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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.

“Hey.”

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 KevinTheStrange.com. He loves schlocky B-movies, hardcore pornography, Bizarro fiction and Iron Maiden records.

Flash Fiction Friday: Bare

by Brian Auspice

I argue with a stranger about something insane. I walk away. I drive to a pet shop. I go inside. It smells like a pet shop. All sorts of exotic-looking fish swim in tanks of deep blue, except for one, which has gone belly-up from lack of lackluster. I spot a python slithering in a glass display. An employee feeds it a severed head. I wander over to the spiders and watch a paralyzed cricket get eaten alive. It reminds me of a large frog I saw when I was a child. It, too, died, at some point, I’m sure. I leave. I come back. I inspect a bird. It tries to talk to me, but it doesn’t speak my language. It squawks something in Greek, or Latin, or a weird dialect of Portuguese. I leave again. I drive to a field and put my car in neutral. I watch dark clouds drift by overhead. I listen to the countless rows of hay sway as God blows on his billion-year-old bowl of soup. I see a scarecrow in the distance. It sees me. I try not to notice. It shifts its eye contact to a crow flying by. I put my car in reverse and slowly back out. The scarecrow cries maggot tears. I laugh a little, on the inside, of course. I merge onto the highway and go seven-hundred miles per hour towards a decaying sunset. I pull over at a diner. I order the special.

“Here’s your hot mess,” some raggedy red-headed skank in a skimpy skirt and loose top says to me as she hands me a plate with a burger on it.

“This tastes like Syphilis,” I reply after the third bite.

Two bikers in a booth behind me take offense to my accusation.

“That’s 100% pure USDA-certified organic Gonorrhea, pal,” the biker with the longer beard says. They stand up and crack their knuckles. I blind them with a fistful of Sweet’N Low and make a break for the exit. They chase after me. I get in my car and floor it. Dust. Gravel. A pair of silhouettes in my rearview kicking the ground and cursing. They’re too lazy to go for their bikes. The booth is comfortable. The coffee is hot. A red-headed skank is there to wait on them from now until eternity.

I drive. I get lost. I consult a map. I spend several hours creeping down dirt roads that don’t exist. I find my exit. I run out of gasoline just as I turn into the parking lot of my apartment complex. I sputter to a stop. I get out. I go home. A stranger is on my couch. I sleep with her. I fall asleep with her.

—-

Brian Auspice exists in an impermeable void between time and space. A gazebo entitled “Deep Blue” is being published by Eraserhead Press as part of their 2014 New Bizarro Author Series. 01001010 01101111 01101000 01101110 00100000 01110011 01110101 01100011 01100011 01110101 01101101 01100010 01110011 00101110 http://bauspice.wordpress.com

TOP TEN MOVIES OF 2014

By Jeff Burk

Another year and another 200 (not really but I know it’s a lot) movies watched. This is my sixth time doing this list and I look forward to it all year. I’ve been keeping track since the first of January and can hardly wait to talk to you about all the awesome shit I saw!

If you want to catch up on past years, you can with these links:

2000-2009
2010
2011
2012
2013

I saw a lot of movies I liked this year but there were only a few that I outright loved. For the most part, it was the year of “meh.” Nothing summed up how disappointing the year was like the return of two of my favorite filmmakers (Alejandro Jodorowsky and Terry Gilliam) with movies that can best be described as predictable and forgettable (THE DANCE OF REALITY and ZERO THEOREM respectively).

Horror had an extremely poor showing this year. After more than a decade of torture porn dominating the genre, this year saw quiet horror make a huge return. While it would have been nice to have filmmakers playing with new ideas in the genre, most of the films I saw were just repeating tired old tropes. It seemed like almost every horror movie I watched was a ghost story. THE BABADOOK dominated the discussion but I was completely underwhelmed as, in my opinion, it was just repeating themes a hundred movies did better while adding nothing new. However, I didn’t hate it – I just felt like I had already seen it.

I saw two movies that were just so mind-numbingly disappointing that I can’t recommend them for any reason.

Worst Movies of 2014: WILLOW CREEK and CABIN FEVER: PATIENT ZERO

Moving on to what I enjoyed. These are the movies I really liked but I only do ten titles a year for my list and they just didn’t make the cut.

Honorable Mentions: WOLF CREEK 2, SACRAMENT, BANKSY TAKES NEW YORK, ZERO CHARISMA, AFFLICTED, ZOMBEAVERS, SWEARNET: THE MOVIE, and COME BACK TO ME

Now with those formalities out of the way, let’s get on to my ten favorite movies of 2014!

10: EDGE OF TOMORROW (Doug Liman, United States)

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Tom Cruise gets killed again and again and again. Also, it’s a really good movie!

Cruise is a soldier who is on the front lines during an alien invasion of Earth. In the battle he gets killed only to start the day over again but with memory of the events of his death. Until he gets killed once more. And so on and so on.

The premise – GROUNDHOG DAY meets STARSHIP TROOPERS – is thoroughly explored and dissected in one of the best, and surprisingly funny, science fiction movies of the past few years.

9: KNIGHTS OF BADASSDOM (Joe Lynch, United States)

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The nerd movie of the year!

When a group of LARPers accidentally summon a demon during an event a whole bunch of people die and they must become the heroes they pretend to be.

It’s a simple movie but super fun if you’re a total nerd. Unlike many other films that tackle nerd and niche interests, this movie never feels like it is laughing at you. The filmmakers are obviously just as dorky as we are.

I highly recommend complimenting a viewing with a few beers and tokes.

8: LATE PHASES (Adrián García Bogliano, United States)

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For some reason the list of good werewolf movies is very short – fortunately, this year we got one to add. LATE PHASES feels like an eighties creature feature. The film follows a blind war veteran (Nick Damici – who is absolutely fantastic in the role) whose small community is under attack by a werewolf. Intense, darkly funny, and featuring outstanding practical effects, this film fits perfectly aside AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON, THE HOWLING, and GINGER SNAPS.

And the transformation scene (obviously influenced by THE COMPANY OF WOLVES) kicks ass.

7: JODOROWSKY’S DUNE (Frank Pavich, United States)

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One of the all-time greatest directors, Alejandro Jodorowsky of EL TOPO and THE HOLY MOUNTAIN fame, taking on one of the all-time beloved science fiction novels was just not to be. Fortunately, we have this documentary to watch and imagine what an amazing creation it could have been.

It’s a heartbreaking story about the most incredible group of creative people ever assembled and the failure of their film – not from any of their own actions but because the movie studio got cold feet. Just imagine Jodorowksy, Orson Wells, Moebius, Pink Floyd, H. R. Giger, and Dan O’Bannon all working together.

Sigh…

6: TUSK (Kevin Smith, United States)

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We’ve seen Kevin Smith do comedy, drama, horror, and social commentary – but we haven’t seen this side of him before!

TUSK is classic body horror in the spirit of early David Cronenberg and Stuart Gordon about a man being held against his will and being surgically transformed into a walrus. Smith takes an absolutely ludicrous premise but takes it seriously (in a story-telling sense) and stretches the concept to “logical” extremes. Twisted, weird, bleakly funny, and a mean streak a baculum wide – TUSK was my favorite horror movie of the year.

Fun fact – TUSK is the first movie ever made based on a podcast. Don’t look up the original podcast unless you want most of the movie spoiled for you.

5: THE LEGO MOVIE (Phil Lord, United States)

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The LEGO movie shouldn’t be good. There’s absolutely no reason for it. It should just be a ninety minute long toy commercial – and in many ways it is – but in the process it completely subverts the idea. In many ways this is more anarchist propaganda than a children’s movie. LEGO heaven is depicted as being awesome because “we have no government!” Hell, the villain is Lord Business.

Combing humor, real heartfelt moments, amazing CGI/stop-motion animation, subversive ideas, and more franchises than any YouTube mashup (there’s Batman, Simpson, and Star Wars characters!) this was the surprise of the year for me.

THE LEGO MOVIE may also be the closest we ever get to a Grant Morrison movie – seriously, this is ANIMAL MAN!

4: GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY (James Gunn, United States)

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When Marvel first announced this I thought they were crazy. Captain America and Iron Man make sense but Guardians of the Galaxy? Who the hell cares or wants to see a movie about them?

How wrong I was.

James Gunn created an epic and joyous sci-fi/action/comedy that puts everything else Marvel Studios has done to shame. This isn’t your standard bunch of do-gooders – thieves, assassins, and con artists must band together to travel the strangest parts of the universe to save all of reality. But who really cares? There’s a raccoon weapons expert who shoots everything!!!!

Far and away the most fun I had at the movies this year. This is what STAR WARS would have looked like if Troma produced it. Llody Kaufman even has a cameo!

3: RETURN TO NUKE ‘EM HIGH VOL 1 (Lloyd Kaufman, United States)

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Speaking of Troma…

It’s always a cause for joy when Lloyd Kaufman does another movie. He may be the most consistent director of all time. Gore, nudity, and the lowest and highest brow humor combine to create pure movie magic in every one of his creations.

His latest movie is a part one of a sequel to his classic eighties creation THE CLASS OF NUKE ‘EM HIGH and it’s everything you want it to be – social commentary, biting humor, and punks killing people in a high school.

Fuck. What do you want to know? It’s Troma! Go watch it!

2: THE RAID 2 (Gareth Evans, Indonesia)

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The first RAID was a fantastic action film. The second completely blows it away.

The plot picks up immediately where the first film ended but sends the main character undercover to prison – but that’s just the very beginning. The story takes so many twists and turns that it really feels like you watched THE RAID 2 and 3.

But why you watch this is for the crazy intense action scenes. My god, this film has probably the most insane, violent, expansive, and well directed shots of violence ever done. For those who love onscreen carnage – it doesn’t get better than this.

1: SNOWPIERCER (Bong Joon-ho, South Korea)

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This is what truly original filmmaking looks like.

After a failed attempt to control climate change, all that remains of humanity is on one train that is on a constant loop around the globe. The lower class live in the back cars and do all the hard work, the upper class lives in the forward cars. But the end of the train is fed up and, at the start of the movie, lead an uprising to take all the cars. So begins one of the most unique and strange movies made in years.

At heart it’s a vicious social commentary but in practice it’s a wild wide of movie making that changes genres from scene to scene. There is absolutely no way to predict what turn the film will take next.

The axe fight/New Year’s scene was the best movie moment of the year – those that have seen it know what I mean.

Most anticipated for 2015 – THE GREEN INFERNO (Eli Roth, United States)

GODDAMMIT!!!!!! Eli Roth (CABIN FEVER, HOSTEL 1 & 2, and one of my personal heroes) was supposed to finally return to directing movies with THE GREEN INFERNO. Roth making a cannibal flick is a dream come true for me but we were all denied it due to distribution issues! Some got to see it on the festival circuit but I wasn’t one of them. There’s no news about a 2015 release but I’m praying and my cat is doing dark magic rituals for us to see it.

Agree or disagree? Let me know in the comments!

Holiday Gift Guide Part 2: Christmas Craft Fair

by Garrett Cook

Damn. Christmas sure gives you a lot of things to hate about it. Crass commercialism. Carols everywhere. Bitter cold. Mechagodzilla.

Everyone is tired of your shit!

But worse and more excruciating than all of these things is the Christmas craft fair. Purchasing poorly wrought wooden reindeer to support your stupid kid’s school for jerks is nobody’s idea of fun. I know there are people that like Christmas craft fairs but there are also people that like bestiality and the two camps are just as difficult for me to understand. Telling me that you like the Christmas craft fair is like telling me that a particular pangolin you saw has got it goin’ on in all the right places.

So, how about an alternative to the Christmas Crap Fair? How about some weird, fun stuff that you might actually want hanging up in your home? I promise, no wooden reindeer.

Paintings and Prints

The most notoriously hangable of art works, paintings and prints are something we often think of as out of our price range or somehow culturally austere. We might own posters but actual paintings by a contemporary working artist aren’t as common in people’s homes as they could be. Particularly if you decide you want to do something about it.

Justin Coons

My alterego Henry Price is a lucky guy. Having gotten three covers from Justin Coons for my Satan’s Mummy novelettes, Henry’s work has been represented by a whole lot of monster kid whoopass. Justin Coons brings the weird and brings pulp art back to a Heavy Metal magazine kind of place.

Zooey Noir

Narwhal vs. Unicorn

Escape from Hamster Planet

Get it all here.

http://justintcoons.deviantart.com/

https://www.etsy.com/shop/HorrorArt

Ann Koi

Ann Koi is a gifted sculptor and artist. Her erotic and strange art and wonderful assortment of bone sculptures are sure to invigorate any discriminating Bizarro friendly residence.

Resin owl skull

Cthulhu Bust

The Undeniable Beauty of a Love in Decline

http://www.moritorium.com/koi

Jim Agpalza

Jim is one of the finest artists in the Bizarro community. His work is cartoonish, organic, filthy, fun and diverse. His shit is just plain awesome. You can view his stuff on the page below. And you should buy most or all of it.

http://www.redbubble.com/people/jamesagpalza

Liv Rainey Smith

Liv’s woodblock prints and Lovecraftian stuff are great for the dark fiction and cosmic horror enthusiast in your life. Occult esoterica with class, distinction and a genuinely informed viewpoint on the subject matter. While possessing a modern perspective on the history behind the imagery, it hearkens back to a profoundly archaic style, wearing the influence of traditional alchemy on its sleeve.

https://www.etsy.com/shop/raineysmith

Alexandria Pepera

Surrealism and psychedelia merge with Neopagan and Aquarian tradition in Pepera’s work. There is usually a space between the surreal, which is often thought cerebral, the province of manipulated logics instead of magicks and the sacred but Jodorowsky and Kenneth Anger and French Decadents never cottoned much to these boundaries and neither does Alexandria. These paintings are beautiful, colorful, distinctly sexual, tantalizingly dissassociative and pleasing to all three of our eyes. With a pop art color pallet, a strong narrative and a library of dream images, these psychedelics don’t patronize or pander or bring back memories of sparking up a jay to Umma Gumma.

Alien Shebamatahari

Akashic Chic

Down Below

For a full gallery of Alexandria’s work, check out the link below.

https://www.facebook.com/robotdreamer/media_set?set=a.106295102716652.11549.100000084882984&type=3&pnref=story

Nick Gucker

Grade A Monster Kid, class act and erudite, fun artist, Nick Gucker does cosmic horror and horror fandom in a way that has caught the attention of many publishers and collectors alike. Nick’s work graces Skurvy Ink’s Jimmy Plush t-shirt and the pages of Imperial Youth Review, the magazine I edit, so I’m a little biased but that bias certainly wouldn’t have existed in the first place without Nick doing stonecold fantastic stuff.

Alan M. Clark

Man. Myth. Icon and iconoclast, Alan Clark’s cover have adorned work by some of horror’s very finest. His paintings can adorn your home too. His longtime obsession with the Ripper murders has inspired not just his novels, which I highly recommend but some of his art. Visit his online store, The Imagination Aperture: http://ifdpublishing.com/zencart2/

Photography

Phillip Lo Presti

Phil is a crass and smart poet with a ton of potential and exactly no fucks to give. If you know Phil online, you have probably at least on one occasion wanted to push him down a flight of stairs. But, he’s a good, generous, caring and often very funny guy and he does great work, with an irreverent eye and a lot of attitude.

Jim Snorfleet

Jim Snorfleet came highly recommended by my friend pinup model, Sauda Namir due to his horror pinup work. His photos are eerie, fun and confrontational and his models are well chosen. For the fan of burlesque and gothic imagery, these photos will go great on their walls.

Dancer

Midnight Lover

Pursuit

Scupture and Craft

Sheryl Westleigh, Noadi on Etsy, is a sculptor and jeweler par excellence. For the geek, the pervert and the worshiper of Elder Gods, Sheryl is a person you gotta know with stuff that will make you exceptionally happy. Her Etsy store features things like fetus earrings, tentacle pendants, octopia, cuttlefish, bacteria and everything squirmy. Mad science chic.

Specimen Jar Necklace

Sanity Check Pendant

Fetus Specimen Jar Earrings

Flash Fiction Friday: Guitar Man

by John Wayne Comunale

You know that old Elvis song, Guitar Man? I guess if I had to blame this all on something, anything; I would blame it on that. The moment after I heard that song I knew what I was supposed to do. It was like a blueprint for life laid out right there by our lord and savior, the King himself. There’s one thing I’ll tell you for sure, and that is if there’s someone you can trust on God’s green Earth it’s Elvis. It’d be near sacrilege not to. That said, I picked up my guitar, kissed my mama, gave my daddy the finger and took off on a bus to Memphis where I’d begin my new life as a Guitar Man.

I got off the bus in Memphis with my trusty guitar on my back, thus completing the first set of instructions given by Elvis in his song of truth. When the dust settled I stepped out to cross the street on my way to literally the first honky-tonk joint I saw. Halfway across something occurred to me that I hadn’t given much thought too until now. I had been so blindly following the orders of the all-powerful Presley I totally forgot that I didn’t know how to play the guitar at all.

Not a single lick.

In fact, the guitar I had grabbed from my room and ‘slung upon my back’ was a souvenir my gramma had gotten for me from the booze cruise she died on two years ago. It was made of cardboard with a dowel rod attached and two pieces of twine tied to it. Sex on the Beach was airbrushed across the front to commemorate gramma’s favorite drink, and also her favorite place to have sex. Just as these thoughts were trickling through the slipstream of my consciousness, I was struck by a yellow Volkswagen Beatle with a bicycle hanging out the trunk. This instantly nullified the poor quality of my guitar since it was smashed to pieces along with the majority of bones in my body, but at least I had one less thing to worry about now.

Even as I was flying into the air cringing in pain from the shattering of my skeletal system I still had faith in Elvis. As long as I followed what he said everything was going to work out. I hit the ground just in time to be pulverized by a bus of Hawaiian Tropics bikini models that was following closely behind the VW. This was probably the sexiest way possible for my broken bones to be ground up finer than the sultry and kind voice of The King telling me how it was gonna’ be hard at first.

The Volkswagen stopped and the driver got out to greet the scantily clad bronze girls running from the bus squealing like pigs on the killing floor. I guess I had been lost in the confusion and coconut oil because no one bothered offering to help pull my mangled innards from the tread of that sexy, sexy bus. The driver of the Volkswagen, however, was doing his absolute damnedest to comfort as many of the barely-legal copper-toned babes as possible by cradling them in his hairy and muscly arms. He was a true and selfless hero in my eyes.

Finally the bus driver, a stout, thickheaded clod of a man noticed me shoved up under the rear wheels. He told me to ‘hold tight’ assuring me he was going pull the bus up enough to get me out from the under the tire so he could take me to the hospital. He must have forgotten his promise because while he did pull the bus up and off of me, he never stopped. He just kept driving leaving me, and his precious sexy cargo alone in the street to fend for ourselves. The girls screamed at the sudden loss of their transportation sounding like a barrel full of lab rats that were set on fire, and thrown off a building. A few of them were lucky enough to fit in the Volkswagen with the greasy driver, especially since he took the bike from the trunk and chucked it in my direction. I’m pretty sure it hit my cheek but I didn’t know exactly where my cheek was anymore.

When the VW was packed to the gills with his new found, sexy cargo he drove off leaving several of the bathing gold-skinned beauties in the street to figure out their next move alone. The models meandered about for a while looking confused until they finally chose a direction and started walking in it. Of course, the direction they chose sent them my way, and they all walked right over my flattened former self. Their spiked heels dug deep into my skin, which had been stretched so thin that each step left a tiny puncture in its wake. I didn’t mind though, and could hardly blame them for not paying attention since they were probably in shock from the accident. It was a perfectly understandable reaction.

Once they rounded the corner the volume of their inaudible shrieks tapered off until the only thing I could hear was the rustling of leaves being pushed along the curb by the warm Tennessee summer breeze. For the next several hours that was all I heard, and I started to wonder how I would catch a ride on down to Macon Georgia since Elvis had prophesied that would be the next stop on my way to becoming a Guitar Man. The sun sank low shooting red and pink lasers down the road when suddenly the doors to the honky-tonk opened, and a man stepped out onto the street.

“Jeeeeezusss Chaaarist,” he said through a thick and silvery beard that sat beneath his chin like a mangy cat with a skin problem. It was by far his most notable feature, and for a moment I was jealous.

This was the kind of beard that defined a man. The exact kind of beard a man who ran a honky-tonk in Memphis Tennessee would, nay, should have. I took this man’s beard as a sign from the great side-burned one in the sky that I was right where I was supposed to be. I quivered what I hoped was my lip as a salute of recognition to Elvis for sending him to me. The old man and his beard approached, and I became light headed with giddiness. He looked down at the mangled sack of boneless flesh I had become and kicked at me.

“Well,” he said, “can’t just leave you out here like this. Besides, I think we can use you here.”

His voice poured from the beard with a golden, dulcet tone that slipped gently into my canals to massage his message into my brain. He bent down, filled his fists with meaty handfuls, and dragged me out of the street into the honky-tonk. I could hardly believe it! I had just barely been in Memphis and I was already going to be a Guitar Man, which was way before Elvis told me it would happen.

“Vicky,” yelled the old man as we entered the club. “Get your shriveled up, useless ass out here and help me with this. I think it’s just the thing you need to help with your, uh . . . problem.”

All I could see from where the man dropped me was the black ceiling, a few bright circular lights, and that majestically magical beard with two eyes attached gazing down upon me. A moment later there was another face looking down, but not one I cared for. It was drawn together with deep-set wrinkles not from age, but from being burned. The gouged in, pink scars converged at a moist hole I assumed was her mouth since a cigarette was dangling from it. She exhaled smoke into my face and bent down to get a closer look, which allowed me to see that she was wearing a bright orange thong only. Also, the burns were not just relegated to her face. They covered the entirety of her exposed body leaving what looked like overgrown, lopsided raisins where her breasts had once been. They reminded me of home for some reason.

“You’re right, Sheldon,” she said through her mangled horror hole. “I think this’ll work just fine.”

That said she pulled a butterfly knife from the back of her thong, and whipped it around elaborately causing the blade to snap up from its sheath. She buried the tip just above where my chest had been, and traced a deep cut all the way down to my groin. The woman that Sheldon had called Vicky picked me up and shook until all the pulverized bone dust, and mashed up organs had fallen out across the dancehall floor. Satisfied, she stepped into my empty skin and her crispy visage disappeared inside of me. She aligned her eyes with mine allowing me to see that I was not in a honky-tonk at all, but a low-end, filth palace of a Z-grade strip club. I could smell through Vicky’s nose the stale aroma of coconut oil and sadness hanging thick and heavy in the uncirculated air. She whirled us around to face the stage and a neon sign above it read: Them’s Some Titties!

That night Vicky wore my skin as she danced, and while it hung loose in some places on account of me having a wider frame than her, it was still tight around the spots where it counted. The swinging flaps of limp flesh served as a sort-of pendulum whose hypnotic power would not let the lecherous voyeur patrons look away. She had more requests for lap dances that night than all her years of stripping including from before she was all burned up. Now she wears me every night being careful to always keep me wiped down and well moisturized so my skin keeps that youthful glow, and stays soft to the touch. I never became the Guitar Man that I set out to be, but it turns out being the fleshy meat-puppet of a badly burned, middle-aged stripper ain’t a bad gig at all. Honestly, I think Elvis would be proud.

——-

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.

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