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Flash Fiction Friday: They Don’t Serve Ice Cream in Hell

by John Wayne Comunale

“Your suffering will be legendary . . . if you eat this and happen to be lactose intolerant.”

The child, not more than four years old, stared up blank-faced at the former Cenobite as he added the third and final scoop of fudge-ripple to a large waffle cone the young boy was clutching tightly with both of his tiny hands. The boy wasn’t scared of the black-eyed, prickly-faced demon, or what he had to say to him. He just wanted to eat as much of the tower of ice cream that teetered in his hands before dropping it, which he eventually did after taking only two steps out the door.


The voice of Mr. O’Rodenberry seemed to come from out of nowhere, and startled him. It made Pinhead remember a fonder time in the not so distant past when it was impossible for him to be startled.

“My office now,” came the voice again from the tiny intercom speaker built into the wall behind him.

“Yes sir,” he sighed placing the ice cream scoop back in its designated, stainless steel holster.

He kept his head down as he walked to the office so he wouldn’t accidentally catch the reflection of himself in the door’s small window. The one thing he hated more than having to wear a pink and purple striped apron, and a stupid paper hat, was actually having to look at himself wearing a pink and purple striped apron with a stupid paper hat. Pinhead heaved another heavy sigh, knocked lightly on Mr. O’Rodenberry’s door, and entered a moment later. Nary a day had gone by since Pinhead started working at O’Rodenberry’s Sweet Frozen Creams that he wasn’t called back to the office for one thing or another. Gone were the days of gluttonously feeding upon the suffering of others as the terror-inducing leader of the Cenobites. Now he filled his time by scooping ice cream, and cleaning the gutters at his mom’s house.

“Get in here and sit the hell down now!”

Mr. O’Rodenberry spit the words at Pinhead through a thick, gruff Southern accent. His voice was rougher than two-day stubble on the chin of a hooker with a pituitary problem. Pinhead kept his head down, removed his hat, and sat in the chair in front of Mr. O’Rodenberry’s desk.

“Jeeeezus fucking Christ, Pinhead,” said Mr. O’Rodenberry. His drawl was so pronounced it seemed like it took him ten minutes just to spit out those four words. “Why does it seem like we have to have this conversation every single day? Now, quite frankly I gotta’ tell you that I am sick and tired of talking about it.”

“Yes sir, I understand . . . “

“You say that,” said Mr. O’Rodenberry cutting of the old demon off, “but I don’t think you do understand. If you understood, then we wouldn’t have to have this conversation everyday, and we certainly wouldn’t be having this conversation now!”

“Mr. O’Rodenberry,” said Pinhead. His voice still held some of the deep timbre of older times, but it no longer struck terror into those he directed it toward. “I am truly sorry, and I can assure you it will not happen again.”

“Well, excuse me all to hell if I have a hard time believing you, because you assured me yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.”

“Mr. O’Rodenberry . . .”

“Don’t Mr. O’Rodneberry me! Now listen son, you are not a big, scary demon who feeds upon the ultimate suffering of others anymore. You work for me now scooping ice cream at this fine, family friendly ice-creamery. Now, stop talking all that Cenobite, Hellraiser shit to my good payin’ customers, and just scoop the goddamn ice cream. I swear boy, if you’re mother didn’t practically beg me to give you this job I’d have fired your prickly-faced ass a hundred times over. Now, get back out there, and get to scoopin’! So help me if I hear one more word about legendary suffering, or tears, or Jesus weeping, then so help me I’ll give him and you something to cry about!”

Pinhead nodded in reply, placed the paper hat back on his spikey head, and slunk out of the office silently save for the jingle-jangle of the many hooks and chains that dangled from his chest. It was going on six months since he had been unceremoniously fired from the Cenobites, but it felt like it was just yesterday. Everything had been going so well in his life up till then .

It happened so long ago that he didn’t know why it even mattered anymore, especially when you consider all the suffering and pain he had caused throughout his career. He was legendary in . . . well, he was legendary, especially in hell. He didn’t just go around using that phrase willy-nilly. He and his partners, Cecilia and Mark, were out on one of their first cases and were all equally eager to show what they could do, but before they closed the deal things got out of hand. They toyed with their victims for just a bit too long allowing time for one of them to escape. Her name was Kristy, the stupid bitch.

The three figured that if they quickly moved on to another case, and then on to another, and then another, then their failure would slip between the cracks to be lost in the mix, and that was exactly what happened. This is why when Pinhead was called to appear that day before the Grand Council years later he was certain it was to receive a promotion. He had gotten up early and polished his pins until they glinted bright in the light of the hellfire. He’d put on his best hooks and chains, and had his favorite leather torture dress wiped down and treated to bring back it’s original shine and luster. You can imagine the shock when he arrived to find he was on trial.

It happened fast. Faster than Pinhead could react. Faster than he could even begin to try and plead his case. The Council’s harsh judgment left him no longer a bringer of sorrow and pain and ultimate suffering. Now he had been reduced to an odd looking, leather dress-wearing, powerless weirdo with a bad complexion. He lost everything and was forced to move back in with his mother in New Jersey, and work for her secret lover, Mr. O’Rodenberry, in his ice cream shop.

Pinhead passed through the stainless steel swinging door to retake his post behind the counter. He gripped the handle of the scoop while staring off through the front window. His coal-black, pupil-less eyes looked upon a fiery landscape of burning bodies and tortured souls of his fantasy. He saw singed flesh flap in the hot, dry breeze of a paradise he could no longer visit. He saw his former home and his heart, which was once filled with an unquenchable thirst for the pain he stole from others, was now filled heavy with his own sorrow.

Pinhead’s daydream was interrupted when a face materialized through his vision of black and burning sadness. It was the last face on Earth he wanted to see . . . on Earth. It was the face that had been the ultimate source for all of his present problems. It was the face of Kristy. The one who got away. She had walked into the ice cream shop and stood in front of the counter staring at him with a sarcastically cocked eyebrow, and half-sneer.

“Um, like hello?” Kristy waved her hand in front of Pinhead’s face trying to snap him out of his daze. “Are you like awake, or whatever? I totally want some ice cream.”

He couldn’t believe it. There, standing not three feet in front of him was the one miserable, living, sack of organs that had ever escaped from his grasp. The current cause of all the pain and misery his life had become, and the reason he could no longer garner satisfaction from those feelings.

“It’s you,” he said still trying to make sense of the current cosmic twist he was experiencing.

“Like, yeah it’s me,” said the obviously oblivious girl. “Who else would it be? Do I like know you or something?”

“Know me? Do you not remember my child? The suffering?”

“The Suffering? Is that like some kind of band you play in, or something? I guess you do look kind-of familiar. Did you guys open for The Torture Barons last month? I was like so wasted at that show, but I think I remember you guys being good. So, is this like your day job, or something?”

Before he could answer Pinhead turned slightly to see Mr. O’Rodenberry standing there; arms crossed and glaring death rays.

“What was that you were saying, Pinhead?” Came the drawl of Mr. O’Rodenberry’s gravely, and heavily accent-affected voice. “Was that something about suffering I heard?”

Pinhead swallowed hard and managed a smile, as he turned around halfway to acknowledge his boss.

“Why, not at all sir,” he said flatly. “We were merely discussing a performance put on by a local musical troupe, for which this young lady has mistaken me for a member of.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes sir, it is,” said Pinhead turning back toward Kristy. “I am sorry ma’am, but I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else. It happens more often than you’d think. I just have one of those faces, I suppose.”

“Yeah okay, whatever,” Kristy said rolling her eyes. “Like I care who you are anyway. Can I like get some ice cream, or are we gonna’ play celebrity look alike all day?”

The sheer insolence of her tone and the arrogance of her actions made it hard to resist the urge for Pinhead to gouge his hooks into her face and pull her eyeballs out.

“Pinhead?” Asked Mr. O’Rodenberry, “you gonna’ help out this nice young lady, or do I need to find someone else who can?”

“Yes, of course sir,” said Pinhead impressed by his ability to make himself sound calm. “I will take care of her posthaste. No need to seek help from elsewhere. What can I get for you, ma’am?”

“Like, finally. Sheesh.”

The squishy fleshling pressed her hands and face up against the glass of the refrigerated counter to get a better look at the flavors. Her greasy nose and filthy digits left smudges and smears across the otherwise spotless glass that Pinhead would have to clean later.

“Might I recommend our organic butterscotch cream made fresh and in house? It really is quite delicious.”

“Butter-what? That sounds stupid. You know, all of this looks really gross. I don’t want any of this stuff.”

“Don’t blow another sale, Pinhead,” whispered Mr. O’Rodenberry into an ear that had heard thousands of death-rattle shrieks.

“Perhaps a nice strawberry cone would be more suited to the tastes of a young lady like yourself?” continued Pinhead. “Or, we have a new . . .”

“Like, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry ma’am?”

“Did you just, like, ask me to taste your strawberry cone, or something? Are you like trying to be some kind of sexual pervert with me or something? What the eff?”

The urge to shoot spiked chains from his chest into her body and tear her to shreds was almost unbearable. Not that he could do it even if he wanted to since all of his enchantments had been taken away when he lost his Cenobite status.

“Ma’am, I assure you that I in no way was trying to offend you. I merely wanted to . . .”

“Wanted to stick your prickly, limp dick in my mouth, is, like, that what you wanted to do?”

Pinhead remained stoic and unaffected by her accusations.


“Whatever. I am like totally out of here. I bet your ice cream tastes like a horse’s cock anyway.”

With that she spun around on her heel, let out a haughty humph, and headed for the door. Mr. O’Rodenberry’s lips were almost touching Pinhead’s ear now.

“Pinhead,” he spat down his ear canal, “if she leaves here without buying something, so help me . . .”

“Kristy,” blurted Pinhead just as she had taken one step out the door. She turned around with her head cocked to the side in confusion.

“Like, how do you know my name, creeper?”

Their eyes locked and for a moment it seemed as if everything in the ice cream shop, and the city, and even the whole world had slowed to revolve around this heated stare down. Pinhead opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out as the pain of the memory of a life he could never get back took its final toll in that moment.

“Well? Like, answer me, you perv.”

Pinhead turned from Kristy, to Mr. O’Rodenberry, back to Kristy, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Jesus wept?”


John Wayne lives in Houston Texas where he wiles away the days writing ridiculous stories, and slinging lattes for a bunch of jerks. When he’s not doing that he’s touring with his bands: johnwayneisdead and Letters to Voltron. He also writes and illustrates his own zine: The Afterlife Adventures of johnwayneisdead.

Show Me Your Shelves: Constance Ann Fitzgerald

Constance Ann Fitzgerald is the author of Trashland a Go-Go and editor of this site you’re reading. However, the coolest thing she has going right now, besides her hair, some new glasses, and the fact that she just moved to Portland to take care of business, is that she’s head honcho of Ladybox Books, which is gonna kick all the asses in 2015. With so much going on, I asked Constance to talk books and show me what she’d be dragging north in some boxes. Dig it.

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Who are you and what role do books play in your life?

I’m Constance Ann Fitzgerald and books have always been very important to me. Like a lot of avid readers, I grew up as “the weird kid.” We moved around a lot and I was left alone at home fairly often. Books were a great way for me to escape and explore. As I grew into being a “writer” books took on a whole new meaning. They became a thing that I could create and a way to share my thoughts and general head noise with others. Since entering the publishing world they have become the nucleus of my little world.

Folks already know about Ladybox Books, so tell us about the future. What’s coming in 2015? Who would you love to receive a sub from?

2015 is going to be great! We’re kicking things off with MARCH MADNESS, the release of books from Ladybox Books, King Shot Press, and Broken River Books. Ladybox Books will be releasing it’s first two titles: Jigsaw Youth by Tiffany Scandal and The Pulse Between Dimensions and the Desert by Rios de la Luz. A submission I would love to receive would be from any strong voiced person identifying as female with a story to tell. If I have to be specific I would definitely say it would be from Juliet Escoria. Black Cloud was absolutely incredible and every time I read something else from her I’m completely blown away. Her voice is exactly the sort of thing we’re looking for.

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How did you acquire editing skills? Does this mean you’re done writing? A bird told me you’re migrating north, what’s up with that?

I’d have to say my editing skills are still being honed. Having an editor of my own definitely helped me see where things need correction.
That little bird would be correct! As of February first I will be joining the residents of Portland, Oregon, to become part of the Broken River book factory! I’m never done writing, because I can’t really stop myself. It isn’t always worth putting out there. But I plan to work some shit out and put out another book as soon as humanly possible.

Pick five titles from your shelves and tell me why I should read them. Then tell me what food would go well with them.

Meaty by Samantha Irby, it’s brutally honest and hilarious. If you don’t believe me check out her blog and see for yourself. Food: something salty, like Samantha herself.

The No Hellos Diet by Sam Pink because Sam fucking Pink. Food: your own self loathing.

Role Models by John Waters because it’s interesting to see how the mind of a mad genius was formed. Food: eggs.

– I Date A Hooker by Jeff Fischer. It’s a teeny little pocket book, but it packs a punch. All about a man who takes prostitutes on actual dates and appreciates and respects them as humans. Food: anything from a food truck.

Pickled Apocalypse of Pancake Island by Cameron Pierce. While on the surface it may seem silly, it’s an absolutely beautiful read. Food: Pancakes. Or pickles. But probably pancakes. Because pancakes.

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You’ve edited all my Show Me Your Shelves. How does it feel to be in here? Do you have a favorite one? Where did you get those awesome glasses?

It’s fun! My favorite so far was definitely Cody Goodfellow’s. That dude’s collection puts mine to shame. Where do I get my glasses? Internet. They are significantly smaller than my original pair, but I’ll make due.

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, journalist, and book reviewer living in Austin, TX. He’s the author of Gutmouth and a few other things no one will ever read. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias

Flash Fiction Friday: A Phone Call from Ionesco

by G. Arthur Brown


(An average family American 1960 sits at an average family table for an average dinner. Eugene Ionesco is not among them. FATHER sits at one side of the table dressed like an American father 1960. MOTHER sits at another side of the table dressed like an American mother 1960. GIRL sits at another side of the table dressed like an American daughter 1960. DOCTOR sits another side of the table dressed like an American American doctor 1960. Thomas, dressed like an average American son 1960, sits in his dorm room one thousand miles away. They chat before eating.)

Girl: Doctor, I am led to believe—

Doctor: How are you led, my dear, by rope?

Girl: By road signs, sir. They tell me, the road signs, that you are working on a technique to separate mother from prenatal child.

Doctor: Well, it is quite difficult, you know, to separate the best mothers from the best children because they never even meet. Sometimes living thousands of miles apart. At this point I’m devising a maneuver to prevent any mother from ever coming in to contact with a child, hers or otherwise.

Father: Quite remarkable!

Mother: Then why not remark?

Father: I’m afraid I’ve no ink.

Girl: Won’t it be brilliant to have babies one never even has to see!

Father: That reminds me. I had a telephone call today from Eugene Ionesco.

Doctor: Indeed, and what did he say?

Father: I’m really not quite sure.

Mother: Oh, darling, but you speak French quite well.

Father: Yes, I speak French, but I cannot hear it. So to me it was just as a dead line… nothing at all.

Doctor: What a thing! What a sad loss.

Father: Oh, I don’t know about that. Now I am aware that all these years when I thought the line was dead, no one there, it was really Eugene Ionesco calling with his words of encouragement, or derision, or indifference. One of the three, I suspect.

Doctor: And you can’t tell us anything about what he had to say?

Father: He was wearing a derby hat.

Doctor: Why do you suppose that?

Father: You just now asked me to.

Mother: His favorite fish is herring.

Girl: Eugene Ionesco’s favorite fish is herring!

Mother: No, your older brother Thomas’ favorite fish is herring. I didn’t realize we were still talking about Eugene Ionesco.

(Offstage a phone rings.)


(The family sits in the sitting room. Each member sits on a different stick of furniture. MOTHER sits on a tall bar stool. FATHER sits on a short step stool. DAUGHTER sits on a tuffet. DOCTOR sits on a surgical table with elaborate ivory inlay.)

Doctor: (To Daughter) I’m going to have to hit you in the face. Don’t blame me. Blame my methods and the men who invented them.

Daughter: Oh! Isn’t it so exciting to take part in medicine!

Doctor: (Approaches Daughter and punches her in the face, knocking her from her tuffet). I think we have once again proven the science always works.

Daughter: (Weeping) I’m glad I was subjected to that.

Father: What a reaction!

Mother: Equal and opposite. I saw it all, right there.

Doctor: (Writing something on clipboard) I was about to renounce the calling entirely.

Mother: What changed your mind?

Doctor: I couldn’t figure out how to get my lab coat off.

Father: Oh, yes! I had another telephone call from Eugene Ionesco today.

Daughter: (Rising, rubbing face, sitting back on tuffet) If you can’t hear his words, it can’t have been interesting.

Father: I wrote it all down. (Rummages in pockets for note) Here it is. He said to me, “I know you think I am Eugene Ionesco. But I am not him. I am not even a man. I am your Aunt Bernice. We need to discuss your mother’s estate.”

Mother: Well, that sounds just like something Ionesco would say.

Doctor: Did he have an accent?

Father: You might as well ask, “If I hang it on a wall, is it art?”

Daughter: You put all my drawings on the door of the refrigerator.

Father: But our walls are full.

Mother: What else are we to do?

Father: There is just too much art to fit it all on our walls. I’ve had the hardest time getting the Sistine Chapel ceiling on our own meager ceiling.

Doctor: But if it is on the ceiling, is it art?

Daughter: (Considers question with finger over lips) It’s not on the wall.

Mother: Nor is it on the refrigerator. Oh, Husband, I’m scared!

Father: (Rises and embraces mother) Why does Ionesco put us through this, time after time? Hasn’t our faith been shaken sufficiently?

Doctor: Which reminds me. Mother, I’m going to have to hit you in face.

(Lights fade. Curtains)


(Family stands around a circular table with a punch bowl at its center. If a punch bowl is unavailable, a punch fountain will do. DOCTOR has his stethoscope pressed to his abdomen. MOTHER wears a conical paper hat. FATHER eyes the telephone surreptitiously. SALLY holds her doll.)

Doctor: They are in there, my friends. My friends are in there.

Sally: In your intestines?

Doctor: I have a phantom womb where I am letting them stay for the weekend.

Mother: That’s peculiar.

Father: Are your friends phantoms as well?

Doctor: As well as what?

Father: As well as being your friends, are they phantoms?

Doctor: Shall I ask them?

Sally: (Writes a quick note on a paper tablet and tears it out, begins folding the paper) Swallow this. They can respond at their leisure.

Mother: I worry that this type of paper won’t taste so very good. Pepper it first and wash it down with punch.

Doctor: I have pepper in my pocket of course, but where might I acquire the punch?

Sally: (Grinning) I’ll take care of that part.

Doctor: Ah, thank you ever so much. (Peppers note. Places in mouth, chews, gags)

Sally: Here it comes! (Punches doctor in the mouth)

Doctor: Ah! (Falls backward)

Mother: Looks as though it has gone down.

Father: Did the punch work, Doctor?

Doctor: (Rises, rubbing his belly) Yes. But it went down the wrong way.

Father: So your enemies will be getting the message instead of your friends?

Doctor: Probably. I’ve been letting my enemies stay in my spleen.

Mother: (Changes subject) It’s getting late. It is almost no longer my birthday.

Sally: You shall have to call him, Father.

Father: (Dials phone) Eugene Ionesco? You are once again late for my wife’s birthday party. The punch is here. (Pauses) It’s in a bowl. (Pauses) It’s in a silver bowl, or possibly a fountain. You’ll have to ask the crew about that bit. (Pauses) You’ll be here later? What time? (Pauses) What do you mean I have the wrong number? (Hangs up)

Mother: It wasn’t him?

Father: No, it was him. But he refuses to attend any birthday parties where there are an incorrect number of candles on the birthday cake.

Mother: (Stammering in fright) I… I… I… c-can fix it! (Pulls packet of small mutli-colored candles from pocket, spilling the contents onto the floor)

Father: (Ominously) It’s too late. He knows.



G. Arthur Brown is a jerk who publishes his own work, but it’s his birthday, so please forgive him. The three acts of A Phone Call from Ionesco appear in his flash fiction collection I Like Turtles. He will spend the majority of 2015 as a 38-year-old. God help him.

Flash Fiction Friday: Titles Are Pointless

by Pedro Proença

There is a problem with language.

In itself, it’s just a way of communicating uselessness. What we are are mere specks of something on a big beach.

The beach is connected to a desert, and beyond that, we can’t even imagine.

Once I swallowed a car. It drove itself inside of me, its tires leaving marks on my stomach. People called those marks tumors and tried to zap me with laser beams. I fled.

Looking back, I think I should have been a dancer. I had the body for it, the skill, but I was too ashamed. My head was to small. Freakishly small. I looked like Brain, from the cartoon, the lab rat, in the episodes he used his robot human body, with the black suit, and kept his own head on top of it. He said he was transformed into a mouse by a freak accident involving a microwave oven and shaving cream, and sued for compensation.

Compensation never came.

I though that was brilliant when I’d first watched. I filled my mom’s microwave with shaving cream and turned it on, hoping to become a smart mouse. All it did was turn me into a stupid mouse, and cause World War III.

I read a book once, it was made of yogurt. The pages melted under my fingers, and the only word in it was dark.

Sometimes I try to remember what it’s like to be a human being, not just a mouse, a lab rat.
Yesterday, I was taken from my cage at the pet store. A little redheaded girl adopted me. She took me to a wishing well, petting me all the way there, her fingers running on my smooth fur, and she wished for me to be a real boy. I transformed back, naked, in her arms. She collapsed with my weight, and I fell on top of her. People passing through thought I was a rapist, and they lynched me.
It’s nice here on my tree, the wind caresses my naked body. It’s pleasant.

At the End of Time, the rope on my neck broke and I was free. Now I was a middle aged woman named Gladys.

My vagina was dry and caked with mud. I walked until my feet bled, and found the last remaining human city. I needed water, my vagina begged me for some. She talked, and told me her name was Scott.

I never thought my vagina would be a man, but so it goes.

In the last city, I came across men. Only men, no women. They saw my naked body and craved it. Even though I was sagging all around, my hair was flaky and falling and my vagina was as dry as their hearts, they craved me. They looked at me with lust filled eyes, and I sort of liked it.
Scott detached himself from me. He was a tall black man, with the biggest penis I had ever seen. He beat all the men to death, a savage display I wish I could now forget. He claimed me as his wife, and we lived on a cave for the next sixty years, feeding of small plants and some of the mutant animals that now roam this god forsaken planet.

When Scott died, our son took over the role of the provider. I was a dried up old crone by then, and he was barely out of puberty. His name was Dog.

Dog fed me small plants from our makeshift garden, and at nights, he held me tight to hold off the freezing cold. One day, he came back from his hunting and told me had found more people, more humans. Men and women. He had found a girl, and they mated under an oak tree. Now they were married, she was pregnant, and he had to leave me behind. There was no space for me in his new life.

So I spent two years alone in my cave, my only nourishment being insects that came near my grasp. Once they got smart enough not to come by my side, I died.

Heaven is a lot like that Saint Seya episode where Deathmask sends Shiryu to the Underworld, and it’s all chasms and cliffs and a line of naked Ocarina of Time zombies.

I was minding my own zombie self when Scott found me. He was still black with a huge dick, not a zombie. He said he hadn’t died, but that he was there on vacation. He took me in his arms, and ran. We escaped Heaven through a back door, with an Employees Only sign. On the other side, the Lizard god played with a Lego set, and didn’t even looked up when we brush past him, towards his cherry red Cadillac.

We rode his car through an unpaved dirt road and came across a little B&B. It’s was run by a gay couple called Marky and Mark.

I was still a zombie, but Scott made love to me nevertheless. Being my vagina, all he needed to do was to bend down and suck his own penis, and I would orgasm. He did that until he turned to dust, crumbling to the floor.

Our room was free. All Marky and Mark required was for us to watch them make love. It was boring, missionary style sex, but we needed to watch. When Scott died, they offered me a job as a cleaning zombie. I declined, seeing no point in living without a vagina.

I hopped on God’s caddy and drove until I found my old cave. The smart bugs had transformed the place, turned it into a University. Such pride I felt when I found my old food in lab coats, teaching their young ones all about Green’s Theorem and Differential Geometry.

I decided to let them live their academic life, and I hunted down my son.

I found him in a nice, Tudor-style house, in the suburbs of his city. I watched him sleep beside his wife, a beautiful orangutan. Poor Dog. I killed them both with a machete, and ate their kids’ brains while they slept.

All the houses on his street were occupied by orangutan families. I killed them all and smeared their blood on me.

In the last house I found a microwave oven. I took some shaving cream from the bathroom cupboard (there was a lot of it) and tried to turn myself into a lab rat again.

I succeeded, and this time I had all the intelligence of Brain. I knew the next step was world domination.

Crawling my way through more gutters and sewer lines I’d ever thought I could endure, I found the palace of the King of Humans. He was a bald man, with strong Greek features.
It was Kojak.

With my diminished size, it was easy to sneak behind him and stuff myself into his Greek, talented mouth. I found myself inside of him, and I ate his organs. There was a miniature version of his castle there, with a miniature Kojak acting as the King of Big Kojak. I ate him too, in one bite.
Clawing and chewing myself through his anus, I saw myself turning into Scott. I held my BBC in my hand, stroked it, and when it became erect, it fell on the floor, transforming itself. It was now Excalibur. I tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy. Sadly, I was not the chosen king.

I walked out the castle, the subjects staring me as I walked, a tall black man with no penis. I came across a bottomless cliff and flung myself in it.

As I fell, I saw words flying by me. Words like sin and bubblegum and magic marker. I arrived at the non-bottom, and saw a skeleton typing on a keyboard. He was writing a novel since he was still a non-skeleton, and asked me if I could read what he had so far, and maybe give him notes on it. I said sure, and read.

Before the skeleton was born, his father was a traveling salesman. He sold people wax miniatures of world leaders. Stalin, Hitler, FDR, Getúlio Vargas, Mussolini, you name a country, he had a president, chancellor or prime minister for it. He once knocked at my house, and my mom answered. She had just unpacked the microwave oven she had bought online. It took a week to get there, and she was excited about it. She saw the traveling salesman on her doorstep and invited him in. He showed her his figurines, and she bought some. Then she showed him her new microwave, and he was impressed indeed. Just don’t let any kids come near it with shaving cream, he said to her, and she nodded. They fucked on the couch, and nine months later I was born.

I read the skeleton’s excerpt and told him it lacked blood. It lacked fucking. It lacked illegal sexual acts. It lacked miniature golf and brown, cheap wallets. The skeleton punched through his computer, his bony hand breaking in the process. He told me I didn’t know what I was talking about, that dickless men had no clue about life, about what’s truly important.


Pedro Proença is struggling to fend off the villagers in order to protect his creation in his dark, creepy castle. When trying not to die from the extreme heat, he writes and plays music. You can find him on

Flash Fiction Friday: Professor Sex

by Scott Unfried

Garda Ruth O’Gruagain, stood reticent and radiant, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the calm waters. She was not an ordinary officer, her skin clearer than most, her eyebrows more pleasingly plucked, her brown hair shinier, and brown eyes that made a beautifully beefy gaze. Those were not her only good features, she had everything else.

Garda: national police force of Ireland.

Garda Ruth’s proper demeanor was one of her most cultivated assets. She was a serious woman with a serious career. No room for trivialities like flirting.

She was off duty a half-hour ago. She inhaled deeply and slowly, taking in a last breath of salty air before heading back to her service car about three-hundred yards away.

“Hey there, sexy!” a young man said with a wink.

She smiled but didn’t verbally reply.

“God, you look hot!” a man in his early thirties wearing a Hawaiian shirt said as his eyes oscillated between zeroing in on her waist and bosom.

She smiled, had to maintain a professional cool.

A little boy with freckly cheeks ran up to her, “I wish I was big so I could have sex with you.” He kept trailing her.

Her eyes widened, “That’s not a good thing to say.”

“I don’t care if I get punished,” the boy asserted, “punish me all you want.” Thinking he was cute shit.

She rolled her eyes and kept on.

An old Indian man in a turban with shaggy grey hair coming out of it approached and asked: “Will you fuck me, lady?” His accent was thick.

A bunch of young men in their twenties, about eight of them, humped the air for her and jerked their imaginary oversized privates off.

She scrunched her face in disbelief and disgust.

A young Goth chick with pasty skin said, “Hey, if you tire of cock, I’ll give you exclusive access to my vulva.”

A group of senior citizen bodybuilders mobbed her and started begging in sickly, desperate voices making bug-eyed faces: “FUCK ME FUCK ME!”

She spotted her fellow officer coming over. He broke the mob up. He proceeded to act as an escort.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Aren’t you gonna fuck me for my troubles?”

She shook her head in disgust.

“You fucking ungrateful cunt!” he sneered.

Then she saw an old bald man in a wheelchair. Not again, she thought.

“Can I help you, miss?” he supplicated.

An actual gentleman? she wondered.

“Piss off, wheels!” the male officer barked.

“I will not piss off for the likes of you.”

“You want me to crush your skull?”

“Try it.”

“Alright then.” The officer rushed the bald man in the wheelchair.

The professor dodged a clumsy blow and then landed a series of alternating punches to the officer’s chest. The fourth sent the officer staggering back in a daze, then he fell. He was beaten.

“I can’t thank you enough…what’s your name?”

“My name is Professor Xenocrates…or you can call me Charles,” he said with a grand smile. “But I think you can thank me enough, by having a few drinks with me, your choice, in town. My hand is terribly sore.”

“Of course,” she said.

Professor Sex, properly known as Professor Xenocrates, had slept with about every woman he ever wanted to in the prime of their lives. He slept with Natalie Wood on the set of Sex and the Single Girl when Tony Curtis was in the next room. He slept with Raquel Welch on the set of One Million Years B.C. surrounded by an orgy of Hollywood cavemen. He slept with Ann-Margret on the set of Bye Bye Birdie. Sharon Stone on the set of Basic Instinct. Just about anyone and everyone all the way up to Beyonce and Rihanna and Salma Hayek, he didn’t discriminate.

He developed a crush on Garda Ruth O’Gruagain. But the bald old man in the wheelchair is too easy to pass by unnoticed.

His secret was that he was telepathic with the powers of behavioral manipulation, but he was tired of the meat puppet routine. He wanted her to sleep with him out of her own agency. Then he realized that he could nudge her into attraction.

And so the pervert’s parade came to grace Garda Ruth O’Gruagain off the scenic coast of Ireland and the rest is history.


Scott Unfried wrote this thing. This is his second publication. When not obsessing about Amanda Seyfried, he cooks, cycles, projects movies, and grinds metal for money. He is once again undertaking the daunting task of gaining admission to prestigious MFA programs in writing. His wisdom for the reader: we would be nothing without our libidos.

Flash Fiction Friday: Dragon Queen

by Cade Michael Quinn

Chucky was a dragon. A big, scary dragon. That’s what Momma told him.

“Am I big ‘n’ scary?” Chuck asked Momma. He stretched his wings and dug his claws into the wood-panel floor and growled as big as he could. “Am I big ‘n’ scary, Momma?”

“Not now, Chucky,” his momma said, taking her mouth off the giant dragon cock she held in her claw. “Momma’s working.”

She slammed her bedroom door in his face. Chucky sat tail to the floor for twenty minutes, listening to oh-oh-oh-gods and fuuuuucks through the thin door. He ran to his bedroom when it was over, hearing claws scratch against floor.

Okay, maybe she hadn’t said he was big and scary. But he knew, if the bitch could see him now, she would see that he was the biggest, scariest, most fabulous dragon-queen in all the land. His eyes were painted lavender outlined with sparkle-gold. His lips were blowjob black. His green dress was tight enough to show off his curvy hip-scales without making him look fat. All the boys wanted him.

Momma would be proud. Too bad she’d died of deepthroating.

Chucky stepped onstage and the music began. It sounded like Trent Reznor and a medieval minstrel fucked and had a baby, and that baby fell into a giant vat of doom metal. Chucky loved it.

He began his routine:

1. Walk centerstage, pose.
2. Breathe fire left.
3. Breathe fire right.
4. Dance!

And Chucky danced as if Sylvestra Scale, the most famous dragon queen in all of dragon history, was right in the front row watching him. In truth, it was only a bunch of fat, middle-aged gay dragons, one whom he recognized from the video store, and a couple friars who were obviously having a hard time admitting to themselves that all they really wanted was a fat dragon dick in the ass.

Chucky smiled and winked at a friar who crossed his legs, trying to conceal his boner. He went red.
The song sped up, screamed vocals over harpsichord and glitchy dance beat. Chucky danced faster. He tore open his green dress to reveal all his crimson scales and pale, soft underbelly, there for all to see. He flourished his wings like fanning a deck of cards around him. He spun around, giving the boys a glimpse of what they really wanted to see. The song cut out.

A few people stood up and clapped, and Chucky sunk back to reality. He was a B-grade dragon-queen at a back alley gay bar in the bad part of town. He picked up his dress and fluttered off the stage, racing into the back dressing room before he could see any looks of disappointment.

Chucky wasn’t nearly as big, strong, or fabulous as he wanted to be.

“I’m not big, strong, or fabulous,” Chucky said to the dressing mirror bordered by dead or dying light bulbs. He began to cry. Each sniffle shot a lick of flame out of his nose. He was a shitty dragon-queen. Momma would be so disappointed.


Chucky turned around. One of the friars that had been sitting in the front row during his routine leaned in the dressing room doorway.

“You were pretty good out there,” the friar said. “I’m Fukk.”

“Friar Fukk?” Chucky asked.

“My dad was a crack addict who never learned how to spell properly.”

“Sure,” Chucky said. “I’m Chucky. And thanks, but it wasn’t that good.”

“I thought it was,” said Friar Fukk. “I really liked it.”

Chucky sniffled and wiped his nose on the dress in his hand. He wiped his eyes with a claw.

“Thanks, Fukk,” Chucky said.

“So, uh,” Friar Fukk said. “You wanna get out of here? My room at the monastery is too small for a dragon, but there’s some room in the dungeon….”

Oooh, Chucky thought. Dungeon? Sounds kinky as fuck!

Chucky nodded happily. It had been a long time since he had gotten a good running-through, and Fukk didn’t seem like a bad guy. The tonsure on the top of his head was actually kinda cute.

“Alright,” Chucky said.

“Come on,” said Friar Fukk. He walked up to Chucky and took the dragon-queen’s claw in his human-size hand. He could barely hold two of Chucky’s claws, but the warmth on his scales made Chucky smile.

When they got outside, Chucky said, “Hey, I got an idea.” He got down on all fours. “Hop on my back.”

The friar hopped onto Chucky’s back with some difficulty, due to his middle-aged girth. Finally, he was sitting on the dragon-queen’s back. Chucky took to the sky, and the two of them flew to Fukk’s monastery while Fukk played his fingers around Chucky’s horns and whispered directions seductively into his ears.

In the dungeon, it was very dungeon-y. Just like Chucky had expected. All dark and dripping with chains and cuffs nailed to the walls and barred doors that creaked when you opened or closed them. Perfect for a little SM magic.

Chucky let Fukk chain him to the wall. Friar Fukk opened his robe to reveal a cock the length of a firehose with a spearhead tip. Chucky shuddered. The friar unraveled his penis and began to whip Chucky with it, scratching the dragon-queen’s scales and slicing his underbelly. Chucky’s heartbeat quickened. He began to pull himself off, his average-sized dragon dick a sapling to the friar’s redwood.

Friar Fukk cock-whipped him faster and harder until he was cement-hard, and then plowed into Chucky’s anus. Chucky’s tail twitched and spazzed in delight.

When they were done, Chucky laid his head on Friar Fukk’s chest and fell asleep to the sound of his blood dripping onto the cold stones of the dungeon.

When Chucky woke up, he was alone. He stood up and tried to walk away, but he was pulled to a stop by the chains that still bound him firmly to the wall. He looked back. Blood covered the stones where he had been sleeping.

He must’ve whipped me harder than I thought, Chucky said to himself. There was more blood than there should’ve been for one night of sadomasochistic pleasure.

Chucky looked down, seeing that he was wearing the green dress from the night before, even though he couldn’t remember having put in on after they had fucked. He felt full in his stomach, even thought he was usually ravenous when he woke and had to go gore a few city-folk before he even lit his first cigarette of the day.

Chucky put his claws on his stomach, expecting it to growl. Instead it made a sound like a man taking his last breath, paper strings tied to a fan.

What the fuck? Chucky thought. He reached over his shoulder and unzipped the dress, shimmying out of it as quickly as he could. He looked down at his underbelly.

Or where his underbelly should’ve been.

“Oh god oh fuck oh fuck oh god,” Chucky said. He was carved out like a fruit lost of its pit. His entire underbelly had been cut away and his guts taken out, replaced by the fetal shape of…

“Fukk?” Chucky said. “FUKK!!”

The well-endowed friar was curled up inside of him, unresponsive. Chucky carefully slipped claws inside himself and under Fukk, pulling the friar’s form softly out of his own. He laid him down on the floor. The friar had been seemingly mauled and then cooked like a turkey. His eyes had been dug out with a spoon and replaced by olives. His stomach was bursting full of apple stuffing. His hands and feet had been sliced off, and the stumps of his arms and legs tied together pig-wrangle style with his massive, chopped-off cock.

“FRIAR!” Chucky said, crying. “FUKK! WHY? WHO?”

He laid his head on the dead friar’s chest and filled his sliced open middle with dragon tears.

Why is this happening again? Chucky thought. He imagined all of his past lovers, who had also ended up cooked like turkeys. This was the first time Chucky had been carved himself, though. It wasn’t actually that bad. In fact, he kind of liked it. Getting over the shock of Fukk’s death, that wonderful pain leaked into him, a morphine drip for the soul. Chucky’s tail shivered.

“If I ever find out who did this, I’m going to fuck them so hard they shit sperm for a week.”

“That’s what I was hoping to hear.”

The voice was quiet, like a child finally admitting a lie.

“Who’s there?” Chucky asked.

The friar who had concealed his boner at last night’s show stepped out of the dungeon shadows. Now that Chucky saw him, he realized the man had been to his shows more than once.

“Who are you?” Chucky said.

The friar smiled and brought out a giant carving knife he had been concealing in his robe.

“The Cook.”

Cade is not a writer at all, but the sewer-dwelling ghost of someone’s pet ferret who haunts the plumbing of Seattle. When he’s not haunting sewers, he’s drinking at bars. Come say hi. Look for the

Flash Fiction Friday: Slug Butts

by Kevin Strange

I was happy when everybody’s butts was getting bigger cause I’m a butt guy, myself and there’s some fine lookin’ women out there that just needed a little more caboose to be considered mighty fine in the humble opinion of this here self-proclaimed booty master.

But when I was sittin’ on the pot yesterday reading the latest issue of Buttman magazine and I felt a rip and a tear come from my anus region, I wasn’t none too happy to discover the root of the big butt phenomenon.

We done been infected with slug butts.

The whole lot of us. Every goddamn person in America’s got a butt full of butt slugs.

I got up from the pot and turned round to see what the hell splashed into the bowl after I felt my insides blow up and, yup, there they were: about two dozen fat slugs just sluggin’ up the sides of the toilet like they didn’t have no care in the world.

That’s when I caught a glimpse of my sad ass in the mirror across the bathroom. It wasn’t ever a big ass as white boy standards go, but after everybody’s butts started plumpin’ up, even I started getting whistles from the ladies smoking cigarettes out in front of the beauty shop cross the street from the tire shop I work at. Now it was flatter and more deflated than ever, like them slugs done ate what little bit of fat was in my skinny ass.

Well, I didn’t waste no time. I got a can of kerosene from the shed and dowsed those slug fuckers right there in the toilet. Lit ‘em up bright as day. Ain’t no sombitch’n slugs gonna eat the fat outta my ass and get away with it. Fuck those slugs.

After that, I sat down on my bony ass and had a couple of smokes so’s I could get my wits about me. Then I remembered my buddy Carl from across the lake and his girl, Carol Ann, had invited me over for a butt fuck that afternoon. Carl worked with me at the tire shop and had a hankerin’ for watching other fellas corn hole the ole lady. He told me he liked when I did it cause I’ve got a decent sized shlonger and he said my ball juice shows up real good on his camera.

I ain’t never told him but I’ve got a pretty solid thing for that Carol Ann. What’d Carl expect? Any man climaxes inside a lady’s bottom enough times, he’s gonna develop feelings for her. It’s only natural!

So after I burned up them slugs, I started to wonder if maybe Carl and Carol Ann mighta been in trouble with the butt slugs too on account of I thought maybe it was something we all mighta ate from the Pancake Ranch down the way. Everybody who’s anybody in Hopp’s Hollow eats at the Pancake Ranch.

I gave ole Carl a call but he didn’t pick up his phone. I was already late for the butt fuckin’, so that was a bad sign. Carl always called if I was late to a butt fuck. Ain’t never met a man so enthusiastic about watching other men get busy with his girl. But that ain’t none of my business.

It’s when I got in the car and turned on talk radio that the scope of the butt slug problem became apparent. The radio man was going bonkers about them little bastards up our rectums.

Seems some kinda chemtrail GMO spray contained some mutated slug eggs and done got ‘em all over the whole god damn country’s food supply. Now them artificial big asses were exploding left and right. I wasn’t the only one with a stool full of dead slugs!

But as I drove over to Carl’s, I flipped through the channels. I landed on an AM station I liked where the host liked to talk about Bigfoots and little green UFOs and all that. He was sayin’ it was much more than GMO tinkerin’.

He said scientist up in the mountains was messin’ with some kind of seal that opened a mirror universe and that the butt slugs was some kind of reflected projection of what was happenin’ on the other side. Something to do with blood rites and black magic up there alongside those machines.

He said it was the end of times and that we should all pray for salvation. I didn’t hear no more cause right then I pulled up to Carl’s house and jumped out of the car to make sure Carol Ann was OK.

The town was pretty much in hysterics at that point. Everybody runnin’ around with them slimy slugs hangin’ outta their butts. Few people came gallopin’ up to me pants round their ankles, handfuls of shit and slugs, but I ignored ‘em and went on about my way crossing the street over to Carl’s trailer. Well, I got no more than a foot from the door when I heard Carl a-sobbin’ up something fierce in there.

I knew what the score was.

I opened the door and there he was in a dirty shirt and no drawers, dong and balls out clear as day, his thin stringy hair covered in sweat, slugs sluggin’ their way from his asshole region when I looked over on the couch and there was Carol Ann, deader’n a chopped up sea bass.

She was a big woman to begin with. All of her, not just that big ole arse of hers, but now her belly was twice its regular size and all blowed out from the inside. Slugs three or four times the size of the ones I set on fire in my shitter was crawlin’ all over her and I ain’t shittin’ when I say them bastards was eatin’ the flesh right off her naked titties!

I gripped Carl up by his shirt. “What’d you do to Carol Ann!” There wasn’t no point in hiding my true feelings anymore, what with butt slugs and all that.

Carl just cried harder. “I know you loved her, Bobby Joe.”

That’s my name. Bobby Joe.

“I could tell by the way you butt fucked her. She loved you, too. Or at least your big ole dick.”

He snotted all over me when he sobbed so I let him go.

“This is all my fault! I’ve been cornholing that broad more than usual lately outta jealousy, trying to get her to scream the way she does when you go to town on her romper. It had her all plugged up and constipated. When these slugs started doin’ their thing today I got mine out real quick like, but she couldn’t do nothing to poop those fuckers. We tried our buttfuck lube, even shoved butter up there but them slugs wouldn’t come out! So I got in the truck and went to get her some laxatives. Aw hell, Bobby Joe, when I got back she was just like this! Them slug bastards’s been eatin’ on her ever since!”

I screamed a couple choice curse words I only used for special occasions, then I grabbed up the baseball bat Carl and Carol Ann always kept next to the door in case her ex con husband came over to the trailer all drunk again.

Instead of taking Carl’s head off like I wanted to, I took a swing at them big boy slugs, splatterin’ ‘em all over the kitchen section before I cursed again and sat down next to Carol Ann’s body.

“Now what do we do?” Carl sniveled.

“Now we bury Carol Ann in the back yard like a pair of decent Christian men, then we come back inside and get blind drunk on cheap vodka like a pair of decent trailer park boys. Wait for this butt slug nonsense to blow over.”

And so we did.

And we did.

It took entirely too long to give Carol Ann a decent burial. We fetched a couple of shovels from Carl’s shed, but only one of us could do the diggin’ on account of all the slugs tryin’ to attack us in the back yard. By now there was hundreds of those fuckers the size of small dogs!

But we got the job done and said some prayers while whackin’ big ass slugs to death. Then we came inside and drank all of Carl’s liquor till he stopped cryin’ and I started. We passed out holdin’ each other like a pair of sissy girls.

When I woke up the next morning, Carl was gone.

I puked over the side of his couch and reached for the vodka, but all the bottles were empty. I got up, dry heaved, and walked into the kitchen section to piss in the sink. While I was trying to miss the dirty dishes with my liquor smelling piss stream, Carl kicked the trailer door open.

“Come help me with these son’s a bitchin’ things. Hey are you pissin’ in my sink??”

“Fuck you! You killed Carol Ann!” I shouted back through a hangover mouth. “Help you with what things?”

“These slugs!”

I dribbled piss in my pants as I whipped my dick back inside ‘em. “Why the fuck are you bringing—”

The things Carl dragged in didn’t look like slugs. Well, they might’a looked like slugs if I was actually able to see the damn things. Carl dropped one on the floor next to the couch, then dragged the other one in. They were damn near the size of the fridge. Huge fuckers. But like I said, I couldn’t get a good look at them. They sort of, danced around the corners of my vision without really moving.

They were dead, so they weren’t going nowhere. Carl had bashed their heads in. He tried to put his hand on top of one of em, but its skin just kind of skirted around him.

“Ain’t that somethin’ else? They’re calling it the ‘shimmer effect.’”

“Who’s callin’ it that?”

“On the radio.” Carl tossed my keys on the table. “I took your car to go out and get supplies, but that didn’t go so well. Have a look for yourself.”

I leaned over the kitchen table to the window, pushed the curtain back and cursed again. The whole trailer park was on fire and them shimmering slug-things was sluggin’ all over the streets, on top of cars and the roofs of trailers.

“Guys from the AM station are broadcasting from the mountains with the scientists now. Said something about this shimmering shit being the slugs’ third form after anal incubation and then hatching out our buttholes, with a fourth form coming that’s even bigger. Like the size of damn houses.”

I just stared at the destruction. It had all happened so quick. I hadn’t even had time to jack off yesterday.

“Bobby Joe, they said, them guys said we ain’t gonna survive the fourth form.”

“So what are we gonna do, Carl? Huh? We just gonna get drunk again? Wait for the fourth form slugs to come up in this here trailer and gobble us up? Huh? Might as well start suckin’ each other’s peckers as good as that’s gonna do us.”

“Put a pin in that idea, Bobby Joe, and save it. Cause I got me an idea that might just save our lives. If’n so, I wouldn’t mind giving that big ole cock of yours a suckin’ if we’re gonna be truthful. But first, let’s get up inside these slugs’ asses.”

Carl pulled out a hunting knife and started cutting a hole in the ass end of his slug. Not an easy thing since the bastard was shimmering around the blade the whole time. But it found purchase, and before long he had enough of its gut laid out on the living room floor that a man could sort of fit up inside of it.

“Why the hell do you want to shove yourself up a slug’s ass?” I asked him once it was my turn to cut out my slug’s butthole. I might have been skeptical, but I sliced myself a good hole anyway. What else was there to do ‘cept wait to die?

“We’re gonna disguise ourselves as slugs, Bobby. If they don’t know we’re human, they won’t get a hankerin to eat us, or so I reckon.”

Was as good enough logic as we was bound to get with the world overrun by giant slugs a person couldn’t look at proper. So we finished cuttin’ eye holes out of the heads of the fuckers and then, together, we laid out our slugs and prepared to climb inside.

It was my idea for us to get naked and oil up with the butt lube we’d often used on Carol Ann. Figured it’d be easier to get inside the damn things that way. So there we stood, butthole naked like we’d seen each other a thousand times before.

“So we just get in these dead slug suits and walk outside like it’s our business?”

Carl nodded. “Don’t see much choice in the matter. We can try to make our way up to the mountains. Them guys on the AM radio seem to be real clued in on all this. We could try to find their station. They’re bound to have a good plan.”

“Better plan than crawlin’ in a slug’s ass.”

With that, we shoved our heads inside. And that’s when shit got real fucked up.

Immediately I noticed there was a lot more room up the slug’s butt than there should’a been.

“Carl! What the fuck?”

My voice echoed. It was pitch black inside the slug. I couldn’t feel the walls that should have been hugging my chest and arms tightly. Panicked, I tried to back out, but there was nothing to back out of. I turned around and around but it was all black.

Suddenly I felt the sensation of falling. It seemed endless. I fell and fell while a kaleidoscope of colors erupted around me. Just about the time I really started losing my shit, thinking about swallowin’ my tongue or pluckin’ my eyes outta the way to get at my brain with my fingers as I fell forever inside the slug’s body, I hit liquid.

And just like that I could see again. I could hear again. And I could smell again.

What I smelled was shit.

Carl popped up next to me gagging and spitting. We were in some kind of water tank. The sides of the tank were pure white. We paddled over to a floating log and tried to grab on, but the sides slid off on our hands.

“It’s shit!” Carl yelled, gagging.

Then the top came off of the tank and both Carl and I screamed.

It wasn’t a tank and it didn’t have a top. It was a toilet, and a giant slug the size of a barn had just been shitting in it. The slug turned around, its eye stalks grew wide and it let out an ear piercing shriek.

“CHARLIE! Get the kerosene! I just shit people outta my ass!”


Kevin Strange is an award winning author and film maker with seven feature films and over a dozen shorts to his credit. He has books published like, ROBAMAPOCALYPSE and VAMPIRE GUTS IN NUKE TOWN, MCHUMANS, and COMPUTERFACE which can be found at He loves schlocky B-movies, hardcore pornography, Bizarro fiction and Iron Maiden records.


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