#dynatox

I think Terry would absolutely do this whenever he proudly takes his toddler son with him to Dynatox meetings. I think any era Terry would do this, but especially 80s Terry. Terry takes his kid to a big board meeting and one of his employees criticizes him for bringing his kid. Then the whole time the board meeting is in session, Terry makes the employee give his kid pony rides around the room. I also think if he brings Beloved to sit in with him on a board meeting and anyone criticizes her, not only would they be swiftly fired and blacklisted from working in that industry again, but Terry would probably make the insubordinate employee be a foot stool for Beloved during the board meeting. What do you think?

My new novella ALL INTERNAL is coming out next month on DYANTOX MINISTRIES

In this grotesque and dark novella, Terence Hannum introduces us to Anita, a camgirl who finds herself awakening in situations that she cannot control. After questioning her sanity she realizes that she is not alone in her body and at the mercy of a malignant parasitic entity. All Internaltakes us into the edges of the mind-body problem by way of reproduction, replication and division.

"In the lineage of Dennis Cooper’s The Sluts, Olivier Assayas’ Demonlover and all things Cronenberg, All Internal collapses body, mind, culture, and technology to reveal the parasitic consciousness that emerges when pleasure gets warped and weaponized." 

- Tim Kinsella, author of THE KARAOKE SINGER'S GUIDE TO SELF-DEFENSE

"Beautifully written take of suspense from the author of Between the Remains, the new All Internal retains the unearthly Florida humidity but ups the ante and the body count. Anita is a young, ordinary, woman who works as a cam model for an audience base who seem to love her as much for her unknowability as for her desire to please. Actual porn scenes she’s been putting off, but now her handlers are putting on the pressure and she caves. Is it a coincidence that just at this moment her consciousness splits asunder, with the human, sexual part watched as if from afar by a demanding, controlling, and merciless entity? Of the old Anita there is only her body, a few sentences, and endless submission both to the unknown and to the market we all know so well. This allegory never lets up, and without mercy Hannum makes the analogy between porn and horror as clear and sharp as the black mirror of that alien lens." 

- Kevin Killian, author of TWEAKY VILLAGE and IMPOSSIBLE PRINCESS

"In this vicious, startling novella, Terence Hannum brilliantly reimagines the adult industry as a porous battlespace inhabited by malevolent intelligences. You'll never look at porn the same way again." 

- Jeremy P. Bushnell, author of THE WEIRDNESS and THE INSIDES

―

Dynatox. x ⚠️☢️☣️

---

I mean, when you really think about it, Terry Silver 'doesn't act his age' either.

And it ain't no play whatsoever.

😬

I mean, he acts more like a teenager than a grown man in the classical sense, really. Causing a ruckus at a nightclub filled with adolescents, dashing and jumping off railings when trouble comes, being as happy as a mischievous kid that he got away with it and showing his delight by openly cheering someone's nose got busted up, keeping the company, of truly, likeminded (hooligan?) youths in the form of Snake, Dennis and Mike Barnes, being as vengeful as only an impulsive, cruel child can be. They beat you at a sport, John!? Well, I'll hurt them for that! Because that's what besties forever do! We have friendship bracelets matching tattoos, after all! Treating the elderly Margaret more like an aged, ever so patient aunt who occasionally well meaningly chastises his shenanigans mid-work because --- sigh --- an adult has to once in a while. He's like a child who fell into the suit of a Billionaire with all the resources of a Billionaire, which is an extremely dangerous and volatile combination. Even the way he conducts business is the way a child imagines conducting business goes in Donald Duck's world; he shouts at his Dynatox agent in Borneo and just tells him to get rid of that toxic sludge right before he hangs up. What's the gonna do about that DEA next? Oh, yeah, bribe him again (with cartoonish bags of money, no doubt)! Cue the evil cackle! The way he expresses his cruelty and sadism? Also the way a child would do it. Look, Johnny, I think he peed his pants, he says, after they've roughened up an eighteen year old together like a pair of playground bullies! And how old is Terry here approximately? Lets say, if he was eighteen in 1969 in Vietnam, that would mean he was born in 1951, which means, in 1985, he'd be 34. This is a nearly 35 year old man, at best, doing all this nonsense. Maybe even older, because we can only speculate at his exact age. But, he certainly isn't a kid to be able to justify any of this. No. He's the type of guy who'd have his own payroll Senators instead, so go figure.

Man.

Even the name Dynatox for his company.

It's like he's deliberately taking the piss out of the whole world, naming his business a mixture of Dynamite and Toxic, not unlike a boy given a box of crayons and told to invent a name for a conglomerate, doing so to see if he can get away with flaunting it so obviously and in-your-face to the world, that his practices, are in fact, malpractices. And he can get away with it. He does get away with it. My company is Toxic and it's Dynamite. It's so obnoxious and perfect! I love it, Margaret!

I'd say that even when we are reintroduced to him thirty five years later, there's something childlike about the way he wants to fit in with a clique of ill-fitting, cookie-cutter Champagne-Liberal friends that are 'commonly acceptable' in California. It's like having that one friend who was by your side all throughout elementary school only to suddenly switch up with an entirely different type of people because it was 'the normal type' these days as opposed to, say, John Kreese or Snake, the Bad Boy of LA. The way he tries to befriend Chozen (Sensei Joe)? It strikes me like the vulnerability of a lonely kid who just remained friendless and desperately wants a rebound by showing off all the cool toys (swords) he has to impress a new potential buddy.

So, yeah. Terry Silver would know all about this regression. Not that he's aware of it.

I don't think he is.

The Elevator.

---

It was easily considered the biggest architectural eccentricity of the decade.

A fifty two story building looming over the skyline of LA reconstructed in such a way where each of its respective elevators were to be widened --- made bigger --- the shaft dimensions along generously altered from their usual 1850x1500 in diameter to a staggering 2000x1800, which meant of course, that perhaps the entire skeleton of the building itself, from top to bottom, its rebar, its wires, its reinforced concrete blocks, all had to be re-measured and rebuilt, notwithstanding the fact that an entire Skyscraper's worth of furniture and and staff had to be temporarily moved out first before the building could be virtually torn apart right down the middle. Gutted with the precision of a surgical knife. Reconstrued. Re-done. Re-calibrated. Re-fitted into place. The entire infrastructure of Dynatox's HQ remodeled, dissembled and re-assembled, solely to accommodate what they all claimed was a capricious whim --- blowing money for the sake of blowing money; a project that could go into the Millions. Tens of Millions for starters. That would require countless engineers. Man-power. Workers. Coordinators. Equipment. Shiploads of cement. Plans. So many plans. Journalists. News reporters. Pesky protestors outside of his building carrying signs saying how once again, Terry Silver's endeavors have not only polluted the planet but somehow managed to lead to urbanistic chaos amidst renovations, throwing the nearby city neighborhoods into disarray, shutting down entire streets and uglifying the vista for fuck knows how long. Did he at least have a permit for that, they asked? He was first name basis friends with Tom Bradley and they tended to golf together. He didn't need a permit, but if he genuinely wanted it, he could get it. He didn't give a shit either, though. In fact, all of it amused him profoundly. He wanted to ride around in more spaciously comfortable elevators and he would have his desire appeased too. He had the money to fund his own whims, and he would too.

Never thought much of it, until Margaret said what she said.

And then his desires began to itch.

-"Mr. Silver, sir. Forgive me if I inquire, but on the basis of employer-employee confidentiality, taking into consideration the vast sum of investment that'll go into this project ---"-

She adjusted the rim of her glasses perched atop of her nose and he already knew he had to brace himself for what she'd say next and prepare an even wittier comeback; finding his smile prematurely fading from his lips before he could even properly crack a chuckle across the precipice of his tongue. His secretary, like the incarnation of all wisdom and logic itself, looks at him, knowingly, similarly to how someone's grandmother or an aunt would've from across all the stack of building plans sprawled across the empty conference table, save for the two of them. -"But, it's not claustrophobia, is it?"- What? Without breaking a sweat, Margaret Spencer holds his gaze, one of the few people who could, as she clarifies. He knew what the fuck it was, but she chooses to explain anyway, giving him a clear definition with the precision of a Thesaurus, drilling the point home. Something pierces Terry's brain then, like a spiked, hot rod. He knew Margaret didn't do this to pin holes inside of him intentionally, but it happens anyway. He bleeds inwardly. Sees jungle red. -"The irrational fear of confined spaces. It is quite the serious trigger for some."-

On instinct, he finds his tone of voice growing low and dangerously cold.

He cocks his head to one side, assessing the word.

Like a dog assesses the bone between his teeth.

-"Trigger?"-

He seethes.

The term is unfamiliar.

Akin to a weird blank. Yet he doesn't like it. He loathes it.

Wants to tear into like, like a punching dummy.

Hit it until it collapses dead underneath his feet.

Was she implying what she was implying? That he was doing renovations, importing material, flying in engineers from as far as Korea, ready to blow the budget of a smaller country and all because he was too chickenshit to get into an elevator that felt slightly too small? Because it reminded him of 'Nam? Of the cage? She was infuriatingly right, of course, like someone who knew him for far too long could only ever be, and he hated it. Felt bared and seen by it. Felt the need to fight. Get defensive. So he does. -"It’s not a ‘trigger’!"- He hisses, getting up from his leather rotating office chair in a haste, sensing his own jaw tightening, finding he was speaking to the older woman through painfully gritted teeth. He relished the pain though, seeking more of it, because a soldier didn't do pain. He didn't do triggers either. Who invented that anyway!? What would John say about that if he knew!? Bullshit! Suddenly, his anger flares up to volcanic degrees. He's there, furiously pointing a ring-bejeweled finger at her, every trace of humor long since gone. -"I don’t have ‘triggers’, Margaret!"- He stands firm in that fact, but she sits there --- not judging --- but seeming stoic. Unconvinced. Folders and files neatly in her lap, the picture of professional poise and experience. Tricking Margaret Spencer was like trying to trick one's own mother; they always seemed to know better. He would've fired anyone else on the spot and issued a lawsuit their way, destroying every prospect of any further career anywhere, but with her? He felt the need to justify himself somehow. Convince her, from a strictly business standpoint, that they weren't sinking Billions into a building solely on the basis of him being afraid. He didn't do afraid either. There was no fear in this dojo. In this unit.

-"There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly normal!"-

He shouts suddenly, spittle flying from his mouth.

Once he realizes the outburst, he stops just as abruptly.

Straightens himself out. Halts. Re-takes control.

Stops pacing around the office like a feral animal.

It was technically her job to ask these things. Man, he was overreacting.

All of this seems funny out of nowhere, even though he was furious just a second ago.

Terry chuckles. Then, he cackles. His eyelids ache. He forgot to blink.

-"I'm fine. Lighten up, Margaret."-

Differing Points of View.

(Terry Silver x Reader)

---

-"Good and evil are relative."-

He coos, just as easily as that, caressing the words as smoothly as a lover would and that was your cue to finally snap. Cut the crap. -"No, Terry, they're not relative! It doesn't work that way!"- You point at him, vigor in your arm, your voice rumbling with righteous fury. Yes, you and him, you had an argument. An argument that escalated. You never figured yourself as the type of people who would have shouting matches, or rather, you never figured yourself as the kind of person who'd shout, because Terry didn't. He simply sat in his arm chair, legs crossed, seeming completely unfettered. Like he enjoyed this, in a sense. Maybe that's what was so infuriating. How he didn't seem to take any of this seriously.

-"I don't think profiteering from environmental disasters for over forty years, abusing some kid who's no longer a kid for decades over some stupid vendetta, putting your own best friend behind bars who the vendetta was for in the first place and burning down someone's place of employment to send a message is relative! You're acting like some sort of gangster!"-

His list of transgressions --- recent ones, that is, come out, rolling off of your tongue in the form of a rant and you realize you blurted out all of that in one breath, standing in front of him practically hyperventilating. Another thing Terry appeared to like; he visibly chuckles his chin when the moniker of 'gangster' crosses the threshold of his lips. Jesus, he took that as a complement. He really took that as a complement. Couldn't even try to insult him without him viewing it as a crowning achievement. -"I mean, how could you do that?"- Your shoulders hunch forward and you almost plead then, trying to appeal to him. Reaching something within him. Some point of empathy. Regret? Remorse? Anything. But, there's nothing there. If anything, there's pride. -"Which part?"- Terry clicks his tongue, appearing profoundly amused and there you were, shouting again. He was infuriating and deliberately pushing your buttons. How well he did it too, that even as your temper flared up, you understood you were being toyed with yet you found yourself unable to stop.

-"Every part!"-

You yell, feeling a bit like an adult trying to contend with a child.

-"How can you wake up in the morning?

-"You put one leg forward. Then another."-

He leans back into his seat, talking with one hand, twirling one bejeweled finger mid-air, describing his point of view through a saying. Of course he'd use a saying. Of course. The Zen of Terry Silver. -"Enough with the proverbs! Jesus! You've got a proverb for everything!"- You shriek, smacking your hands down, talking with your whole body, finding yourself in pain due to what you were about to say, feeling that regardless how difficult it was it still had to be said. It was inevitable. Looming over you. -"You know, we could've had something. If you weren't so fucking evil."- Your voice cracks saying that and by the time you've uttered your line, you're whimpering, because by god, that hurt. You always knew confessing that to him would've hurt, but never this much. You catch Terry's face stilling. His expression growing serious. Without a single ounce of rushing, he leans forward, standing up from his armchair, looming large, walking forward, slowly. You take a step back. Part of you thinks then that calling him evil will have him coming at you with a fury all his own, but instead, Terry's calm. Quiet.

-"All that profiteering off of environmental disasters, as you called it,"-

His jawline twists, and he's smiling, looking to the side, shaking his head.

-"Companies nowadays claim to be good and green and then they still dispose of their waste somewhere in backwater Thailand where nobody can see it. It's like pushing the scum under the carpet and calling yourself an accomplished janitor. At least I was fucking honest about my policies."- He chuckles and you're standing there, mouth agape as you listen, momentarily confused. What was he talking about? This conversation wasn't going in the direction you figured it would go in. You brace yourself, searching for some kind of catch, some sort of verbal trap, a tactic, his usual line-up of mind games. But, Terry? Terry was utilizing logic and you couldn't deny it. Your fight or flight instinct kicks in. Your heart starts pounding away in your chest. God. He was going to dodge each and every argument you made chronologically and with sound reason, wasn't he? He'd leave you without a single way to debate him on any of this, won't he?

-"That punk kid?"-

Terry's eyes shoot up at you, his gaze growing cold.

You immediately knew who he was talking about.

-"Larusso has been continuously asking for a good beating for the past thirty years and once he finally gets one over the nose, he cries foul and everyone cries foul with him."- There's venom on his tongue and you hear it in the way he pronounces each and every one of his words; like he wanted to spit them out on the carpet. Let the acid of his voice leave a hole in the fabric. -"Could've justified himself as a victim when he was a snot-nosed twerp fresh in highschool --- but now? He's a grown man. He really thought nobody would hit back? How long do you think he's gonna use that little self-righteous schmuck from Jersey card until it grows old, huh?"- You gulp hard. You've nothing to say to that. Nothing at all. Deep down, you knew Terry was right in a weird sense; that Larusso was just as culpable. Just as petty and spiteful. That nowadays, if Terry was pushing, Daniel Larusso was pushing right back when he could've just as easily let it go. That there was fighting in the streets because of it. That you were standing up for someone who would've never stood up for you. You take yet another step back. You have to. You have to move your limbs in some direction or you'd collapse on the floor. Like a magnet, Terry moves with you, taking a step forward, as if on cue.

-"The whole thing with John?"-

Something clenches in your gut, you knew what was coming.

More facts you couldn't deny no matter how badly you wanted to.

-"John knew the stakes. He also knew I'm not to be trifled with. He's a grown man too. He can handle the heat in the kitchen. He's been handling it for an awfully long time. Don't be here pleading his case for him."-

Terry's mouth presses into a hard line. Eyes unblinking. You sense the edge of the sofa smack the back of your feet in movement with a thud. You had nowhere left to go. You hit a wall. -"I loved that man. I still love him. I'll love him for the rest of my life."- Terry's stare pierces through yours. There's an acute ache in your chest, bubbling, coiling and you recognize it as pity. You felt bad for him. You couldn't believe it, but you did. Your ire pipes down, cooling, dwarfing from a pulsating black hole of anger into a star. You're on the verge of apologizing and you don't like that. You don't like that one bit. Were you that much of a pushover? You collapse, plopping down on the sofa, feeling exhausted and lost, looking up at Terry, rendered speechless. -"But, you don't visit a friend knowing he has a weakness for you, uproot his life after disappearing and going no-contact for well over quarter of a century and some change, ask for a non-refundable kickstarter loan and get surprised when your friend doesn't exactly appreciate your conflicting loyalties."- Terry puts up his his index finger, speaking slowly --- very slowly --- putting special emphasis into every word, every line, every sound, until you found yourself nodding away, quietly agreeing, looking down at the floorboard. God. Well over a quarter of a century and some change. The poignancy of that smacks the wind out of your belly, even though you knew this whole story. John's and Terry's whole story. You were agreeing. You really were. He wasn't even manipulating you. Wasn't even toying with you.

He was merely telling you the truth.

And you knew. You knew it was all true.

It was you who'd be a liar if you argued him further.

Terry knew that. You knew that he knew.

-"As for Mike Barnes? His business? Give me a break!"-

At that point, Terry raises his voice laced with bitter laughter, throwing his head back, appearing part outraged, part amused. Like he didn't believe he had to defend his reasoning on this particular matter in the first place. -"You forget that in the 80's, he was awfully casual about going all mercenary for a buck."- Terry leans down, his neck bending your way, his eyes searching yours. You couldn't look at him. Not right now. You were too embarrassed. Somehow, deep down, you hoped Terry wouldn't have had valid excuses for any of his actions over the years, but he had concrete and rather purposeful basis, as frightening as that sounded, for quite literally everything he ever did and you felt like such a fool. Such an idiot. You underestimated him catastrophically. -"Roughening up some kid he never even met up for some other guy he never met either? You think someone made him do that? That his hand was forced? That he didn't hop on that plane to LA of his own free will back in the day? That he didn't come rushing to my door like it was fucking payday?"- You feel a finger sneak itself under your chin and you try to move, shiver away on instinct --- anything to ensure no eye contact happens, but you're grabbed, not unkindly, but with enough firmness to where he makes you look at him. Where he holds you by the jawline, tilting your head towards wherever he so pleased.

You blink. You blink furiously. Wanting to sink into the couch.

Disappear.

-"It's only when he didn't get his share of the cake that he got all rehabilitated."-

Terry tilts his head sideways, appearing wholly sardonic. If you ever felt sorry for the incident with the furniture store downtown, the empathy disappears someplace you can't find it and you scurry, looking for it internally, desperately trying to grab unto it like a life-raft, not wanting to agree with an arsonist precisely because it was so easy to agree with him. You feel empty. Filled up by everything Terry was saying. Sensing yourself defeated. Completely and utterly. Today, you intended to break things off with Terry Silver, if that was at all possible. All but five minutes later, you were the one who felt like you were in the wrong, having an out of body experience; your worldview shaken. -"Thing is, Barnes is always one step away from playing by gangster rules and it's only fitting he gets hit with a gangster's revenge. All the rest of them too."- Terry adds with a sense of finality, his hand sneaking up from your chin to cheek, caressing you there, looming over you like a tower. You shiver. You...wanted to break up. Leave him. You built everything up in your head. What you'd say. How you'd say it. How you'd organize yourself. How you'd pull this all off. This wasn't going as you planned.

-"So, tell me how good and evil aren't relative?"-

He asks the question you feared since he started his tangent.

You had no answer.

How could you out-philosophize Terry anyway?

You choose to hold yourself responsible. Apologize for shouting.

Getting carried away.

-"Terry, look, I ---"-

You stutter, finally speaking, mustering up the courage to do so, twiddling your fingers around in your lap awkwardly. -"I'm sorry. Okay? I really am."- You stare up at him from under your lashes, looking back down just as quickly, shocked by what you were uttering. Were you afraid of him? Yes? No? Maybe? Partially? You couldn't tell. You supposed you feared him more when he was like this. Quiet. Concise. Logical. You could handle his wrath. His volatile tendencies. His unpredictable calm, less so. Humbled, you capitulate to the wry notion that for all intents and purposes, that if Terry was a bastard, he wasn't exactly the only bastard in The Valley. You understood that the only reason he even bothered explaining himself to you with so much detail was because in his own weird, Terry way, you mattered to him. The same way he mattered to you, even though his choices weren't always easy to accept. Swallow. -"I'm not. My life is everything I did in it, and given the chance, I'd do it again."- He smiles, unapologetic, face practically beaming with genuine, unspoiled mirth. Fuck sake, as awful as that sounded, you couldn't help but admire him for that. Jesus, how he crawled under your skin. Inside of your mind. You wanted to cry, feeling judgmental towards a man who more than deserved to be judged. Instead, you mutter, barely audible, practically whispering with a small voice. -"This thing of ours."- You manage, unsure how to describe you and him. -"I want it to continue. Us. I don't want us to end."- You blink up at him desperately, needily, entirely downtrodden and aware of it, sensing his thumb brush against your lower lip, savoring his moment of triumph in the sun.

Help, you wanted to scream.

Someone help me, please. I'm begging on my knees.

I have no opinions, no will of my own, no sense of morals.

I'm his robot. Puppet on a string.

He's taken everything. Made it his own. Made me his own.

Who am I anymore?

Someone shake me and talk some sense into me.

-"We'll never end."-

Terry coos, sounding infinitely pleased with that conclusion, practically purring as he parted your frowning mouth, pushing his finger inside so you couldn't speak any further even if you wanted to, practically gagging you as he stood perfectly still, towering above you, his teeth on full display, his form casting a long, dark shadow on the wall behind him --- and believe him. You really do. You believe that you and him would never end. He'd never allow you and him to end. Even if you really wanted to. Even if you insisted upon it. Fought for it. Ran. Grew a spine. Stood your ground in spite of your love for him. Would you know how to be anything but his even if he let you go, however unlikely that might've been as an option, though? Would you know how to function in society again? Would you knew what was right? What was wrong? Could you ever be sane again? Would anyone even want you back? Someone who was agreeing with a tyrant when he carefully explained to you how everyone he's ever tyrannized deserved it and you truly sat here, thinking they did, fully self-aware of both the truth and the ridiculousness of it all? Understanding it was wrong. Understanding it was bad. Horrible. And yet still seeing his point of view? Would anyone outside of the bubble Terry's created for you ever be able to trust you ever again?

You doubted it.

You were that far gone.

---

I like to think it does but that it has been totally re-branded to fit 21st century sensibilities, if you get my meaning. Much like Terry Silver himself was when we first meet him.

It's new!

Modernized!

Sustainable!

Transformed!

In Terry's own words, Nuclear was the acceptable waste disposal type in the past, but what about now? Current day? What's the acceptable work ethic now? Would be hilarious (and pretty realistic) if Dynatox went entirely green...seemingly, anyway. On the surface. Throwing on a fresh veneer. Precisely because it's the allowable thing to do and to cover up all the indiscretions and grimy stuff the company did in the past --- a thing that companies do in real life anyway. It didn't stop existing, I feel. It merely changed itself apparently. Entirely possible if took on a new name too. One that's less insidious sounding. Less suggestive. Dynatox? Toxic Dynamite!? No, no, no! How about something more palatable and marketable? Something less intimidating? Something tame, friendly, lowkey and meant to broadcast that they're here helping the native communities of Borneo and all communities like it around the this wonderful, beautiful Earth nowadays instead of dumping toxic sludge all over their lands? All while, lets be real, when you look in beneath the surface of this firm, much like Terry himself is, it's probably entirely identical to what it's always been; corrupt, hiding a hell of a lot of secrets and with a bunch of skeletons in the closet, except, this time around, it's equipped with a shinier exterior that isn't as likely to get Mr. Silver booed by protestors. How can he be booed? When he's running the most ethically green company far and wide? He undoubtedly won awards and accolades for it too in the last few decades. His name gets brought up at the World Economic forum whenever green energy is mentioned.

Dynatox has never been bad. That's hearsay!

How can something synonymous with cleaner energy for a brighter future be bad?