felt warm liquid running down my face and I remember screaming and beating about my head, trying to get Little Red off of me, and that’s when everything went dark.

I woke up later in the hospital and to my shock and horror, everything was black. No hint of grey, no blurry images or smeared colors, but complete and absolute black.

I told you at the beginning that I was documenting this on my voice recorder because it was easier to say it than it was to write it down, and that’s because Little Red scratched both of my eyes out.

Sharpen Your Mind. Weaponize It. Start here and here. Sign up for my newsletter.

Beating Off To Bond..


I’m bringing up this topic today because I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Any time someone brings up James Bond, I start thinking, “Here we go again, we’re beating off to Bond.”

That’s because inevitably the discussion goes somewhere along the lines of his “masculinity” or his way with the ladies, or his ability as a killer or some-such. The truth is, James Bond is a fiction.

I’m sure you are all well aware of that…. But are you?

James Bond is not only an archetype, but he’s also a caricature. Think about it. He’s smooth and debonair with the ladies. He always knows what to say and when to say it. He never misses a beat and always has the right lines. He’s calm, cool, and collected. And that is before we get to the fact that he’s an international spy and killer.

He’s many men rolled into one. The perfect, masculine, always says the right thing, always get the girl, and always gets the bad guy, guy. The same could be said of John McClaine.


The problem is, I think many guys while consciously nodding their heads and agreeing that James Bond or John McClaine are in fact, a work of fiction, they secretly wish that they were a reality. And they wish that they were him.

The real reality is that many guys freeze up when an attractive woman looks at them. They forget what they wanted to say. They stutter and stammer. Sometimes they just stand there like a deer caught in the headlights of a moving car. Ask me how I know.

I’ve talked to some guys recently and we were having a discussion about films made in the 40’s and 50’s. Talks about how men were men and women were women were abound. The problem is, these movies, even back then were works of fiction. They don’t call it the silver screen for nothing. Going back to the days of silent movies and Charlie Chaplin, while Charlie may have done many if not most of his own stunts, it was still a work of fiction. A caricature. Charlie even embodied that. Movies of the 40’s and 50’s had a narrative just like films of modern times. The only difference that I can tell is that the women looked better as well as the men. Otherwise the story was scripted and was a work of fiction. Just like today.

All movies, even “documentaries” are works of fiction in one form or another. Directors take their slant or spin on the topic and either preach how great someone is or was, or they shit on them. Even the people who authorize and star in their own biographies put a spin on what they have said and done. It’s human nature.

I think a lot of guys watch films, looking for role models, and the problem is that they confuse the character with the actor. Good acting will do that. You get so engrossed in the character development and the plot, you get so caught up in the story that you forget that it is all fiction. That’s what a good movie will do for you. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. I love it when a film can capture my attention and I can suspend my disbelief for the duration of the film and truly enjoy it.

The problem is when the film ends and it’s time to come back to reality.

A good actor or actress will make you believe that their character is real. That’s what being a good actor is all about. That’s what a good story is all about. The problem is many people assume that the actor is actually the character (see the actor who played Geoffrey in Game of Thrones and how fans hated the actor because of how well he did with the character.)

Guys talk about women from “back in the day.” Ah, those were women. Those were the days and those were the dames. I think they may be confusing fiction with reality. Those “dames” were actresses playing a role. They were reading lines from a script. Just like today. The only difference is the narrative from then and now. The only real difference is that women were thinner then than they are now. The character may have been a real dish or a catch on screen, but the actress herself? Think about it. Who was that actual woman? Would you have found the actual woman attractive if you had gotten to know her?

My first real heartthrob was Alyssa Milano.

Alyssa Milano (5)

Back in the late 80’s and throughout the 90’s she was the bomb for me. All of the characters that she played. She was HOT. Fast forward to today and it’s a different story. Not just because she has gotten older, but because of what she says. The character and the actual person collide. On screen she is one thing, the living breathing person appears to be something else entirely.


Brad Pitt. Now there’s a masculine man if there ever was one! You’ve seen Fight Club and Troy right? Except those were characters. Have you seen Brad Pitt in real life? Have you seen the relationship and the drama with Angelina Jolie? There’s your “real man” for you.


Marilyn Monroe. Quite the bombshell for her time. And yet she had failed relationship after failed relationship and she struggled with addiction, depression, and anxiety resulting ultimately in her death. Not nearly so glamorous. In many cases, she sounds a lot like modern day women.

The point I’m getting at is that Hollywood has always been a fiction. Always has been and always will be. Using fictional characters as a point of reference for acting in certain ways may not be a totally bad idea, but keep your head in reality and realize that those fictional characters are in fact, fiction.

This is why I don’t like beating off to Bond. He’s a fictional character based off of a multitude of men, or the traits of multiple men. Striving to “be like Bond” is going to get you nowhere ultimately. Same could be said of any character whether hero or villain. All of them are a work of fiction and discussing the merits or the flaws of them, while entertaining, are ultimately exercises in masturbation. Human nature is what it is and it honestly hasn’t changed all that much in the last 70 years. People were cheating, drinking, drugging, and fucking back then just like they are today. Life was messy then as it is now. The more things change the more they stay the same. Don’t confuse the character with the actor. Don’t confuse the story with reality.

Enjoy films by all means, I do. Enjoy the cinematography, the mood, the lighting, the story, all of it. But always keep in mind that it is a work of fiction. All of your heros and villains are archetypes at best and caricatures at worst.

Trying to embody your hero or that character that you idolize is going to turn you into a caricature. A LARP. Do you really want to be seen as that? There are guys right now, in real time that are doing that very thing. I just can’t take them seriously. What about you?

A final thought:

I don’t mind talking about movies from any era or epoch, it’s great fun and a great way to get to know someone else. I don’t like dissecting movies because it takes away the magic of it. Also, I would rather get to know a person and deal with reality than sit around talking about fantasies. I’ve spent plenty of years living in my head in a fantasy world and now I’ve found that reality is far more entertaining and fulfilling.

Sharpen Your Mind. Weaponize It. Start here and here. Sign up for my newsletter.