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Free Preview! Robert Devereaux’s God and Santa Claus Trump Trump

Robert Devereaux’s latest mash up of eros and thanos has arrived! This time, Devereaux’s Rated-R Santa Claus is joined by the leader of the free world and the ruler of the universe. He was kind enough to let Bizarro Central sample the first few chapters of God and Santa Claus Trump Trump: a Christmas Tale of Generosity, Love, and Redemption. If you enjoy it, the whole Santa Shebang is available at Amazon.


When Saint Nicholas showed up unexpectedly at the foot of his throne, God the Father was, shall we say, somewhat put out.

Aw, hell, let’s he honest.

Almighty God was pissed, peeved, and perplexed.

He thundered and snapped at the usually-but-not-right-now jolly old elf. “What is it now? Fucking race of human fuckers is my bet. All right, spill the beans. Who did what to whom this time?”

Santa delivered the bad news, adding, “It was all done by a bunch of wankers who never managed to get off my naughty list.”

“They put that idiot up for election to the most powerful position in the world?”


“And he won?”

“In a manner of speaking, though he’s really a minor-league president-elect who lost to another candidate by nearly three million popular votes.”


The Son immediately appeared. “Yes, Father?”

“Oh, shut up. I wasn’t addressing you. You did enough damage on your little adventure down there. And stop flashing those fucking palm gashes before the heavenly host. They impress no one.”

The Son, giving a hangdog look, vanished.

Santa explained further what had happened in the last months of 2016.

“They don’t believe in science?” God the Father gaped in incredulity. “Or they pretend not to, lest spouting such beliefs might block their labial access to the buttocks of the rich? Fucking dolts!”

Santa put the best face he could on this Trump character.

If he dredged deep enough and downplayed the countless layers of crap slathered over the man’s personality, he could contrive to come up with some slight measure of generosity in depicting him.

But, let’s face it.

When you’re tarting up a pig, at some point, you simply run out of lipstick.

“Nice try, Nicholas,” said God. “No cigar. They don’t call you a saint for nothing.”

Santa went further into the political absurdities happening on planet Earth.

With each new insanity the jolly old elf reeled off, God the Father grew increasingly upset. At last, he let out such a sudden, high-decibeled bellow of bitch and bile that the angel choirs, caught mid-song, left off their hosannas and hallelujahs, glanced stupidly about at one another, then resumed.

And God sighed. “I suppose divine intervention is called for. Who shall it be this time and what sort?”

The Son began to materialize, but the Father, with a sweeping gesture of dismissal, dismissed him and he at once backed off and winked out.

Santa said, “I’d be happy to—”

“Yes, yes. You and I, initially at least.”

He glanced sharply over. “Wait a minute. I thought you’d fixed those seven billion goddamned human psyches, you and your elves, the Easter Bunny, Hephaestus—and finally Aphrodite, giving you such a vast quantity of exquisite fucks to help you guarantee the integrity of them all.

“What the hell happened?”

Saint Nick’s face reddened. “I dropped in on Hephaestus. He took a closer look at the active clones in the psyche factory. Then he compared them to the actual psyches on earth.

“It seems they’ve developed a disconnect.”


Have developed. Up here, they look perfect. Down there? Royally screwed up.”

“And how long have you known about this?”

“Well we . . . I mean I . . . took my eye off the ball. I thought everything would be perfect. But now I see that that was a false hope. Their psyches are exceptionally stubborn. Resist change. We’ve got some sort of bug in our system. Hephaestus is checking it out right now.”

“Any evidence of mayhem from the Tooth Fairy, her imps, or any of her nasty recruits?”

“None. The psyches seem to have fallen back from a state of perfection all on their own.”

“And would I be correct in assuming that you’ve kept on fucking the Goddess of Love—to the tune of, what is it, a million and a half per week—in order to shore up the psyches of newborns? That you’ve done so, knowing that every last one of those psyches is disconnected from its original on earth?”

Santa averted his eyes. “Well, Aphrodite is an exceptionally beautiful goddess. And I’ve long ago reconciled myself to having once been Pan, King of the Satyrs.

“Insatiable him and therefore me.”

God scoffed, “Water under the bridge. Hephaestus is on board with your bedding his wife over and over and ad nauseam over again.

“Let’s put together a plan and head on down there now!”


Hi, there.

Have a look-see at my version of Donald Trump as he sits here in my rendition of the Oval Office.

I’m your narrator for this little fantasy tale. I’ll pop in every so often for a direct comment.

Maybe I’ll even appear in person late in the book, once Donald has been transformed into his better self.

Oops, a spoiler!

One more thing: Be advised that this novel is not safe for children. None of this author’s Santa Claus novels are safe for children. But then neither is the current political climate.

Hell, that ain’t safe for anybody.

Welcome to the People’s House, otherwise known as the White House.

And welcome to the Oval Office, where momentous decisions—far too many of them horrendous and hostile to our interests, but a significant few beneficial not just to us but to the planet as a whole—are arrived at.

Here sits Donald Trump, a portly gentleman—well okay, stop laughing, a big fat pig.

“How can I best demean this fucking place?” he wonders. “Make it my own?”

But let’s shift over into his point of view, shall we?

* * *

Before God and Santa manifested in the Oval Office, Trump sat musing. He had commanded solitude absolute.

He surveyed the room’s oval shape. As he sat centered just so at the desk, his head occupied the clitoral position, a pencil eraser at the top of a far too wide vulva. Maybe narrow the room, ditch the chairs, no need for visitors, make all the decisions himself in this soon-to-be-tightened little pussy.

President Trump’s excitable inner sanctum.

Perhaps he could whip out his stubby little cock and jack off on this desk.

But no.

That would require Viagra and some coconut oil, and there was too little time for the blue pill to take effect.

His fucking aides had their dicks tied in knots, salivating over First Day Project and undoing as many of Obama’s executive orders as possible.

But to hell with that shit, he thought. We’ll get into destroying the country soon enough, as soon as my family drops in, I toss them out, and my pack of handpicked wolves comes snarling in here, slavering and sycophanting about my ass.

Time to savor that top-of-the-world feeling. Ain’t no higher position on the whole goddamned planet.

I could fuck any woman I want right here. Find that crazed cunt-bitch who shoved her wailing rug rat at me, toss that bawling bundle of meat to the lions, and force her to suck me off right here, right where that what-the-fuck-was-she-an-intern-or-something licked Bill’s shitty little asshole.

Trump stopped.

Some vague shapes were swimming into view.

What the fuck?

Things were going all wonky.

Had someone spiked his punch?


At Santa’s suggestion, God had toned down the effect of his presence, hoping not to destroy, by virtue of being such a powerful and overwhelming presence, the human being to whom they were about to read the riot act.

Now, the two of them were in magic time.

Magic time allows beings benevolent and malevolent to move unseen among humanity, distributing gifts to billions of children in one night, for example, or bartering coins for teeth.

God and Santa were in magic time, but Trump was not.

Not yet.

He was, you might say, frozen in time.

Now here comes a very embarrassing part of my narrative. But trust me, I’m only reporting the truth of what happened. No unreliable narrator, I.

You see, when God took in, in full, the vile nature of the man seated behind the big, important-looking desk, he . . . well—let’s just out with it, so to speak—he projectile-vomited. And God’s vomit came within a quarter of an inch of hitting Trump’s face.

Now perhaps you suppose that his puke stopped short of Trump’s face because I’m avoiding depicting an ugly act against a newly anointed leader.

Quite the contrary.

For God eats nothing but pure energy.

That being so, his vomit has no stink. Is perhaps healing in its touch. There’s no way to know, since God so rarely loses his energetic lunch.

In any case, the Fates decided that Trump, at this stage of his arrested development, was unworthy of the Heavenly Father’s shower of puke.

Later in the story? Perhaps.

God inhaled grandly to draw back his vomit, every sacred droplet, reversing the reverse peristalsis he’d experienced a moment before.

“What did I just do?” asked God in astonishment.

“You purged,” said Santa. “Out the front end. I see that all the time on my rounds, cute little kids so excited at the thought of my nocturnal visit that they upchuck their dinners and have to be cleaned up and put to bed, sobbing and comforted.”

God gave a look of disgust. “If the psyches had been fixed properly, this clown wouldn’t be sitting here. No one would have voted for his royal incompetence. And governance worldwide, let alone here, wouldn’t be befouled by all manner of Machiavellian bullshit. Nope. There’d be utopias everywhere, deliciously manifesting all of humankind’s highly touted but just about universally ignored virtues of peace, love, and understanding. Don’t get me started!”

“May I again offer an apology?” said Santa.

“Hephaestus has got to see this. Just a second.”

God gestured into the air, and Hephaestus appeared. The smith was burly and ugly, his beard wild and unkempt, his legs broken from Zeus having tossed him off Mount Olympus ages ago, but well balanced in elaborate gold servomechanisms, his eyes ferocious and fiery yet rich with compassion.

“Whoa, what the hell am I doing here? I have a shitload of work to do in the psyche factory. This better be good.”

“Stuff your work. We’ve got problems with this particular corner of humanity.”

“The goddamned human race?” said the smith. “Harrumph! Bunch of recalcitrant motherfuckers.”

“Take a look at this man.”

Hephaestus, repulsed, glanced at the combed-back loser behind the desk. “This unworthy fuck? This nonentity? Why are we bothering with him?”

God took Hephaestus aside and gave him a crash course in earthly geopolitics, focusing especially on the nation-state in which they now stood.

“And this guy?”

“Look deep into his psyche.”

“Do I have to?”


The ruddy-faced Hephaestus turned increasingly whiter shades of pale as he braved the sight of this mutant psyche’s vast landscape of awfulness.

Hephaestus gaped.

He gasped.

He forgot to breathe,

Then he swore a blue streak, a red streak, and an ultraviolet streak. “I thought we fixed these, all of them, worldwide. Be right back.”

* * *

Okay, now. Time out.

Alert readers—that would be all of you—astutely recall from the prologue in heaven that Hephaestus already knew about this snafu.

So why is he surprised here?

Good call!

To confess, I have—or rather the author has—written this novella in all haste against a deadline, that being the shameful day of inauguration.

Such mix-ups occur in early drafts with amazing frequency, usually to be patched up in later drafts.

We’ve decided to leave both passages be.

Think of it as a hiccup of dream logic . . . or as the imperfect stitch in all Persian rugs.

We, the author and I, here offer our minima mea culpa.


Okay, then.

Back up and off we go!

* * *

Then he swore a blue streak, a red streak, and an ultraviolet streak. “I thought we fixed these, all of them, worldwide. Be right back.”

The burly blacksmith winked out, then in, holding his clone of the Trump psyche, a sphere standing a foot and a half tall. “Take a gander. This is what his clone in the psyche factory looks like. Should be an exact match. Didn’t we fix the goddamned human race a few years back?”

God gestured into the air and said, “You tell me. Scan the world.”

Hephaestus scanned. “Holy shit!”

“No such thing. I neither take nor give a shit. And until I saw this dreadful, wankeresque specimen of a human being, the same was true of my puke.”

God glared. “Now explain that,” he said, pointing into the heart of Trump.

Hephaestus popped out a clone, this time of the man’s current psyche, a sphere of the same size, but boy oh boy, was it a mess.

Hephaestus gave a low whistle. “Beats me. We had them, as always, perfectly in synch. This is a total cockup. I remember his psyche now. But what it has turned into is even worse than I recall. Let me give close scrutiny to them both.”

He bent to the task, examining first one, then the other. His sure hands pried open each psyche and peered inside.

He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s almost as if the old psyche, bad as it was, fought back against the fixes we tried earlier. As if it dug in its heels, turned its back, and found the vilest swamp it could to wallow in and get all defiantly mucky.

“With your permission, I’m going to head back to the psyche factory with these two specimens and figure out just where the disconnect is, not only for this psyche but for all the world’s psyches.”

“Go ahead,” God said. “But be snappy about it.”

Dilation Exercise 94

Below you’ll find Alan M. Clark’s weekly Dilation Exercise. Since this week’s workout is so close to the holidays, Robert Devereaux was asked to lead the exercise with material inspired by his series, The Santa Claus Chronicles. Using the cover artwork for the existing three novels as inspiration, he has written the captions below to deliver a seasonal delight! There are links to the books on in this post.

Please look at the picture, read the caption, above and below the images, and allow your imagination to go to work on them. Please don’t expand on the story lines in your comments. Need a further explanation? Go to Imagination Workout—The Dilation Exercises.

At the height of their passion, Saint Nick remembered having left his genitals in some needy grown-up’s stocking

Once retrieved, which could be accomplished in a flash, how might he conclude this fiery encounter with a genuine money shot?

Artwork: “Santa and the Tooth Fairy” copyright © 1992 Alan M. Clark. Cover art for Santa Steps Out, by Robert Devereaux, published by Deadite Press.

Hmmm, a pooper of coins.

How might he give such a gift to deserving tykes worldwide, without turning them into scorned freaks?

Artwork: “Santa Remote Viewing” copyright © 2011 Alan M. Clark. Cover art for Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes, by Robert Devereaux, published by Deadite Press.

Elevated to Son-of-God-ship, what a time to pop a boner!

All the heavenly host has noticed and stopped singing my praises, turning their eyes to the Big Boy Himself.

Artwork: “Santa’s Wet Dream” copyright © 2013 Alan M. Clark. Cover art for Santa Claus Saves the World, by Robert Devereaux, published by Deadite Press.

Captions are original to this post and are not excerpted from the novels.

Cameron Pierce has an article on LitReactor about Robert Devereaux’s Santa Claus Chronicles.


—Alan M. Clark and Robert Devereaux

Flash Fiction Friday: Kreepy Krawly pt. 4: Kreepy Krawly Gets His Goddamn Comeuppance

by Robert Devereaux


Way off in some distant woodland, in a cozy little hut on the edge of nowhere, there lived the purest young lady who ever graced a planet. Here name was Vesta Virgin and her mother’s name was Matronly Mama.

They sustained themselves on milk from their cow Crumplehorn, who, except for her left crumpled horn, was otherwise perfectly formed. Crumplehorn lived on sunlight, neither pissed nor shat, and lowed with sweet contentment all day long.

One morning, Matronly Mama said, “High time you found a man with a tasty cock, took him to bed, had babies, and lived happily ever after. I get to fuck him too. I’ve been hungry as all get-out since your papa had the nerve, the just plain goddamn temerity, to up and die on me. It’s cruel to be cockless.”

“Where might I find such a man, Mama?”

“Sit, girl.” Her mother uncovered a table-groaning crystal ball as large as the moon on one of those gusty, leaf-scattering autumn nights, swept her hand over it, and brought up the creep she had picked out for her daughter. They watched him whale the tar out of some hapless shithead dumb enough to venture out alone and then they watched his prey pour out his life’s blood in an old dark alleyway.

“That piece of crap? Really, Mama? He’s repulsive, a killer, he lacks body hair, and his face is weirdly wired. What’s more, he wades through pools of shit, pulls instruments of violence from them, and ends precious lives for no good reason.”

“Surface flaws merely. You’ll see.”

So Vesta shrugged, slipped into her prettiest dress of white linen and lace, knapsacked a thermos of Crumplehorn’s milk, and set out through the woods toward the hell hole known as suburbia.

As she walked, the sunlight swiftly dimmed to dusk, then dusked down into night. Paved roads rose up beneath her feet, bordered by gray swaths of sidewalk. Like surreptitious toadstools, homes and buildings popped up, then a seedy dance hall, a bar much too full of itself, and random squalid places that reeked of loneliness, blue-funk sexual frustration, and slit-my-wrists despair.

No one was about. Then that Kreepy Krawly joker from the crystal ball showed up.

Before the fucker shat a single drop of shit, Vesta recoiled at the odors rising from his body: rotting meat, roadkill, the vomit of a thousand lepers, cesspool swill, the stench of self-righteousness, six bigots’ worth of holier-than-thou, and wafts of vapidity like a miasma of slathered-on cologne steaming off the brainless, the mindless, the not-quite-there-and-never-would-be.

Then the fucker unloaded onto the asphalt a shit puddle that put to shame all those preparatory smells.

Jeepers and phew-eee!


But Vesta steeled herself.

Repulsive dude plunged his arm deep into his shit pool and pulled out a sword with a razor edge. Whick-whack went the sword and away fell Vesta’s clothing. But nary a drop of shit stained her nor was a drop of her blood shed. Blush-perfect skin, yummy breasts, nips that perked and peered, a superb cunt with the softest, most golden pubic hair that any Rumplestiltskin could hope to spin.

Gloriosky, what a gal!

Down he went again, pulling a blowtorch from his cloacal cache. Huge the flame and menacing his approach. But her virginal body remained untouched. Neither her scalp hair nor her silken private hair caught fire. Her eyelids remained unsinged.

A third time the sumbitch motherfucker known as Kreepy Krawly reached for an instrument of violence. A chainsaw. Such a tired choice. It revved up, flinging shit everywhere and closing in on her body. But its teeth broke on her virtue, it silenced to a halt, and the flung shit fell off her as if she were Teflon-coated.

The power of virgin purity never ceases to amaze!

Now it was Vesta’s turn. As she squatted, sweet fragrant love juice dripped from her sex. Her nipples grew hard. A milk not unlike Crumplehorn’s spurted from them. For good measure, she added three drops of cow’s milk.

This pure pool of liquid held promise. Vesta’s right hand and arm dove into it. Out came a dainty sword that cut clean and true.

Whick-whack! Vesta sliced open Kreepy Krawly’s forehead.

Whick-whack! Vesta sliced open Kreepy Krawly’s gut.

Double whammy: Shit for brains and leaky bowel syndrome, a lost cause in his present state of awful.

“Dude, you are so fucking full of shit,” she said. “Time for a bit of the old Heimlich, Mister Yucky Fuck-Ass Wretch!”

As though he were a toothpaste tube, she squoze Kreepy Krawly, deshittifying him until he was as limp as tired spaghetti. Then she wrung him out, twisting his flesh as tight as a wet bedsheet or as if it were bread dough elongated and braided.

She wove the spell her mom had given her, shoved his body deep into her sweet love-puddle of virtue, and pulled out a transformed man, one handsome dude, baby-soft body hair, a hefty dick, and a blond beard well-trimmed.

“I dub you Crispy Clean. I could see you inside Kreepy Krawly,” she said. “Now let’s you and me am-scray. This ain’t no place to raise a family.”

And Crispy Clean said in the richest baritone that ever was, “For a turned-on woman like you? Anything, snookie-wookums.”

She led him back the way she had come, tugging him by his cock as the landscape rose up green and grand around them. To him she said, “We’ll have babies, cute little tykes we can screw when they reach the age of consent. And my mama? She’s gonna love you whole heaps. You’ll see.”

Now you may be wondering if Vesta Virgin and Crispy Clean lived happily ever after, or some such storybook crapola.

I suppose it all depends, does it not, on how pure this newborn fellow Crispy Clean actually was. Did Vesta really have her way with that big bad rotter Kreepy Krawly, decomposing him in the acid bath of her liquid love, pulling out the pure guy locked inside that lousy fucker? And is she now headed for a future of endless bliss, kick-ass humping, and rainbows up the wazoo? Or did the violent deadener of souls known as Kreepy Krawly burrow deep inside this new man, so well hidden that even Vesta, with all her purity, cannot detect him, one day emerging when she’s snoring dead to the world and making sure her sleep turns bigger than big?

My dear sweet darling Inconstant Reader, light of my life and the finest apple in apple land, that’s really your call.

Conjure up your deepest terrors or your sweetest dreams, impose them on an imagined future for Crispy, for Vesta, and for Vesta’s mama. Then either cower and quiver in your fear, or revel in that zippy-dippy wonderland.

The outcome I leave to thee!


Author of Slaughterhouse High, Deadweight, Santa Steps Out, Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes, A Flight of Storks and Angels, and others. has the full story. I’ve lived in a multitude of places. And I’ve had the good fortune to have published five or six novels and a few dozen short stories.

Art “Shadow Games” copyright © 1993 Alan M. Clark

The Bizarro Legend of Kreepy Krawly


A special Flash Fiction Friday event Oct. 4th – Nov. 1st. Featuring the talents of MP Johnson, Shane McKenzie, Alan M. Clark, Robert Devereaux and Gabino Iglesias. Check back soon… or you may not have a back. Or maybe you’ll have a back, but with a knife in it! Boo!

“Shadow Games” copyright © 1993 Alan M. Clark


A feeling has been tearing up the underground of the fiction world. It’s a nightmare reflection of the society you inhabit, a surreal explosion of pop, punk, and the post-apocalypse. Over the last decade, Bizarro Fiction has changed the definition of avant garde, it’s abolished the traditional prose of yesterday and established a new precedent for awesome. Collected in this anthology is some of the best weird fiction from the past decade. Award-winning writers, cult prodigies and burgeoning talents all collected together in one place. This is what you’ve done with the last ten years of your life.

With stories by:

D. Harlan Wilson, Alissa Nutting, Joe R. Lansdale, Carlton Mellick III, Kevin L. Donihe, Blake Butler, Ryan Boudinot, Vincent Sakowski, Cody Goodfellow, Amelia Gray, Robert Devereaux, Mykle Hansen, Athena Villaverde, Matthew Revert, Garrett Cook, Roy Kesey, Jeremy Robert Johnson, Aimee Bender, Ian Watson & Roberto Quaglia, Jeremy C. Shipp, Andersen Prunty, Jedediah Berry, Andrea Kneeland, Kurt Dinan, David Agranoff, Ben Loory, Kris Saknussemm, Stephen Graham Jones, Bentley Little, David W. Barbee, and Tom Piccirilli.

Published by Eraserhead Press. Edited by Cameron Pierce.

Order The Best Bizarro Fiction of the Decade today.

New Releases From Deadite Press!


First time in paperback!

In the long-awaited follow up to DEAD SEA, it has been several months since the disease known as Hamelin’s Revenge decimated the world. Civilization has collapsed and the dead far outnumber the living. The survivors seek refuge from the roaming zombie hordes, but one-by-one, those shelters are falling.

Twenty-five survivors barricade themselves inside a former military bunker buried deep beneath a luxury hotel. They are safe from the zombies… but are they safe from one another? As supplies run low and despair sets in, each of them will find out just how far they’re willing to go to survive.

Brian Keene’s ENTOMBED… when the dead walk the earth, insanity is the only escape.

Click HERE to purchase!



Strap on your six-guns and saddle up for a shoot-out against a horde of angry Sasquatch, zombies, dinosaurs, and more.

The Old West has never been weirder or wilder than it has in the hands of master horror writer Brian Keene.

Morgan and his gang are on the run–from their pasts and from the posse riding hot on their heels, intent on seeing them hang. But when they take refuge in Crazy Bear Valley, their flight becomes a siege as they find themselves battling a legendary race of monstrous, bloodthirsty beings. Now, Morgan and his gang aren’t worried about hanging. They just want to live to see the dawn.

Deadite Press is proud to present Brian Keene’s An Occurrence in Crazy Bear Valley for the first time in paperback. Also includes the bonus short story “Lost Canyon of the Damned”.

Click HERE to purchase!


Karin has had enough of her abusive husband, Danny, so one day she kills him. With the aid of her attorney/lover she stays out of jail. The perfect crime and now she is free to live her life. But when she accidentally brings Danny back to life, her past is going to catch up to her.

Now Danny is a walking corpse and being undead has caused his worst desires to come out. Karin thought he was evil before, but she has no idea how much worse it’s going to get.

From Robert Devereaux (Slaughterhouse High, Santa Steps Out) comes a splatterpunk novel of outrageous gore and vicious sex.


Click HERE to purchase!