Jesse Jinx is a porn star. She has dreams of starting her own adult film production company where she and the other actors will be treated more fairly. But there won’t be a production company if she can’t come up with the money—or if there aren’t any porn stars left. A deranged killer is on the loose, targeting adult entertainers, and choking them to death with a weapon that leaves no trace of itself. When the authorities refuse to help Jesse and her two closest friends, the three women decide to take matters into their own hands . . . with axes. As their colleagues fall one by one, they have a plan to stay alive—and they’re ready to hatchet!
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Are you hungry for something different? Something weird? Horrific? Funny? Uncomfortable? Surreal? Try a slice.
A man opens his door to a most unusual salesman, whose wares are not quite what they seem… A writer on a retreat discovers a talking insect, and a tree bearing fruit that looks just like cats… A demented clown acts as one poor soul’s daily alarm clock… A man in a homemade spaceship encounters a terror he never could have expected – something that wasn’t in his guidebook… A professional eater starts to crave the most forbidden food… A man on the verge of suicide begins cutting, and in doing so, finds a reason to exist…
These and many more Tales of Bizarro and Absurdist Horror.
“I can certainly guarantee that no one has told a story like this before. It never goes where you think it will and always keeps you guessing…” –HORROR UNDERGROUND, on SuperGhost
“Ridiculous? Yeah. Silly? Hell yeah. Fun? Fuck yeah!” –SHOCK TOTEM, on SuperGhost
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by Scott Cole
The crashed car undid itself. Twisted metal unfolded, jagged edges smoothed, bent lines straightened. Patches of rust effervesced into the air and disappeared.
I reached for the driver’s side door handle, now shiny-new, and pulled. I sank down into the bucket seat, which seemed to somehow sit lower than the pavement beneath the tires.
The woman in the passenger seat was some sort of punk-jock hybrid. Black smears under her eyes. Multi-colored pigtails hanging at a dozen angles. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Safety pin in her lip. A torn jersey, oversized, with the number 99 on it. Yellow lipstick that seemed to glow, reflecting some unknown light source.
Upon closer inspection, I realized the smears on her cheeks were actually a pair of very detailed line drawings of tiny cars. Hot rods. Maybe tattooed there.
“Drive,” she said.
The spider web cracks in the windshield erased themselves, and I could see the surf racing toward us. From between the buildings, a wave of purple-gray water rushed in our direction, foaming pink along the edges like a chemical spill.
A kid on a dirt bike was wheelie-riding the crest of it, waving a severed, cherry-colored tentacle in the air above his head. His body language was telling us to go. Go now.
The car was already running. I popped it into reverse & checked the rearview on instinct. A pair of chimps sat nervously in the back seat, trapped in place by harnesses, cages with sensors wrapped around their heads. They were clearly distressed, but remained silent. I hadn’t noticed them until now. They locked eyes with my reflection.
“Drive! Drive! Drive!” the kid screamed.
I hit the gas, and spun the car backwards in an arc, then slammed on the brakes, moved the needle back to D, and gunned it. In the mirror, I spotted the kid between the chimps’ heads, pedaling furiously on the water. He dropped his front wheel and tossed the tentacle at us. It helicoptered through the air, landed on the trunk, and stuck there.
The water behind us seemed to grow taller as the buildings receded in the distance. Ahead, I spotted a bridge. I knew if I could just make it there before the water reached us, everything would be fine.
“Drive! Drive! Drive!” my punk-jock companion yelled, slapping her palms on the dashboard with each word. The chimps started panting, showing their panic.
I gripped the steering wheel as hard as I could and stood on the gas pedal. We raced toward the bridge, hitting the entrance just a moment later. The car bucked as we began climbing the span, and the purple wave behind us crashed around the foot of it, bleeding into the river beneath us.
The woman beside me screamed, excited, but the chimps in the back looked no more relaxed. The kid on the bike had disappeared. I was pretty sure he drowned. The tentacle on the trunk was wagging in the wind like a tail.
And then, as we reached the middle point of the bridge, it gave out. The center of the structure just ahead of us crumbled and fell into the water below. We launched off one ragged end, into the air, and hung there, floating like some cartoon bad guy before recognizing the existence of gravity.
We’re still hanging here, floating like a metal cloud between the two broken stubs of a formerly functional bridge. But the chimps no longer seem concerned.
Scott Cole has written numerous words, which have appeared in places like Bizarro Central, Weirdyear, Flashes In The Dark, and MicroHorror, not to mention countless emails. He also makes pictures, which have been featured in magazines and on people’s walls. He lives in Philadelphia, where he likes to listen to strange music and drink coffee.
by Scott Cole
“Put a damn shirt on,” she says. It’s about all she’s said to me for the last twelve hours.
“Shut up,” I say in response, too quiet for her to actually hear. I head into the kitchen and find myself staring blankly into the fridge several moments later, hungry for something that doesn’t seem to be there.
I shut the door and stand in the middle of the room, not quite sure what I want to do next. My head is fuzzy, and I’m deeply, fundamentally tired. I check the fridge again, but still nothing looks good.
She comes in from the den, with a plate full of bones in one hand, bobbing in time with her steps and the smoldering cigarette dangling from her lips. There’s a crash as she drops the plate into the sink, and the remains of whatever she just ate scatter themselves randomly around the basin. I look up, realizing I’ve been staring at the mousetrap in the corner of the room for a while, and flash her a look.
“What the hell is wrong with you today?” she asks.
I don’t respond at all this time. She looks me up and down, and squints as she takes a pull from her smoke, then pops her lips open, and shakes her head disapprovingly before exhaling.
“Put a fucking shirt on already. It’s disgusting,” she says, before choking on the cloud hovering around her head.
And suddenly she’s disappeared from the room, and I’m left standing there, wondering what she meant. Sure, I’ve put on a few pounds in the last month or two—but “disgusting”?
And then it hits me, quite literally. Her hand, then her wrist, then her arm up to the elbow, slide out of my chest, slicked wet with what I can only assume is my blood.
“You see? This is what I’m talking about!” she yells, right into my ear. “Now will you please put a goddamn shirt on?”
I look down at myself, completely bewildered—though I feel no pain—staring at the massive wound I’ve been carrying around for who knows how long. Standing behind me, she thrusts her arm in and out of it in a vaguely sensual manner, and I’m more than a little grossed out, not to mention physically shaken.
She extracts her arm, and circles around me, then flicks her cigarette into the sink and spits on the wall. She wipes my blood on her pants as she exits the room.
And I find myself standing there again, just staring, thinking, dazed. I hear her coughing again from the other room.
And it occurs to me that she’s right. This is disgusting. I should show a little consideration. I head to the other room, to find a shirt.