God is a place with no scope—a room with no space, walls of no height, imaginary windows, illusionary doors. It cannot be gleaned from out here or in there, nor in thought or dream. It is a place where nothing exists—a place in name only; oblivion, death.
It always was, it is, and it forever will be – yet never were, and can never become. In this paradox lives the illusion of scale and creation, growth from motion and emotion, free will and meaning; a place that is not God.
Perforce, you exist and life is part of something rather than nothing. Perforce, you feel there are choices you make. Of course, these are the illusions. You can attempt to believe, seek solace– distraction as well—in the stories we tell to avoid the truth, looming: You are a prisoner of Eternity until you return to the place that is God—a place you never left.
Not far from where you sit, right now, just a mile or two away, there is a house you never really notice. It has white, vinyl siding, a small porch, a basement. A single rose bush decorates the front yard. Not far from you there is a man sitting in a chair and savoring the weight of a gun in his hands. It might be a new gun or something he’s had forever. Maybe it was his inheritance from a careless father or he bought it from the back of a van or at a gun show. Depending on where you are, the man might be holding a semi-automatic rifle or a .22 caliber pistol or maybe a .357 Magnum. Not far from you, a woman, or child, or man stands, oblivious, in a kitchen, maybe chopping onions, or on a sidewalk, or is maybe entering a school or movie theater. A commonplace horror will happen very soon. It will happen so close to where you are, right this second, that a stray bullet could come through your window or even a wall and take you the fuck out. Or it might take out your child, your wife, your dog. You have always held that “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” What about when your own baby has been shredded by high caliber bullets? What about when you don’t even know you are screaming until someone puts a needle in your arm? But you still have a little time before it all goes down, so relax. Drink your coffee and don’t think about your neighbors. Look out your window at America.
Meat the Messiah: s01e06 – The One with Tyler Durden
bukowski and elvis are in a bar, drinking turpentine. there is no laughter or small talk. there is only the sound of liquid swallows, the occasional belch, and the slow ooze of a languid jukebox.
the phone rings like a fire alarm and startles a few people who are alert enough to react.
bartender: hank? hank bukowski?
bukowski: what.
bartender: phone.
bukowski: fine.
he puts the phone to his ear.
tyler durden: hank. i need to tell you the story of the wafflehouse at the end of the world.
bukowski: make it quick.
tyler durden: the waffle house was empty save for ross from friends, margaret (the waitress), and demetri (the cook). ross sat at their old booth, on this last day of earth. margaret approached, ‘haven’t seen you in years.’ ross said that it was too painful to come back here. ‘can i get you some coffee?’ ross heard gunshots off in the distance. no sirens. monica walked in, 67 years old, dressed like hitler. she walked over and sat across from ross. ross said, ‘i thought you would ditch the getup for the last day.’ monica said, ‘this is who i am now.’ he said, ‘but we’re jewish! is this some sort of commentary on how wealthy jews disproportionately support the genocide in gaza?’ she frowned, ‘no… he likes it when i’m hitler.’ then it was ross’s turn to frown, ‘oh you had to bring him up. that’s just great.’ ‘ross, you need to get over it.’ the waitress came back for their orders. ross said, ‘i’m not hungry anymore,’ and left. ‘don’t ruin the last day, ross!’ she shouted after him to no avail. rachel/hitler looked at the waitress, who didn’t seem to care she was dressed as hitler. ‘can i ask you something? why did you come into work today?’
‘waffle house never closes.’
bulowski: i’ve heard that one before, asshole!
he hangs up the phone.
***commercial break***
in yellow font the title text reads 50 romantic classics, while schmaltzy orchestrations play and song titles scroll up the screen, with vasseline-smeared footage of sunsets and a happy couple walking along an idyllic beach in the background.
the most romantic music you have ever heard, sure to rekindle any romance. fall in love all over again with 50 romantic classics. glide across the room with her, dancing on a river of silk. you are still the most beautiful people of your high school class, some 40 years later. sure she’s fucking the gardener and you inflict your hatred of women onto your employees, particularly your secretary, who has endured your leering and gropes and dismissals for years. she lives alone in an efficiency apartment with one cat. she would prefer a dog, but she couldn’t maintain a dog with the hours you make her work. edna is her name and you call her eddy, despite the fact that she despises that nickname and hasn’t told you that for fear of reprisal. she had dreams of moving to the big city and meeting meet another lesbian to spend her life with, but you never paid her enough to save up. in two years she will die of an aneurysm and you will not go to her funeral. but none of that matters with 50 romantic classics. you’ll feel the divorce papers melt away with this carefully curated selection of only the most romantic songs.
***
the smoke at the bar hangs low. ever since the death of the wind machine, the smog doesn’t seem to go anywhere. elvis and bukowski drink in silence. the bar phone splits the silence again.
bartender: hello? …is there an elvis here?
elvis costello: which one?
bartender: presley
elvis: yeah man.
tyler durden: pov: you’re staring down the length of the limo’s interior. you look over at your studio-mandated wife and finish your watered down scotch. you know you’ve never brought her to climax and you see the flashbulbs through the tinted window. it’s showtime and you both put on your public faces. the door opens a flood of light hits your eye. you accept it with grace. your every move is hypnosis, well practiced and gilded. you step on the red carpet to a storm of bulbs. you smile and your teeth shine back like high beams on a country road. you take your wife’s hand, knowing your hands are clammy. you can feel her slightly recoil from your touch, but not in way that’s visible, because she’s a pro and you’re a pro, and you go out there and turn on the charm.
interviewer: in this fast paced modern world, how do you stay so fit?
you: i eat healthy and have lots of sex with this hottie right here.
interviewer: who are you wearing?
you: kmart tuxedos.
(everyone laughs because kmart is for poor people.)
interviewer: when are you and your wife going to be in a movie together?
you: there’s something in the works. stay tuned. think eyes wide shut but sexy.
you move inside and watch the movie you’re in and it’s awful. just agonizing slop. you don’t care. you already got paid. you’re the biggest actor in hollywood and this will make a billion at the box office easy. the limo drops your wife off at her house before dropping you off at your house. you don’t have the energy for after parties tonight. waiting behind the bush is the ceo of kmart and he smashes you in the face with a morning star spiked mace, then runs off into the night. half your jaw is gone and you lay in your driveway breathing bloody foam–no one around to help. before you pass out, you let out this plaintive prayer:
dear lord,
what is the weekend? everybody’s so mean.
elvis: i don’t get the point of this.
***commercial break***
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***
at the bar, the smoke is so thick, there’s 3 foot visibility. bukowski’s on his 11th whiskey; elvis on his 9th.
bukowski: if that asshole calls again, i’m gonna kick his ass.
elvis: i think he’d like that.
the phone rings again. the bartender answers. he says this call is for everyone at the bar and puts it on speakerphone.
tyler durden: marty shambles, author of MEAT THE MESSIAH, is fabulously wealthy from all of his book sales, and lives in beverly hills. we sat down with him in his palatial home to talk about his work, his life, and what the heck makes him tick.
rolling stone: your book has been described as a self-indulgent heap of filth. what do you say to these detractors?
marty shambles (field dressing a dear in his drawing room, pauses to show his coffee mug that reads world’s best author): you think amazon would sell that to anybody?
rs: right wingers hate you because they say you’re woke. left wingers hate you because they think you’re a racist.
ms (posing for a portrait with regal stature): no matter who hates me, i support the immortal science of marxism-leninism.
rs: what about mao?
ms: who?
rs: what’s your next book?
ms (mixing himself a cocktail of morphine and dextromethorphan): i’m thinking a sequel to the great gatsby where gatsby’s manor is haunted by all the ghosts of the booming 20s. gatsby has huge ghost parties every night, hoping daisy will return.
horror, adj. inspiring or creating loathing, aversion, etc.
sleaze, adj. contemptibly low, mean, or disreputable
trash, n. literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality
Welcome to HSTQ: Fall 2024, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!
Featuring poetry by Taryn Allan, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, M.P. Powers, Jason Melvin, Tempest Miller, Michael Ashley, Alan Catlin, Jade Palmer, Damon Hubbs, Brooks Lindberg, Johnny Scarlotti, Casey Renee Kiser, Karl Koweski, and Noel Negele.
Princess Cherrypop idly pet her pussy by the side of the River of Sparkling Goodness, fantasizing about the day a charming, handsome prince would appear before her, offering to chastly marry her and. carry her to his palace where extremely vanilla proceedings would take place and little to none of the “kink,” except for perhaps a mild spanking.
“Oh Twatzapooner,” she cried, youthful tears spilling down her cheeks,” my heart yearns for him. When will he hear my pleas, and manifest my desire?”
But answer came there none. Instead, an eyebird came and began to peck at the berries of a Broomjumb tree that went up and up almost beyond the visible, with its top plunged through a labial fold in the clouds…which vaguely reminded her of something.
“Twatzapooner will never hear you, I can assure you, my pretty,” boomed a dark, oily and evil voice within her head. It seemed to expand and expand, the pressure awful and enormous, and every word like a knife stabbing her brain. Cherrypop screamed.
“What do you WANT with me, Nair? I’ve never troubled you in the slightest!!! Why must you be so CRUEL to me, you heatless…words that rhyme with other words disallowed me by decree of my father, King Hubert Longwood XII, King of Euphoria?”
The Baroness Cuntingham, Queen of Nair, then laughed, and the laugh was hideous, and the knives redoubled with stabbing frenzy, and the Princess Cherrypop wished for death.
She wished to be felled on the spot by the ax of a stray woodsman, specifically, the pain was so bad.
Suddenly she heard the voice of the goddess Twatzapooner herself inside her head, masking Nair’s.
“My dear Princess Cherrypop, do not fear, my child. I will requite your faith in me. Do but use the pussypower I have invested in the maternal line of the royal lineage of the Kingdom of Euphoria from time immemorial. Remember, that is the power that Baroness Cuttingham, Queen of Nair, wishes to take from you, by force if necessary.”
“I know it well, dear Twatzapooner…I know her plans too well!” cried the princess. “She has sent many a gremlin with cutting tools to excise my precious pussy; she has sent bands of awful mutated beasts to drag me off into the woods. She has bound me and stopped me my mouth with plugs of rubber–a sensation not unpleasurable, which didst cause me pussysquirt. But what she wishes, I cannot provide.”
“I cannot provide this either, child,” said Twatzapooner, manifesting beside the princess beside the River. She was wearing a puffy pink dress that followed the divine camel lips, a crown inset with diamonds, a pink leather bustier and a d-ring, and long pink leather gloves. “I am bound by the same laws as thee, and all the other creatures within my domain. For it is well said that even the gods cannot subvene where law exists.
“It pains me much that the only means I have available to rescue you from your plight–the stabbing of the dreaded Raven’s Claw weapon wielded by Nair, by Cuntingham, is to indeed summon the aid of the woodsman, Rudolpho.” She waved her wand and instantly by her side appeared the woodsman, Rudolpho.
Unfortunately, Rudolpho was of a beastly and brutish cast and understood little, including the skill by which better woodsmen kept their axe blades sharp af. As a consequence, when the goddess Twatzapooner bid him swipe off the princess’s head, it was not in a single smooth motion, but in a ghastly series of whacks that caused her head to sag partially off at the neck. The feeling of the dull ax blade at her neck caused the princess great pain, which, coupled with the stabbing sensations caused by the magical weapon the Raven’s Claw, made things far worse for her.
“Merciful Twatzapooner,” cried the princess, “i am in utter agony the likes of which this young body cannot long endure.” So saying, the princess sagged down, her eyes rolling up towards the back of her head, exposing the whites. Gussets of blood foamed from her neck and spilled from between her lips. She placed her palms together once in supplication, then closed her eyes forever.
Cuntingham screamed. “Twatzapooner, whatever happened to our agreement. the Wednesday Friday Henne Accord?”
“My dear cunting Cuntingham, you must have been at the jubjub juice, because thou makest less than no sense. Why, knowing that my powers are vastly superior to yours insofar as I created you and can snuff you with a thought, do you wish to incur my wrath?”
“Oh piss off, Twatzapooner,” cried Nair. “I”m the new power in Euphoria, and have been for a lon–“
The words had scarce exited her peeling, sore-encrusted lips when a pain of awful dimensions suddenly stabbed deep within her head.
“How do you like the Raven’s Claw within thine own skull?” chortled Twatzapooner.
“I fucking HATE it,” roared Cuntingham. “Stop these shenanigans immediately! I’m warning you for the…”
But this time the words were stifled immediately. The flesh of her lips sealed in on itself with lightning speed, effectively gagging her. Her throat felt swollen, as though she were choking endlessly and would never be able to eject the foreign object now permanently embedded in her throat. The agony of the Raven’s Claw renewed itself over and over and over, as, beside her, the Princess Cherrypop’s soul left her body and ascended to a heaven as rapturously beautiful and pain-free as the body she had abandoned was full of torture and pain.
Then Nair felt something kick her in the chest like a mule. She tried to clutch at her chest, but the woodsman had returned from the tree he had been hiding behind, shitting himself in terror as he watched the goddesses’ wrath unfurl. With the seat of his britches stained, dripping and smelly from an awful load, his ax-wielding grip was forced to raise the blade against Nair this time. He whacked and he whacked and he whacked, opening up huge bloody wounds in her chest.
“I wish I could die like that bitch Cherrypop,” thought Nair.
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?” roared Twatzapooner.
“I said…I WISH I COULD JUST…”
With another wave of her want, Twatzapooner silenced Nair’s inner voice.
It was the worst feeling imaginable. Nair was now twice muted, in pain that rose to a level she had never once experienced in her life. She was beset within and without with excruciating torment, yet due to Twatzapooner’s power she remained terribly conscious, locked within her own head.
“You keep forgetting that the Wednesday Friday Bwak Bwak Bwak Accord was purely a figment of your cuntish imagination,” said Twatzapooner with a girlish giggle. “Now you will spend eternity…or until I release you for good behavior, which you will never be able to achieve due to the state I’ve placed you in…suffering all the hellish cruelties of heaven over and over and over again. Truly it was once said that we are here to hurt each other, and even a goddess must play by the rules ordained since time began. Sucks to be you.”
And with those words, Twatzapooner joined Cherrypop in heaven which was like Euphoria only transcendental and sublime. Twatzapooner gave the Princess the option of returning to Earth in her own form, which she accepted, and within seconds she found herself tumbled once more to the side of her beloved cat, Mimsywroth, who meowed in welcome of her mistress.
From very far away, Cherrypop thought she could hear the sounds of a cuntish Queen screaming. “But then again,” she said to herself, “it’s probably the wind.”
In the hotel bar, he ordered another drink and noticed the woman staring at him.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’
His smile flashed. ‘Only you can answer that,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Ethan Latrine. But keep schtum. Don’t fancy getting mobbed tonight.’
‘I knew it.’ She slid her stool closer. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Shooting some scenes. Want a drink?’
‘Vodka tonic,’ she said.
He summoned the bartender. ‘Vodka tonic for the handsome lady. Put it on my tab.’
The bartender nodded. ‘Right away, Mister Latrine.’
‘So,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Some boring tech conference,’ she said.
The bartender served the drinks.
‘What’s Vivien Duvet like?’ She took a sip.
He scratched his cleft chin. ‘Total diva. Terrible kisser.’
‘And you’re an expert?’
‘These lips are legendary.’
‘Prove it,’ she said, sliding her foot up his leg.
He grinned. ‘Let’s finish these and go to my room.’
‘I shouldn’t. I’m—’
‘It’s fine.’ He stood to leave. ‘I understand.’
She grabbed his arm. ‘Wait.’ She paused for thought. ‘Okay.’
They drained their drinks and headed down a narrow corridor. At its end stood a dishevelled brown door without a number. He opened it. ‘Ladies first,’ he said.
The room was tiny, cramped with a single bed that sagged in the middle.
‘You’re staying here?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Method actor. My next role’s a hotel housekeeper.’
‘Interesting.’
He sat on the bed and placed his hands on her thighs.
She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the curves of her breasts, etched with purple stretch marks.
‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’
‘Stunning.’
She lifted her skirt and climbed on top of him. Moments later, his cowboy boots kicked the air as he climaxed with a high-pitched groan.
He lit a cigarette as she perched on the edge of the bed and sobbed into her hands.
‘Was it that bad?’ He blew a smoke ring.
She looked at him. ‘No, it was amazing,’ she said. ‘It’s my life. I wish someone could take me away from it.’
He sat up and took her hand. ‘You’ve got to leave. I’m late for a meeting with Stephen Sodenberg. But give me your number, and I’ll call you.’
‘Promise?’
‘On my mother’s life.’
She kissed him, gave the number, and left.
He cleaned himself with hand sanitiser and returned to the bar.
‘Cerveza, por favor,’ he said, drumming with his fingers.
The bartender smirked. ‘That was quick.’
‘Not my finest hour.’
‘How was she?’
‘Let’s say she won’t be landing any modelling contracts.’
‘You’re a naughty man, Terrence,’ the bartender said. ‘I thought you never shit where you eat? She might stick around.’
‘Two weeks off starting tomorrow,’ Terrence said, raising his beer. ‘By the time I’m back, she’ll be long gone.’
Days later Terrence found himself at a run-down bar far from the city, his body aching from the previous night’s indulgence.
‘One moment,’ the bartender said and gave him a double glance. ‘My God, it’s you.’
His smile flashed. ‘Only you can answer that,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Ethan Latrine. But keep schtum. I don’t fancy getting mobbed tonight.’
‘Sign this for me?’ she said, sliding him a napkin.
He pulled out his pen. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Amber.’
‘To Amber, with pleasure. Ethan Latrine.’
She leaned in, her boozy breath mixing with her pungent perfume. ‘I loved you in that serial killer movie.’
‘A Sophisticated British Psycho,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I fantasise about you a lot.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ He pulled her close and lifted her shirt, revealing her tiny breasts and a Caesarean scar that curved across her toned stomach.
‘Is this a dream?’ she said, biting his neck.
He reached up her skirt and massaged her clitoris. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said.
She pulled away. ‘Let me freshen up.’
Terrence pressed his fingers to his nose. ‘Smells fresh to me.’
‘Ten minutes. Meet me outside by the bins,’ she said.
She locked the main door and headed out the back. He tucked his erection into his waistband and watched the clock.
Ten minutes later, he stepped into the alley.
Amber leaned over the bin. ‘Come and get me,’ she said.
Terrence felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face a human-sized magpie wearing a football shirt. ‘No autographs, friend.’
‘I’m not your friend, anus,’ the mascot said before punching him unconscious.
Terrence woke, tied to a chair in a room littered with garbage. The rancid smell of stale takeaway food mingled with the sweaty air.
‘He’s awake,’ Amber called.
The man in the mascot outfit rushed into the room. ‘About time. Listen up. We’re ransoming you. Play along, and it’ll go as smooth as butter. You namby-pamby actors have insurance coming out of your arse. It’s a victimless crime. And I owe a substantial debt to some dangerous people. Sub… stantial.’
‘You’ve made a big mistake,’ Terrence said.
In a frenzy, the man grabbed his throat. ‘Don’t threaten me, Latrine.’
‘I’m not Ethan Latrine.’
Amber held up a poster of A Sophisticated British Psycho beside his face. ‘Donald, what if he’s telling the truth?’
‘Never trust a damn actor, stupid. They lie for a living.’ Donald loosened his grip.
Terrence’s head sagged forward. ‘Imbeciles,’ he muttered.
‘No, we caught you,’ Amber said.
‘Caught me? Am I some great marlin to you? Speaking of fish, I bet you didn’t tell your boyfriend about our foreplay at the bar. Smell my fingers, Donald. Go on—’
‘I’m his sister, sicko,’ Amber said.
Donald paced the room. ‘Oh, you fingered my sister. I wanted to be professional, but you leave me no choice.’ A sick laugh escaped from his beak. ‘I know what to do with you.’
He left and returned holding bolt cutters. Without hesitation, he snipped off his thumb. Terrence’s delayed reaction erupted into a high-pitched wail.
‘Shut that slag up,’ Donald said.
Amber plucked a stale sock from the clutter and stuffed it into Terrence’s mouth.
‘I’ve got an errand to run,’ Donald said. ‘But I’ll be back. You even look at my sister, I’ll snip off your pork sword and feed it to you.’
Amber picked up a long screwdriver. ‘He won’t try anything.’
Donald rubbed his hands together. ‘This time tomorrow, we’ll be millionaires.’
He left, and Amber shut the door.
Searing pain throbbed in Terrence’s hand as he stared at the ceiling. Of all the bars… How did I end up here? he thought. All the lies, the cons, the women, the shortcuts. God, I should’ve stayed in culinary school.
‘Finally, we’re alone,’ she said. ‘I read in Tinseltown Tattle that you like it rough.’ She ripped his shirt open and yanked his chest hair.
Terrence clenched his jaw and tried to speak.
‘Something to say?’ Amber removed the sock from his mouth.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m not Ethan Latrine.’
She crouched to meet his eyes. Her lips quivered. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ she whispered. ‘Donald says I’m stupid. Maybe I am. But not about this.’ She unzipped his trousers and held the screwdriver’s tip to his urethral opening. ‘For every lie, I’ll slide an inch inside.’
‘Wait, okay. I admit it. Let me go. I’ll give you the life you’ve always dreamed of. Don’t you want to be famous?’
‘Don’t mess with my head.’
‘Amber, I can take you far away from here.’
‘Donald says no man’s good enough for me.’ She glanced at the door. ‘But I don’t want to die here alone with him.’
‘Then let’s run away to India together.’
Amber’s eyes lit up. ‘Like in Gone with Love?’
‘Exactly. You’re Marlene, and I’m Winston.’
‘I love that movie,’ she said, waving the screwdriver around. ‘You have enraptured me, heart and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.’
‘Amber, I need you to save me.’
She pressed her nose to his. ‘You and me. Always,’ she said.
Donald barged into the room. ‘Get away from him. You don’t know where he’s been.’ He handed her a video camera. ‘Set this up, stupid.’
Amber screamed and drove the screwdriver into Donald’s temple. He collapsed into a seizure, thrashing in the garbage. She grabbed a cricket bat and hit him across the head, sending a sickening crack through the room.
Terrence stared, frozen in disbelief.
As Amber mashed Donald’s skull, she imagined herself in a glamorous dress, walking the red carpet with Ethan, flashes going off, perfume adverts, and her face on gossip magazine covers.
Terrence shut his eyes, but rhythmic, wet thuds echoed in his ears.
Panting, Amber dropped the bat and pressed play on the dusty CD player. God Only Knows by David Bowie crackled through the speakers.
‘We’ll dance to this at our wedding,’ she said.
Terrence stared at the brain matter on his knee.
Amber, her eyes full of delirium, climbed onto his lap. She caressed his face, leaving behind a streak of crimson. ‘I saved you,’ she said. ‘Our love… it’ll be like a movie.’
the procession of war dead pulls into the closest emergency room so hulk hogan can get his dick checked.
receptionist: we have a 5 hour wait.
hulk: but i’m famous.
receptionist: oh. well why didn’t you say so? the famous line is about 5 minutes. james woods is in there right now. his vaginachest has a yeast infection.
hulk: are you supposed to tell me that?
receptionist: i can say whatever i want about famous people. that’s the trade-off.
the door opens and james woods comes out wearing a trenchcoat.
woods: thanks, doc. let’s work on that bedside manner, okay? okay. You’re beautiful… hulk hogan, i’m a big fan. we should do lunch sometime. oh this vaginachest? yeah i did this movie in 80s, videodrome, and for one scene i have a vagina in my chest. that’s not a special effect. cronenberg said i needed to go full method on it. so i did. and it’s kept me out of the big leagues since then… that and the vast liberal conspiracy to undermine people of liberty, like myself…
receptionist: the doctor will see you now, hulk.
woods: seriously, hulk, let’s do lunch.
hulk steps through the door to find a blank, white, unnecessarily long hallway.
receptionist: it’s at the end of the hallway.
hulk: thanks brother!
receptionist: i’m a woman.
hulk: i know.
***commercial break***
the last woman on earth goes to a toxic river and washes her hair with herbal essences shampoo, which gives her multiple orgasms.
***
hulk walks down the long, bleachburn white hallway. he hears women snickering, but he can’t see anyone. the sound of footsteps behind him, but nothing’s there. he comes to the end of the hall and walks through the door.
hugh laurie is there in a white coat, with a stethoscope around his neck.
laurie: why does it smell like rotten sausage in here?
hulk: that’s my dangle brother!
laurie: danglebrother? what’s a danglebrother?
hulk: my dick was bit by a bat and now it’s rotting brother!
laurie: dangle… oh i get it now… let’s see this offending member.
hulk removes his spandex to reveal a truly gross dong. i mean puss and maggots, the whole 9.
laurie: wow dude. that’s disgusting.
one of the dick maggots looks up at them. he speaks in a gravely new york accent.
maggot: do you mind? i’m trying to eat here.
***commercial break***
a grizzled old fuck sits in a chair and smokes a cigarette. he drinks a monster energy. ‘hi, i’m marty shambles, author of MEAT THE MESSIAH, a delightful little romp into the world of american ideology; a delusional mix of humor, horror, and media commentary that’s sure to make you go, what the heck? in this fast paced digital world, it’s hard to get away from the bustle of modern life. books are known to reduce stress and expand the mind. so go to your local bookstore and demand they carry MEAT THE MESSIAH.’
***
the maggots do a ragtime chorus performance on the rotting dick. one maggot turns to hugh laurie.
maggot: we’re all big fans, mr. laurie.
laurie: any dick maggot of hulk hogan’s is a dick maggot of mine. call me hugh.
hulk: how’s it look, doc?
laurie: i’m not a doctor, but it looks like we need to cut your dick off.
hulk: can i get a second opinion?
laurie: sure. hey ben! come get a load of this!
benedict cumberbatch comes in from a hidden doorway in the wall.
ben: what’s up?
laurie (gesturing toward the dead dick): what do you think?
ben: ugh, gross! cut that thing off. it fucking stinks!
laurie: well there ya go. gotta cut your dick off. looks like it hasn’t spread to the head, so we could reattach that to the base and you could have a raging half-incher.
hulk: and if i don’t?
laurie: it will spread to the rest of your body and kill you in spectacularly painful and disgusting ways.
hulk: oh brother…
hulk looks at the camera like ‘what am i gonna do?’
How Earl Jackson came to have Cole Hanson’s testicles in his hands wasn’t about passion, as so often is the case. Because rarely does lovemaking involve garrotting your partner’s nuts with baling wire. No, this was about a dog.
Earl found himself living alone in his mother’s house. That came to pass because of the cancer that took root in her throat and mouth.
“I dipped since I was nine-and-half and ain’t nothing bad ever happened to me,” she repeated like a mantra up until the malignancy spirited away her voice. The entirety of her would follow three months later.
The downtown bungalow was more than a century old, livable but in need of repair. Regrettably, his pay at a local auto parts store was so abysmal that it would have been criminal in most European countries. So instead, the house decayed around him, further fueling his depression.
The malaise that cast over Earl’s spirit fed off his anima and grew similarly to the way the webs of fungal rot did across the floor joists beneath his feet. That was until one night when he saw something lying on the road.
When Earl first caught a glimpse of it, he couldn’t help but think it looked like a large brown bean. However, beans don’t move on their own.
Further inspection revealed it to be a puppy -far too young to be away from its mother.
Earl took the helpless creature home and bottle-fed it. He would grow up into a pitbull named Remy.
***
Four years passed, and whatever cosmic alchemy holds the human species to the canine took hold with a firm grip. However, all things are temporal, even the love between a man and his dog.
***
Where the pair lived could crassly be called a ‘high crime area’. Though, Earl had never been the victim of it. This was especially true with the sharp ears and even sharper teeth of Remy sleeping at the foot of his bed each night.
The thing is, laws don’t matter when the criminals wear badges.
***
Earl Jackson’s doors were breached at four in the morning. Remy alerted him immediately.
He nudged the door open and exited the bedroom ahead of Earl, who had lifted an old machete from underneath his bed before following.
Just as he reached the bedroom door, Earl heard a rifle resound in his hallway followed by a sickening yelp. He rushed to the aid of his best friend without consideration for his own safety.
There, just inside the front door, Earl was confronted with the outline of a man dressed in tactical armor, his face covered by a mask. He was pointing a semi-automatic rifle down at Remy who writhed and squalled on the floor in throes of immense pain.
Remy’s back legs were paralyzed from a single round that had severed the dog’s spine.
The home invader fired a round at Earl. He missed his center mass and hit him in the right leg. This shattered his femur which left Earl incapacitated.
Then two more shots rang out, followed by squeals and howling as the masked man had cruelly shot off both of Remy’s front paws.
“I reckon he won’t be squeaking around on one of those stupid dog wheelchairs,” a gruff voice said laughing from behind the mask. “You should have restrained your dog, you stupid motherfucker.”
Earl said nothing, in shock but still aware.
“Oh, I see them angry eyes glaring at me. But ain’t shit can be done to stop me now, boy,” the man said as he placed the muzzle of his rifle against Remy’s convulsing skull and pulled the trigger.
A moment later another voice from behind the goon in the doorway shouted, “Goddamn it, Hanson! You stupid, fuck up son of a bitch. This was your raid.”
“Mr. Wilkerson is in custody. What else is there?”
“Mr. Wilkerson is white! That’s what!” the second man shouted, pointing down at Earl’s dark brown complexion. “I don’t even need to look at his driver’s license to know you got the wrong goddamn house!”
Both ignored Earl Jackson’s severe injury and continued their discussion.
“He sicced his dog on me and was armed with a machete. You know how they are,” Hanson said flippantly.
“The lot of them,” the second officer agreed, chuckling. “I reckon we’ve let him wiggle and jiggle across the bloody floor long enough. Might as well call an ambulance. If he dies, it means even more paperwork.”
***
When Earl woke, he was handcuffed to a hospital bed. It was overkill considering he had a full cast on his right leg and tubes running out of him.
The television had been left on an obscure cable network that was showing reruns of an equestrian competition. Though he’d never been interested in horses, Earl found himself transfixed.
Time tarried on. The handcuffs eventually came off and the officer who’d been stationed at Earl’s door went away. Now it was a parade of lawyers and the acolytes who helped them suck meat from the bone when those acting on the government’s behalf did naughty shit.
The civil proceedings dragged on far beyond Earl’s acquittal and recovery. His coworkers joked about how he was already a rich man, but never believed it. Until one day he was, compliments of the city’s insurance policy.
In the interim, Officer Hanson was demoted. But, three months later he was repromoted to his former rank with a pat on the back and wink of an eye.
With the money, Earl Jackson bought a large farm east of town. There, he had a house built, and an indoor equestrian complex constructed. He opened it up as a training and competition space, often free of charge.
***
Despite now being a vindicated pillar of the community, Earl had a grave secret. Buried underneath the well-appointed arena was a bunker. Inside was a singular resident, retired officer Hanson.
The same officer whose bass boat’s steering cable he nearly cut in two one Friday evening last summer. The next morning, Hanson pulled his trailered craft out and headed for the lake. Earl wasn’t far behind him, hauling his own vessel. Following from a distance, Earl watched as the cable snapped. This sent Hanson’s outboard flailing back and forth, which eventually caused the boat to capsize violently. Afterward, he scooped the retired officer’s body from the dark water. Following an extensive search, Hanson was presumed dead.
Upon arrival at his new subterranean home, Hanson was concussed and in and out of consciousness. Once awakened, he found himself naked, bathed in the kind of darkness that can only be found beneath the Earth’s surface.
Earl stood down the hallway of the underground complex and listened to the man who tortured his dog to death embody fear through screams.
“Oh Jesus, oh God, no! I was a good Christian, God!” Hanson exclaimed, who believed himself to be in hell. What other explanation could there be?
After three days, he became weak from thirst and put up no fight when Earl Jackson entered the room.
Awake again, Hanson found himself, strapped to a thick board, limbs spread out like starfish. An IV was in his left arm, supplying life-sustaining fluids.
It took Hanson a moment for his eyes to adjust when the lights were turned on. He could see the outline of a man standing in front of him.
“Do you remember me?” Earl Jackson asked.
“No,” he replied shaking.
“Strange. I’ve spent years thinking about you,” Earl said as he looped baling wire around the base of Hanson’s testicles. He twisted it like a noose using a short piece of round wood cut from an old broom handle. Hanson winced at the sharp pain encircling his shriveled, gray man-pouch.
Earl kept saline bags and antibiotics flowing. He tightened the baling wire a little bit more each day. Over time, Hansons’s testicles turned purple and began to bleed. Eventually, the skin between his scrotum and body died. When his balls finally dropped to the floor below, they landed in a rancid collection of his piss and shit.
“You thought any more about who I am?” Earl asked the day Hanson became a eunuch.
“I killed your dog.”
“Yes. But now I have you to replace him. And, you’re already fixed,” Earl said, cackling.
On his way out, Earl extinguished the lights, eliciting infant-like cries from the belated castrato.
***
The next time the lights came on, Earl carried a black, pump action shotgun loaded to double-aught buckshot.
“No, no, no!” Hanson screamed.
“Don’t worry, you’re long from dead. I’m liable to keep you around for the rest of your natural life. Beforehand, however, I want to make some structural changes.”
Without warning, Earl Jackson shot Hanson’s left foot and ankle point-blank, which created a twisted menagerie of bone, tendon, and flesh.
“That’s the pain Remy felt,” he whispered into Hanson’s ear.
One month later, Earl did the same to his right foot. Another month, a kneecap, then the next. Finally, both hands.
Each wound healed into mangled forms – bones fusing to bones they shouldn’t have in a desperate attempt to become whole again. This left Hanson to walk on all fours.
The day Hanson spit in Earl’s face, he pulled his tongue out of his mouth with a pair of needle nose pliers and permanently mangled it with the hot blue flame of a butane torch.
After healing, Hanson became extremely docile. So much, so that when Earl began tattooing his naked body, he didn’t even move.
Earl’s work was based on old photos of Remy. Slowly, he tattooed Hanson’s entire body with the same patterns as his deceased canine friend. It took more than a year, but eventually, the retired officer’s entire body was covered.
***
Today was the fifth anniversary of Retired Officer Hanson’s boating accident. Earl Jackson visited the boat ramp and watched his widow lay a memorial reef as she stood beside her new husband, who just happened to be the second officer on the scene the night Remy was murdered.
Afterward, Earl headed down into the bunker.
Hanson no longer tried to speak. Instead, every time Earl entered, he rolled over and showed him his naked tummy. Earl patted him then hooked a leash to his collar. The same one Remy wore.
The arena above was empty. And for the first time, Earl took Hanson, on all fours, upstairs.
He led him around on the soft dirt. As before with Remy, Earl Jackson would tell this mute companion his innermost thoughts and feelings with more assurance than one could a priest.
As he did, Hanson reached out with his mind, knowing he should be able to recall something, but couldn’t. What emerged from that blankness was a singular desire, to be a good boy.
It’s not love it’s something more simple, less demanding.
She has a small room in a bad neighborhood with a small kitchen and a pleasant bathroom and the washing machines are in the basement and the air conditioning is included in the rent so we keep it on all night and all day long.
She only has one chair to sit on so she drags it next to the bed and sits on it and I lie in bed and I keep the ashtray on my stomach and we talk and talk and talk and we laugh and laugh and laugh and we remain silent as much as we talk and laugh.
(The TV is broken so there’s not much else to do.)
We drank all five wine bottles she had bought with her money (she works, I don’t) washing down 6 xanax pills each and smoking camel cigarettes until 6 or 7 in the morning at which point she lay beside me and we had a wonderful time fucking for a while, and then we fell asleep, as the shutters where down and no day light intruded the fine darkness of the room.
Nothing can harm us as long as we are kind to each other.
I woke up at 16:00 in the noon and she had already been up from 12 and gone down to grab coffee for us and she was listening to her music on the balcony naked, sitting on the only chair- her beautiful legs over the railing and on the nightstand my not so cold coffee anymore awaited.
I got up from bed heavy from the alcohol and the anti-depressants and went to take a piss and when I returned I lied on the bed again and she lied beside me calling me lazy and she kissed me and I rubbed her clit and she said: “No, not like that. Like this.” and holding my hand lightly she guided my fingers over that wonderful pussy of hers, and taught me how to make her cum with my fingers which took some time, and when she did I put my cock inside that wonderfully wet cunt and I fucked her for some time and at the end my dick got soft and tired and she put it in her mouth and gave me the best blowjob, the kindest one I’ve had, and she swallowed my cum and she said:” Let’s take a bath together.”
Her bathtub was small and we had to stand and we began washing each other standing “It’s going to take a hell of a lot of shampoo to wash all this hair” I said “You have to collect it.” she said and I washed her head as she washed my cock which was still a little hard and we kissed and I washed her back watching the lather slowly travel from her neck to her beautiful ass and she washed my chest and I washed her thighs and she washed my face and my ears and I washed her cunt and she washed my hair and I wrapped a towel around my waist and she wrapped a towel around her breasts and we brushed our teeth with her toothbrush.
She said her toilet leaked when she flushed it so I said I’d fix it and I opened the cistern and I plugged the hole from which a plastic button was detached with a tampon I took from her purse and as she cooked spaghetti with squid I yelled at her from the bathroom the problem and how I had fixed it and she yelled back happily that I am a genius and I felt proud and returned and smoked and drank one of the three beers she had bought that morning and I said those pills really were something and said too bad she didn’t have any more and she brought the plate and put it on the chair and dragged the chair in front of the bed and then lied next to me.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked.
” I’m not hungry,” she responded
and I ate while she watched smiling and smoking and drinking
“Is it good?” she asked behind her crossed thighs
”It’s very good.” I responded looking at the curves of her lips while she smiled
It was very good everything was very good and the world itself was on hold and waiting to close in and death trembled each time we laughed and I felt three centuries younger and we both knew we would lose the magnificence when we’d separate but we were too brave to whine about it and at 21:00 in the night I got dressed and opened the door
and turned and kissed her and her eyes were knowing and understanding and clever and clear and she said: ”Goodbye.” and I said: ”Goodbye,” and I left I left I left all the brightness that life had for me that day.
Horror Sleaze Trash 