Judge Santiago Burdon

The Odyssey of JUDGE Santiago Burdon begins in the “City of Big Shoulders”, as Sandburg called it in his poem “Chicago”.

His father named him Judge, hoping he would pursue a career in law. He had no idea his son would end up appearing in front of so many.

He attended Universities in the United States and abroad, focusing his studies on Victorian Literature and Authors.

Santiago’s short stories and poems have been featured in over one hundred fifty Magazines, On-line Literary Journals, Podcasts and Anthologies. He was listed in “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020” and again in 2021.

His first book “Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild Cautionary Tales” was published in January 2020 by Arthur Graham Editor Horror Sleaze Trash Press. His next book, a collection of poems, “Not Real Poetry” was published in July 2021 by Steve Cawte, Editor of Impspired Press, Lincolnshire, England.

 Arthur Graham, Editor of Horror Sleaze Trash Press launched Santiago’s third book, “Quicksand Highway” , more short stories of adventurous mayhem, in September 2021.  

Steve Cawte, Editor/Publisher Impspired Press, published “Fingers In The Fan” the fourth book by Santiago in July 2022.  

‘Tequila’s Bad Advice’ ( poetry with the worm) another collection of visceral poems, is slated to be published in December 2022. 

 ‘Overdose of Destiny ‘ (Impulse Fiction) will be his 6th book. Once again he provides more short stories of a Bohemian lifestyle with the same bizarre tales, gritty dialogue and dark humor Santiago has made popular in his past books. It is due to be launched in February 2023.

Santiago turned 69 last July and is close to completing a nonfiction novel ‘Imitation of Myself ‘ divulging experiences while working as a drug runner for a Mexican Cartel. He is living modestly in Costa Rica.

Suffering Pleasure

Darkness had just punched the time clock, showing up to work the night shift. I needed to light a couple of candles in my Studio apartment. The purpose wasn’t to create a romantic or Gothic ambience, but instead to be able to navigate around my four hundred square foot living space with some light. It seems my memory has been on a drunk once again and forgot to pay the electric bill. The Electric and Power guy pointed out I’ve used that somewhat creative as well as almost humorous excuse far too often. The novelty has worn off with the consequence  being orders to confiscate the Electric Meter and return it to the office. It meant he couldn’t just pull it out, turn it upside down, and push it back in. The company mid-level suits  had become aware of me pulling it out then placing it back into the service restoring my power after the electric guy left. I guess I’ll be playing pioneer for a while. Maybe I should stock up on candles or get one of those oil lamps.  You know what?  My neighbors are leaving on vacation for a month tomorrow. So I’ll be able to jump their electric power and their Cable, which I think is still hooked up from the last time I tapped in. I’ll try to find some way to get my T.V. out of hock.  Quite possibly I’ll just borrow one of my neighbor’s.  This guy will be living like a suburban scumbag in no time at all. I’ve  got it all worked out.

“This has to stop Santiago. There’s no future in what you refer to as a recreational activity.” I said out loud.

” Ya I know. I’ve gotta straighten up.” Answering back with a four a.m. honesty.

I emptied the entire contents of the paper into the small pool of water in the spoon.

“When do you think  that  might happen?”

” I’m not sure. It may manifest as a revelation or an epiphany?  Maybe they’ll be an intervention,  or the never-fail cure, incarceration.”

I held the spoon over the candle flame and bubbles appeared on the surface of the water caused by the heat.

“It doesn’t matter. You’ve gotta get clean. This is just no fun anymore.” 

“You know something?  I’m unable to remember when this was fun.”

I drew up the warm coffee colored liquid mixture through a cigarette butt I used as a filter. Then I inspected the contents for air bubbles, flicking the syringe with my finger to dislodge them.

” You look at life as though it’s a nonstop parade just for your entertainment and you watch it pass by.  Let me tell you, the last float will be showing up soon signaling your demise. Believe me Santa Claus won’t be on it waving his hello. It’s got to stop!”

My voice echoed in the near empty apartment.

 “Ya, it’ll happen. I promise. I just can’t say when.”  I answered sincerely. But even I didn’t believe myself.

I stabbed  the syringe deep into my vein. I didn’t  even have to pull back on the plunger to register.  My dark, thick, rich, red, blood billowed into it offering a crimson preview of the explosion about to erupt inside my body. My finger slowly, ceremoniously pushed down on the plunger.



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