At Abigail’s party Farrah says she’s one hundred percent committed to romance. I had a crush on a French bartender who never read Houellebecq, god we were bored to tears. Do you remember newspapers, she says. I mutter something about wearing my best shirt to the Prado to see Goya’s Black Paintings and she lifts her glass and lists the number of ways the world is a mystery
take Abigail’s party
For instance —we’re in a hallway pink as a vulva, and Joan saw a UFO over the Unadilla drive-in on Friday. Laura is dead. The dog sleeps at Paul’s feet. John and Lise fight with cudgels, then apologize to Chloe for not having a car. Henry joined the circus says Bret. There’s a fair young man in the kitchen clumsily lipsticked. Has anyone seen Abigail? Albert no longer has the sparkle in his eye. Nothing happened particularly, and the nightcap crowd can’t be cut from the wall. You’re wearing your best shirt again, and that’s enough.
Reynaldo, the World’s Smallest Circus Bear, knew by a hair’s-breadth presentiment whenever she was about to ring him up. There was a certain warm, giddiness-inducin pulse on the other side of the call that signified one name and one name only: Gaga.
“Caught in a bear romance” blared from his circus-bear customized smartphone, with subliminals meant to curdle brains of eavesdropping FBI agents through the use of a sophisticated encryption system Reynaldo himself had conceived with the help of the LucasFilm people.
“Rey Rey here,” he said. Only Gaga was privileged to employ the sole nickname he allowed anyone to use. They’d had each other’s back for many years, and their friendship had even survived the whirlwind courtship and devastating breakup on the Spanish island of Ibiza, only a few hundred yards from the site of Nico’s death in a Bizarro bicycling accident.
“You miss her too, huh,” Gaga had said, her words trailing off.
“To be honest, I never really knew her,” said the bear wistfully. He was speaking partially of Nico, of course, but he could have been talking about himself. The whole thing had gone by in a blur, on an alternate timeline. Reynaldo once researched bear lifespans and found to his astonishment that his had somehow expanded 30 years past the demise of 99.9% of bears–except, of course, for the fabled ‘Bear Methusaleh’ of lore and legend–and the fact that he had actually known the deep-voiced Teutonic actress/singer/vampire pussybat during his undergraduate years at Brown (Bear) U. was something he simply accepted the way he accepted the fact that he could juggle chainsaws while negotiating a unicycle over a sometimes Nietzschean abyss.
He wasn’t about to swap out this timeline for another that, however more ‘normal,’ and lacking in danger, was sheer Snoozeville. Reynaldo wasn’t a risk-averse bear; in fact it was precisely that sterner stuff of which his particular flesh was heir that led to his longtime interstectine departmental war.
The Company had employed Gaga off and on since her debut, after they groomed her as a Julliard student, the same way they’d done Conan O’ Brien and countless others. She was flattered that the spooks believed the Germanottas were on the data dotta as far as having certain interspecies psychic mindlink skills, which was how she first encountered Reynaldo.
“I just got the call,” Germanotta said. The tension in her voice was poignant to Reynaldo, who’d known her in happier, simpler times and climes where/when the two cavorted like primal woman and bear, he sporting an enormous red chub, her nude except for her LED-enhanced mirror shades.
“Steadman?”
“Y-yes. And he sounded…”
“He sounded in a bad way. I know.”
“You always know, Reynaldo!” She sounded like a petulant Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.
“Because a smol bear is an ordained magus in Thee Order Ov Unholy Flesh.”
“Well so am I, but my esp powers aren’t quite as developed as yours,” Stephanie said after a thoughtful pause. Or she had nodded off thinking of Nico and the lovely French language.
“If Nico hadn’t been an Amazon style Germanic blonde femme fatale, she would have reminded me of a young boy,” was what Reynaldo decidedly did not say. “Anyway the Russians want to derail this precise conversation, and where the Russians are, MK-Ultra can’t be far behind.”
“Just fuck that Zander creep,” said Gaga. “He kept calling me, wanted to interview me for that stupid magazine of his. So I consulted with Willem Dafoe. Willem told me to charge him. Now Zander’s gotten a second mortgage so he can get a loan to pay me for the interview, and I fucking told his dumb ass…”
“Gaga, focus, dammit. Look into my eyes and see who I am.”
“Lucifer, obvs, but ok, I see what you’re saying. Yes, Steadman was in a panic. Some Russian gazillionaire had Thompson’s head stolen. Again.”
“Dammit to hell,” burst out Reynaldo. “And I had a golf date with Bull Clownton. Hold on, I need to tell my secretary.” Reynaldo terminated the call, then texted an message to a well-worn address.
Ten Hours Later, FBI Field Office, Detroit, Michigan
Special Agent Lance Johnson had folded himself into several idiotic shapes examining the security footage. What sort of game was that bear or bearlike individual playing now? Everybody knew that Hunter Stockton Thompson had had himself…or the particulate matters of pure gonzo fiction that remained…shot out of a duo-thumbed fist clutching a peyote button. There was no whole head to have brought in a diplomatic pouch to a Russian gobsmackillionaire anyway. But he suspected that half the time Reynaldo and his pal Germanotta were up to metafictional shenans. At least, that’s what his instincts told him. Of course, his instincts were mostly wrong as shit.
“Let’s scramble some breakfast choppers aaaaand…” Johnson was on the nod again, drool-drilling himself into epic widescreen dreams of motorboating Nico like a madman while she slurred the words to “All Tomorrow’s Parties” in his ear as she transformed into a genetically modified vampire pussy bat.
Reynaldo, the World’s Smolest Circus Bear, fortified compound, Taos, New Mexico
“So what did you discover?” asked Reynaldo after an eternity.
“I think Hunter’s brain is fucking with us,” she said, snort-laughing.
“I would tend to agree,” said Reynaldo. “He’s good at that. I think that’s why we got along so well. Simpler, purer, less complicated times. Oh Gaga…”
“Oh, bear…the unbearable hotness of your being a smol circus beast who exploits himself for hard cash…”
“I’ve performed before royalty and reeking New Orleans gutterpunks alike,” said Reynaldo, his smol, furry body suddenly shaking with sobs as he realized that his youth would never return. “Hunter knew exactly what was about to happen to our world after 9/11, which was why…”
“Why he had himself cloned by German doctors,” said Germanotta, completing Reynaldo’s sentence.
“I miss the fuck out of Nico,” said Reynaldo. “Yes, she was an asshole, but she was OUR asshole, you know? She cared about nothing but her dripping black candles and turning her skin all butter n’ creamy soft from soaking in the dark tub all day…wrinkled as she was, she was our bitch.”
“I’m a free bitch, baby,” said Gaga. “And I choose domination by my favorite circus bear.”
“The world’s smolest,” said Reynaldo with a grin.
“Indeed, love, you make me weak in the knees.” Her phone buzzed. “Sorry, I need to take this,” she said.
“Hello, Beyonce? What’s shackalackeling, baby? I’m here with Smol Bear…oh, you got the call from Steadman too? Yeah, I agree, he needs to get out more. Hunter S. Thompson is dead. Long live Hunter S. Thompson, his clones, his brains, Nico Pussybat in her various incarnations…”
From somewhere in the far distance they heard the sound of a harmonium and a wet, queefy sound approximating a Germanic accent in bubblin’ tones.
“Thees song was Jeeem Morrison’s favorite song…eet’s called ‘Thee Ent.'”
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?’
Horror Sleaze Trash 