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Twisted Tuesdays: 6 Halloween Mood Videos!

It’s September Bizarros! That means it’s time to get serious with the Halloween spirit. So grab your pumpkin spice dildos and get ready!

If this music video of Tim Curry dressed as an 80’s vampire and channeling David Bowie doesn’t put you in the Halloween mood, nothing will! I’ve never watched The Worst Witch, but apparently it’s pretty dull aside from this incredible music video that comes out of nowhere.

As you might have noticed, I watch a lot of youtube. One of my favorite youtube channels is “Ask a Mortician” where a mortician answers cool questions about death, from death shits to foreskin wedding rings. I love Caitlin!

Typing of death, here is my favorite Nightmare on Elm Street death of all time. It involves twink Johnny Depp, a bed, and a lot of blood! Thanks Wes Craven for giving the world one of the best monsters of all time and inspiring some inventive kills.

Nothing says Halloween like Vincent Price dressed as a polar bear, in a wine cooler commercial. Nothing.

I’ve been binge watching Key & Peele lately because they’re hilarious. It’s great to see comedy taken to its full artistic potential with social commentary and theatrical silliness. Key & Peele are talented as fuck. Their range of characters is impressive. I’m sad that this will be their last season but they put out some amazing comedic content that I’ve been watching over and over again. Their “Sexy Vampires” sketch is a must watch. It brings up the serious question of vampire stereotyping in films.

Watching horror movies is the best way to get into the spirit of the season. Blood for Dracula is on my Halloween rotation every year and still makes me laugh. I love Udo Kier so much. In this film, he’s is a sexy vampire who is having some trouble finding virgin blood to keep him alive. I’m sure I’ve posted this before since this is such a classic movie with one of my favorite movie lines of all time:

You can watch the full movie here for now:

So Bizarros, what are your favorite things to do to get you into the Halloween spirit? Any favorite movies or creepy places in your area?

Flash Fiction Friday: A Fit In Acts

by Chris Meekings

The curtain opens.

The fairies in the audience rustle restless in their seats. They eat sticks of marzipan, noisily.

Lights up.

Enter an announcer. He’s dressed in a full black suit. His hair is immaculate and plastered down to his skull with soup.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he intones, reading from a thin script which wafts in a breeze that comes from someplace.

“We were to have started with act 1 scene 1. However, since this has been deemed misogynistic and degrading, we will start with act 3 scene 4. Which, as it now appears first, will be called act 1 scene 1, making a grand total of act 4 scene 5.”


The same afternoon. Enter a room into a man.

“Ouch,” he says, having never had a room enter him before.

And so the world proceeds according to its weigh. The Earth spins, the clouds of noxious sausage gas form. The rain rains, and the pixies try to make shoes for you whilst you sleep.

The man is still confused by the room entering him.

“That’s never happened before,” he says, opening the door in himself.

“Shut that fucking door,” says the goblin within.

The goblin is small and green, with ears that point sideways like ice-cream cones stuck to side of its head.

“Get out,” says the man, gesticulating with his thumb, “this is my chest cavity. You don’t have permission to be in there.”

The goblin gets up from its plushy armchair made from the man’s liver.

“Nonsense, my good man.” the goblin goes to an old bureau and fumbles within.

The man feels a slight nauseous sensation as the goblin riffles through the bureau. His penis becomes erect.

“Here,” says the goblin, producing a sheet of bricks. “There, written in bricks. Colin the goblin can live here.” The goblin, called Colin, points to the bricks.

The man takes the bricks and reads the cement. It does indeed say the Colin has a legal right to live in the man’s chest.

“Well, I never,” says the man.

“Finished?” asks the goblin. “Close the blood door. You’re letting all the bile out.”

The audience fairies laugh at the joke.

The man shuts the door. He has no idea what to do next.


A different position.

Did you know you don’t have a right to water? Or life? Or love? Or liberty? These are all things made up. We just agree about them. You don’t even have a right to expect the story to make sense. It won’t. Better get used to that idea.

The world turns and the dandelion clocks tick on. Trees rut in the hedgerows. When you have hay-fever, that’s trees ejaculating up your nose. When you eat nuts, you’re eating infant trees and plants. They scream when you bite down.

And the fairies cry.

The grass blows in the wind, the wind which whips across the face of the world. The wind has been everywhere, it’s seen it all. Navies labouring to make iron railways to scar the landscape. Kings and queens eating blackbird pie. Fairs and churches and people, people, people. People at parties wearing masks to hide who they are, which reveals who they really are.

The man walks on, through the dying sunlight on an autumn afternoon, kicking dead leaves with his old dusty boots. He won’t find what he’s looking for. She will never come back, that whore with the dyed hair the colour of red flames. He will miss her forever, but she will not return. All he has is his old photographs and bifocal memories. Memories of the tumble and sweat between the cotton sheets in her room. The love and the thrust and the copper taste of her skin.

All that is gone now, as he walks and kicks the fallen leaves in the autumn light. The wind bites his hands numb. He clenches them, as he once did around her throat, as she came hard.

He cries, full of the loss of her. And words spill from him like water.

“I miss you. I love you. I want you, forever.”

But, she doesn’t reply. And the trees sway and spill their seeds and leaves at his feet.

He takes his thin-bladed knife from his pocket. It is old and angry and has grey string wrapped around the handle. He pulls the blade free and cuts a deep groove across his forearm.

The blood floods up, bubbles up, from below. He lets it drip, drip, drip down into the mess of leaves at his feet.

And the fairies cry.


Midnight in the garden.

The soft owl howls at the moon. The hedgehogs snuffle in the eaves, and the bats dig their holes.

The graveyard is quiet as the two lovers meet. They are naked. Their skin is pale and goose-flesh prickles over them. They lie on the graves of scholars and vicars and fuck to keep themselves alive.

He touches her breast, and she sighs. She holds his head and then wrenches it free. He smiles. She licks the stump of his neck and he sighs to feel so alive.

The fairies watch on, disgusted yet still masturbating.

The clock strikes 23 and half minutes past 2. Time is important. Neither of the lovers wish to be late.

So they fuck on, in earnest. Pale backsides to the moonlight. And the owl howls.


The happiness rats tap dance on the bar. The drinkers watch and applaud their cleverness..

They lift their pints of gasoline and quaff to the merry dancers.

Small dogs bark and bite at the heels of the drinkers, wanting their attention. But the rats are entrancing.

The piper walks amongst the crowd, unseen.

He places thin hands inside the pockets of all the patrons. Stealing their wares and chattels, milk and green sunlight.

He places his stolen prizes in his knapsack made from kisses and mist. And the rats dance on.

The pipers turns sideways and falls through the cracks in the floor. Down, down, down to the sewers. He meets the sad sewer babies there. They are pale, and fat like grubs. Blind in all their eyes. They cry and mewl amongst the sewer stench, and ask how did they get here?

The piper plays songs on a tin whistle, and the babies slowly drop to sleep amongst the sewer grunge and grot.

Newspapers flow down the stream of effluence near the babies. The piper reads the headlines “world at war”, “war at world”, “never again tell a lie”. It makes no sense to the piper. Who cares about world affairs?

He unscrews his kneecaps and takes out the brandy. He drinks, long and deep. Filling his belly with the fire liquid.

He belches long and hard.

The fairies watch on, wishing they could help and alleviate the suffering of the world. They cannot. They are just spectators.

Drip drip drip, the sad ticking of the sewer clock.


The stochastic punch of the typewriter. W B 69 T F G.

Drat! This typewriter cannot spell. I pull the skin from my fingers looking for a thesaurus and spell checker.

The fairies watch. They applaud the effort, if not the actual attainment.

We all must atone for what we do. Leaving pain streaks down the messy highway of our lives. Deep dark tear tracks of acid spill from my eyes. And the gibberish words rip from my chest in emotional torrents.

I love you. I miss you. I wish I could have been better. I wish I was more of what you want, and less of what I am.

But that’s everyone’s wish, in the darkness of our own lonely single minds. Bedrooms, filled with books and CD’s and things we bought trying to fill the holes others have left.

The fairies clap harder now.

I do believe in humans. I do believe in humans.

The sun is almost at the horizon. About to crack and break, forming the new day. The curtains are far away, but I reach for them. They are old and tattered and moth-eaten and threadbare. I grab at the dust and pull.

I cough and spit and pull back the window. The air is cool and cathartic. It’s the time before people wake. The world is still. And the sun peaks up.

I can feel its warmth.

“Did we miss it?” the girl with the flame hair asks, nestled in the cooling sheets.

“No,” I say, hearts exploding from my chest. “we’re perfect.”

The fairies, clap and hoot and whistle as the curtain begins to close.


Chris Meekings is an amalgamation of 58 weasels in a trench-coat. He is currently hunted for sport in the county of Gloucester in the good old UK. In his spare time, between hunts, he writes things…terrible things….you probably shouldn’t read them….you won’t like them….he’s been writing since before he could spel. He still cannut spel.

Flash Fiction Friday: Legends of Cement

by Alex S. Johnson

Durwood peered down, his toes itching, the rash spreading across his choirboy features like the trail of a strawberry torch. He gasped. Grandpa was in the sidewalk once again. How did he get there? What perfidious psychopaths had made him stand still for the bucket, the anointment with grey, wet stuff, and his face and hands reaching out from the pavement in agony like a fucking bas relief sculpture?

He shook Grandpa’s right hand, which shuddered with overwhelming revulsion at his touch.

“Don’t you love me any more, Gramps?” he asked. The tears began to run down his cheeks, burning like bites from a battalion of army ants.

“Subject to the Silent Treatment,” responded Grandpa after a period of silence. The communication was telepathic and Durwood realized this only too late, as his lips sealed over into a moue of webbed horror.

“Why my lips?” asked Durwood via telepathy after he had adjusted his brain/mind map to the process.

“Shh….they’re listening in. Change the frequency, Kenneth.”

“But my name’s not…”

Durwood’s head came off at the shoulders, rolled down the sidewalk and fell beneath the wheels of an oncoming bus.

“Dammit, Kenneth!” shouted the bus driver as Durwood’s head was reduced to shivering pulp.

Bodiless, Durwood’s head worked its jaws, which squeaked on rusty hinges. The bus’s passengers had evaporated, leaving a strange, stale scent in the air mingled with overtones of copper and magnesium.

“Hop on in and I’ll explain it all for ya,” said the bus driver, assuming a kindlier tone.

“Fucking hell, mate, you’ll have to do it for me. I can’t go far on foot, not without a body to support me. Need the legs, ya know?”

The driver tumbled out of the bus, reduced to a torso. His head was otherwise occupied with Venusian snatch.

“Well, if you’re going to be a wimp about it, I guess I could scramble up a carry. There’s no need to be rude.” The driver’s hands fumbled for Durwood’s head, which he transplanted on his own neck stump. “Now to initiate the remote control,” opined the driver’s head, which had replaced Kenneth’s on the asphalt.

“What about my muff ride?” screamed the Venusian whore.

The driver’s head spit out a tangle of green pubic hair. “Sorry, love, I’ve got some business to attend to.”

The Venusian disappeared in a mass of static, replaced with several large TV monitors that played The Karpathians in loop relays, spliced with footage of William S. Burroughs interrupting a frantic report from Interzone, looped with a cop bar on the seedy side of Forth Worth, murked up with ice cream sandwiches from the world’s most evil soda fountain located somewhere on the outskirts of Hell, Norway.

“I’ll give you a guess what happened to the passengers,” said the driver’s head, “but first you need to swap our heads back. This is bloody unnerving.”

Confusion had made its monsterpiece. After some microsurgical adjustments, Durwood settled himself near the driver’s seat and leaned forward.

“Okay, what’s the frequency on Kenneth? And what happened to Grandpa? Enquiring minds want to know the truthout dot org.”

“Avast ye with thy conspiracy theories, worm.” The driver had donned a pirate hat and pulled a rusty blade from a scabbard located near the central control mechanism.

“Let me get up to speed here,” said Durwood/Kenneth. “I was pondering the ins and outs of this here self-deconstructing flash dereliction when a little bird perched on my shoulder, shit on it, chirped some long-ass dragged out story about soft birds he said were the new avian technology, flogged me with a tiny whip. I was having none of it. Hitched my ass down some creaking stairs—they really do a number on the poor—and batted out the rotten pieces of door standing between me and the sidewalk. Hit the sidewalk. Bounced off, saw Grandpa, learned about the silent treatment via telepathy, or, wait, the telepathy came afterwards. Then my brain was introjected into your dumb ass and next thing I knew the Venusian whore I’d been dallying with went up in a blizzard of William S. Burroughs cutups, Trak Trak Trak…is any of this making sense?”

The driver clutched the wheel with mottled, flaking fingers. “The trouble with you characters is you make too damn much sense. I should bury you in snatch sideways so’s the muff monsters can eat you alive, slowly, with green acidic juices. Or hang you up by your toes, flash frozen over Grandpa’s deadalive corpse forevermore so you can appreciate the gravity of what you’ve done.”

“But what did I do?”

“The name’s Quentin, by the way.”

“Oh, I get it. We’re a pair. You’ve got the brains and I’ve got the body, together we can make lots of money. Or should.”

“Get thee to a bunnery, slough of Hades!”

“Easier said.” Durwood took a peek through the window of the bus which had reached escape velocity and saw the blurred outlines of a bakery. “You want I should just go yeast?”

Quentin opened the doors. “Normally they won’t operate while the bus is in motion, but I’ll make an exception for you. Never darken my doors again, the front or the back. And say hello to Grandma for me.”

Durwood made some quick mental calculations. “We’re twins?”

“Soul brothers under the skin, brother. Different dads, but the basic equation holds. You want a cabbage to chew on while you’re waiting for the man?”

“I assume you mean a cabbage dribbled through the black acid.”

The driver threw him the cabbage. “Taste it and see for yourself.”

Hoisting the cabbage over his shoulder, Durwood flew off the bus and found himself badly smeared beneath the soft, wet, grey stuff. Grandpa reached out for him with rotten hands, whispering the thousand names of Bog. “Down here, the torments are insane,” he said.


“Yup. Little switcheroo. But you should be used to that shit by now. My dear grandson, you have just been nominated to the elect, a legend of the cement, to hide and hold and smother till Johnny Depp do us part.”

“How does Johnny figure into this?”

“Don’t be a damn fool, son. Just move with it. Groove with it. Eat a cabbage like a good boy.”

But it was far too late. Kenneth had now resumed his original identity and raged inside, so fiercely that his head sprang up on a bit of coiled wire and jutted five feet above the sidewalk. He sensed some squirming activity next to him.

“I’m kicking the dust of this fucking popsicle stand off my feet and getting back to work, you can keep your transsexual logic, if it works for you. “

The remainder of the story was cooked in effigy by Saurian tourists who misspelled the last, fatal syllable of Bog’s name. The ruptures in timespace that followed would make a dead man come to Momma.


Alex S. Johnson is the author of two novels, Bad Sunset and Jason X IV: Death Moon, the collections Wicked Candy and Doctor Flesh: Director’s Cut, the co-author of Fucked Up Shit! with Berti Walker, as well as numerous Bizarro, horror, science fiction and experimental literary stories, including works published in Full-Metal Orgasm, Bizarro Central, Gone Lawn, Ugly Babies Volume 2, Master/slave, Noirotica III, Cthulhu Sex, The Surreal Grotesque, Cease, Cows, and many other venues. He is the creator/editor of the Axes of Evil heavy metal horror anthology series He has also been a music journalist for such magazines as Metal Hammer, Metal Maniacs and Zero Tolerance and a college and university English professor. Johnson currently lives in Sacramento, California.

Twisted Tuesdays: A Tour Through Wat Saen Suk (Hell Garden)

Buddhist Hell is a real place and you can visit several of them throughout Thailand. In a previous post, I took you through a Buddhist hell I stumbled across randomly while on a road trip in Khon Kaen. These hells are within Buddhist temples and are a reminder of what happens if you are a bad Buddhist. Every torturous scene depicts the hell that awaits you if you commit a certain sin. It’s so much fun!

I’ve been dying to visit more hells and hadn’t had the chance. So this week while on vacation, I decided to finally cross another hell off my list, hop on a bus, and travel to Chonburi province, a little over an hour away from Bangkok, to visit the  Wat Saen Suk (Hell Garden.) It did not disappoint. It was an amazing gruesome giant art installation plopped in a nice, quiet Thai residential area.

It was hot as hell and I noticed there weren’t any taxis for miles, so I made sure the motorcycle taxi I rode on stayed put as I ran through the gates to snap pictures of purgatory.


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Wonderland Book Award – Final Ballot 2015

Preliminary voting has ended and the final ballot has been determined. Here are the nominations for this year’s Wonderland Book Awards:

American Monster by J.S. Breukelaar
Dodgeball High by Bradley Sands
Dungeons & Drag Queens by M.P. Johnson
Hungry Bug by Carlton Mellick III
Pus Junkies by Shane McKenzie

I Like Turtles: The Collected Flashes of G. Arthur Brown
 by G. Arthur Brown
I’ll Fuck Anything that Moves and Stephen Hawking by Violet LeVoit
Misery Death and Everything Depressing by C.V. Hunt
Murder Stories for your Brain Piece by Kevin Strange
Stranger Danger by Kevin Strange and Danger Slater

We’d like to give honorable mentions to the titles that came close to placing on the final ballot. These titles are:
The Last Horror Novel In The History of the World by Brian Allen Carr, Hell’s Waiting Room by C.V Hunt, Hearers of the Constant Hum by William Pauley III, Our Blood In Its Blind Circuit by J. David OsborneCreep House by Andersen Prunty and Paramourn by John Edward Lawson.

Voting ends October 31st. Only BizarroCon attendees are eligible to vote. Send your votes (one per category) to

The Wonderland Book Awards for excellence in Bizarro Fiction are presented annually at BizarroCon in Portland, OR.
To register for BizarroCon 2015 please visit

Flash Fiction Friday: Invasive Thoughts

by Bob Freville

“I don’t believe in the Great Man theory of
science or history. There are no great
men, just men standing on the shoulders of
other men and what they have done.”—Jacque Fresco

The ammonia stink of his dwellings, the scorched floors and stained walls, were nowhere near as stifling as the things which roamed his brain. They intruded upon his sanity every night, making their scraping noises loud and shrill, pounding their fists against their chests and telling him he was not a man, telling him he was less than nothing.

He had already suspected this to be the case. Thirty-odd years of toiling in retail, stocking shelves and waiting tables, taking shit and eating it, had made him soft. The drugs and junk food kept him that way. And the softest part of all seemed to be his brain, crumpled and mollified as it was by the invasions of these malevolent dream people with their rapiers drawn clear across his cerebellum.

Got to where he no longer needed to shut his eyes to hear them. He’d be on line, snatching himself a pack of smokes or an artificial vagina and they’d announce themselves with the laceration of his consciousness. Scrape! Scrape! Scrape! He imagined that they were shearing his mind, slicing clean through any distant good memory he had once had, leaving only the agony and regret in their wake.

He’d never thought much of himself to begin with, nor did he regard the rest of his race with anything that could pass for envy. From time to time, he may have found himself taken with a toy some more wealthy man could possess, something he couldn’t afford in his lifetime, but by and large, he felt the whole thing to be a gruesome gag. All these narcissistic social networking sites, all these pictures of babies born against their will, without their say-so, and all the doubtlessly dreadful moments said ankle biters were destined to endure.

The voices laughed when he’d lament privately about such corporeal gripes, he could feel them grin when he’d grumble about God and kids and ex-girlfriends and overpopulation.

“You’re fit for death,” he’d hear them saying.

For he could not see them, not in vital form, only in the faintest, most opaque sense. They were amorphous, they were fluid, as if formed from his very life blood, that viscous shit that constituted every man.

Except he wasn’t a man, if he went on the evidence of their proclamations. He was less than nothing. Less than nothing. Negative zero. Just like his bank account. Shit.

This notion eventually wormed its way into his frontal lobe and soon it pervaded his every waking moment. He lost his job because he told his boss he was unqualified to perform his basic routine tasks. He was evicted from his studio apartment because he no longer earned any money, being the nothing that he was. “You’re not a man, you can’t even bring home the bacon!”

And that is when he found himself here, beneath the star-free firmaments, in a boarded-up barbeque joint that had caught fire once upon a sketchy circumstance. Here he found himself in a psychosphere that mirrored his mind—scorched earth, sooty air and befouled floors, living and breathing his own excrement and his own excremental thoughts.

The scraping was louder and more insistent now. Soon it blew his ear drums out in its mad desperation to free itself from his consciousness and take on a tangible consciousness of its own. His Eustachian tubes oozed with onyx ichor, gray matter trickling down his gaunt neck, and he cried out, “Leave me alone!” But the thoughts would not acquiesce, they only scoffed. “Pussy.”
He balled his hands and pressed them to his temples which throbbed violently, but this offered no succor. So he pressed them over his ears as hard as he could bear. His entire cranium could be heard rumbling as a result. This was it. No half a man is going to stop them!

His face quaked, his eyes bulged, his teeth splintered from the force of his skull jack-hammering back and forth and then FWOOOSH!!!!!!! Out they came, showering the wall with a torrent of viscera, violently announcing their arrival into our reality.

When the puce moment passed and the florid flow of crimson ran dry, out of the mist they marched, cachinnating, great phlegmatic guffaws in his face.
He was on the ground now, nearer to death than he’d ever been and strangely relieved in the way only a nancy boy could be by the allure of demise. What a man. As the light drained from his orbs, he caught his first crude glimpse of their actual form.

There were two of them, both sharing his very own facial features, only somehow their chins were stronger, their cheekbones more prominent and their bodies chiseled as if carved from Adonis’s rib. They wore black combat boots and wore their hair in bandanas, cigars clamped between big alabaster chompers. And the last thing he noted before entering the benighted vortex was their crotches.

Where his unimpressive manhood would have hung, shriveled and insubstantial, the two doppelgangers from the depths of his imagination stood tall with razor dicks, massive straight razors as big as any strap-on and twice as awesome in their gleaming majesty.

It was then that he knew what they were here for, why they had grown inside his mind and festered there, waiting for their opportunity to escape into his world. He was positive they were here to quell the problem of procreation.


Bob Freville is a part-time tool salesman and full-time writer from Long Island, New York. He has written for Creem Magazine, Bust Down The Door & Eat All The Chickens, and others. He is currently at work on several novellas and at least one gnome farm. He begs your pardon, but he never promised you a rose garden.

Show Me Your Shelves: Jeff Burk

Jeff Burk was one of the first people I met outside of Facebook that quickly joined my “if you don’t like this person, you’re an asshole” list. I’ve talked books, beer, and horror with Jeff and it’s always been great. I’ve also talked about piracy, politics, the ins and outs of publishing, and even black pus and being tortured by bed bugs, and Jeff has always been cool, honest, and charismatic. Oh, and then there’s the fact that he’s one of the first bizarro authors I read and a man whose work I still dig immensely. So yeah, if you dislike Jeff, there’s something wrong with you. Here’s what he had to say about books, his shelves, his mast…er, his cat, and some upcoming books(!).

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

JB: I am Jeff Burk. I am the author of SHATNERQUAKE, SUPER GIANT MONSTER TIME, CRIPPLE WOLF, and SHATNERQUEST. I’ve also done a shit tone of short stories, interviews and essays. In addition, I am the head editor of Deadite Press and I do editorial work for Eraserhead Press.

I am a full-time writer and editor – so it is no exaggeration to say that books are my entire life and my life depends on them. Not only are they a personal passion, they are how I pay all my bills and feed my cat.

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GI: You know a lot of authors, so picking favorites will be hard, but I’m gonna ask you anyway: apocalypse is here and you can only take Squishy and five books. Which five make the cut?

This is super hard but I think I can do it.

1: THE INVISIBLES OMMIBUS by Grant Morrison and various artists – My favorite long-form comic book. It’s a super-psychedelic, anarchist adventure comic and I have a super nice hard-cover edition that contains every issue ever published. It’s basically the comic book world’s version of Jodorowsky’s THE HOLY MOUNTAIN.

2: ZOMBIES: ENCOUNTERS WITH THE HUNGRY DEAD edited by John Skipp – my all-time favorite horror anthology. It used to be, THE BOOK OF THE DEAD (also edited by John Skipp), but his more recent zombie collection blew the original away (in my opinion). From classic atmospheric tales to hardcore horror, this has it all, plus shit tons of zombies.

3: THE WAY OF THE TAROT by Alejandro Jodorowsky – I find Tarot cards fascinating and my favorite book on the subject was written by the brilliant Alejandro Jodorowsky (of EL TOPO and THE HOLY MOUNTAIN). Not only is it the best, most insightful, work ever done on the cards, it’s also a wonderful spiritual guide to life.

4: ALL I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT FILMMAKING I LEARNED FROM THE TOXIC AVENGER by Lloyd Kaufman and James Gunn – Part history of Troma Studios (the oldest independent film studio in the world), part how-to-guide for DIY filmmaking, and part feel good guide to living an artistic life. I love this book. Nothing else gets me hyped up to go out and make art of my own. Plus, my copy is signed to me from Kaufman himself.

5: HOWARD THE DUCK OMMIBUS by Steve Gerber and various artists – there’s no harder book to recommend to people than the original comic of Howard the Duck. Sadly, George Lucas’ film has completely destroyed the reputation of one of the most brilliant, funny, and insightful comics ever written. This features the most brutally honest depiction of depression that I’ve ever come across (seriously) and is my go to read for when I feel down and just need the idea that someone else understands.

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GI: Where can I get some decent tacos in Portland? How does it feel to be a human paintbrush?

JB: For good tacos, just hit up any taco cart – of which there are dozens of them spread out all over the city. They are cheap and delicious. Or you could just come over to my house while Garrett Cook and I are having a cook out – we make some pretty kick-ass food and tacos are easy for the menu.

Being a human paintbrush is pretty awesome. You can make great artwork without having to do any work. (In case you are not aware, the brilliant Alan M. Clark, who has done covers for Eraserhead and Deadite Press, has done painting demonstrations using my dreadlocks as the brushes. He’s even painted a portrait of me using only the hair attached to my head).

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GI: You obviously love horror, but your own work is more bizarro/fun/weird/funny than blood/black pus/tentacles. Why is that?

JB: While horror is my true love and I can never get enough sadistic violence and gore – my natural writing inclinations do not go that way. What comes easiest to me (and what readers seems to like) is silly sci-fi stories with lots of action.

However, I have finally started work on my first straight-forward horror novel. And it will be fucking nasty (in all the best ways).

GI: What’s your latest book about and why should we run and get it?

My latest book came out over a year ago – SHATNERQUEST. Rather than pimp that, I rather talk about the three books I have in the works. Who knows, you might be seeing them soon.

HOMOBOMB – a tragic love story about a bomb that is attracted to other bombs when it is supposed to be attracted to people and buildings.

LORD OF THE LARPERS – a rewrite of LORD OF THE FLIES but with live-action role-players in the roles of the characters. The villains will be Civil War re-enactors led by “Robert E. Lee.”

A SNUFF FILM IN A HAUNTED HOUSE – my first straight-up horror novel. It’s about…well, the title kinda tells you.

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


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