Corey Ryan Forrester’s Rants and Such!

Corey and Trae Crowder Discuss The MCU Changing Magneto’s Holocaust Origin Story & More!

Corey Ryan Forrester — Wed, 02 Sep 2026 00:33:28 GMT

Here’s a little WellRED podcast early edition for you guys! Drew was off today for his birthday, which allowed me and Trae to nerd out a little bit about stuff he wouldnt give a shit about (see: anything fun!)

Also if you stick around for the end, you can hear me read my new Dolly story, but I am also going to be uploading it for its own post!

Love you all and hope you have a great night!

When Dolly Came To Town!: The Chickaluki Times - Free Press!

Corey Ryan Forrester — Mon, 31 Aug 2026 13:03:23 GMT

From The Chickaluki Times-Free Press. Written by Chief Editor Stumpy Winslow.

Most people have never heard of Chickaluki, and to be quite honest, we like it that way. Sure, we’ve got local drama that would make even the writers of The Bold and the Beautiful blush, but nothing that ever makes the national news. We are part of what the media refers to as “flyover country.” I reckon them reporters don’t realize that planes fly over everywhere, but that’s fine. Their ignorance doesn’t bother us too much because we know how good we’ve got it. Big Jeff’s Pork and Puddin’ has the best dry-rub ribs and apple pie you’ve ever had in your life, and the waitresses call you honey, darling, and dumplin’. We are fine with New York and LA thinking they are better than us; they are allowed to be wrong like everyone else. It’s a free country (for now).

Our one run-in with a worldwide celebrity happened a few decades back, and we still celebrate that day like it was Christmas: the day Dolly Parton came to Chickaluki.

I know you’re wondering why a celebrity—nay, a queen and national treasure—would come to a little town that no one has ever heard of, and trust us, we thought the same thing at the time. It’s public record, but a lot of people don’t know that Dolly Parton actually got married in a little town called Ringgold, Georgia, which just so happens to be right up the road from Chickaluki. One year, she and her husband, Carl Dean, were headed to Ringgold as a part of their anniversary celebration and took a wrong turn that ended up being so right.

It is cliché to say that certain celebrities have an aura about them, but Dolly truly had one. It was as if her spirit arrived before she did. The air was fresher, the sun shone brighter, and you’ve never seen the sky so blue. As the legend goes, it was supposed to rain that morning, and to this day in Chickaluki, people swear that the weather would change for Dolly wherever she went. (It would have been nice if she’d have been in town the day lightning struck our power lines and made us all miss the series finale of Hee-Haw, but I suppose we will never truly understand God’s plan.)

This was before the days of GPS, and places around here are so small that they don’t show up on every map, so Dolly had no choice but to get out and ask for directions. Our town center was only about 250 square feet, and operated (at the time and still to this day) by a single employee named Lita. No last name, just Lita. Lita said she’d had so many last names over the years that she figured she’d have better luck just sticking with one. “It seems to work for Prince and Cher, and I probably do as many outfit changes a day as they do!” she’d often quip.

It was Aunt Lita to those who loved her and she loved back, which, despite her brash style and uncommonly offensive tongue for a small southern town, was almost everyone (except for Ray Porch, but we’ll get to him later).

Dolly and Carl Dean whipped on into the town center in their 1972 Cadillac Eldorado that she had been given by Porter Wagoner as a gift. As most of y’all know who live here, Chickaluki is so behind the times (not always in a bad way) that even if it wasn’t Dolly Parton driving it, it still would have been front-page news that there was a Cadillac in town.

“I didn’t even have my glasses on,” Aunt Lita said, “and it sure wasn’t logical for her to be here, but the second she got out of her car, even behind the dusty blinds of the town center, I knew it was her just from her silhouette. Here in the South, she is as recognizable as Mickey Mouse, a can of Coke, or Jesus Christ himself!”

Some town folk might consider that taking the Lord’s name in vain, but as editor of the Chickaluki Times-Free Press, I have a responsibility to print the truth.

Naturally, Aunt Lita got to that rotary phone quicker than Doc Holliday pulling on Johnny Ringo, and before Queen Dolly had darkened the door, word was being spread, and a crowd would soon gather.

Looking like a million bucks and smelling like two, Dolly waited for Aunt Lita to pick her jaw up off the floor and politely asked for directions. Lita told Dolly that she was torn because if she gave her directions, that meant she’d leave!

This made Dolly laugh, and the two began a conversation like they knew each other. And in a way, they did. Aunt Lita knew who Dolly was, of course, because everyone knew who Dolly was, but Dolly saw in Aunt Lita a southern woman who did what she wanted, dressed how she wanted, and, despite coming from humble beginnings (what the Yankees might call “being trash!”), was damn proud of who she was and where she was from. They may have just met, but Dolly could identify with Aunt Lita because she was the type of person Dolly wrote songs about, and the type of woman that Dolly wrote songs for. Dolly insisted she was never in enough of a hurry to skip polite conversation.

^{Aunt Lita!!}

By the time Dolly and Aunt Lita were rounding home on the “how’s ya mom and them?” portion of the standard Southern polite conversation, the doorbell started jingling at a rapid pace. Word had gotten out.

I’m sure Dolly wouldn’t have chosen for her wrong turn to turn into a two-plus-hour meet and greet, but she also didn’t seem to mind. And I don’t mean she was puttin’ on airs and pretending to be kind to keep up appearances; she genuinely seemed to be having a ball. Telling stories, signing autographs, taking pictures (these were the days before camera phones, so that one wasn’t as big a hindrance as it might have been a few years down the road).

Mommas were bringing their babies in and insisting that Dolly kiss them, as if she were the pope dispensing holy water in the Vatican. They told stories about the first time they saw her on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson, and asked if she and Porter Wagoner were still close. Billy Butt brought in a guitar and told her it would be the greatest honor of his life if she would just touch it, but she did more than that. She put on an impromptu concert that, despite lacking any production value, was likely the greatest that anyone in that little welcoming center would ever see for the rest of their lives.

One lady didn’t have anything on her to have Dolly sign except for a copy of this newly published book she was enjoying called Fried Green Tomatoes. Dolly said that she wouldn’t feel right putting her name on somebody else’s art, but what would they think if instead she read a few chapters aloud to the children, who, not necessarily old enough to understand the great situation they were in, might need to be entertained?

As she got into it, she quickly realized that perhaps this was not necessarily a book to be read to young children, but Aunt Lita put her mind at ease by explaining to her that a great percentage of these children had probably seen their uncle hauled off on drug charges during the family Christmas, and for the ones who hadn’t, the Bible is pretty gnarly itself and they read that every goddamn day (I may be editorializing here a bit more than I already was).

It was around this time that Ray Porch came in. I guess I should say “Mayor Ray Porch,” because he indeed was mayor at the time, but between you, me, and the window, he never did anything to earn being called that. I know you’ll say, “Now Stumpy, you need to try and remain unbiased in the newspaper!” to which I will say that this is now officially an opinion column, and I will say what I wish. If the truth offends you, you can read the newspaper from a few towns over, where I’m sure there’s a nice write-up about how some eight-year-old girl was crowned beauty queen in the town festival after being judged by five perverts.

Ray Porch ran his campaign on the dangers of big government. As if “big government” could ever be a threat (or even a possibility) for a town like Chickaluki. We only have one red light, and considering how people drive around here, its main job is to have birds shit on it. He talked about welfare queens as if his family wasn’t on government assistance when he was a kid. And of course, to hear him tell it: “You don’t understand, that was different, we actually needed ours! My daddy wanted to work, he just couldn’t for a while cause he was sick! Not like all these other people who just want a hand-out so they can lay around without a bra lettin’ their titties flap in the wind beneath a Tweety Bird shirt!”

To be fair, his daddy was sick: sick and tired of his wife and everyone else telling him that he had a drinking problem. I’m sure his father thought he must have been doing something right, though, to raise such a clairvoyant son who somehow knew the private financial situations of everyone in town!

I think most people can agree that government overreach is not great, but to hear his policies laid out, it seemed like he was running for a position that wouldn’t require him to do much, since it sort of seemed like he was saying it shouldn’t exist. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know that if our mayor died today and they kept it a secret, many of us wouldn’t find out until it was time to vote again. Interpret that any way you wish; don’t make a matter to me.

Something Mayor Ray Porch had recently decided to harp on was the library. He didn’t see why there was any use for it. A waste of city money as far as he was concerned. If kids wanted to read books, they could read the ones they got at school, and if adults wanted to read books, they could pay for them out of their own pockets like real God-fearing Americans. Books have a funny way of making you think for yourself, and Ray Porch and people like Ray don’t really like that. It’s bad for business.

As Mayor Ray Porch watched the children, however, utterly transfixed by this angel in human clothing reading to them—concentrating and paying attention harder than they ever had to anything before—he quickly realized that this would not be something he could take away from them if he ever wanted to see another term. (Little did he know that he wouldn’t even complete the term he was in! But that’s a story for later, folks!)

Dolly read so long that we had to make a special call over to Big Jeff’s Pork and Puddin’ to get him to bring us all some BBQ! Once it arrived, the smell of it and the banana puddin’ was enough to make everyone realize that reading time was over and it was time to chow down.

We feasted and chatted and raised our glasses of sweet tea to our Queen Dolly, and then wished her well as she made her way up the road to celebrate the rest of her anniversary trip. Before she left, she thanked us for letting her read to the kids, and said she’d always had a passion for getting kids into literature and was going to do something about it one day!

Of course, there is no way of knowing if her quick little detour into our fair city of Chickaluki is the reason she started the Imagination Library, but you can bet your hind end we pretend it is!

And that was the day that Dolly Parton came to Chickaluki. Still to this day the only person on Earth who could get Ray Porch to do the right thing.

Stumpy Winslow – Editor-in-Chief of The Chickaluki Times-Free Press

More later,

Corey

Nothing New Under The Sun! (And more!): A Sunday Rant

Corey Ryan Forrester — Sun, 30 Aug 2026 18:26:56 GMT

Hey y’all! What started out as me just wanting to read you a short three minute forward from a book naturally turned into a 20 minute rant!

I hope you enjoy it and I hope you are having a great Sunday! Looking forward to a lot of fun things on the Substack this week…. Thank you as always for making it possible for me to live my silly little dream!

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^{Can’t afford one? You know I’ll work with ya! Just email ButtercreamCorey@gmail.com and explain what you need and I’ll do it on the house!}

Don’t like recurring payments but still wanna support? I take one time donations, PBS style, of any amount big or small on PayPal at ButterCreamCorey@gmail.com

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QR codes for both are below! Thank you for your support!

Thoreau Back Thursday: Dolly Parton - Coat Of Many Colors

Corey Ryan Forrester — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 12:03:05 GMT

For this week’s episode of Thoreau Back Thursday (which if you’re just joining us is where, every Thursday, I read an old poem or essay etc and analyze it) I am breaking form a little bit to honor the late great Dolly Parton, a true poet who we tragically lost this week.

If you have never heard this song, please do yourself a favor and rectify that RIGHT NOW!

Hope yall are enjoying this series! Love yall!

More later

Corey

RIP Dolly Parton

Corey Ryan Forrester — Tue, 25 Aug 2026 22:09:32 GMT

Me and the boys got the news right before we hit record so we apologize for the somber tone of this podcast, but it is an absolutely devastating thing that has happened. RIP to our undisputed Queen

(This is the WellRED podcast, which will be released wide tomorrow morning as it is every wednesday, but I assumed you all would like to hear it now)

More later

Corey

Corey’s Diary 8/25: Park Deer Vs Wild Deer, Turbo Diarrhea, Needing Trump to D*e, Art, and More!

Corey Ryan Forrester — Tue, 25 Aug 2026 18:16:46 GMT

Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash

It is hotter than blue blazes outside. That phrase comes from the fact that the blue part of the fire is actually the hottest part, but I don’t really think I’d be able to tell if I stuck my finger in it. I think the regular red and orange part would be about more than I could handle.

I got really close to a deer in the park today. I wasn’t even trying to sneak up on him or anything, he just happened to be in my path. Normally, they scatter pretty quick once they hear you coming, but this one just looked at me like he couldn’t care less. It’s illegal to shoot deer in a national park, and I’ve long wondered if these deer know this. I’ve wanted to take the idea of Park deer versus Country deer and turn it in to a screenplay for a while, but everyone I pitch it to doesn’t get as excited as I think they should, which makes me think that it’s not a worthwhile endeavor.

In my brain, the way it would go is that the park deer have no idea how truly privileged they are, but they are taught from an early age not to leave the confines of the national Park. Then one day, a little doe wanders out of the park and into a non-protected forest. Clueless as to the danger lurking around the corner, and from above in the tree stands, a wild deer swoops in and wisens the young doe up on this scary creature called “the hunter”.

When the doe returns to the national park and tells of this tale, it is met with laughs from the elder deer. But an older park deer takes the young doe aside and explains to them that they are not crazy, and it’s all true. The park deer have been living in privilege this whole time, but the elders keep it a secret because they don’t want wild deer coming in to claim sanctuary.

Anyways, I will admit as I’m saying all of that out loud that it is a little bit up its own ass for a Pixar movie. Plus, I’ve got other projects that I need to focus on right now. I finally finished Here We Rest Act One and I am very happy with how it turned out. The only problem (which is actually not a problem at all, in fact, it’s very exciting) is that when I started writing it, I fully intended on it being just a short story that I would dump on Substack to entertain my readers. But as I got into the thick of it, I realized that there was a whole book there. I have never written a fiction book, and thought I would be more than happy to continue turning out short stories of fiction, but I just can’t let this one go. I am working on act two right now in vomit draft fashion, and will probably continue on that way until I have finished the whole thing. Then I’ll do another draft. And then another. And then I will send it off and see if anyone is interested in it.

If they are not, then that is more than fine by me, I will just self publish and of course let my Substack readers have their first crack at it. What a blessing it is to have built this community. I never have to feel like I’m starting from scratch, and that is such a huge relief to someone in the creative world. If it wasn’t for the feedback that I received on the first couple chapters from my friends on Substack, there’s a good chance I wouldn’t have gotten so excited about it and took the leap into turning it into a whole book.

As I continue on this journey, I will be writing and releasing other stories from The Chikaluki universe that, while they are not part of what will become the final version of Here We Rest, they are in the same world and will help me build it out even further. My hope being that while Here We Rest will stand on its own, those who read what I write here on Substack will be rewarded with a more rich and fulfilling experience. That is my hope at least. And that makes me very excited, and happy.

On an unrelated note, it’s possible that I have contracted the turbo diarrhea. I had to cut my walk short earlier and drive back home to choose a route that kept me closer to a commode. I know this is TMI for most people, but I think it should be talked about because it is 100% this goddamn administration’s fault. Between the DOGE cuts, and RFK Jr becoming the czar of health, things are falling apart at an even faster rate than they already were.

Not that we didn’t already know this, but all these assholes care about is money, and regulations cost money. Regulations may cost money, but do you know what they also do? They make it harder for turbo diarrhea causing lettuce and blueberries to be shipped out to the American people. We live in the richest goddamn country on earth, which if it was managed correctly could be a utopia, but instead, we have elected to let the inmates run the asylum because they have convinced a great many of us that science is of the devil, and that white men were born with the inalienable right to never be criticized.

That’s enough of politics today, I want to try and be happy for the remaining eight hours that I’m awake. I’m about to record the wellRED podcast, something I have done every Tuesday for nine years. A little speck of regularity in an otherwise chaotic world. After that, I am going to write and perform a pest control commercial so that my mortgage can be taken care of for September, and I can hopefully have some breathing room to focus solely on my new book and all the wonderful new ideas I have for Substack, my favorite place in the entire world.

I hope all of you have a wonderful Tuesday, and a wonderful rest of the week. I hope that if your boss is mean, that he also gets the turbo diarrhea. And I hope that it hits him when he is in the middle of giving some sort of presentation and that he wore his thinnest pair of khakis that day. I hope the lady at the office that he has been harassing thinking he had a shot with her is there to see it, and he knows that she will forever associate him with that stench and he has ruined any hope he ever had. If he’s extra mean, I hope that after work an anvil falls on his head like in the coyote and roadrunner cartoons. I hope the company is then dissolved and liquidated and you are presented with a small fortune and never have to work again.

More later

Corey

Don’t like recurring payments but still wanna support? I take one time donations, PBS style, of any amount big or small on PayPal at ButterCreamCorey@gmail.com

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Chickaluki Character Profiles: A Diary Entry From Ralph Waldo Buckwalter

Corey Ryan Forrester — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 20:09:40 GMT

The world of Chickaluki is continuing to grow, and it’s only right that you get to know some of its Citizens on a first name basis.

Aside from being a stand up comedian, author, podcaster, etc, I am also the chief genealogist for the beautiful town of Chickaluki, and as such am surrounded by old files, photos, books, you name it, all pertaining to the city and its people.

While Act 2 of Here We Rest is being penned (exploring the dark underbelly of Chickaluki) I thought it would be fair to the community to showcase some of their lighter and less controversial fair.

With his permission of course, today I bring you the latest diary entry from one of Chickaluki’s most reclusive enigmas, (he told me to say that) Mr Ralph Waldo Buckwalter.

Here it is, unedited, and unabridged. Enjoy!

From The Diary of Ralph Waldo Buckwalter: Lifelong Resident of Chickaluki

I finally got up this morning after my neighbor’s rooster wouldn’t shut its damn mouth. Perciville is a good man and I reckon I wouldn’t want nobody else to live there, but damn it all if his yard don’t look like a yard sale bein put on by a mob of critters. Aside from all the yard birds struttin around like they own the place, he’s got 27 cats if he’s got a one. I suppose they just keep showing up and generous as he is, he keeps a feedin em, but lord have mercy the money that man must spend on canned tuna!

Cats are funny things. I don’t know if I care for em too much. I think I believe all them superstitions about the black ones. They look at ya plum in your soul and take a piece of you with em I’m convinced of it. That’s why their eyes are all yella like. You know who else’s eyes is all yella like? Snakes, and the devil, that’s who! And of course my Uncle Rayford, he’s got yella eyes but that’s from years of chuggin that ole rot-gut like it was damn hose water! Sum bitch looks like he’s got two One balls off a pool table on either side of that prodigious honker of his. Momma always said his nose was so big, he could smell tomorrow’s farts today.

I’ve gotta get down to the post office today but lord I don’t want to. If I don’t mail off this letter to Ashely Furniture soon, then I don’t think I will qualify for that rebate they was goin on about when I got this new recliner. This thing bout beats all I ever seen I tell you what. Before last week I woulda never known that it was a chair you could fit 6 Bud Heavy Tall boys in and them stay cold, but now I don’t know how I ever lived without it. Episodes of The Rifleman sure are more fun to watch when you ain’t having to pause it every 15 minutes to quench your thirst I’ll tell ya that! Yessir, ole Ralph Waldo Buckwalter is finally shittin in high cotton I tell you what! I might outta forgive them roosters for gettin me up so early. When life is this good, who wants to sleep thru it?

Aunt Pauline came over yesterday to tell me that somebody I didn’t know had died. Course she don’t believe me that I don’t know em. I told her that just because she ain’t got nothing better to do than thumb through old church directories and the obituaries, that don’t mean I ain’t got a life! Does she think being the 3rd alternate on weekends for the neighborhood watch is just something you can take lightly? I have a responsibility to my fellow neighbors to make myself available in the event that several other more qualified people are rendered incapacitated, and I take that responsibility very seriously.

Before I was kicked out of Junior ROTC for using a magnifying glass to set the climbing rope on fire when Fat-Peggy was trying to climb it, I showed a great aptitude towards knot tying, log jumping, and all sorts of other skills that would come in handy if faced in a situation of combat in order to protect the integrity of my neighborhood. I also open carry a gun that I’m technically not allowed to have, but who don’t?

Aunt Pauline also told me that she was working on redrafting and finalizing her Will. I don’t know why she’s telling me that, she wouldn’t give me nothing even if she had something to give. Course I reckon she’ll think it’s some things she’s got that I feel sentimental about. But I’ll tell her like I’m bout to tell you: any amount of sentimentality I ever had got beat outta me at the junior league Tae Kwon Doe academy. Master Sensei Brantley said that the only things we should hold on to is stuff we can grab and go in less than 5 minutes whenever the poop hits the fan. As for me that’s a bag filled with clothes. Mostly sweat pants and stuff with draw strings. I fluctuate weight on account of the roid in my thigh or whatever it was the doctor said, I can’t remember. I haven’t paid attention since they gave the job to a woman. It’s not that I don’t think a woman can be a doctor, I do. Hell a woman doctor can be just as wrong and propagandized as a man doctor if she puts her mind to it. The real reason I tend to tune her out is that when she took over the practice and had all her patients redo their physicals, I popped a stiffy when she told me to slide down my britches.

My buddies say it ain’t nothing to be embarrassed about, and some even go as far as to say it’s good that she knows what I’m working with down there. The way society is nowadays, men are too scared to even say hello to a woman out of fear that they might get fired from their job, or have a strongly worded post written about them on the internet. So they figure some women are dying for attention and respect a brave man that bucks the status quo.

The reason I was embarrassed though is cause I’d forgot it was doctor day and I was wearing my Sponge Bob Square pants boxer/briefs that’s got Squidwards nose printed right there on the dick hole

Anyways, I’m gonna have me a little supper and see if I can’t catch the tail end of this ball game on the radio. Maybe I’ll get outta the house tomorrow. Chickaluki is so pretty this time a year.

- Ralph Waldo Buckwalter

More later.

Corey

Don’t like recurring payments but still wanna support? I take one time donations, PBS style, of any amount big or small on PayPal at ButterCreamCorey@gmail.com

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Thoreau Back Thursday: Emily Dickinson - Because I Could Not Stop For Death

Corey Ryan Forrester — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 13:03:36 GMT

enjoy!

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Here We Rest Part 4

Corey Ryan Forrester — Mon, 17 Aug 2026 18:32:25 GMT

Here Are The Links to Parts 1-3 in Case You Need To Play Catch-Up

Here We Rest Part 1

Here We Rest Part 2

Here We Rest Part 3

(Some people are complaining that the story wasn’t posted in the last post. It was, it just wasn’t recorded. The video I made was just explaining my current situation and I reckon you didn’t scroll down.

Anyways, sh*t happens, so I’m posting it again!)

Here We Rest Part 4

Photo by Griffin Wooldridge on Unsplash

I sat there and looked at where that scar used to be for way too long.

Hell, how long had it been? I wondered. Which made me realize if I was still sitting there wondering all of this, then it was probably taking even longer than I thought.

I pulled my eyes up real quick and made eye contact with Sheriff Stevens. I was sure I had just freaked everybody out, but I tried to remember what that shrink told me once: “Your paranoia gives you a false sense of reality. You make the worst out of every situation in your brain. No matter what, I promise you it’s not as bad as you think.”

Sheila then asked if she could speak to me outside.

“What the fuck are you doing? You are freaking everybody out!” she said.

Goddammit, I knew it. One thing that fucking shrink never said, but should have, is that just because I’m crazy don’t mean I ain’t right sometimes.

“Look, it’s nothing,” I said. “I guess I’m still just a little bit in shock from what I saw earlier.”

“Are you still drinking?” she asked.

“Still drinking? What do you mean still drinking? Don’t you mean ‘am I drinking again?’ I sobered up, remember? I told you I would—” I said, not sure if I even believed myself.

“Listen, Sonny Boy—”

“Oh, goddammit, so I’m still Sonny Boy to you too, huh?”

She took a step back. “Listen—”

“Chickaluki is a very small town, with only one liquor store, might I remind you,” I interjected, trying to change the subject, “and it’s about goddamn time, too. Hell, everybody on the council knew this entire town was drunks, but for years we had to go across state lines to get anything stronger than a beer, and our hard-earned money went with us instead of going back into the community. I mean, it’s just plum ignorance at this point. Of course, they say things only get better one funeral at a time.”

She started shaking her fists and running in place, trying not to start punching me.

“Goddammit, quit acting like it’s fine. Quit acting like nothing is wrong with you. Quit acting, period!”

This stung. I could say nothing. I let her continue.

“You ain’t stopped drinking. That’s just what you tell people when they offer you one and you’re too hungover from the night before.”

Goddamn, she knew me. I hated that.

“And you and the word ‘sober’ ain’t been acquainted since I’ve known you. You seem to think that just means you ain’t falling-down drunk every goddamn night. Even when you do manage to put the bottle down for longer than College Football Bowl Week, you’ll still sneak a toot with Bubba. And that ‘emergency bottle’ you kept in the cabinet for your back pain? I’m not an idiot. I could hear you refill it every week. Sorry to finally let you know that even though you gave it your best effort, our sink ain’t that loud when you run it, Sonny Boy!”

I didn’t have anything to say. And even if I did, it wouldn’t have mattered.

“Goodbye, Sheila. I won’t bother you no more,” I finally said as I walked away.

She protested briefly, but I know that was only out of some sort of guilt. Guilt that she didn’t even deserve to feel. She’d given me a dressing-down. She’d been mean. But weren’t a speck of it a lie.

There are some things I’m about to tell you that don’t make sense. At least in the way we’ve come to understand the world. But it’s possible that your world isn’t my world. That’s how it has felt for the most part of my life, but something really snapped loose around this period. I don’t know if it was what Sheila said to me or what. There’s clearly been something wrong with me as long as I can remember, but it had at least always felt like it was rooted in the real world.

Now, I’m not so sure.

I got in my truck and began crying. Deep, panic-soaked sobs. The kind of crying you do as a kid when you can’t use your words. And I couldn’t. I was hyperventilating, but at least no one was there to see it. I don’t think I could have stomached that. My air conditioner was shot, which wasn’t helping. My tears and sweat became one, and I was drenched from head to toe with misery and shame.

I flicked on the radio, and it was on a station I didn’t recognize. “Mack the Knife” was playing, and somehow I knew all the words. They poured out of me like I was being asked to sing at gunpoint.

Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

Just a jackknife has old Macheath, babe

And he keeps it, ah, out of sight

You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread

Fancy gloves, oh, wears old Macheath, babe

So there’s never, never a trace of red

“Mack the Knife” is such a popular song that it would almost be statistically impossible for a man of my age not to have heard it many times over. But this was the first time I’d actually paid attention to the lyrics, and they were somehow coming out of my mouth. I’d never known this song was about a murderer. The name should give it away, but I’d never thought too much into it. It’s absolutely insane that this song was such a mainstream hit, played at parties with people of all ages, no parent ever concerned about what their kid was hearing. Lucy and Ricky couldn’t even share the same bed or say the word “pregnant” on air, but this song about a knife-wielding criminal from across the pond is a family-friendly tune so long as it’s got a big band playing behind it.

Through the duration of the song, I had calmed down and stopped crying. Against better judgment, I thought that maybe stopping for a beer would make me feel better. It no doubt would in the short term.

I grabbed my rearview mirror and pulled it toward the driver’s side so I could check the situation with my eyes. I didn’t want anyone to know I was crying, or have them think that I was stoned out of my mind—even though people probably thought that anyway.

The mirror short-circuited.

I’m aware that mirrors can’t do that, but I’m just telling you what I saw. It glitched back and forth, and when it finally came to rest, the Me that was in the mirror was not the Me I knew. I was wearing a newsboy hat, and I had quite the tan.

My truck was not my truck, either. I appeared to be in some classic from the thirties. I got out, and sure enough, it was a bright yellow Packard with black trim and yellow wheels. I had dreamed about this car before, and that’s surely what I was doing then. Except I could feel the heat coming off the engine. Lucid dreams are a real thing, and I’ve had experiences with them, but you can’t actually feel anything. That’s a pretty standard rule for dreaming

Of course, it’s possible that I was dreaming this feeling. The brain is complex. Even mine. I reckon it could simulate a feeling close enough that it could trick itself while deep in REM.

I walked around for a minute and tried to figure out where I was in my dream. I was parked in a vacant gravel lot, and there was no sign of civilization as far as my pitiful eyes could see. I really needed to get them checked. Sheila was always on my ass about that. But there was no time for that at the moment.

I crested a slight hill and noticed a gas station. A filling station, rather. That’s what they called ’em back in the old days where I’m from, and in this dream, I was clearly in the old days. There were men outside helping people, and they were dressed like the Maytag Man. This was like a scene from a movie that the DMT was firing out of my brain. I thought it was quite possible I was dying.

The people outside acknowledged my existence with a grin and a tip of the cap. The worker inside gave me an odd look as I gazed around at the shelves of motor oil and other liquids in glass containers. It looked less like a store for humans and their cars and more like a place robots would go to get groceries.

“Sonny Boy, how’s the family?” the man said from behind the counter.

What an odd dream this is. I figured since I was in the middle of a lucid state, I’d try to have some fun with it. I thought about taking off and flying, but it wasn’t working. I stood there with my eyes fixed on the heavens—or in this case, the ceiling of the filling station and bounced up and down on my tiptoes, grunting and trying to make it happen. Nothing doing.

The man looked at me oddly.

“Sorry, just trying to get my stretches in. The family is fine. I’ll tell them you asked about them.”

I walked outside, and it was about ten degrees hotter. Is it possible to have a panic attack in a dream? Because if so, that’s what felt like was happening to me.

I got back in my Packard and headed down a dirt road. I could see Hilltop Mountain, and Okaloosa Creek was on my left, so geography-wise, I knew where I was. But the billboard with that fat guy selling insurance was nowhere in sight. I could smell the fumes coming off my car, and I could smell the honeysuckle in the air. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the sky was the most beautiful I had ever seen it.

I kept driving along until, on the side of the road, I saw a man broken down in a garbage truck. Dream or no dream, I was always taught to help, so I got out and planned to ask him if there was anything I could do for him.

His head was buried in the engine and I couldn’t tell who it was, but I knew it was a man because no matter what century I was in, in Chickaluki, women rarely wore overalls. I didn’t want to frighten him. I scare very easily, so if I was working on my car and someone came up to try to talk to me and I wasn’t expecting them, I would probably jump and hit my head on the hood. I tried to treat others the way I would want to be treated, even though, between you and me, that seems to be going out of fashion.

I dragged my feet on the gravel so as to make some light noise that wasn’t intimidating. I heard him drop the wrench, and then he closed the hood.

Before he had a chance to say anything, I said, “Need a hand there, mister?”

His face turned white. “Sonny Boy?” he asked, as if he knew me, but it had been a very long time since he’d seen me.

I responded, “Yessir. Sorry if I don’t recognize you, I’m not good with faces.”

He looked me up and down like he was a baseball scout and I was a future prospect. “Sonny Boy?” he asked again.

“Yes, sir, that’s my name,” I said, though if I’m being honest, in the confusion that had just occurred over the last hour, I wasn’t so sure what was true and what wasn’t.

He began sweating, and his lip was quivering.

“I’m about to ask you something,” he said in about as serious a tone as one could muster.

“I’m all ears, sir.”

“You are Sonny Boy, there is no doubt about that. But the fact that you don’t know who I am leads me to believe that you aren’t the right one.”

I’m not the right one? What the hell does that mean? I’ve certainly heard that from women in my entire life, but they didn’t look petrified when they said it. Matter of fact, some of them looked downright happy to be letting me down and upsetting me.

“Sir, you’ll have to excuse me for sounding rude,” I said, “but I didn’t catch a question in there, did I?”

“Sonny Boy. When we were in Korea, what was our favorite bar?”

“Sir, I don’t know if this is some sort of trick question, but I’ve never been to Korea in my life.”

The man froze. “That’s what I was afraid of. Quick. Get in the back of your car and lay down, and don’t say a fuckin’ word.”

He hopped in the driver’s seat of my Packard and fired it up. I stared at him for what felt like an eternity. All I wanted to do was wake up, but it became increasingly clear that that wasn’t gonna happen.

“Do you want to live, goddamnit? Get in the back of the car!”

I could really use that beer about now.

We hauled ass, and whether it was from exhaustion or something else,hell possibly mystical for all I know, I blacked out.

To be continued...

More Later

Corey

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Here We Rest Part 4

Corey Ryan Forrester — Mon, 17 Aug 2026 17:41:40 GMT

^{Here Are The Links to Parts 1-3 in Case You Need To Play Catch-Up, & The Video Above Is Me Explaining My Absence. I hope you understand. I Love You}