by Bert Stanton
Totino’s Party Pizza is anything but a party or a pizza. It’s a square of questionable food stuffs; dough, cheese and meat in name only. The reality is ingredients manufactured in the basement of a North Korean sweatshop. At a dollar a pop, you really can’t expect much.
But… The Party. That’s what sells it, right? That’s the part that makes you look over the twelve inch Red Baron pepperoni, or the half off DiGiorno Supreme. Even the Tombstone. The pull of The Party is too intoxicating. Maybe the night won’t be wasted. After all, the promise of fun and excitement is what you’re paying for, yes?
But there’s no party. At least, not the kind you want: one with raucous music and exotic drugs and sexy co-eds you usually can’t get within twenty feet of without hearing a rape whistle. Just a flat piece of bubbling cheese, and each bubble grows until it looks like it’s going to burst. Big orange and yellow domes that should pop at any moment but instead get bigger and bigger. Bubbles the size of baseballs, the size of basketballs. When the bubbles blink and become eyes and the ancient pupils spin around madly, each one locking with yours, you’ll wonder where The Party is. It’s not here, is it? Not as the pizza pushes open the oven door. It’s not even pizza anymore, not that it ever was in the first place.
The Totino’s Party Pizza forces itself out of the oven in every directions and slides all over the place. On your cracked linoleum floors, up the dirty walls, across the nicotine yellow ceiling. The front window and door have disappeared in a thick, sticky, sludge of white and yellow and orange and red, and is it hot in here, or is it just you? No, it’s hot. Maybe the oven is still kicking out heat, but where the oven is at this point is anyone’s guess. But this is far more than any oven can kick out, and whatever is creating that volcanic heat can’t be natural.
The entirety of your hovel has become a breathing mass of judicial eyes, each one a jaundiced iris of loathing and disapproval, and they are all staring at you, into you, through you. After all, how can you live like this? Chain smoking in grubby underwear on a Friday night, eating Totino’s Party Pizza, drinking Busch Light and waiting for some party to come to you? That’s another checkmark on the long laundry list of reasons you are a no-account, not even a blank footnote in history. Right next to your lack of education and hygiene and personality.
So how stupid do you feel now for not paying attention in school, or going to college, or finding true love, or rising above, when all you can do is stand in your kitchen while a living, breathing, feculent organism shifts and pulses and closes in all around you?
You’re the party in the pizza, you dig?
Bert Stanton is a bizarro, weird, and horror writer living in Portland, OR. Please follow him on Twitter.
Submit your bizarro flash fiction stories to FlashFictionFridaySubmissions@gmail.com.
by Nathan W. Taynthoemer
One sun-brewed Monday in July, there was a monkey.
He was incredibly drunk.
For no real reason at all, the monkey bellowed “Fuck you, God!” toward the heavens at an ear-bleeding volume. The monkey god didn’t take too kindly to this, so he summoned a plague of locusts upon the monkey’s town. Thinking better of it, he called off the locusts and rained down flaming toads instead and set the entire town ablaze.
“Holy conflagration!” cried the townsfolk, in between putting one another out.
“No shit,” said the monkey, likewise preoccupied with not burning to death.
“Insolent whelp,” whined an old man who had pissed himself to put out his pants. “This is your fault! Look what you done made me do!”
Despite the fact that he was covered in his own urine, the old man was an excellent orator and had managed to incite the smoldering townsfolk into a frenzy. Grabbing whatever stones, pitchforks, and flaming remnants of buildings they could find, the town went after the monkey.
Not particularly fond of being on the receiving end of an angry mob, the monkey left town. Since his car was destroyed by the fiery amphibians, he hijacked a bus full of mute rodeo midgets en route to Atlantic City.
“The fuck?” questioned the monkey as he stepped on board.
“The shit?” answered one of the midgets in reply to the talking monkey.
“I thought you were mute,” said the monkey.
“My god, I’m cured,” replied the midget.
She was promptly thrown off the bus.
After dropping off the midgets in Las Vegas Junior, the monkey realized he was now stuck in New Jersey, where the shortest distance between two points doesn’t exist. He sat in traffic and rain for several hours, got annoyed, drove the bus into a ditch, and started walking.
Eventually, the monkey found a bar. He picked it up and used it break the window of a liquor store. The monkey looted the place, emptying the cash register and taking all the Jack Daniels his prehensile tail could carry. Of course, being a monkey, his tolerance for alcohol wasn’t all that high. He quickly drank himself into a coma and collapsed.
The monkey awoke in a field, filthy and naked. He had been filthy and naked prior to that, but he didn’t actually realize it until just then. He jumped into a conveniently located lake and cleaned himself as best as water and mud would allow. He paused mid-bath, distracted by something shiny on the horizon.
“Oooh, shiny,” said the monkey. He headed toward the glare and found himself face to face with a blind, wizened chicken gnawing on aluminum foil. Being both blind and wizened, the monkey immediately realized that this fowl was an ancient seer.
“Oh, kind sage,” said the monkey, kneeling down, “I’m so confused. Help me, please.”
“What the fuck?” said the chicken. “I’m a feathered animal and I’m noticeably wizened? Who the hell is writing this? Buy a fucking dictionary, you fucking hack!”
“What?” replied the monkey.
“What nothin’,” said the bald, unfeathered, but still blind and wizened asshole of a chicken. “What’s your problem, monkey?”
“My life is as boring as a comatose prostitute, and about as fulfilling. I’m lost in New Jersey, I’m hungover, I cleaned myself in a lake, the monkey god’s more than a little pissed off at me, and I’m not even sure what the hell type of a monkey I actually am.”
“You’re a fucking idiot is what,” replied the chicken. “Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror? The tail, the bulbous larynx. You’re a black howler monkey, for crying out loud. Jesus fucking Christ!”
The chicken walked away but was immediately struck dead by a ridiculously fragrant and inconvenient bolt of lightning. His roasted carcass fell to the ground in all its divinely hickory-smoked goodness.
“Shit,” said the monkey, who was technically an Alouatta caraya but didn’t care enough to change his self image.
The monkey stood there for a while, mulling over all that he had seen. Eventually he ate the chicken, drank another half a bottle of whiskey, and realized that he was on a farm. The monkey shrugged and finished the rest of the bottle, this time retaining his consciousness. He made consensual love to a pair of sexy female pigs, stole a tractor, and got the fuck on with his life.
Nathan W. Taynthoemer is a Virgo and enjoys papercrafting, artisanal pork products, and long walks on the beach by candlelight. Visit taynthoemer.blogspot.com for all the goods.
Submit your bizarro flash fiction stories to FlashFictionFridaySubmissions@gmail.com.
Bathos! Crippling ennui! Mind-numbing drudgery!
Brad Renfield is a white, middle-aged, lower middle class, Midwestern man stuck in Gethsemane, Ohio. Most of his friends have either died or moved away and his one remaining friend is so depressed he’s on the brink of suicide. Brad hasn’t really given much thought to the chasm of emptiness within him. He’s mostly been a loner, content with his job and his tiny apartment. He’s never thought much about being part of something. He’s never really thought about the bigger picture. Until he meets a beautiful (and possibly psychotic) girl named Dawn. Dawn leads Brad into a vicious world as hedonistically carnal as it is brutal, forcing Brad to decide if he’s going to dig deep within himself and continue to resist the community he’s remained apart from his entire life or embrace it and accept his new reality.
Feast your slimy peepers on “Swamp Fist!”, the latest offering from The Slow Poisoner. Swamp witches, Trump decapitations and moss mounds abound!
by Goathead Buckley
His ratman-hair overcoat let him live on the cold streets beneath the levitating, blue pyramid. The monstrosity had appeared one quiet afternoon to the north and steadily hovered closer until, by dinnertime, the entire city lay in its shadow. Humans threw themselves out of windows and into the sewers to breed with rats and get torn apart by lizards, cowering before the mutated scum-born that had been moaning low in the black earth before the city had even been laid out. He wasn’t the last man alive in town, he knew that much. He’d heard screams an octave lower than any that the rat-men could produce and laughter more sincere than the mocking lizards could imitate despite their incessant practice. The laughter, that’s what made him stay in the city. Someone, somewhere, despite the great weirding that went on beneath the static pyramid, had a fit of the giggles. And he wanted to know what was so damn funny.
By day he would wander through trash and corpses, listening to the wind blow lonely down alleyways. He always kept one eye on the blue expanse of the pyramid above. At times, he would forget just what he was looking at and, for a eye blink, he might even think he was looking at the sky. But the sky never blacked out the sun, never sat poised with destructive intent above the once civilized world waiting for fuck knew what. At least, it never seemed that way. His patience was long in those days and he’d walk for hours, waiting to either be finally and restfully destroyed or to hear once again the laughter and to follow it down the detritus choked avenue into one of the abandoned buildings. Perhaps he would come upon a face with a crooked smile, and be able to punch it directly in the mouth and tell it to wipe that goddamn smirk off of its turd-soft mug.
This was some serious shit, he’d say, this pyramid business. What the fuck are you laughing at? At the bodies of your family strewn about like forgotten lawn ornaments? At the rats with human brains the size of dogs that whispered diseased conspiracies against all other life in the light of a fire stoked with discarded femurs? Or were the lizards something to chuckle at as they ate and shat and fucked and grew huge and never once formed a thought in their minds other than “strip the flesh and swallow?” Were the scum-born mere motley clowns to scoff at, mutants that grew moldy filth for hair and clothed themselves in sheets of fungus that fell away and started families of their own? What was so funny that would make someone laugh when so alone and abandoned by all reasonable society?
He’d walk and walk and ask these questions to no one, never expecting an answer. One dim morning, however, the hum of the pyramid, a noise he had not truly registered so constant had it been up to this point, stopped. And echoing down the concrete canyon of Main Street, laughter, explosive and maniacal and so full of unwashed joy that he paused in his tracks and sat upon the blood encrusted curb, heart hurting, breath coming in like rocks. The laughter seemed to come from everywhere now, much like the incessant drone that it had replaced. He looked to the sky, expecting it to fall, but saw that nothing had moved. The wind had died, but the laughter, the hee-heeing and haw-hawing, the chuckling and chortling, continued. His brain felt like the inside of a clown car, stuffed to absurdity with painted limbs and heavy breathing.
On his knees, the edges of his grisly coat soaking the ichor still congealing in the gutter, he prayed to nothing in particular for the pyramid to fall, to fall and pop him like a boil and to end it, if only to stop the goddamned laughter. Prayed and beat his head against the cracking blacktop and thought he had knocked himself unconscious when all went quiet. After a moment, he raised his blood-stung eyes to the pyramid and saw that a crack had appeared in the base from which a tiny white something fell. It floated lazily to the ground a foot from him.
It was a note, written on college-ruled notebook paper that simply said, “I guess it wasn’t all that funny anyway.”
The pyramid rippled as if consumed by a great, invisible heat, and disappeared from the sky in an instant. The intensity of the prodigal sun burnt his eyes to blindness, but he could not stop laughing as his world grew dark once again.
Goathead Buckley has returned from the mountains and would like you to eat his brain and gain his knowledge so that he can get back to grooving and having a good time. He lives in Cincinnati and runs www.apokraliptihkal.com when he’s not trying to sell his organs for an organ-grinding monkey.
Submit your bizarro flash fiction stories to FlashFictionFridaySubmissions@gmail.com.
Bizarro author and all around rennaissance man Michael Allen Rose has launched a YouTube show called REVIEW ME PLEASE! Mr. Rose has a lot of strange and wonderful interests, is a consumate performer, and should’ve been given the Tonight Show instead of Jimmy Fallon. Check out the show and subscribe to Michael Allen Rose’s ever-spreading insanity!
by Rick Sherman
- DO YOU. As one of many concubines you will want to stand out. The Tah-Lahki have no concept of masturbation. Diddling yourself creatively is a sure way to attract his/her attention and assure you of an extra ration to help put off starvation for another day.
- PULL THAT JAW. Before engaging in the oral pleasures with your Tah-Lahki master you will want to remove his/her lower ancillary jaw. This is the jaw with the hard beak below the primary jaw—the one with all those sharp teeth that tore into your friends and family during The Occupation. Once the lower jaw is removed he/her will enthusiastically ravish you from toe to top leaving a thin layer of digestive slime. Remember, it is an insult to bathe in front of him/her as the musky Tah-Lahki have no concept of hygiene.
- SHED A TEAR. For reasons unknown at present, the Tah-Lahki find human crying to be an aphrodisiac. If you are selected for a Pleasuring, at the start of the session if you cry it will be less painful for you down the line. Just listen to your heart as it cries out for the millions who had to die so that our Glorious New Rulers could comfortably inhabit our planet. If you manage to cry up a tantrum you might find yourself becoming a favorite and will have enough rations so you won’t be constantly on the verge of starvation. Go for it!
- FILL ‘ER UP. The Tah-Lahki have five primary ventral genitals and three more dorsal. It is important that when you have properly aroused your master—preferably with the standard Double Reverse Ripley Gyration taught during your initiation into the Pleasure Corps—to not throw up when his/her genitals extrude from their slimy casings deep in his/her thorax. Be careful to limit your response to at most a brief shudder. Our Superior Overlords are very sensitive about such things. Once he/she is aroused you must use all of your openings and both hands to stimulate your master properly. Remember, if the appendages start spinning back and forth you are doing something right.
- IT’S SCHLUPPING TIME. One of our Supreme Master’s greatest mysteries is what in their language sounds like “schlupping”. It is the rare human who is lucky enough to be selected for this privilege. On those singular occasions when it happens, the Tah-Lahki will clamp their hand stalk over the human’s mouth and extrude a probing finger branch far up into the fortuitous winner’s nostrils. It is thought that at this point the human and a Magnificent Overlord will bond at an intimate level. We believe this to be like a psychic marriage. This is a very sexual experience for the Tah-Lahki and it is recommended that fortunate human overcome the requisite agony and be quite vocal during the experience, moaning and sighing and writhing in ecstasy when appropriate. It is very important not to fantasize about brutally killing all of the Tah-Lahki and bathing in their blood during this experience.
In conclusion, when it comes to satisfying our Splendiferous New Sultans let your imagination run wild (but not too wild—you don’t want to be caught fantasizing about something ridiculous like organizing a rebellion. How quaint!) and remember, a spinning appendage is a happy appendage. It is important that we show our gratitude to the sexy Magnificent Conquerors who in their generosity don’t let all of us starve to death. Praise be the Tah-Lahki!
Rick Sherman toils in obscurity on suburban Long Island New York. This is his first ever publication. If you’d like to congratulate (or discourage) him he can be found online at facebook.com/rickshermanmagi