Vivid Greene, By Jacob Ian DeCoursey

cover skeleton VG baby Large Font with grime

A young woman with a horrifying secret embarks on an erotic adventure punctuated with bloodshed…
A displaced holiday figure enacts his messianic calling in the cavernous subway below New York City…
Two brothers carry their father’s ashes across a flooded town in an apocalyptic American South devoid of rainfall…

In these stories and more, DeCoursey effortlessly transports readers from the familiar, to the uncanny, to the downright surreal! At once chilling and darkly humorous, vulgar with pronounced moments of tenderness, VIVID GREENE explores the humanity within monsters and the monstrosity within humans.




Matthew Licht

jh ghost 5

A Big Star, Part 1

A ghost made of egg shampoo flew through the air in broad daylight. Mr Johnson held an over-designed remote control ray gun. He made the opalescent UFO shuttle back and forth from nowhere to nowhere in a game of video ping-pong. When he got bored, he hit the freeze button. 

“That’s me, basically,” he said. “Or half of me. This is where I come into the picture, if the story’s true.”

He pushed another button and the load splashed down on a high cheekbone and the bridge of an upturned nose. The brunette whom those features belonged to ran her tongue over her lips and slightly crooked teeth.

“Mom,” the client said. He sounded sad.

In the final frames, a sunken face mimed, “Phew!”

“And there’s Papa.” He softly repeated, “If the story’s true.”

Mr Johnson pushed another button and the TV screen died. He went to his desk, pulled another remote-control from a drawer, zapped open the wooden blinds to reveal the Hollywood hills where the porn loop was shot. 

The client was some species of Hollywood executive. 

He looked into the distance from his office window. A woman with flowing blond hair drove a jeep slowly up the canyon. “My mother already wasn’t looking too hot the last time I saw her.”

The woman in the jeep disappeared behind a blind corner. Nothing left on the hills but the landmark sign and TV antennas. 

“I know a man,” the client went on, “whose mother claimed he was Jimi Hendrix’s love-child before she died of a drug overdose. He’s the right color, got long fingers, but he can’t play. This guy lives in a car. Parked permanently on Venice Blvd. With a crazy German lady who sells love beads on the Boardwalk.”

“Life’s hard.”

“My mother’s life was. I’m glad she ditched me with her father in Palmdale. The old guy taught me values.”

The client pulled $500 cash from his pocket, and slid a copy of the videotape across his desk.

“She said that,” he tapped the black plastic rectangle, “was the high point of her life. I want you to find out if her story’s true.”

The client winced when I lit a cigarette. “Not my kind of case, Mr Johnson,” I said. “I’m in the living missing person line. This’d be a matter for the Coroner’s Office.”

He snorted. “The moral of the story about Hendrix’s alleged son is that he might not be living in a car if he could prove paternity. He’s got nothing to go on except his mother’s say-so. The music biz, in case you don’t know, makes the film industry look soft.”

“I doubt there’s a John Holmes estate. He smoked whatever he earned up a crack pipe.”

“I’m not concerned with that sort of inheritance. Holmes didn’t contribute much to the culture, but he was a star. Understand?”

I didn’t, but said I’d do my best. We didn’t shake hands. Mr Johnson didn’t show me out. 


James Babbs

In The Mirror

I’d only been there for a few minutes working on my first beer when she came over and thrust her finger into my face.

Hey she said. I thought I told you last time you were in here not to come back again.

I grinned at her. Oh I said. I just thought that meant you couldn’t live without me.

A look of disgust swept across her face. You’re a piece of shit she said.

I laughed. Hell I told her. Tell me something I don’t know. I grabbed the back of her head and pulled her beautiful face right up next to mine. I kissed her hard on the mouth and when I let her go she slapped me across the face. Another drink for this lady I yelled at the bartender.

I touched my cheek. It felt hot. In the mirror behind the bar I saw what I looked like. I opened my mouth and stuck out my tongue. I knew I looked crazy but I didn’t care. I picked up the glass in front of me and drained the rest of my beer.

When I was finished I banged the empty glass down on the table and shouted at the bartender. Another beer, barkeep and keep them coming.

While I waited for the next beer this scrawny guy with a shaved head came up and tapped me on the shoulder. He looked like a cancer patient who was losing the fight. What’s the big idea? He said to me. Kissing my woman like that?

The waitress came by and slipped another beer in front of me. She did it so quickly I didn’t have time to thank her.

Your woman? I said to the scrawny guy with the shaved head. Really? How much did you have to pay her? I heard laughter from somewhere behind me. I raised my glass to them before bringing it to my lips and draining half the beer.

The scrawny guy with the shaved head just glared at me then he turned and walked away.

Hey buddy I said. You better strap a two by four on your ass the next time you fuck her. I yelled it loud enough so the whole bar could hear. In the mirror behind the bar I saw the woman and the scrawny guy with the shaved head having a lively discussion. She looked angry and he wasn’t very happy.

You can’t win, fucker I thought to myself. Then I laughed and drank some more beer.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her coming at me again. When she got close I quickly turned and faced her.

I said Yeeesss? Then I laughed again. I could tell she was furious with me. Her whole body shook and I really liked the way it made her tits bounce.

Why you gotta say things like that to my man? She screamed. She balled up her fist and punched me in the arm.

Your man? I said. Is that what that was?

She punched me again and all I could do was laugh.

You know I said. You’re really beautiful when you’re angry.

She leaned her face a little closer to me. Well she said. I think you’re absolutely revolting.

Then she turned her whole body like she was doing a scene from some B-grade movie and stomped back to her seat. In the mirror behind the bar I saw the different faces and they all looked the same to me. I finished the rest of my beer and called for another one.

It was early on a Tuesday but I could already tell it was going to be a good night.

Judson Michael Agla

Walking Aberration

I set out around noon, I was feeling a little queasy but I didn’t think much of it then, ten minutes into my journey I got a filling sensation in my stomach, like a sudden gas build up came out of nowhere and began to expand. I continued on but the pain was increasing and it felt like I had a fucking boulder in my intestines, I had no clue what was going on inside me but it sure as hell wanted its way out one way or the other.

I turned back home and staggered down the sidewalk clutching the walls and fences, screaming bloody murder. People tried to help but the pain was so debilitating that I could only speak by howling at the top of my lungs; the people from the buildings came out on their balconies to check out the scene, families passing by stayed to see the show, the best show in town, a madman screaming in the street holding his ass for dear life.

I was half way across the street blocking traffic when the police and ambulance showed up to hear my deafening torturous wails, I could see that the crowd had formed a circle around me, keeping a good distance as if they were suspecting a bomb to go off out of my ass and blow a hole in the street, which wasn’t too far from what actually did happen.

I couldn’t take any more; and this thing, this gigantic enigmatic thing, was without question coming out now, with the grace and determination of a newly anointed Queen raging on PCP. I yanked down my pants and assumed the fetal position, I screamed louder than I ever have and pushed through that sphincter as fearsome as a kraken, I felt like my whole asshole was coming apart, I thought it was the end for my ass and I forever, so I prayed to the only god I knew might be listening; I chose the “BOSS” for some abstract reason.

Ah! The serenity that followed that torture was sublime but my relief quickly faded as reality moved in. What I just blasted out of my ass was a fucking donkey, a painted donkey, paintings of hippie shit like; flowers, peace signs, love the world, shit like that.

I stood up, pulled up my pants and joined the crowd, now focused on the donkey; it just stood there and didn’t seem at all distressed about the clusterfuck that just took place, however, he didn’t just shit out a medium sized horse like creature like I had. I pushed through the crowd and walked up to the donkey, I can’t explain where the urge came from but I had a certain need to pet the thing, almost like we were connected in some fucked up wrath of god cosmic slapping sort of way.

As the crowd eventually dispersed the cops and paramedics came over with expressions on their faces that would scare the hell out of small little children. None of them said a goddamb word; they just stood and stared like deer’s caught in the headlights. I was exhausted and thoroughly embarrassed, and really didn’t feel like trying to explain what happened, due to the fact that I hadn’t a clue about what just happened, I felt as though what I went through was quite personal as well. So, I took the fucking donkey and I went home. All the people remaining watched as I left the scene knowing in their hearts that they would probably never see something as fucking weird as what went down that day.


Leland Kirk

Pleased to Meet Me

A standard capsule includes photos, snippets of articles, and obituaries if applicable. This costs about $300 if you attend a timeshare presentation, and tends to be a popular graduation gift. The deluxe package includes everything in the standard capsule as well as a one-on-one interview with your future self. The price varies depending on the client, and baseball scores and lottery numbers are strictly off-limits. Discussions are meant to involve relationships, career choices, health, and so on. I figure most clients that can afford it merely want to see if they age well, as a sort of unprovoked expression of vanity.

The deluxe package is a bit less desirable than it once was. Rival toy companies now offer similar services, and clients are generally unhappy with the results anyway. My article about the process wasn’t exactly well received either, which I can’t imagine was helpful. With innovations formerly regarded as impossibilities, there’s a certain taboo towards journalists giving the whole thing away, as if the masses preferred magic as an explanation. My former editor insists this was the case as far back as the invention of the telephone.

I suspect censorship of being a more likely culprit than outright lack of demand, even if only because I can’t be the first to write about the whole experience. Most of which involved sitting on impractical, sculpturesque furniture in pastel-colored waiting rooms. The facility itself is actually quite large for being attached to a mall, and manages to stay empty on weekdays. Each room stays quiet, aside from the occasional fax, and the receptionist asking me to proceed to the next waiting room every half hour or so. Which happens to be more than enough time to get through the reading material of each room.

The reading material is fairly personalized, mostly consisting of photos and articles from the standard capsule, as well as inevitable things like natural disasters. Each room is a little smaller than the last one, and each stack of the reading material from a little further into the future than the last, and so on.

The first two rooms are the same as I remember, with the same reading material: a DUI, rehab, therapy, and a suicide attempt. The standout ones being performance and production credits on an album considered to be a cult classic, and a seemingly passionate article where I’m referred to as a “tortured soul.” The magazine in question used a blurry photo of me in a hospital gown, having a cigarette with a sickly woman in a Dead Kennedys tee shirt.

The third waiting room was roughly the size of a broom closet, which is considerably smaller than I remember it being. The reading material was entirely different this time around, too. There was a murder trial and an eventual formation of a cult, but I couldn’t justify forcing myself to read any further. I felt a sort of disconnect, as if it weren’t possible this could be me, since it wasn’t the same version of me I last spoke with. A document taped to a glass table served as a final warning, and something to sign if I wanted to leave without a refund.

At some point, the receptionist—an unremarkable woman in a pantsuit—gently opened the door, clutching a clipboard. Her light tap on the door might have meant to serve as something like a retroactive knock, and she may have said something to the effect of right this way, please but I was rightfully a bit beside myself. I followed her to the room where the interview was to be conducted, which was a little different this time around.

Pink pastel walls, a Persian rug, one-way mirrors, and reel-to-reel tape recorders; I’d addressed nearly everything else in the room, likely to delay the inevitable. Two red leather lounge chairs were positioned in the center of the room, with a small glass table between them, bearing two ribbon microphones and two cups of bubble tea. It looked like something between a late-night talk show and a fever dream, and I was being greeted by my own venomous smile.

He waved his finger at my chest, likely to keep me from talking, and asked me if the cigarettes in my shirt pocket were tobacco or green tea. I rolled both, and lately I was sprinkling green tea leaves over my tobacco. I initially thought the tea would help me quit, but at some point I acquired a taste for it. He scoffed when I told him this, but took one anyway. I didn’t notice the door was shut behind me until I finally took a seat, nor did I notice the barely audible hints of jazz piano with no discernible source.

I struggled with my moody brass lighter for a moment, before being handed a matchbook with an ad concerning matchbook advertising. Smokers do read matchbooks, you are doing so now, it said. I glanced over at him as I dragged on my cigarette, noting that it was like looking into a hazy mirror. Much of his features remained the same as mine, with silvered hair and tired eyes being the notable differences. His voice was a fair bit raspier than mine, sounding more like a recording of my voice than how I actually hear myself.

My focus shifted to the audio equipment as I briefly watched the tape reels spin. He told me interviews with him are elusive, and this particular one being recorded was the only reason these discussions have been so affordable. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him, but I was under the impression that it was meant to be something clinical or therapeutic. You absolute moron, he’d say, between disgusted cigarette drags and sips of bubble tea. Insisting that I was to blame for anything remotely psychological, as well as the meetings themselves. Narcissism is a hell of a drug, he said.

Ignoring the fact that he was the one that told me to come back soon, I believe I’ve only been here twice, or maybe three or four times at most. My memory of the first interview is distorted, to say the least, as I can almost remember it twice from differing perspectives. I can only imagine the same or worse must’ve happened to him, likely for each interview, as if new and old memories of the same event were competing. All I mentioned was the distortion, to which he nodded and stayed silent, aside from the rattle of his straw chasing unattainable drops of bubble tea.

He picked the microphones up and unscrewed them from their tiny tripods, handed me one, and held one to his face as if we were being filmed. He told me we should have the sort of interview they publish in magazines. Cheers, he beamed, slapping the microphones together. If someone was listening, it’s safe to assume they now have at least mild tinnitus as a result. He grabbed me by the shirt collar while the needle on the tape machine’s VU meter danced with the numbers in red. If you have any sense, you’ll steal one of those tapes and take on a new identity in another country, he whispered.

Several seconds went by at this point, and the more I thought about it, the easier it was to rationalize taking one of the tapes. It was one way to ensure I don’t come back for another interview, likely at least slightly preserving my sanity. If an interview with him is as elusive as he says, it’s also possible it could be worth something to someone at some point, regardless of what changes. I lit another cigarette, and nodded. It was all I could think to do to let him know that I’d actually do it.

He started doing this bit where he’d act like an obnoxious radio host, asking me questions about my childhood, and eventually promising to end the interview when we ran out of cigarettes. At times, he’d pretend to have a caller on the line, usually to voice complaints about the station not taking song requests. It took a while before he was willing to switch roles, and a condition of doing so was that he’d offer bad advice as he went along.

My initial assumption was that advice he’d give would pertain to things he wished he’d done differently, or not at all, and sometimes this was the case. I was told to quit trying to write for newspapers, as those articles get censored and turned into advertisements anyway. He went on to say that writing for zines is what got him into music, and interrupted himself to tell me not to trust banks or credit unions. My favorite piece of advice was this: if ever you feel like jumping off a building, he said. Do a flip.

We were down to our last couple cigarettes, and only a few seconds of silence passed before he chimed back in. He said the murder trial I read about was an overdose, and it’s best to just avoid those people altogether. People live on their own terms, he’d say. Because people are absolute morons. I hadn’t given it much thought, but I’m sure there are self-destructive people that aren’t entirely brain dead. Some of which are probably worth sticking around for, I’d say, but he disagreed.

I lit my last cigarette, took a drag of it, and stood up to admire the spinning tapes. He kept talking, mostly about how corporations function as a sort of shadow government. I’d nod every few spins or so, but at some point I just stopped listening. Not because I necessarily disagreed, it was more about no longer having the capacity. Until next time, I said, stuffing two tape reels down my pants. Until next time, he nodded.

It was a calm and casual exit, not exactly the high-risk stakes of a heist film, but I was anxious enough to get a safety deposit box anyway. I quickly realized I made the mistake of leaving the key at my apartment, however, when I stopped there to pack up. My first instinct was to abandon it. I spent a few days in a motel outside of town, who seem to charge more for using their phones than using a room. I had people I know ask around, but no one seemed to be looking for me. I didn’t see any harm in going home at this point, at least long enough to grab the key. I opened the door to find my elder doppelganger in bed, mounting and strangling a younger doppelganger. You absolute moron, he shrieked.

James Babbs

Time & Space

Six days after we had discovered the ship was no longer functioning properly and we realized we were nothing more than a hollow metal tube drifting through the darkness of space Halverson turned to me and said Barlow?

Yes I replied.

Barlow, I need to tell you something.

Okay, Halverson I said. But first just let me give you a quick update concerning our current situation.


Well I said. First of all, I don’t know where we are. I’ve made some calculations but there are just too many unknown variables so, the bottom line is, I don’t know where we are.

Alright said Halverson.

And I said. I can’t be sure about how much air we have remaining. We could have days or, even, weeks or, it could be just a matter of hours.

Well, Barlow said Halverson. I’ve been having an affair with your wife for the last year and a half.

What? I said. You’ve been fucking my wife?

Yes said Halverson. And your sister three, no, four times last summer. I just wanted you to know. He leaned forward and pretended he was studying the instrument panel in front of him.

Well, hell I said. What do you expect me to do with this information?

What do you mean?

What I mean, Halverson I said. Is that we’re not going to make it. So what purpose does it serve for you to tell me about the affair between you and my wife.

And your sister said Halverson.

Will you forget my goddamn sister!

Okay said Halverson. He leaned away from the instrument panel and started looking out the window. I just thought you should know, okay? I guess I wanted to clear my conscience.

Well, hell I said. That’s fine for you, now, isn’t it? I turned and looked out the window on my side of the ship. All I saw were long stretches of darkness and pinpoints of light scattered here and there, too far away for me to make any sense out of them.

Hey said Halverson. Let me try the radio again. Okay, Barlow? Let me try the radio.

Okay, okay I said. Try the goddamn radio.

Halverson leaned forward and pushed a couple of buttons. Halverson to Earth Base One he said. Halverson to Earth Base One. This is ship HCB2094. HCB2094 to Earth Base One. Come in, Earth.

There wasn’t any answer only a dead silence that permeated the entire cabin before falling down on top of us like a heavy weight. Halverson looked at me then began his transmission again but this time his voice sounded a lot more desperate.

Forget it, Halverson. We’re sunk.

So what are we going to do?

Well, hell, Halverson I said. I got up from my seat and started rummaging around. I threw a couple of boxes aside. Here we go. I lifted up the bottle and showed it to Halverson. I opened the bottle and took a long drink. I handed the whiskey to Halverson.

Okay, Barlow he said. Halverson took a drink and handed the bottle back to me.

The ship drifted and we kept drinking the whiskey. It could have been morning or afternoon or three o’clock in the middle of the goddamn night. We had no way of knowing what time it really was or how much of it either of us had left. I felt warm. I felt more than warm. My face felt hot and I started to laugh.

Listen, Halverson I said. You goddamn son of a bitch. I’m gonna kick your goddamn ass.

I lunged at him and we spilled onto the floor. I was on top of Halverson punching him in the face. I saw his nose and mouth starting to turn bloody. Then, the next thing I knew Halverson was on top of me and I felt my eyes exploding. I saw a white flash followed by a myriad of pretty colors. We crashed into the instrument panel and I heard the sound of things breaking apart. I struggled against Halverson and felt something cutting into my arm.

Shit Halverson said.

Fuck I replied.

Earth Base One said the voice suddenly blaring from out of the radio. Earth Base One to HCB2094. Come in, Barlow. Come in, Halverson. Hello? Anybody there?

I stopped and looked at Halverson. Halverson stopped and looked at me. I crawled over to the radio and pushed the buttons. This is Barlow I said. Come in, Earth Base One.

Well, hot damn said the voice. Hang tight, boys. We’re monitoring your coordinates and sending out a rescue team.

Okay I said. Okay.

Halverson got up and went back to his seat. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t speak to him. I turned and looked out the window. I wiped the blood from my face with the back of my hand. The radio was silent again.

I found the whiskey bottle and took another drink. When I was done I handed the bottle to Halverson. He took the bottle from me and held it in his hand. He sat there. I sat there.

We both sat there and waited.

Rachael Biggs

Rainbows and Lollipops

The garden is overgrown. Low maintenance cacti prevail and a tangle of dried up vines threaten to swallow the purple door. I rip off the note hes scrawled: Come on in, the waters warm! and with it a large swatch of paint, which I toss in the sandy dirt.

I flip off my flip flops and walk down the hall.

I can hear the shower running and him singing Satisfaction by the Stones. Cuz I try and I try and I try and I try and I try and I tryyyy.

He’s trying too hard, as usual. Mick Jagger only tried four times before succumbing to the fact that he couldnt get no satisfaction.

He is in the shower at precisely the time I am scheduled to arrive to let me know that his chubby little cock is clean and ready to suck.

There are naked photos of a trashy blonde with balloon-like implants on his computer screen. I pretend not to see them because I know he wants me to.

I hear the shower door close and he lumbers in with nothing but a hopeful look in his eyes.

Hey, you! Lookingood as usual!

If this were what I usually looked like, it would be cause for concern. My hair is oily and and I have been wearing my T-shirt dress since this morning when I used the dirt Id pilfered from the community garden to plant the petunias that Id been collecting from the walkways late at night. No one would miss the flowers since they grew like weeds and the rich folks had their gardeners replace them every 6 weeks anyways.

I look good compared to him though, if we are basing his compliment in relativity.

Wide pink stretch marks criss-cross his gut, loose moles hang around his neck, his nostrils are flared like a bull waiting to charge and doughy kneecaps nearly buckle under his weight, making him a sight few would call good as usual’.

He wants a hug. I can feel it shooting from behind the pathetic longing that are his eyeballs. A hug is not what I have in mind though.

I’m thinking more of ramming the heel of my hand upwards into his nose and then laughing joyfully as he falls backward into the fireplace and I stomp on the four pounds of testicles that swing between his mushy thighs.

I set up my massage table, accidentally glancing at the twit on the computer screen, as he looks on expectantly.

You like her?he asks.

I dont know her.

Shes a friend of a friend. My friend spends time with her and thought I might like her. I think shes a prostitute.

Thats fairly evident, yes.

He’s doing two things: hes letting me know that he has other options thereby trying to get a reaction of competitiveness while also aiming to incite a conversation about prostitution. Hes hoping that maybe that will turn into some liberal-leaning heart-to-heart in which I decide thats its cool to fuck him for money.

I choke down my vomit to speak. Prostitutes are the safest people you can sleep with next to porn actresses.

Whys that?

Because theyre professionals. They always use condoms.

Do you like sex with condoms?

I’d like to pull a giant condom over his head and get my satisfaction watching him flail and choke to death because his fingers are too fat to find its edge to free himself.

Okay, hop on the table.I say with caustic pep.

There is no such thing as hopping for him though; there is only hoist and roll.

I stare at the metal filing cabinets as my reluctant hands move down his ample back. Stray hairs, a puss-filled whitehead and a scaly texture greet my fingers and palms as I apologize silently to them.

I will deposit the two hundred and fifty dollars to my account immediately upon leaving here and finally being able to pay the minimum on my credit card before being charged a thirty-five dollar late fee again. I can also get the oil changed in my car if that mailer I got hasnt expired. Will that make the light go out?

I get down to his ass and he moans and clears his throat. I make sure I wash real good every time before you come over in case you want to go deeper.

Is there a bat anywhere in this room? Anything sharp? Oooh, that metal ruler. That would work. Its an odd shape, but maybe if I put some of this oil on it first and use force…

Why would I want to do that?

Oh, in case you want to get deeper into the muscles.

There are no muscles in your butt crack.

You sure? Best to double check.

A bat would be better. A bat with spikes. Ill make one. Ill plan ahead next time. Fail to plan, plan to fail.

He laughs nervously, knowing not to push me again for now. Hes conveniently forgotten that hes encouraged me before to get closer to the most unfathomably grotesque part of his physique and that Ive given him a firm no.

It is time for the dreaded flip-over. His prick has emerged slightly from its rolls of blubber and drips with a translucent slime that nearly makes me gag. I wipe it roughly before getting a grip and focusing again on the filing cabinet.

I could puke all over him and this table and this room right now. I could drown him in thick, steamy vomit and get double satisfaction as he slides into its pool on the floor writhing like a puffer fish yanked from an aquarium.

Tell me what youre thinking about,he coos.

Rainbows and lollipops.

Youre hilarious!

It takes him a minute to get hard. If Id done his arms by pulling them up over his head and letting him fondle me with his sausage fingers, he would have been fully erect, but I dont need him commenting on my tampon.

I roll his four inches of flesh in my hands like Im making gnocchi and then grab it like my gear shift, as he exhales deeply and I bury my nose in my armpit in an effort to dodge the rancid odor.

Grab tighter,he whispers. Tight like your pussssy.

Would my hands be able to grab tight enough around his neck to cut off his air or would the fat get in the way? How hard would I have to squeeze? As hard as he is squeezing my ass right now?

I clench my cheeks together, so he cant slip his hand in anywhere and think about which ATM I will go to when my freedom is restored. The parking on Sepulveda is free, but will my car make it that far without oil?

You have the best ass in America,” he hisses.

He jerks and convulses on the table and I think maybe were getting to the end, but hes just being dramatic. Fucking L.A. with all of its unrealized actors.

Slow down,he says. As if your mouth is just pulling me up, pulling me up, pulling me up, up, up.

If I cant successfully choke him would he be able to get up quickly enough to defend himself? I could definitely run faster than him. Would he chase me out into the road? Nah.

I slow my tug obediently, desperately wanting this to end as much as my aching forearm does.

Squeeze my balls. Real tight, like.

I grip a handful of the hairy flab as it oozes between my fingers in rebellion, shifting my weight, stepping on something sharp. I look down at potato chip crumbs.

Tighter!” he grunts.

Next time he leans in for a hug/grope I will stick him with a knife I have concealed in my sleeve. Maybe in the neck. I will research where the jugular is, so my efforts arent wasted on a surface wound and I will quickly step out of the way so as not to get blood on myself when it starts to spurt like a faucet needing its washer replaced. Then I will stand over him as he thrashes about, much like he is now, only dying and confused, and I will say all the things Ive been wanting to say. Dont ever ask me for a hug again motherfucker! Stop fucking pushing me. Take a hint! I dont want to touch your asshole! I would rather pour acid in my eyes than see you naked. Put some fucking clothes on! You make me sick! Do you see me? Do you see that even with my greasy hair and my gardening clothes that I would never ever, EVER be attracted to you? Are you fucking stupid? Are you a fucking moron? Yes, you are! You are a stupid, shallow, moron that likes me only for my body, but I hate you for so much more than yours. I hate you because Im here. I hate that partying became more important to me than high school and that I never had the urge to apply myselfas my teachers encouraged. I hate that I deserve so much better, but that eventually I wont if I keep coming here. Slowly this will become normal and as you continue to push or offer me more money, I might succumb. I will stab myself in the jugular if that ever happens.

He continues to thrash about on the table, getting my hopes up.

Do it! Do it now! Come, you fat fucking fuck!

Finally, one hundred thousand years later, he squirms on the table and his legs raise up stiffly as thick yellow snot exits his vile organ. He whinnies like a horse and before he can open his eyes, I am in the bathroom washing my hands with enough soap to drown in.

I dont look in the mirror.

Burrito Deluxe, by Joseph Ridgwell


From the mean streets of East London to the intoxicating thoroughfares of Mexico City emerges a tale of two young men disconnecting from all forms of technology and society at large in a mad chase for freedom. Fed up with the monotonous trap of dead end jobs in the city Joe and compadre Ronnie need out, by any means necessary.

Burrito Deluxe tells of drunkenness, East End underworld escapades, thieving, prostitutes, drug-fuelled trips to sacred Mayan temples, psychedelic peyote visions, hippy lifestyles, romantic liaisons, and the search for the legendary Lost Elation at the mystical Beach of the Dead.

A study in pathological behaviour at close quarters, this is the first of cult author Joseph Ridgwell’s unique novels – the true story of two young men in search of freedom and adventure, but finding nothing but lies, dreams, insanity and death. Described by the author as a ‘cosmic road novel’, it chronicles the end of youth and idealism, and a total rejection of the modern world.


Judson Michael Agla

Homicidal Cosmic Plush

I was chilling in my pad watching some war documentary on the tube; mildly stoned, and quite content, when I first became aware of the attack. All of a sudden strange furry things started climbing over my balcony, which was quite a feat as my apartment was on the seventh floor.

Fucking Teddy Bears man; they were Teddy Bears, with blood around their mouths and half eaten bones in their hands. As they got closer I could see that their eyes were jet black, as if I were looking right into the abyss itself.

The door and windows were shut but I was highly doubtful I could rely on that as a stronghold. What the fuck was going on and how do I handle it? There’s no Scout badge that prepared me for dealing with homicidal Teddy Bears.

I gathered as many knives; sticks, coffee mugs, cans of beans and soup, and everything that could make fire, which in retrospect was probably a very uneducated and reckless idea, seeing as how I’d more than likely burn myself up as well, no Scout badge for that either.

They were at the windows now which were starting to crack under the super-human strength they were yielding. Mindless; homicidal, born of some crazy childlike nightmare dimension, I hadn’t a clue what the hell to do, the blood stained and broken windows looked like they came right out of a horror show.

I could hear my front door start to splinter; they were coming at me from all sides, I could hear a rumbling coming from inside the walls as the drywall started to burst open, I was fucked from everywhere and I was shitting myself having the realization that I was about to be eaten by an army of Teddy Bears.

As I was standing facing the blood soaked windows; coffee mug in one hand and a cast iron frying pan in the other, weeping like a little girl, an explosion of glass, blood and a thousand Teddy Bears came shooting into the apartment, followed by a person swinging in on a rope, dressed like a navy seal or some shit like that.

This hero slash warrior was dressed in black and had a ghostbusters like nuclear back pack with all the bells and whistles; it was attached to a hose, which was attached to a big ass kicking gun which they immediately started firing out oceans of blue glowing slimy shit all over the Bears.

The Teddy Bears disintegrated in seconds; as did most of my apartment, which is in no way a complaint, as only moments ago I was preparing to become the horrifically gruesome lunch of a mob of children’s toys.

Once the show of a lifetime was over and the two of us were standing in the middle of a wrath of god type scene, this mega hero removed their head gear I was surprised to see that my savior was a chick, a super-hot chick at that, a stunningly beautiful warrior goddess. After my male ape-like evolutionary driven distraction, I did eventually get over myself and got to the situation at hand.

She explained that she was with T. A.T.H.T.B. (The Agency for the Termination of Homicidal Teddy Bears) and there had been scattered incidents with all sorts of stuffed animals for the last five years, it was only recently that they discovered the Teddy Bears were the kingpins.

Still slightly stunned and stupefied; I asked her why in the fuck they came after me? She started taking off my shirt, I thought we were going to get funky but she was looking for something particular that she found on my back, it was a tattoo that I never remembered getting, and it was in the shape of a Teddy Bear. She said I had the mark, and that I’ve been chosen; only one in a thousand had this mark, and the destiny that lay before me was to rid the world of homicidal Teddy Bears.

She explained that I would have to come back with her to headquarters and begin my training, some people might have reservations about this whole thing but when I found out the girl was single and I’d be wearing one of those nuclear reactors on my back, I was all in. 

Catfish McDaris

Red Hot Pussy

Porterhouse was adopted along with a little blonde girl named Summer. She was younger than Porterhouse and they didn’t get along. Summer wanted to be the star attraction, but their adopted parents treated them equally. As they grew older, they’d hear the moans of pleasure and take turns spying through the keyhole of their parent’s room. It wasn’t long before they were playing doctor and pleasuring each other. At first with manual stimulation. Porterhouse liked for Summer to masturbate him and he’d always promise not to shoot his load in her hand. He tried to hit her in her face or young budding breasts. Summer loved for Porterhouse to rub her pussy, it had some peach fuzz on it. Porterhouse learn how to coax her clitoris erect and suck on it, then jam two fingers up her pussy and one up her ass, as she came to an orgasm. Summer became adept at sucking Porterhouse’s dick. She’d deep throat, candy cane, barber pole, siphon sperm, cupping his nuts just right. As he came, she’d finger fuck his asshole like crazy. Soon it wasn’t enough, it never is. They figured since they weren’t really brother and sister by blood, fucking wouldn’t be incest. They fucked every chance they could. Summer liked heroin, Porterhouse preferred cocaine and they both loved weed. Soon their parents suspected their children were up to no good. They sprung a trap for them and caught them fucking in a room full of marijuana smoke. That’s when they discovered that they were one hundred percent blood siblings. They tried everything to break off their romantic relationship. They were hopelessly in love. Finally, they accepted their fate and said fuck it. They got into Porterhouse’s Thunderbird. Summer buried a needle in her arm. Porterhouse buried the needle on the speedometer. The moonlight blue Thunderbird hit a pothole, sparks flew into the inky black sky.