by: John Wayne Comunale
I’ve always liked my women a little on the trashy side. The ones with elaborate, unnecessary makeup, boots that are way too high with skirts that are way too short, and piercing eyes glaring from beneath dramatically cut, Betty Page bangs. Throw in a few tattoos for good measure and I’m a happy man. Naturally, I included this bit of information when I signed up for the new threeway app, Thrinder. I was surprised by the quick response shortly after posting my profile, but I went with it.
The message I received said to meet at a bar called The Tri-Corner Hat for drinks and conversation before getting down to business. The couple’s names were Greg and Terry, and according to our correspondence, they were very excited to meet me. When I walked in, I was thrown off by the total darkness of the place, but I figured when you’re meeting up with someone you met online for a threesome the last thing you wanted was an abundance of light. There was a man sitting at the bar sipping a drink that I recognized as Greg from his picture. He was wearing a ratty, black ball cap pulled down over his eyes, which he also wore in the picture I saw.
“Hey there,” I said walking up to the bar. “You’re Greg I take it?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, smiling wide. “That’s me. You must be Larry.”
“Guilty as charged,” I answered, immediately regretting my corny quip. “Nice to meet you. Is Terry here somewhere?”
“No, actually, she’s not,” he said. “She likes me to meet the other person first to make sure it’s a good fit for us. You understand?”
“Oh yeah, man,” I said. “Totally.”
“So,” said Greg, “you like ‘em trashy, huh?”
“That’s right,” I said, trying to be as casual as possible. “That’s just always been my type.”
“Well, you’re gonna’ love Terry. She’s as trashy as they come.”
“Sounds great,” I replied. “So when do I get to meet her?”
“Soon,” he said. “First, I need to ask if you’re cool with some pretty kinky shit.”
I’d had my fair share of interesting sexual encounters in my life, so I felt I could answer confidently.
“Oh yeah, man,” I said leaning into him, “the kinkier the better.”
I didn’t really have a proclivity for kink, but I wanted to set him at ease and get the show on the road. I was excited for this, but didn’t want to waste my whole night.
“That’s good,” he said, “real good. Terry and I like to get a little weird sometime, if you know what I mean.”
“I sure do,” I said, elbowing him playfully in the ribs even though I had no idea what he meant. “I’m down with the get down.” Another cheesy line I regretted.
“Fuck it then,” said Greg slamming his drink. “Let’s get out of here.”
I followed him out of the bar and turned toward the street, but Greg grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
“It’s this way,” he said, pointing down the alley between the bar and the abandoned building next to it.
“Oh, uh, okay,” I said, following him into the darkness.
“Terry’s gonna’ be so jazzed to meet you man. We’ve been looking for someone that really clicks with us, and I have a good feeling about you.”
“I aims to please,” I said, seemingly unable to not speak in groan-worthy quips.
The alley was typical as far as alleys go. Bare brick walls lined either side, and piles of garbage sat atop mystery puddles of trash-water.
“So where are we going anyway?”
“To meet up with Terry,” said Greg without looking back at me. “You wanna’ go meet Terry right?”
“Of course,” I said. “Just curious that’s all.”
“It’s not much farther,” he said, attempting to be reassuring.
Ahead, I could see a dumpster with light peeking out from the other side of it, and the closer we got, I began to hear voices. The light turned out to be a trash barrel fire, and the voices belonged to two bums warming themselves around it. They stopped mid-sentence to gawk as we passed.
“Hey there,” said one of them. “You going to see Terry?”
The grizzled bum smiled, revealing a single black tooth in the center of his top gums. His right hand moved from the fire to his crotch, where he began to rub awkwardly while licking his scab-covered lips.
“I bet he is,” said the other bum whose tooth count doubled that of his counterpart. “He’s got that look.”
They both laughed, and rubbed at themselves. I could see the bulges in their pants reacting to the stimulus.
“Shut up, you degenerates,” spat Greg. “Why don’t you two go fuck yourselves!”
“Sounds good to me,” said the first bum as he reached over with his free hand to grab his friend’s face and guide it to his own. The two began to sloppily make out, which sounded like someone kneading wet dough.
“Don’t mind them. They don’t know shit,” said Greg pointing to a door up ahead. “Almost there.”
I nodded and sped up to be next to him.
“So, what’s Terry like?” I asked. “I mean, you haven’t really told me too much.”
“What’s to tell?” he answered. “She’s extra trashy, just like you like ‘em, she’s into freaky shit, and she’s down to fuck. What else do you wanna’ know?”
“Uh . . . well, I guess that’s good enough for me.”
The amount of trash lining the alley now was stacked over five feet high in some places, and the smell was unbearable. Greg grabbed at the lever on the door and turned to face me.
“Oh yeah,” I said, more ready to get out of the smothering trash than anything else.
Greg pulled the handle up and pushed in to open the door. It screeched like a cat being drug beneath a city bus, and I guessed it hadn’t been oiled since its installation. The room was dark but Greg stepped in, hit a switch on the wall to his left, and a single light crackled to life from the ceiling shining down on the center of the room. It was completely empty save for a giant pile of trash bags, which the light shined directly on. Greg crossed his arms and smiled staring at the pile.
“What is this?” I asked.
“That’s Terry,” he said, pointing to the pile. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
I scanned the room to make sure I wasn’t missing something.
“A beaut?” I said. “She’s a pile of trash.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You like ‘em trashy don’t ya’?”
“Yeah, but . . . “
Greg walked to the pile he called Terry and I followed. The smell was worse than in the alley, and I could see most of the bags were ripped, spilling rotten food, used diapers, and other unidentifiable, greasy trash innards.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Greg. “Let’s do this!”
He dropped his pants, exposing his very erect, very large penis, which he promptly buried into the side of Terry. I’m not sure what came over me, but I was instantly aroused and, not wanting to be outdone, I dropped my pants to show off my considerable endowment as well.
“Now we’re talking,” said Greg. “Get on in there. She’s nice and wet.”
Before I knew it, I was humping along with Greg at a furious pace. I grabbed at lumps of wet garbage that came away in my hand as I tried to find purchase on top of Terry. I rolled around her, sticking myself into any opening I could find, and they were all wet with anticipation. I found myself so engrossed in what I was doing that I forgot about Greg until I heard him cry out.
“Oh man, oh man,” he called from the other side of Terry where he was thrusting away with reckless abandon. “I’m gonna’ cum!”
I eased up and repositioned myself, thinking it was kind of soon for him to already be cumming, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
“Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah, baby,” he said, panting as he reached climax. “Oh yeeeaaahhhh!”
I watched as Greg shook with the intensity of his orgasm, savoring every last quake. At the height of it, he threw his head back, and his cap fell to the floor behind him. Something was wrong with the way his head looked, but I didn’t want to believe it at first. The top of Greg’s head was a garbage bag with bits of paper, coffee grinds, and other trash spilling from it.
That was all I could muster before Greg’s face fell off and more trash spilled out from behind it. I watched in disbelief, while still pumping away of course, as his body fell apart in front of me, revealing more lumpy, leaking bags of trash that fell into Terry, becoming part of her. I was shocked, but I did come here to fuck, so I pounded away until finally finishing. I stepped away from Terry, zipped up, and took one final look around. I walked over to where Greg had been to find all that was left of him was his hat. I picked up the dirty, black thing, dusted it off, and put it on, pulling the brim down firmly over my eyes. I walked to large steel door, opened it, and took one last look at the trash pile.
“Thanks Terry,” I said. “It was fun. Hopefully, I’ll see you around.”
John Wayne Comunale lives in the land of purple drank known as Houston, Texas. He is a writer for the comedic collective MicroSatan and contributes creative non-fiction for the theatrical art group, BooTown. When he’s not doing that, he tours with the punk rock disaster: johnwayneisdead. He is the author of The Porn Star Retirement Plan, Charge Land, and Aunt Poster as well as writer/illustrator of the comic-zine: The Afterlife Adventures of johnwayneisdead. John Wayne is an American actor who died in 1979.
Submit your bizarro flash fiction to FlashFictionFridaySubmissions@gmail.com.
Preliminary voting has ended and the final ballot has been determined. Here are the nominations for this year’s Wonderland Book Awards:
I Miss the World by Violet LeVoit
Every Time We Meet at the Dairy Queen Your Whole Fucking Face Explodes by Carlton Mellick III
Long-Form Religious Porn by Laura Lee Bahr
I Will Rot Without You by Danger Slater
Shit Luck by Tiffany Scandal
Berzerkoids by MP Johnson
A Collapse of Horses by Brian Evenson
Ecstatic Inferno by Autumn Christian
Death Confetti by Jennifer Robin
Cartoons in the Suicide Forest by Leza Cantoral
We’d like to give honorable mentions to the titles that came close to placing on the final ballot. These titles are: Starr Creek by Nathan Carson, Puppet Skin by Danger Slater, The Hottest Gay Man Ever Killed in a Shark Attack by Douglas Hackle, The Nightly Disease by Max Booth III, Very True Stories Starring Jeff O’Brien by Jeff O’Brien, and Minivan Poems by Justin Grimbol.
Voting ends October 31st. Only BizarroCon attendees are eligible to vote. Send your votes (one per category) to firstname.lastname@example.org.
The Wonderland Book Awards for excellence in Bizarro Fiction are presented annually at BizarroCon in Portland, OR.
To register for BizarroCon 2017 please visit http://bizarrocon.com/registration/
by: Andrew Novak
The people see me dance and they can’t believe. They compliment my wooden mask, its bright saffron and blackened stripes. They stare into my reflective eyes and touch my mouth lined with rotting teeth of creature.
Only, it’s no mask.
It’s my face.
And the people, they love me.
Burning yellow and black-spotted, I run around town kicking up dust at the base of the mountain. I’ve twice trashed the offices of the major political parties. First with cinder stones, then with fire.
I run faster than cops can drive.
At the strip club, ladies tug my tail and stroke my fur under dim purple lights. I purr to the sounds of reggaetón. The owner of this place knows me well.
I blast dumpy rock music at unreasonable volumes in the zócalo. When people come to stop me, to shut me down, I spit cheap beer onto their clothes. When they spit back, I catch it in my mouth and laugh.
I eat tobacco leaves and dance the danza.
I smoke a pipe and drink mezcal.
Yes, I’m the wiseguy who buys up all the books at the bookshop. And after I’ve read each one, I eat the pages. I chew paper to pulp and swallow.
The mayor hates me and prays for my death. He knows: I secretly run this town and, if pushed, I’ll run it right into the ground.
The people erected a statue in my honor, right downtown. But someone spray-painted a hooked phallus ejaculating over the bronze face of my likeness. That someone was me.
The mayor, he hates me because I was wearing one of those trick handshake-buzzers the first time I met him. He looked so foolish yelping on stage, pulling back his soft palm, and flailing in front of thousands of respected city denizens. I burned his house down later that week.
My email address is email@example.com. I spend hours each day sending obscene spam emails to every person I hate.
I care for stray dogs and cats. I feed them the food I cook for myself. I also keep a green bird as a friend that I teach to swear at passersby.
I spray-piss poems onto walls and prolapse my ass squeezing coiling shits into rich people’s pools.
Yes, I live on peanut butter sandwiches.
And still I run faster than cops can drive.
Andrew Novak is a journalist and news editor in Washington, DC. He likes to read. He likes to write. He likes to take pictures with his camera. His fiction has appeared in Shotgun Honey, the Robbed of Sleep anthology series, Dark Moon Digest, and Out of the Gutter Online. His bloggings can be found at Neon Grisly.
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The latest collection by Kevin Strange is here! All the Toxic Waste From My Heart will be available for purchase on September 17th, but it can be pre-ordered at Amazon today!
Since 2012 Kevin Strange has been smashing medulla oblongatas with his unique brand of horror and bizarro fiction. He returns here with a brand new collection of short stories sure to leave readers recreationally deranged or at the very least psychotically inclined.
All The Toxic Waste From My Heart features ten brain-bending tales ranging from the whimsical fantasy of a boy who falls in love with a whale fart to an apocalyptic wasteland full of cannibalistic sludge monsters.
Fans of Strange know that he only gets better and weirder with time. And ALL THE TOXIC WASTE FROM MY HEART proves to be no different.
BONUS: This collection includes four erotic spider microfiction stories. What’s an erotic spider microfiction? Read on to find out!
Word Horde is proud to present the latest book from author and illustrator Alan M. Clarke. A Brutal Chill in August is a fictionalized historical account of Polly Nichols, the first victim of Jack the Ripper.
We all know about Jack the Ripper, the serial murderer who terrorized Whitechapel and confounded police in 1888, but how much do we really know about his victims?
Pursued by one demon into the clutches of another, the ordinary life of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols is made extraordinary by horrible, inhuman circumstance. Jack the Ripper’s first victim comes to life in this sensitive and intimate fictionalized portrait, from humble beginnings, to building a family with an abusive husband, her escape into poverty and the workhouse, alcoholism, and finally abandoned on the streets of London where the Whitechapel Murderer found her.
With A Brutal Chill in August, Alan M. Clark gives readers an uncompromising and terrifying look at the nearly forgotten human story behind one of the most sensational crimes in history. This is horror that happened.
Head to Amazon to get your copy!