Why God Why

By Matt Rowan

Why God Why is a collection of bizarre, hilarious, occasionally touching and occasionally creepy flash fiction pieces.

"Matt Rowan writes as if he'd spent the past several years living inside a Russell Edson poem. Hands come from the sky to offer uninterpretable signs, superheroes with terrible powers make peace with themselves, public speakers demonstrate their insect-enlarging guns (necessary for world peace!) or declare that we must defeat the menace of the bats by becoming bats ourselves. The stories move with so much weird energy that we get the impression that, rather than ending, we are watching them shake themselves apart, or explode." - James Tadd Adcox, author of The Map of the System of Human Knowledge

• Language: English
• Publisher: Love Symbol Press
• Release date: Jul 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497733213

Book preview

Praise for Why God Why

"Why God Why is fluid absurdities run asunder. Eschewing chaff or fat, it is fraught with deft wordplay and wonder, and I suggest that you read it now, right now, there you go, thank you."  - Ben Tanzer, author of My Father's House and You Can Make Him Like You

"This book is a delight, but the immense satisfaction you feel upon finishing it comes at a price, for the stories in Why God Why are there to taunt you: Why didn't you write these? Why, God, why?" - Lindsay Hunter, author of Don't Kiss Me and Daddy's

Matt Rowan is the new mad scientist of indie fiction. His stories annihilate convention and sentimentality, yet Rowan manages to repopulate these post-apocalyptic craters with vengeful gods and horror movie rejects, men dressed like bats and garbage bags filled with severed toes. There’s an unnameable energy crackling just beneath the surface of each of these stories, and you might find yourself checking over your shoulder as you read, making sure Rowan isn’t behind you waiting to gouge out your eyeballs. - Salvatore Pane, author of Last Call in the City of Bridges

Matt Rowan writes as if he'd spent the past several years living inside a Russell Edson poem. Hands come from the sky to offer uninterpretable signs, superheroes with terrible powers make peace with themselves, public speakers demonstrate their insect-enlarging guns (necessary for world peace!) or declare that we must defeat the menace of the bats by becoming bats ourselves. The stories move with so much weird energy that we get the impression that, rather than ending, we are watching them shake themselves apart, or explode. - James Tadd Adcox, author of The Map of the System of Human Knowledge

Regarding Your Doll That Murders People

Dear Sirs or Madams:

It has become clear to us that a toy manufactured by our company, Usa Brand Toys of America, doll model #966953 or some variation of numbers, is dangerous. We believe this to be true based largely on your compelling written testimony and the many, many violent photographs you included with said testimony, bearing the image of our doll killing with any of a variety of weapons and other means.

It is indeed fortunate you had the wherewithal to photograph these events, so fortunate that some might question your innocence. Yet if it is true that you played no role in heretofore actively assisting the carnage committed by our product, you may at least be indicted for allowing the violence to go on unabated in the likely hope of a bigger payout come lawsuit time, in which case I deem you to be altogether despicable. However, you do stand to get considerably more money as the body count rises, though I probably shouldn’t express that in writing.

Still, owning up to our role in this stuff, I guess I have to admit that it is very clearly one of our dolls decapitating your brother-in-law, as you distinguished in labeling each photograph. We received the other photographs of victims being decapitated, as well, but the one of your brother- in-law is forever etched in my brain, because of the brain etchings.

I want to assure you, and I don’t need approval from any of my superiors to make this statement: we did not design our product to be evil. The mad scientist we subcontracted to engineer and oversee production of the doll, which has killed so many people, is alone responsible for that.

Did the mad scientist design the doll to stab and, what’s more, stab hard? It sure looks that way, yes.

One positive I should note, the mad scientist responsible has been brought to justice, in a manner of speaking. Attempting to mask his true identity, he’s transmigrated into a doll or dog or something. Anyway, once we’ve destroyed all the dolls and dogs in the city, we should at that time have ended his menace. Your own doll will stop its killings when the mad scientist is dead, too, we assume, though there is literally zero evidence to support this belief.

I hope this letter finds you well. We here at Usa Brand Toys of America truly appreciate your patronage. We intend to do whatever necessary to retain your business, even if that means summoning a violent bloodthirsty demon from the foulest reaches of hell to do battle with your doll, and perhaps film the mania that ensues. We will summon a thousand demons, if necessary, and we’ll film them all, if necessary.

Sincerely,

Gil Doug Monroe,

Usa Brand Toys of America

Murderous Doll Inspector

Baskethead

They were shooting the film in a graveyard and of course it had begun to rain the first day of shooting. And of course the second day, when they had to film shots of scenes happening moments apart in the film’s chronology, the sun was shining. And here we had two contradicting images, soon to be spliced together, to and fro. But the production staff decided that was fine, ultimately, as long as their most contradictory image was intentional. Baskethead. Baskethead was the name of their main character.

He had a basket, naturally, for a head.

His head was woven, like any basket, with traditional materials used in basketry.

He tried not to upset people with his head, standing in the graveyard, staring forlornly at the gravestones. He didn’t want people to think he was a zombie or other paranormal activity come to cause them harm. He wasn’t. He admitted he picked a bad place to spend his time if he’d wanted to avoid giving people this wrong impression.

But of course that was the concern of the character Baskethead, and not the actor playing Baskethead, who had no such concerns. The character wore a trench coat, so the actor wore a trench coat. The actor had extemporized this wardrobe choice.  You knew the character meant business in a trench coat, he said.

They filmed him under street lamps, wearing the trench coat, having a basket for a head, conveying the noir vibe that was largely unintentional and incongruous in a film like this.

What a contradictory image! said the inspired old man, who approached Baskethead in the graveyard, as part of the plot. The old man was a homeless old man, played with real relish by Hollywood actor Tom Butler.

The old man said he was visiting his wife in the graveyard, and that’s why he’d met Baskethead. Baskethead, in his muffled way, said he was in the graveyard looking for a new friend. This’s an unlikely place, said the old man.

Sometimes unlikely places are best, muffled Baskethead.

The two became fast friends, just like Baskethead had wanted, They ate cans of beans with chopped up hot dog, outside the old homeless man’s shanty of cardboard. I was the first one ever to sleep in a dwelling made of cardboard, the old man said. Where others had only appropriated boxes they could find for that purpose, I had a creative vision. I found tape. I built a cardboard home that suited me, not the other way around. That’s why they call me Cardboard Joe, because I have creative vision. The old man, Cardboard Joe, was a little senile, but for the most part that was not a problem.

Do you want to know how my wife died, Baskethead? Cardboard Joe asked out of the blue one night, while they sat by the fire in the wake of another hot dog and bean repast. Baskethead wanted to know and he said so.

"It was a night nothing like this one. Much hairier than this one. I was still in my salad days, really. We were a young couple. I’d just made my first cardboard shanty. I was proud, very proud. Too proud, maybe. Too proud, yes. We’d just gotten into a row over something, she and I. Prideful that I was I stormed off in a hurry. Left her to fend for herself and our homestead alone. I came back drunk but apologetic and found there was a darkened figure who wore a boot with one exposed toe standing beside her lifeless body. He escaped into the shadows. All was lost.

"The only sliver of silver lining I got was when another mysterious stranger appeared. This one was kind, benevolent, a large soft body filled with entrepreneurial gusto and philanthropical spirit. He was the only man I’ve known to wear a top hat. He said he had read the obituary of my wife and, knowing she and I were destitute, he offered us a plot on the graveyard he’d just purchased. He offered it with the caveat that he was not doing this merely out of kindness. It was an investment. He’d planned to pretend she was a wealthy heiress who’d died of some disease much too soon before her time. He said that after her gravestone inscribed with a false name was in place for a few months, maybe years,