Vice Fiction

By

I haven’t followed Vice magazine in a long time. I used to pick it up at the video store, The Naked Eye in the Lower Haight back before it closed up.

Vice always seemed somehow noxious the way it both mocked and personified sleazeball hipster culture. We’re all scum, it proudly announced, just some of us are wittier and prettier than others.

At the same time it held up a grimy mirror to all the gaudiness that seemed so novel when I first moved to San Francisco. The years passed and right when I started getting tired of drinking shitty beer at Molotov’s, I couldn’t find Vice anywhere anymore so I ceased thinking about it.

That is, until today.

At least it’s publishing what appears to be good fiction.


Michael Berger is a barely-published writer and book-seller living in San Francisco. He is one of the founding Corsairs of the Iron Garters Bike Club and is currently pursuing a degree in applied pataphysics. He sometimes eats oatmeal for dinner. More from this author →