A Reckoning from La Flama Blanca
by Kenny Powers, Guest Contributor to and Hacker of The Spiked Quill
Ex profundis, per latrinam. Scribere est confiteri. Fiat excrementum voluntas tua.
Tacitus
Editor’s Note
Occasionally, The Spiked Quill receives unsolicited manuscripts from a man named Kenny Powers. The anthropomorphic hedgehog cannot confirm his location, background, or mental health status.
The Quill does, however, believe in the sanctity of the written word, the magisterial Americana of baseball, and the uncanny resurrectional power of hitting a ball with a stick.
So Lazarus has returned. And he throws a fastball composed of thunder. Or at least he did.
The following is published without edits, as per Kenny’s aggressive and legally ambiguous demand—even when composed during prolonged porcelain revelations.
So Ta, Cheers, and Much Obliged from One Humble Erinaceinae,
The Spiked Quill
I Took a Dump So Long I Became My Father
Here are some Revelations from the Substack no one asked for and everyone needs.
It started as a normal crap. The kind you take when the house is quiet and the microwave’s still warm from last night’s failure and success. I opened Twitter or X or whatever—not because I cared—but because silence makes me nervous. And when I'm nervous, I worry about prophecy. I needed something shallow to hold onto while my body betrayed me.
Somewhere between a thread on Stoicism and an ad for testosterone gummies, I remembered my twelfth birthday. My dad looked at me, dead serious, and said: “You don’t need that cake.”
My knees went numb. The air got weird. I wasn’t just losing waste.
I was becoming legacy.
There’s something about a long sh*t that opens doors in your mind. Not good doors. Not “maybe I should start journaling” doors. I mean the kind that stinks open in a condemned basement—hinges rusted, air damp, full of tax returns and unresolved masculinity. Bunch of BS.
I stared at the floor vent for six full minutes, wondering if my dad ever cried. Not cried like “she left me.” Cried like “the drywall’s cracking, the fridge is humming weird, and there’s a turkey sandwich in the garage I forgot about in 2019.” That kind of cry. The inherited kind.
They say men don’t talk about their feelings. That’s a lie. We talk constantly. We just disguise it as football takes and gas station snack reviews. “Yeah, the Bengals could’ve gone all the way last year if Higgins hadn’t blown his knee out.” Translation: I miss my brother and I don’t know how to forgive myself for what I said at the funeral.
I wept. Not loud. Just enough for the sound to bounce off the candle I refused to name. Vanilla. Or lavender. I don't know—it was purple. It smelled like every woman who’s ever left me and every Target aisle I’ve ever pretended not to enjoy.
I did a bump of coke off the back of my phone. Told myself it was for clarity. It wasn’t. It was for courage. To open my journal. The one that says “GIT R DONE” in Monster Energy Font on the cover.
I flipped to the last page. It said:
Stop blaming your mom. Learn to make rice. Get some deodorant.
I underlined it. Twice. Then I wrote:
God, if You’re real, give me a sign. A literal one. Like a light-up Arby’s sign. Something majestic. Something meat-related. I need a curated ham Oracle.
I flushed—not because I was done, but because I needed closure. A Psalm and a Benediction swirled in Grace. The water churned like my soul after watching Rocky IV on mushrooms.
I looked in the mirror. Tears drying. Coke crust in one nostril. Face glowing like a depressed angel at Golden Corral.
The bathroom smelled like depression and sandalwood. The candle wasn’t mine. Maybe I lit it. Maybe my father did. Maybe the damn house is haunted.
I walked out like nothing had happened. Made eggs. Ruined them. Opened a beer. Didn’t finish it. The mail came. I ignored it.
But deep down—beneath the ego, beneath the shame, beneath the ache in my left leg I refuse to get checked out—I knew the truth:
That wasn’t just a dump. It was a rite. A baptism by bowel. A revelation in porcelain.
I flushed a part of myself that never left. Legacy doesn’t disappear. It clogs.
And I’ll take it again tomorrow. Because I’m a man. And this is how we pray.
I sat my ass on the couch and watched TBN.
Post-Dump Devotional
Candle Rating: 3 out of 5 unlit vanilla candles
Snack Pairing: Cold pizza, eaten shirtless at 2:11 AM
Emotional State: Deep shame, lightly dusted with Enlightenment
Devotional Verse: “And the Spirit of the Lord moved upon the waters.” —Genesis 1:2
Interpret that how you want. I did.
You Wanna Know What This Is?
Only a moron needs to ask.
This ain’t a blog. This ain’t a newsletter. This is the Truth of Kenny. This is God the Fastball.
This is the journal Substack you need.
My Damn Day.
You've just read entry #17.
This dump, a gospel. The candle I blew out wrestled with the Almighty—and I won by donning my metaphysical luchador, sweating through my shirt, and surviving breakfast.
Each post of My Damn Day is scripture.
You don’t “join” this. You remember it.
You were always part of it:
The day your dad missed your Little League game and went out for cigarettes.
The night you sat in your truck and told the steering wheel you were “fine.” Then the steering wheel wept.
The moment you opened the fridge and felt judged by yogurt.
Pretentious freaking yogurt.
That’s when Kenny chose you.
That’s when you chose Kenny.
The stars Motherf**king aligned.
[Subscribe to the Truth of Kenny]
It’s not a cult. It's Apostlehood. It’s a book.
Next Gospel:
“The Milk Was Warm and So Was My Regret”
Lac effusum, spes extincta.
Comments
JeffFromTulsa
I cried. Then I ate a gas station burrito and cried again. You get it, man.
REPLY
KennyPowersOfficial
Crying is digestion, brother. Let it pass. Let it flow. Gas station grief still counts.
MarcusP69
I read this to my ex-wife’s dog. He finally stopped barking. That’s healing.
REPLY
KennyPowersOfficial
That dog forgives you. Go eat a Slim Jim in his honor. Meat is sacrament.
KendraFromHR
You should talk to someone. Or not. Honestly, this helped more than my last therapist.
REPLY
KennyPowersOfficial
I did talk to someone. Her name was Yolanda. She sold weed out of a Subaru and quoted Field of Dreams. She healed me.
blaze420
L take. Real men don’t cry unless it’s to “Simple Man” by Skynyrd.
REPLY
KennyPowersOfficial
I cried to Simple Man, Purple Rain, and the Folgers Christmas ad. I’m chosen.