Friday, October 15, 2010
Off My Vag
You Creepy, Crawly, Copper.
Don't even think
you'll buy the drink
of THIS beauteous bar-hopper.
You beat your wife
then fuck the life
of the crack house shopper.
The world is blind
But I know your mind
Is filth and needs a mopper!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
by Ash Lomen
(parts of a larger "story")
“You don’t have to enjoy watching while Gerald masturbates onto his first cousin, or Nadine carefully chokes herself with an antique bonnet, or Carter craps into a urn that he stores under a kitchen sink. You just have to pretend. You have to sit back, sniff the cinnamon stick that you keep hidden in your glove.”
I close the book.
What the hell am I doing, the year is 2010 and that groovy fucker won't even be relevant for at least another twenty years.
This is all so pointless.
I'm no vegan, I eat flesh, and I damn well like it when the juices are so red they deepen to the hue of my wine.
I put away the book written by a better man and turn on the computer. I navigate in seconds to a thumb-porno site I have been using for years. I click on a box.
I don’t have to enjoy watching the three men jerking off on the crying meth-head's face. I don’t have to enjoy watching the babysitter fuck the family dog wile some wiley clown holds a razor to her throat. I don't have to enjoy seeing someone who looks like someone I once loved, punched in the stomach as she's forced to stare blankly with tearless eyes, now long dry, into the camera (and how does he manage to keep it from shaking like that).
I don't have to enjoy this.
But I do.
The little wooden box is full of metal knives and good weed that smells like a hasisidic Jew's armpits. It will last for weeks, hopefully longer. The important thing is that I finish the job before it does. A rusty 38. sits on top of the little wooden box. I have three bullets.
I've been noticing some of the whores in the stronger gag reflex section of the "porno bin" have Nine Inch Nails tattoos scratched across their emaciated bodies. I remember how many of the girls in my high-school used to paint "NIN" in big print whiteout letters all over their back book bags. The thought makes me smile.
God that band went to hell.
I know you. I know every little nasty thing you think. I can smell through the veneer of civility to the wide eyed sheep that shits itself inside your brain, wishing that it were a wolf. I know this because I am a wolf. Because I say I am a wolf. Because I know that I am a wolf.
You are a sheep because you want to sleep in your bed and go to work and kiss your wife. I am a wolf because I am happy alone and itching.
Your complacency has made you slow, weekend your resolve.
It has been years since you tasted the blood of a virgin.
And you miss it.
I know you.
I drive out of state on Monday to meet my drug dealer, I think of my rusty .38 even as I look over his attractive wife who has a snarling oriental dragon on her droopy left tit. She wears a top three sizes too small.
I get a hard on looking at her love handles.
When I get home only one bullet remains in my revolver's chamber.
Did I take it with me?
I smell gunpowder and cum.
I just can't remember anything...
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I have seen the bone-red sun of Nanking
I have tasted the blood of a thousand daughters
and cried out for more
I will poison the ocean with my cum
I will salt the earth with my sins
I will rape stillborn godheads ripped fresh from the wombs
of virgin mothers
I will savor every last scrap of hope, dignity, and love you posses as it fades away like a morning star
But I am not the devil
I am progression
...and I taste just like everything
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
my heart was in my throat as I kissed her
and she could taste it too
The American Dream is our sick
set of slackjaws
in the desert
among the dry bones of my masters
just praying for a spark
Our car is parked in an ocean of sand
(nobody will ever find us)
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Better than any so called "hero" they could muster.
The Goblin still cackled outside Norman's cell. Was Rogers withholding his meds out of spite... he only hoped the man had it in him.
The bright red flashes of Cap’s fists still flashed like deadlights whenever he closed his eyes. They had chosen their own path, let them have a soldier... and not a scientist... lead them, let them beat down each others doors and wage a war of false ideals until a greater force, even it isn't Von Doom, destroys EVERYTHING I HAVE WORKED FOR like a fledgling virus consigned to a &%@$%#$# oven.
The Goblin outside his cell whispered plans of sweet escape in its native tounge of madness.
Best to let nature take its course. One day perhaps Rogers would realize his true enemy, either that or he could always die again.
Osborne simply turned away on his cot and tried to sleep, his back to his ego.
The tiny hint of a sparkle illumined the cell floor, unseen by the sleeping former leader of S.H.I.E.L.D., and quite demurely a small talking cricket stepped out through a gap in reality.
And damn could he sing.
His name was Jiminy. Jiminey Cricket.
To Be Concluded!
Friday, June 25, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
by Ash Lomen
I dream sometimes of strangers, strangers cuddled around the French streets of my boyhood, oak-ancient streets haunted by the promise of vivisection and the whispers of hermetic ghosts discarding their wooden shells of old Victorians. Circus equipment is set about haphazardly.
I always meet a girl in the dream. Always an amalgam to fit my shortcomings. A reader, an intellectual, far beyond my equal… but she still looks like that girl in high school whose tan legs I would commit to memory before excusing myself to spill sperm in the communal urinal, imaging she instead was my receptacle. Today, she is wearing candyglass spectacles and her hair is dyed a whore’s yellow. As always, I am shy; she approaches me and breaches our common interests.
I feel love.
Not the kind of love that makes you want have children or become a better man… but the kind of love that makes you want to stick your dick in a blender, cuddle up and have pillow talk with your own regurgitated earwax and brain shrapnel. The girl and I walk off amid the throngs of people until the sidewalk is eventually swallowed by the horizon. We never fuck, we never even kiss.
I wake up in cold sweat and and search for a warm beer under my bed. I catch my breath, crunch the can after downing it in a few quick gulps, and I try to fall back asleep.
I never can.
Monday, May 3, 2010
by Ash Lomen
“Life is black Comedy. Slapstick and vulgarity. Unworthy of the name.”
~ J.R. Hayes
Ask anyone who has ever lived. Life is long.
Too damn long.
Still the bedlam that dripped like hot wax through Los Angeles and down the California Coastline… deaths to rival Jerusalem… rapes to rival Nanking…
And Jim Pulver knew he had to be a part of it...
Wartime Warsaw had nothing on Long Beach by the time he reached it, bloodred sand, waves of mutilation, tortured wildlife, nancy boys hiding behind poorly erected stucco barricades, discarded infants, beach bums disemboweling each other with splinters of surfboards to pounding Christian rock, the smell of cheap weed and cheaper pussy, genocide, mass graves, mass orgies, rampant disease, celebrity families forced to fuck at gunpoint for the entertainment of starving militias, target practice with the handicapped, meaningless pentagrams scribbled in the sand, earthquakes, rum and coke and battery acid and the screams of virgins all mixed in with the roar of the great old ocean…
And then the party was over.
(Jim takes out his digital camera and goes to work.)
Just another day at the beach.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
"Alaska Is Inflammable"
by Ash Lomen
"Woo Hoo, winter is here again..."
~ Jeffrey Lewis
Chapter 1 - So Lonesome I Could Cry
There was once a girl who lived deep in the snowy wastes of Alaska named Sam, for the most part Sam was a normal girl, into the intricacies of Micronesian politics and edible cowboy hats… but she also had a strange deformity that set her apart from all other young women. In place of the dainty hands her genetics had promised her, Sam had horse hooves. Clydesdale hooves to be exact.
Sam had been featured on many a TV special and written about in over 200 medical journals, of course none of this had helped her win over any dates in high school. All the cute boys made crude jokes about "hoovejobs" and all the nerdy boys cared more about her as a science project than an atrictive young woman.
Needless to say, Sam was very lonely.
Chapter 2 - Why Don’t We Do It In The Road
One day, while roaming a stretch of highway just barley visible beneath the constant snowfall a dark-skined man in a black leather jacket appeared out of nowhere and begin speaking Italian to her. The man was very handsome and didn’t seem to notice Sam’s hooves (which she no longer bothered hiding behind her back when approached by strangers). The only word she could make out from his foreign babbling, being an avid fan of The Sopranos, was “Moolie”.
So what if this guy was a little racist, he seemed to be flirting with her, and after all, she could always lecture him after she came. She did something that surprised the hell out of even herself; she wrapped her hooves around his neck and kissed him.
They made love in the middle of the road on a soft blanket of virgin snow.
Chapter 3 - Love, Love, Love
It turned out the Italian gentleman’s name was Luco, and he enjoyed the intricacies of Micronesian politics and edible underwear. Everything seemed to be working out brilliantly for Sam. The man wasn’t even a racist, he simply had an affinity for Eggplant Parmesan, which Sam cooked up for him with great joy.
He never mentioned her hooves. He kissed and licked them like any lover would kiss a partner’s hands during sex, and he put his tick calloused palm atop them in to comfort when she fretted like any good boyfriend would. But he never brought them up in conversation.
Then again, Luco didn’t speak a word of English.
Chapter 4 – Blow Up The Outside World
Everything was going so well… until Luco asked Sam to scale the peek of Mount Rothbale with him. He conveyed the message with a series of fanatic hand gestures, and a topographical map of central Alaska they had been rolling joints on.
Sam would follow Luco to the peaks of hell.
And so they climbed Mt. Rothbale together, hand in hoof.
Chapter 5 – Trick Mirror
When they reached the summit Luco looked at Sam with tears in his eyes, kissed her and turned.
His last words were spoken in perfect, unbroken English, “I know what you are.”
He blew her one last kiss and skydove from the summit.
Chapter 7 – Pardon Me While I Burn
The skin near Sam’s hooves began to peel back, reveling raw tissue and surprisingly inhuman musculature. She shed her pale skin like a snake, kicked off her feet to reveal cloven hooves, and screamed at the sun with a forked tongue as horns sprouted from her head.
The Sun went out like an overburdened light bulb… and all the snow around Sam began nonsensically to melt.
She felt alive for the very first time in her life.
Chapter 8 – If This Is Hell, Then I’m Lucky
Mt. Rothbale grew like a ripe pimple on the surface of the earth, pulsing up to the size of Manhattan, and eventually to the size of the entire state of New York. Hot lava flowed and destroyed most of Northeastern Canada… it dripped down the Rockies and across Mexico, never losing its heat… and set the entire New World aflame.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
"Don't Feed The Men Who Feed The Ducks"
by Ash Lomen
City Park in New Orleans was strange enough, but The Men Who Feed The Ducks were so damn peculiar that even the normal nocturnal denizens of the city; elder vampires running bike paths, Uzi wielding nutrias passing blunts with Crips, alligators caught up in copulation with birdwatching pederasts, and slick police with slicker batons that reeked of blood and shit, all steered clear from the group of young Japanese men throwing breadcrumbs upon the roots of ancient oaks.
It was rumored that this gang of men who came out only at night were decedents from those mutated by the bombing of Hiroshima and that they worshiped Tasaki Miike as The Messiah. They were many armed and possessed other various appendages, many of these ”limbs” that shot out from the hooded leather overcoats The Men wore to hide their various deformities were not even discernable as human… or even mammalian.
What they were doing in City Park, god only knew.
It was also rumored that once a drunk mugger had tried to approach The Men with a baseball bat. The tallest of the three supposedly turned and ripped of the assailant's face off with a single whiplike tentacle.
I shrugged this all off as some sort of ancient Japanese custom.
One day The Men approached me with some drugs.
Strange little pods that reminded me of orange tick tacks. Hell, they could have been orange tick tacks for all I knew… but I was already high so I decided to buy them for the price of 400$ a pop. I figured that I would buy two in case the first one didn’t work.
The Men Who Feed The Ducks whispered conspiratorially among themselves.
The tallest spoke, “We are not sure if you are ready for this level of… let’s say “enlightenment” yet…”
Another of The Men procured a simple metal pipe that looked like it had been made from spare plumbing equipment, “Take a hit of this.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” The Men said as one.
I produced my own 50 cent lighter and fired up the bowl, the hit was flavorful but smooth-
I scrambled my webbed feet up an embankment of rocks, and hopped to a thick oaken branch not all that far away. I dropped to the ground and fought some geese and another duck for some breadcrumbs. The Men Who Feed The Ducks billowing longcoats loomed before me, bringing to mind the image of doomed skyscrapers and loose sky rockets. Soft explosions.
I was happy.
When I woke up I was naked and swimming in the murky lake just a few feet away from where I took that first hit. The moon was high in the sky, it's reflection rippling like floating cum across the dark water. Tasaki Miike sat on the water’s edge, wearing only a leather thong, and nursing a baby nutria with two tales and a third eye.
He said something about the “end being only the beginning” and smiled, but I could swear I heard that fucking line before in some shitty 90’s alternative rock tune.
My eyes exploded like bloodshot stars going supernova.
I woke up for the last time cradled in my Mother’s arms, covered in afterbirth. I could see a young nurse collapse when she saw my extra limbs.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
"Love in Ruins"
by Sam Reeve
“But you said you were interested in polar bear swimming, right?” Ash says.
“This really is not what I had in mind when I said we should go to the beach some time,” Sarah whines. She is shivering in her bikini, ankle deep in the Pacific Ocean. Goose bumps are crawling up her legs and making her tiny leg-hairs stand on end.
“Yeah...but not for our second date. It’s hardly romantic!”
Ash doesn’t really understand where she’s going with this, so he grabs her and pulls her into the cold water. She screams and flails about, continually complaining about being cold as ice. This makes Ash smile.
“Oh god dammit, I’m cold as a corpse! This date is shit,” she cries.
Ash gets an instant boner at the mention of corpse.
He pulls her onto the sand and starts to make out with Sarah. He’s very inexperienced, and starts to lick her face. She whines about that too. Then he tells her to lie very still, which makes her a bit suspicious.
“Let’s just look up at the stars for a bit,” Sarah says, pushing Ash off of her.
“But there are no stars out tonight. The forecast said it would be cloudy all week.”
“No, look there,” she points. “There are some clouds moving out of the way.”
Ash looks up in horror to see the stars and moon revealing themselves. He thought the full-moon was going to be the next day. He realizes it’s happening now!
“Oh, see, now this is romantic! There’s even a full-moon. Look Ash,” she points and turns to him. She screams, seeing that he is now a giant fucking shark!
Wereshark Ash eats his girlfriend’s head, and then wriggles into the ocean. He cries big shark tears into the ocean, and swims around eating things. Octopi are his favourite aquatic comfort food.
“Dammit, not again,” he thinks.
The next day Ash wakes up on the beach covered in slime and sea weed. He is also naked. About a hundred feet away is the body of Sarah, only without the head. If it weren’t for having a private beach area for his beach-house, Ash would be screwed. Despondently, Ash screws Sarah’s dead body on the beach while crying. Then he goes to eat some breakfast inside.
Weeks later, while masturbating to pictures of dead people on the internet, Ash notices a flashing advertisement that urges him to donate money to help people recover somewhere from a natural disaster or something. He thinks for a minute about all those poor people stuck inside fallen down houses and all the dead people...and then the idea hits him.
The next full moon, wereshark Ash swims as fast and hard as he can, heading for the disaster area, which is conveniently a small island. On the way he eats some teenaged night-swimmers and an old lady who is walking her dog on the beach. He leaves the dog.
The next day, once back in man-form, Ash sets out into the ruined capital city to find his next “date”. There is so much to choose from when he arrives that he doesn’t know what to do.
“It’s like a free buffet,” Ash whispers to himself with a joyful tear in his eye. Then he gets going on the bodies.
First, sneaking into a ruined stone church, Ash finds some crushed nuns. They’ve been slightly mangled by the falling stones caused by the earthquake, but this does not deter him. Keeping an eye out for relief workers, he makes sweet love to those dead nuns. Just as he’s screwing the last of the dead nuns, she opens her eyes. Apparently she is only severely injured, but still alive. This freaks out Ash, so he punches her in the head to kill her. It does the trick.
Over the course of the next three days, Ash screws more dead bodies than he can handle. He falls asleep each night with a large grin on his face, dreaming about all the bodies he would find the next day.
On the fourth day, Ash moves on to a smaller city near the one he had started out in. The first building he happens upon is a destroyed office building. Ash’s eyes glisten when he thinks of the sexy dead secretaries there must be in the ruins. Further down the road is a Red Cross truck and tent, around which are milling nurses and injured people. They seem to be ignoring this building.
Going around the back, Ash notices there is part of the office building that is still standing. He climbs in through the shattered window of what seems to be the only office left standing. In the corner of the room is a nurse in a Red Cross uniform. Ash was not expecting anyone to be in the building, but he instantly knows why she is there.
The nurse is straddling the corpse of some dead guy in a suit. His face is all puffy from decomposition, and the nurse is riding his dead body while slapping him and telling him he’s a bad boy.
The nurse, whose name tag says Joanne, screams and stands up when she sees that someone has caught her. Being a suave gentleman who knows what the ladies want, Ash decides to be spontaneous.
He rushes over to Joanne and gets on one knee. “Will you marry me?” he asks, smiling up at her with his nasty, yellow teeth (he never brought a tooth brush and has been away from home for five days).
The nurse looks baffled, and is totally speechless. She nods her head “yes”, understanding the situation somehow.
“I never thought there was someone out there...” Ash trails off, looking deep into Joanne’s eyes.
Joanne smiles, and grabs Ash’s hand. She leads him to the other side of the room, where there’s a bunch of furniture and junk that fell through the ceiling.
“Behind the filing cabinet is a dead secretary,” Joanne says, pointing. At this, Ash knew she was definitely the one.
Ash joins the Red Cross as a volunteer, and travels with Joanne around the country for the next month. She finds out about his weresharkism when he eats another volunteer on the beach during the full-moon. It frightens her, but the next morning while Ash is weeping naked on the beach, she comforts him by saying she accepts him anyway.
When they get back to America the two of them get married, and Joanne manages to get Ash a full-time position with the Red Cross. Ash and Joanne travel around the world together, saving disaster victims and defiling the corpses, and live happily for the rest of their days.
Monday, April 19, 2010
by Ash Lomen
(On a dare from Garrett Cook)
It was a hot sunny GayDay in Disneyworld, the southern sky clear and the sun high and beating on the collected backs of the faggots that walked my cobbled streets. I could only imagine what kind of sickly fag-germs they carried on the bottoms of those designer shoes. Fucking GayDay, when did this company get so goddamn liberal. Like I needed to ask. That fucking commie bother of mine, probably a secret fruit himself.
I remembered the days when I was corporeal, and still a lad, my ear pressed firmly to the earth listening for an oncoming train that I could pelt with rocks and accuse of buggery.
Rocks, not a bad idea.
I concentrated all of my metaphysical energy.
A rock pelted the back of Wilson Dent’s head, almost bouncing harmlessly off the puffed surface of his pompadour, but instead imbedding itself, penetrating his hair. It was hard enough hunting down an ectoplasmic target with nothing but hollowpoints, but being mistaken for gay AND having his beloved hair assaulted was just too much to take. He loved his hair, which DID NOT make him gay! And why would gay people attend a GayDay at Disneyworld just to throw rocks at other homosexuals anyway. It just didn’t make any sense.
Dent didn’t care, one too many stray stones meant for a gay head had gotten lost in his expansive pompadour.
Dent moved his hand towards his gun, and in the middle of the theme park, turned to face his assailant.
When the man turned and pulled the gun the milling sodomites around us scattered, and I knew right then that was no queer I had just pelted in the back of the head, that was Wilson Dent, the world famous assassin of unkillable targets who was reportedly so vain he fell in love with… and married… his own pompadour (well perhaps he was some kind of queer). Still, he could kill a man at a hundred yards with a blunderbuss, and that long barreled revolver now clenched in his left fist looked pretty damn accurate. His hair was mesmerizing, like the unshaven bush of my first love, Sally Rutherford… back in high school. Or was that Billy Rutherford?
For a moment I was afraid.
Then I remembered I was a fucking ghost.
Dent turned and fired the gun into thin air, wounding a young groundskeeper and a guy in a Donald costume. He didn’t care about collateral damage; he only cared about his target. Still, unloading all five chambers didn’t seem to do a damn thing to the old ghost he could barely see through the dim distortion of heat.
I again concentrated all of my metaphysical energy (even knowing it would give away my position to those who knew how to look) and this time balled it into a fist. I struck Dent with a blow to his nose, sending out a red spray and breaking his stylish glasses into his face.
(Many years ago)
Dr. Cohen looked nervous, “The cancer is progressing sir, if you want to proceed with the c-
“Shut up you shiftless Jew,” I turned to my brother.
“In case this procedure doesn’t work and I die. Let me finish! In case this procedure doesn’t work and I die. I don’t want you making any deals with the fucking chinks. Shut up. Listen to me. I don’t want their filthy chink hands on my precious Mickey… and if they somehow do get a hold on this company. I want you to kill me. I don’t give a shit if I’m already dead. I want you to find the right man for the job and KILL ME.”
The doctor sputtered, “He’s on a lot of drugs-“
“Shut up you shiftless Jew,” my dear brother said, for once in his life sounding like a fucking man.
He turned back to me, crying now, “I promise you Walt. Disneyworld will be built... with a train around it just like you always wanted. The company will continue and I will carry out your final wishes. I won’t let those fucking ricedick commies get a hold of our sweet Mickey, and if they do... I swear to Satan below me, I will kill your fucking ghost.”
We clasped hands and then (I’m not ashamed to say) cried into each other’s arms.
I even got a little hard.
Officer Sprocket was searching Disneyland for the gunman involved in the hate crime. The descriptions had varied since all the men present had a different and highly detailed explanation of the Gunman’s hair. Officer Sprocket scratched his bald head with a bit of longing.
Then he pushed aside a stray pile of crates and got the surprise of his life. When he told his superiors what he saw that day he was pulled quickly from active duty.
After all, who wants a guy carrying around a badge and a gun who has hallucinations about "The Ghost of Walt Disney" taking it up the ass from a young man stroking his "magnificent" pompadour?
Saturday, April 17, 2010
"Normal" by Edmund Colell
I am normal, thinks Rex Edward. And so is my wife. We are not deviants.
His thoughts muffle and turn off as he listens to the moaning, groaning, and mooing above him with each vocal sound punctuated by bed springs squealing and headboards banging. His heart rockets to his throat and he begins shouting, “Ugh! Oh yeah! God the corn bits in your ass feel so good on my cock!” he then slaps his arm and says, “Oh God, oh fucking God, I just want to tear up that ass in my teeth and suck up the blood that runs down your pussy!”As he shouts these words he looks out the window, turning back as rubber-suited and vibrator-baton-wielding police goosestep along the sidewalk by the crumbly block at the base of the apartment complex, where Rex takes shelter under the better-maintained floors taken by the more sexually-adventurous tenements.
After the rubber police pass by, he puts his hands together and prays: “Oh Ha-cack, Lord of the Limp Penis, why have you forsaken your people?”
Mrs. Edwards walks out from their bedroom, fully naked. “Stop it, Rex. Ha-cack is dead and we as a society have killed him.” She then sniffles and rubs her breasts with one hand while rubbing her clitoris in a circular motion with the other. “Now please, you need to fuck me as hard as you can just this once or we will be evicted.”
“But we were going down to the beach today, remember?”
She quickly walks over to him and shoves her breasts in his face. “Shut up,” she hisses, “and fuck me.”
As Rex puts his face in his hands, she opens a box labeled “EMERGENCY” where she withdraws a plastic-packaged syringe and a bottle of solution. Ripping the packaging open she draws five milliliters of solution and flicks out the air bubbles. “Take off your pants, Rex.”
He sighs and undoes his fly, then slides his boxers down. He then swallows and says, “I’m ready, Lupita.”
Lupita takes his penis in hand and shoots the solution into a penile vein as soon as she finds one, then watches Rex’s subsequent erection. “C’mon,” she says as she pulls him up from the chair by the collar, “we don’t have much time.”
“Can’t we at least light a candle, first?” Rex asks, and Lupita slaps him.
Over the course of several minutes Lupita beats the headboard with both hands and reaches over several times to knock lamps and other breakables off of the nightstand. “C’mon, bite me!" her head wails, "Scratch me! Oh Christ, stop with the gentle kissing and touching and give me some bruises! Turn me over! Stick it in my asshole! Beg me to call you the ice cream man!”
Soon enough, Rex ejaculates and rolls off of her. “That was pretty good,” he says, “I haven’t had sex like that in a long time.”
Lupita lies there, her face locked and mortified. With a croak in her throat she says, “That’s it? That’s…” her eyes fill with tears and she covers her face in her hands as she starts to sob. Between rasping breaths, she says, “You… sack of shit!” as she gets up and slips into her fishnet outfit to walk outside, face still covered by her hands. A second after she closes the door, she thrusts it open to say, “When they give you the acid I hope it fucking hurts!” and slams it again.
Rex sits up, dumbfounded and feeling the blood slowly drain back into his body before sinking into his stomach. However, that scene doesn’t make his stomach drop as quickly as the subsequent vision does: a trio of rubber police outside, beating Lupita with their vibrator batons and masturbating. Several others storm into the apartment complex, and they bash down the door with a butt-plug battering ram. Rex throws-up his hands and shouts, “I swear I’ll fuck her harder! I swear I’ll fuck -- ”
His plea is cut-off by a ball-gag being inserted into his mouth and the rest of his body being tied-up with clothes lines before a leather hood is placed over his head.
When he wakes-up and the hood is taken from his head, he finds himself in a room with a gray-haired man wearing only a thong with a pouch for his dick, with the rest of his body covered in cherry-scented oil. “Are we awake, Mr. Edward?” he asks.
Rex scrunches his eyes and nods, tears forming in the eyelids.
The old man giggles and says, “That is good. My name is Mr. Hector. Or,” he pulls on a bull mask with a D-ring joining the nostrils, “you may call me The Prime Steer. And boy-oh-boy am I going to fill you up with the best artificial insemination you will ever get impregnated by.”
Rex’s eyelids peel far away from each other and his jaw drops as he watches The Prime Steer pull a dropper from a case behind him.The Prime Steer giggles and says, “Oh yes, I believe you know what this is, Mr. Edward. This is lysergic acid, or LSD. If you have been a good citizen until now, you should know that this is going to be execution by acid. We dope you up until your brain melts, then once you see nothing but hallucinations we will put battery acid in your eyes and allow you to die with nothing to comfort you but the images in your brain.”
Rex gulps and jerks his head back and forth as The Prime Steer pulls the ball gag back far enough to shove the bottom of the dropper into Rex’s mouth and squeeze off a few hits. Rex, feeling the drops hit his mouth and the mucous disappear, slowly watches the walls breathe, calming down as he synchronizes his own breathing with theirs.
“Tell me how you feel, Mr. Edward,” says The Prime Steer as he begins to rub under his pouch.
“I feel dry,” Rex replies.
The Prime Steer stops touching himself and walks over to smack Rex. “Don’t be so goddamned plain about it. You’re killing my new stiffy.”
Rex shakes his head and sees the bull-head, with the rest of the body morphing into a collection of fleshy knobs. “Ha-cack! I knew you had not left me!”
“Ha-cack?” asks The Prime Steer.
“Lord of the Limp Penis, defender of those who have boring sex, patron of the Missionary position!”
“You disappoint me, Mr. Edward. Let us skip right along to the battery acid…”
Suddenly the intercom breaks out by saying, “Sudden influx of inactivity, Prime Steer. We’ve reached a critical mass of sexual boredom. Hell, even I can’t get wet!”
The Prime Steer freezes at the news and realizes that his entire groin has started to recede into his body. He then whips the ball gag from Rex’s face and stuffs it down his own throat.
Many hours later, as the effects wear off, Rex pulls himself up with his body still tied to the chair, and he steps over the bloated blue corpse of The Prime Steer whose last spurts from erotic asphyxiation have puddled on the floor. He spies a knife on the counter, smeared a little with blood. From erotic knifeplay, he figures as he saws through the clothes lines. Outside, he sees that everyone is sitting on the sidewalks, listless as they flop their penises around and pick at the lips of their dry vaginas.
With a smile, Rex turns to the sky and shouts, “Ha-cack o-lye!” which translates to “Ha-cack blocks all!”
Thursday, April 15, 2010
"I'm fuckin' dying here man!"
~ Mr. Orange
"I'm fuckin' dying here man!" Asher screamed out before he made his final move.
The boy's swing was hardly even a proper punch; the wild haymaker was instead more akin to an invitation. I blocked, gave him a swift uppercut to the gut, turned him, and wrapped my garrote sweetly around his slender neck, tightening the wire just enough to draw blood. For a serial rapist (even under the name of God), he was quite a pretty young man.
“Time to meet that liberal God of yours Captain… I hope you know that I have killed every man, woman, and child in that village to bear the testimony of your crimes at Heaven’s Gates.” I told him, just like reading it off a fucking card.
“There is no afterlife you fool. There is no God.” He said.
“Only half right." I pulled the wire tight and decapitated him.
Having met the Devil herself in the flesh, I had a feeling he would eat those words soon enough. I unscrewed the small vile in my pocket, swallowed it, and died all over again.
I loved my job.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
~ John Darnielle
I tossed back my blood-slick hair and stumbled out past the old ramshackle outpost/outhouse that served as a storage base for my friend Randall’s eclectic collection of drugs. I was naked under the setting Georgian sun and baked on some homemade substance Randall assured me was “just acid boy”.
I ran in a blur of skin, barefoot over dead leaves and packed earth, across the clearing and under the overpass to reach The Arcade. My childhood surged like bile from the pit of my stomach and gave me some strange sort of emotional heartburn.
The Arcade was a filthy place of electronic ghosts, dusty and radiant all at once. The concession/ticket stand had been turned into a crash zone where Billy and Sally (at least that’s what I thought the newswoman said the names were) lay naked in a tangle of limbs. I thought about waking em’ up, see if either of them wanted a good ride. The mood I was in right then I would have stuck my dick in a crawfish hole.
I distracted my lust with the light of a nearby SEGA "MERCs” Machine. Little blue man shooting little blue bullets. Bloodless kills.
I vomited across the control board of this rare and relatively pristine piece of gaming equipment, a sour liquid the grey color of a pregnant sky. I figured the machine could take it.
“Rich, what the hell are you doing?” It was Randall.
I turned back, vomit still dripping from my jowls. I didn’t want to say anything.
I looked down to see Billy and Sally flayed at my feet, both partly cannibalized.
That wasn’t vomit dripping from my jowls.
Randal had given me a shot of Lorazepam in the neck to calm me down (he was always handy with stuff like that) and I slept soundly under the arcade lights to wake in the morning with a dry mouth.
“I don’t remember killing them.” My first words of the day.
Randall was still there, “I know.”
Dusty daylight choked the unnatural luminance of the Arcade. I could see the bodies and closed my eyes.
“Why did I... do that.”
“That wasn’t just acid boy.”
“What the fuck was it?”
“I don’t really know… you want some more?”
I lit a cigarette, and laced with blood and being the first smoke of the day, it tasted delicious. I felt good for the first time in a few years. After the smoke, we both walked back to Randall's mother's house to get high.
Billy twitched sporadically in the dirt behind us.
The Arcade was still glowing.
Anarchist Billionaire was not worried.
"No, I don't think so gentlemen. I might owe you four hundred million dollars in back taxes, but last year I bought the likeness rights to George Washington..."
His sidekick Buxom Pornstar Lawyer finished his thought.
"And we're suing you for copyright infringement! One hundred thousand dollars for every bill you printed in the last year and every quarter you minted."
"But we can't afford that!" the goverment whined.
Anarchist Billionaire whacked the government with a shovel and laughed.
"Ha ha ha, then I guess this country's mine!"
"Curse you, Anarchist Billionaire," said the government as they signed the contract printed on Buxom Pornstar Lawyer's chest, effectively giving Anarchist Billionaire control of the country.
After giving half the country to the Crips and half to the Bloods, Anarchist Billionaire left for his moonbase, where he made love to several women far too attractive to talk to any of us.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Girls with more teeth than eyes.
But they do smell like women.
(that pleasant mixture of wildfruit and chemical trickery)
And most of all, I like their heroin smiles... for with these they remind me of my childhood… and that’s always when things get a little messy...
But love so often does.
“Time wounds all heels.”
~ John Lennon
Friday, March 19, 2010
Dorsnag jumped from the low flying helicopter and onto the expanse of broken glass that was once called Death Valley. The white boy followed him, hardy enough junk implanted in his little body to be a real soldier, landing clumsily upon the glass ocean and sending out ripples like the dirty veins in his blue eyes. A relatively large former human hit the kid before he could even raise his gun, flinging up bone and shrapnel into the bloodied sky.
Robert dropped his pale forehead against the sticky keyboard. The pattern was repeating and he could do nothing about it. Where was this all coming from?
Blood had coagulated within his gears. He was surrounded by bodies. Every friendly within a hundred miles was dead. After a few seconds Dorsnag would get his shit together, run some chemical cleaner through his grimy circuitry and go back to work.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Spores wove a path back to the base of the ship and the very window that opened into The Gardens themselves.
The maze of hallways and halfway pipes inside the ship were covered in a coagulated and timered slime, and it was from this which all life spang forth, curling and winding into knots of writhing pain.
The fleshy plant grew a porous soul for the sole purpose of enhancing its own agony, every bloom opening a new, masochistic, puss-filled wound.
The Valdrott loved to walk through these bleeding halls, watching the painflowers spring to life.
Empathy so far from reach.
Monday, March 8, 2010
"And what exactly do you mean by that?" Alice said, jumping down with inhuman dexterity from her perch atop the skyscraper's satellite.
"I don't know... but you are all the same."
"That’s very sweet honey." She kissed him.
Their kiss was interrupted by the shrapnel of concrete as some kind of heavy tank shell missed its mark. Warren was thrown back before he could even grab his antique sidearm, but somehow before he hit the ground he was already firing . At God knows what… Alice could only guess…
What she saw next was something so unreal it seemed ripped from the pages of a bad pulp magazine. A thick grey tentacle whipped down and ripped out Warren's shooting arm with a sick wet crunch.
...looking franticly around the small roof she realized that “shell” that had knocked poor Warren off his feet was not a shell at all, it was part of...
Alice looked away from the attacking creature's indescribable face and vomited.
As she retched, she saw Warren laying prone on the rooftop, half his blood already gone from his body, the left side of his torso mostly missing in a pool of gore, his wide eyes open and unmoving. The creature turned to her and commanded her to look upon it's visage, and she spun like a thrall to it's commands, whipping her head away from her love to face it even as she held back her bile. Tears ran freely down her face.
"I've come to see Warren." Its many sores seemed to ooze as it talked in a voice that somehow was distinctly male.
"YOU FOOL!" Alice shouted, "WARREN IS DEAD!" Her voice shook the very foundations of the skyscraper and almost pushed the beast's heinous features into something resembling a flinch.
The creature fled back into the dark corners of deep space.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Every single member of the Cult of Cthulhu evacuated the swamps a day later, their celestial deity now nothing more than a long forgotten fairy tale.
The Valdrott pissed a corrosive, inky, black liquid that ate away at the ancient god’s shrines, melting away the stone like candle wax...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I eventually gorge myself on snakes in your abdomen. I don’t usually do that sort of thing, you know.
Morning comes and it’s all stained fingers and sore teeth. You wake up beside me, looking like a pale queen, holding black flowers against your chest. Weeds coming up from your ample cleavage.
Symbols of a world flushed with blood. My bowels are ready to fall like an empire all over the ground beneath me. Why are we here anyway? We should’ve been on the road an hour ago.
There are bloody holes, clumps of hair everywhere. My stomach hurts now. The bathroom mirror looks like a winter wonderland. Your hair is messy, too, looks like a giant frosted flake.
There is no universal truth that doesn’t involve visions of blue teeth and pink meat. We will chew on menstrual stars and ride on hard red currents of swine runes. We will be engulfed in the flames of roadside ruins, picking the scabs of apocalypse.
We will witness the eyes of some blue Christ follow our car down the highway as we listen to the sounds of blackbirds babbling about the green breath of some God.
But before we do, please pass the cornbread. You know I can’t drive on an empty stomach. And the radio has to be tuned into that station.. the one that has that old man singing....
because is the fall of because is the fall of .....
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A pair of arms wrapped around tighter still. His nervousness mutated into awkward primitive posturing. Suddenly, he was cool in his own eyes. He was losing his virginity.
She wasn't too worried about it. She knew what she wanted. Her clothes came off quick and it embarrassed her a little, like she was suppose to make that part last longer. She could see his nostrils flare.
"That's how babies are made."
He kissed her. "Ow," she replied, feeling hardness pressed against her.
He rubbed his face down her chest, "This is what girls like, right?" until he reached her belly. She didn't hear him; the voice echoed in her mind.
He probed with the tip at first, lightly circling the rim of her hole as if a vulture had found some good eats.
"Careful," she breathed, "If you're too rough you might tear me."
He nodded slightly and ran a few more laps. Urges prevailing, he slipped inside her. She let out a soft cry and bit her finger, thinking hard about which muscles to relax.
They got into a steady rhythm, she forgot about the minor bleeding and he actually made an effort to enjoy the sweat smells they were creating.
He began to swell with the rush of climax creeping into him. When he told her as much she only grabbed him and pulled him in deeper until he exploded inside her.
"Ah... AH... AHCHOO!!!" as he came.
They lay there frozen in the moment, his heartbeat vibrating throughout her body. A smile spread from her eyes to her mouth, mother's voice still echoing.
"That's how babies are made."
"Hm?" he asked.
The end of his nose was on fire. A thousand tiny thumbtack ants gnawing at the skin. He could feel the juices inside her gurgle. He tried to pull out but it was as if something in her was pulling back. He screamed as he ripped his head to the left and tore through her belly.
"Oh," he said, his nose caked in blood, small cum loogie hanging from a nostril.
Her mother had always told her to wait or else she'd end up with a kid. She couldn't think of a greater thing happening. She looked down at her baby, her beautiful bundle of joy, sitting in her lap. She cried and caressed the face, feeling the warmth. She bent down to kiss her new child, falling off the bed as he ran to get her parents.
Monday, February 1, 2010
"Hello," he said. "Tell me, how do you differentiate between pain and pleasure?"
She punched him.
He laughed. She smiled.
They sat down at a table and shared a cherry soda together, sipping from straws just like in real life but not caring that it wasn't made with real cherries.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The very fact that the old wooden church was still standing, various vines still clutching the rafters in all manners of squeaking strangulation, was a testament to the power of a God that I had devoted my entire life to. The central cross inside the church was overturned by thick tangles of Brier, and Christ's face now rested in sloppy egg-ridden mud. It was here, upon these filthy pews, that we met every Sunday, ritualistically; to fuck.
We both walked back one evening, hand in hand, and finally, painstakingly, I explained why I loved her. She looked up at me with her uncomprehending, all-too-young, hazel eyes.
“I love you too Father Brenon.” She said in her simple voice, her severely cleft palate mangling her words, and obviously quite unsure of herself.
She smiled a toothless smile.
In the distance, I could swear I heard a demon cackle.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Fairy faggots. All of them, Mosley thought. Alien scum.
Mosley shot all three of em’ right in the face, right then, just for wasting his time, just for not being fucking human. Bloody rivers now carried their card game downstream and off the table’s edge onto the tiled floor. Red blood. Funny.
Mosley turned his Stetson and rolled his old-fashioned guns absently; the old barroom’s creaks giving away his foes position as good as any sonar.
Movement behind a metallic crate of Mod.47 mechanical vaginas…
Mosley spun, fanned a few shots for cover, then dove and chased the "Alien Scum" out the backdoor and out into the open dusty street, where Mosley gunned him down with a shot to what looked like his kneecap.
The tough green bastard just rolled back and with the burst from a concealed jetpack, sprang forward on his bad leg like nothing had even happed.The Green Man drew on Mosley, midair, blasting away with a sawed-off Triton SpreadShot ripped from his overcoat.
Mosley’s pistols were already on their target.
He rested for a day, pulled up his pants, and stepped back a few paces to admire his work.
The tendrils rose up almost immediately upon his movement, red pulsing feelers already rooted in thick permafrost.
They pulled their heads back like serpents and begin to seep into his body through his exposed hands, pushing back fingernails and pumping like cool morphine up his arms, deep into his circulatory system, headlong into his heart.
His eyes expanded like galaxies.
Robinson just sat back and enjoyed the ride.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
“That’s our chief up there,” his words were like he was screaming without raising his voice. “When he’s singing, everybody claps. You dig?”
I did dig and I clapped ‘til it hurt.
The old chief finished his rendition of “She’s a Lady” and waddled off the stage. He was a frail invisible man, but in this crowd he had some serious clout. When he was out of sight I grabbed my coat and stood up to leave, but the bartender shoved me back onto the stool.
“No way. You ain’t leaving till we’ve all had our turn.” Demanded the bartender with the soaring eagle tattoo—ink so vivid, I swear the feathers were real—he points that same granite finger to a long line of his extended family leaning up against the wall, waiting to go on stage.
I nod my whole upper body like I got no neck, take another swig of skunk beer, and glance around the place.
Not an empty seat in the joint. Earlier, they’d force marched damn near every swingin’ dick in here and plopped us down in front of a satin covered stage. Grabbed me and a few others from the blackjack table. I was praying to win big, double down on aces and pull two face cards, but ended up just praying my skinny little ass would walk out alive.
All the couples huddled up close to the bar and each other; not quite sure how they got in this predicament. The tables down on the floor were occupied by a bus load of senior citizens. They gripped their fanny packs so hard that rheumatic knuckles threatened to pop out of the skin. Ludicrous prints on golf shirts and purple perm-jobs complemented the confused/frightened looks on their faces perfectly. Any minute I was sure one of them old timers would cease up, paw at their chest, and keel over dead.
Mascara filled tears trickled down ashy white cheeks. Husbands grimaced so hard they damn near swallowed their own lips. The braver men, probably still just boyfriends, twitched nervously while looking around for a possible escape route. There were fellas just as big as the one beside me blocking every exit.
Have some more beer, he says repeatedly. Much obliged, I repeat exhaustively.
I was trying my hardest not to cry, afraid tattoo guy would take it as an insult. Nobody dared move. Everyone just too eager to drink that beer and clap when told to.
One by one, those proud people sang their hearts out. The giant spotlight shown down on all the scars, ink and hard living wrinkles. This was their open mic night and we were forced to watch and listen. If it weren’t for the fear racing through me, or the skunk beer souring my stomach, it might have been something beautiful. With all the slot machines ringing in the back ground, and the flashing neon lights, it was almost like a Broadway show. Some of them may have sounded like cats in heat, but you had to appreciate the dedication. They knew every word by heart. Not a single hiccup.
There was atom-bomb tension in the air. I was sure any moment this was going to go from surreal to blood bath. They’d cut our throats and dance on our entrails. That’s just how things like this ended, right?
The last one to go was my new found friend, the bartender. The plywood stage bowed under his massive frame. Before grabbing the microphone, he tied up his long black hair in a ponytail. “This one’s dedicated to all my brothers and sisters who can’t join us tonight.” He said, with his eyes closed.
I knew the song as soon as the music started. It was from that movie with Kevin Costner and Ms. Houston herself. Not an easy one to pull off. With a voice so deep it sounded like it was coming from inside a dark cave, the bartender was sure to botch the high notes. But I was wrong. His performance was flawless. To this day, I’ve never heard such a range. As the song reached crescendo, our tears of fear were replaced by ones out of idolization. This man, whom I thought would be the death of all us patrons, won over the hearts of the biggest critics among us.
The song ended and our newfound hero took a long and well deserved bow. The entire place erupted in cheers. We all clapped until the meat of our palms blistered. No one wanted to stop clapping. Once the music was over, what would come next? Would they pull out razor-sharp hunting knives and make quick work of us?
Eventually we had to stop clapping.
When the room fell silent the bartender blew kisses to us all. “Thank you for coming to open mic night here at Soaring Eagle Casino,” He was all smiles, “Please make sure to stop at the gift shop on your way out.”
That was it. We were all free to go. I gathered up my things and headed for the door; stopping in at the gift shop to spend a small fortune on coffee mugs and refrigerator magnets. On the way home, I found a nice soft rock station and sang along with the songs. Who knows maybe next time I’ll get up and sing?
Friday, January 8, 2010
Dada Fart Yokes (A Song, To Be Sung In an Outrageous German Accent, To The Tune of "Camptown Races")
Dada Fart Yokes Een Yewer Thong
All zee Da-da-dayyyyyy
Fartin' all zee nighhhtttt
Und fartin' all zee dayyyyyyy
Zee Jedi-Man schtuck in mein head zays
"Dada joost doon't payyyy!"