Cassandra Dallett

I Know I’m Addicted

I collect boys
like pairs of shoes
fucking one while texting another
I’m not slutty or desperate
I’m just a realist.
I know that none of them could hold my interest
if they didn’t play off each other like that.
None could talk of the prison industrial complex,
the evils of microwaves, the importance of reading,

start up my weedwacker,

and make me want to call him Daddy
while bent over,
streaming wet head
bumping granite walls.
These guys
don’t come in the same package.
The wise man Chris Rock once said
“You’re not going to find a guy who listens to Wu-Tang
and watches Seinfeld”
and I laughed cause I had one,
but
actually his dick was too small
and he was inherently
unfaithful
selfish
to the bone.

Brenton Booth

A Poem’s Worth

She was about
to finish work

at the laundromat
and we had been
talking for several
hours.

I asked her if she
wanted to come to
my apartment and
I would read her
some poems I had
recently written.

She accepted the
offer.

After I read one
we started kissing
and a little later
we were naked
having sex on the
floor.

It was some of the
best sex I ever
had.

She left to meet
her partner
and I decided to
write this poem
as a reminder
that sometimes
poetry
does pay.

Ezhno Martin

victimless slime

In case you were wondering
(and I’m sure more than a few are)

if you want to pound your pussy
with the backside of your hairbrush
and moan my name
or maybe grow your bush out
so you can tether paper-mache
effigies of Ezhno
to you sweetest spotI’m more than ok with that
No need to feel ashamed
if you find yourself
grinding and gushing on pillowcases

you’ve duct taped high-gloss photos
of my face on
or writing my name on your vibrator
so you can watch Ezhno
slip inside you
Everybody likes to have a little sexy time with themselves
and it’s no one’s fault
so many people are dreaming of me
while they are doing it
including evidently
you
So remember
I’m a gracious goo fairy
I don’t leave so little to the imagination
by any mistake
I take great joy
provoking puddles in your sheets
maybe I even get off sometimes
thinking about all that victimless slime
that’s being made about me
so I make a little of myown
why would I stifle fantasies
just because it isn’t meant to be in reality?I mean
can you imagine
actually sleeping with everyone you’d ever thought about naked?

That’s ludicrous
ludicrous like
the thought of Joesph Stalin personally strangling
35 million Russians because he couldn’t stand the thought
of anyone else getting to do the deed
But
I like boobies
and big fat white asses
my computer
and multiple external hard drives
comprise the chubby chasers pornographic Library of Congress

and in my exhaustive search
I have probably seen you naked
or at least I like to pretend
so there is no shame
in cum fresh squeezed to fantasies of strange
we all have a spank bank
overflowing with people we never mean to bang
So slap it beat it twist it buzz it bang it yank it
taste your sweet slime afterwards
and pretend it’s been mixed with my pimp juice
because when you are alone
anything goes
and it doesn’t do me any harm
if in that sick head of yours
I’m being held down
while you and seventeen of your closest friends
take turns pegging me
while dressed like Rainbow-Bright PegasusesYou make that Pearl Jam

And don’t worry about it being awkward

when you see me in public
I do it too
I’m a chronic dreamer
so I’ve probably done it thinking of you

Mather Schneider

Interview with a Poet

He begs his host and the audience
to be so gracious as to forgive him
because he’s “rather hung-over”
from staying up all night reading Nietzsche

and drinking Maker’s Mark
and hasn’t had the fortune
of nipping off to the cappuccino stand yet.

Plus he’s “positively exhausted”

from his two month reading tour
and needs to take a break
and let the
“well fill up.”

A font of incomparable input
we sup it up like burros
in a cultural desert:
he tells us if you don’t want to take the bus

on your reading tour
you can always take the train
or you could fly in an airplane
or drive in a car
and if you want to save money on food
it is best to eat in cheap restaurants
rather than expensive ones
(although occasionally it’s nice to splurge).

He tells us the best way to get “free in your mind”
is to stop worrying about money
and it is assumed the subject of how his bills are paid

is either a matter of mystical serendipity
a rich woman
or a government check each month.

When he’s not cutting poems
“to the bone”
he does fantasy football
supports angry women on social media
buys new headphones
alerts the populace to the presence
of Tom Waits and this strange new music

called the blues
acts as curator of newsboy caps
and guidance counselor
for hipsters.

He tells us his “ironclad character”

was “arduously attained”
and it took him “years of suffering”
to find his “voice”
which is odd because he’s 26
and sounds like every other stoner
who ever rode a pony in the small press parade.

His fourth “full length” is coming out soon.
He has a “primary publisher” but he writes so “feverishly”

that he is obliged to occasionally “let”
other people publish his work.

He mentions 38 poets by name and then reiterates

how he detests name-dropping
and groups
MFA programs too
well maybe not DETESTS because not ALL groups are bad
a poet needs to have a community
“To generalize is to be an idiot”
and hate is simply not a word
in his vocabulary
suffice it to say he is on
the fence
when it comes to groups and MFA programs
while the evidence is still being tallied.

He reminds us that poetry
is something one must do in isolation

with a pen
or a typewriter
or a computer
or a magic marker
or a stick in the sand
he himself has written poems in the margins
of sky-mall magazines
and on cocktail napkins
which proves a poet will write
because a poet must write,
period.

He advises youngsters to get back to nature
but not the roses and trees and deer and waterfalls

kind of nature
in other words, “write what you don’t know”
except sometimes it is also good to
“write what you know.”

His most recent book opens
with a Whitman quote
and if you don’t know who Whitman is well

then you’re still shitting yellow
in mama’s wam-wam.

He tells us it is best to eventually get down
to prose writing
because the world just doesn’t take poets seriously

due to the fact that civilization has been in decay
since the time of Bukowski
and perhaps even a bit before that.

He says he thinks it is important to
“keep literature dangerous”
and to illustrate this he explains that one of his chapbooks

is bound with birch bark
and stitched with tea-bag strings.

In closing
if you have even “the remotest interest in modern literature”

you will not miss his latest collection
though what it’s called
I can’t for the life of me remember—

something with “blood” in it.

Mick Rose

Don’t Fear the Reaper

“I didn’t think you’d show.”

She slid her curves into the booth, propped her umbrella against the table. “Why not? You intrigue me. No one’s asked me out for a Happy Meal before.”

“Well, if it makes you feel special, no one’s accepted my generous offer before, either.”

She slipped off her blue raincoat, revealing a taut black tee, its pink cursive letters reading ‘Off Duty Mermaid’.

“Nice tits—I mean shirt.”

She smirked. “How sweet of you to notice both.”

“Kinda hard not to. And honesty is the cornerstone of any relationship, me thinks.” I fished inside my trench coat, tugged out a silver flask, and proffered her a straw.

Her tits jiggled as she giggled and pushed the straw aside. My lolling tongue twitched with envy as the flask kissed her lips, those fiery brown eyes flashing in warm appreciation.

“Original Firewater. How sweet. You must’ve read my Facebook page.”

“If you’d posted your profile picture there I would’ve likely only drooled.”

She suddenly produced a napkin and deftly brushed my lips. “Dear boy you’re drooling now.”

“I guess that’s cuz I’m starving—in more ways than one.”

“Then why don’t you place our order?”

“Well, I was hoping to use the drive-thru so I could feel you up.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“That’s me all right. I’m a serious kinda guy. Mr. Sensitivity.”

“Well, I do admire a man who’s not afraid to express his feelings. But before we go much further, there’s some things you ought to know.”

She slid a sleek black card silkily across the tabletop: Tanya Grim—Sleep Specialist. The sharp sweeping blade of a long-handled scythe curved below her name.

I blinked. “You didn’t put that on your Facebook page. Probably explains why you write dark poetry though. So are Rigor and Mortis like your brothers or something?”

“Third cousins actually. Couple of freaks. Lucky for me I do my thing first, and try my damnedest to leave before they arrive at the scene. Got any other questions?”

“I get the sense you might be addicted to ‘bad boys’…Are you?”

“Well, I used to be. I dated Famine when I was in high school. But that whole starving-artist routine got old pretty quick. Who needs the drama, right?”

“So why me?”

“Why you what?”

“Thousands of women on Facebook. Plenty of them flashing their boobs. I don’t have a single photo on my page. So why did you invite me out for a Happy Meal?”

“Because I could tell you were different. Different intrigues me.”

“So how am I different?”

“Well, for starters you’re not flashing your boobs all over Facebook. And although your poetry can be dark… I could sense anger and sadness flowing underneath. I thought offering to buy you a Happy Meal just might make you smile.”

“That is so… sweet.”

“So you ready to hit the drive-thru?”

“Only if we take my hearse. It’s roomier than your truck.”

“How did you know I drive—never mind. Let’s blow this booth.”

When we arrived at the closest exit, I held the door primly for Ms. Grim.

“Wow, you can be a gentleman when you want to.”

Gentleman? I don’t think so. I just wanted to admire her ass.

Joseph Ridgwell

The Edinburgh Festival is Degenerate and Depraved

It was late afternoon when we tumbled out of an Edinburgh tram and hit the streets of Auld Reekie running. Collectively known as The International Lit Fiends, we were in town to check out the world famous Edinburgh Festival.

Each August – peak summer time – the peaceful tranquility enjoyed by Dunediners is ripped asunder by what can only be described as a mass invasion of undesirables, perverts, megalomaniacs, criminal elements, religious cranks, ego-trippers and just ordinary weirdo’s. Having proudly never attended a festival in my four decades on the planet it was to my initial horror that I had relocated to a beautiful city that fostered and indeed actively promoted such a ghastly abomination. For natives of Scotland’s capital the Festival is a major inconvenience – a stress ball of such magnitude that it inflicts great trauma – and has even been rumoured to be the cause of premature death. Understandably, as well as the mass invasion there is a simultaneous mass exodus – with most native sons and daughters fleeing the city for the entire duration.

Having abandoned our taxi’s in North Bridge due to gridlock – something that never happened the rest of the year we – The Lit Fiends – hotfooted it to Edina’s legendary book shop People Power in West North Street. On the way masses of tourists and lost looking fruits wandered around as if – in the words of Chuck Berry – they had no particular place to go. And really they didn’t. This was Fringe territory – the world’s largest arts festival – spanning 25 days, featuring upwards of 4,000 acts and 400 venues. Frankly it was chaos. The only ones profiting from the shambles were the founding fathers and any number of convenience stores. During the Festival prices sky-rocket – from a tin of mushy peas to a night in a luxury hotel – everything shoots up by at least 400%. As for the hapless performers they are ripped off via preposterous registration fees, venue hire, accommodation, and travel costs. And yet each year they return, undeterred, and ever more desperate.

At People Power all was not well. A best-selling author from New York City – had just left the shop in tears – after her event was cancelled due to lack of interest. Not a single person had walked through the door. This, despite the fact the streets were rammed with hundreds of tourists and festival -goers.

‘This type of author and publisher just don’t get it,’ said the erudite owner of PP.

‘Get what?’ I said.

‘You can’t just turn up at the Festival and expect people to walk through the door.’

‘Too much competition.’

‘There are more than 1,500 acts performing at any one time.’

‘1,500, isn’t that a little kinky?’

‘It gets bigger every year. It’s out of control!’

Outside on the streets the Festival was in full effect. Everywhere you looked desperate performers harangued tourists to attend their shows, shouting at them, pawing at their touristy garb, pleading, entreating, and in some cases becoming violent. Word on the Festival vine was that one female comedian had even offered free blow-jobs and cunnilingus to anyone who would attend her show. Amazingly, no one had taken up the demented offer and afterwards it was dismissed as nothing more than a publicity stunt.

After relocating to the Peach Tree pub we – The Lit Fiends – ordered drinks and waited for something to happen. As I swigged over-priced lager I recalled my stint at the Edinburgh International Book Festival the year before.

I’d been handed a free pass for the EIBF by one of Europe’s top Lit Fiends. The pass accessed all areas. I could come and go as I pleased – attend any show – but the only reason I wanted the pass was for the free food and drink. I wasn’t working at the time and each morning I rolled up and partook of the Festival breakfast. The EIBF canteen was an astonishing scene. Long lines of famous writers, mildly famous writers, writers who had once been famous and untold failed writers queueing like vagrants at an inner-city soup kitchen for repast that could only be described as public-sector primary school fare. It was then I REALISED that there really wasn’t any money in making up shit for a living.

Anyway – there remained the free booze, which being no mug I spent each evening wandering from bar to yurt to Spiegeltent, flashing my access all areas pass into the empty visages of the minimum waged minions. All the usual names were in attendance – the people who like to be seen. Ever since Marlene Dietrich sang Falling in Love Again on the stage of the famous Spiegeltent in the 1930’s – her magic mirrors had reflected thousands of artists, audiences and exotic gatherings. Subsequently it was the place to be and be seen. Nobody minded being stared at – it’s why they were there in the first place. Some even spent most of their time in the tent. They could chill-out on some of the strategically placed cushions and flea-market furniture and check out the revolving door of faces. After a couple of days and nights of that shit, however, I handed back my all access EIBF pass and retreated to my usual Edina haunts.

Meanwhile back in Fringe territory everything was going downhill – and fast. The festival-goers were getting drunker and drunker. Acts appeared and disappeared on the stage of the Peach Tree, but nobody was watching or even listening. The people were all there to say that they had been there – not to watch anything. And maybe they were right. For as an unjuried festival there is no quality control. This means that anyone with enough bees and honey to pay the extortionate reg fees can get up on stage and play out some weird fantasy masochistic – one day I’ll be famous crappola. It was all gravy. The night wore on and the Lit Fiend crowd grew restless. We had to get out of there.

‘Man,’ I said to Lit Fiend No. 3 standing next to me, ‘Party back at Ranchlette Ridgwell, spread the word.’

With that taxis were summoned and the literary underground got the fuck out of the depraved and degenerate mess that was the Edinburgh Festival. As the convoy headed out of the city we eyeballed the carnage. The pavements were slick with vomit, the air heavy with the scent of cannabis and crack cocaine, with prostitutes from around the globe lining every street corner. Drunks pissed themselves while queuing at ATMs, pregnant women were trampled on, homeless people robbed of their mendicant rewards, people fought at bus stops, kids were sold to peaodophiles to pay for rip-off hotel tariffs, even a few suicides.

‘It’s sick, sick, sick,’ mumbled Lit Fiend No. 5, as she swigged Buckfast.

‘Will we ever get out of here?’ wondered Lit Fiend No. 6 aloud, as he lit up a twenty-skin reefer El Granton Speciale.

I raised my can of lager, took a hit, and turned to the driver. ‘Put the peddle to the metal amigo before we get lynched.’

It was slow going. The roads were blocked with traffic and festival-goers. Faces loomed up at us into the night, peering inside the car, sitting on the bonnet, tapping and clawing at windows. It was like a scene from The Day Of The Triffids.

The driver was by now sweating cobs.‘I know a short cut, it could work,’ he said desperately.

‘Do what you have to do,’ I said.

The driver turned down a cobbled side street where festival-goers were less in evidence, some camped in ragged groups on the pavements, surrounded by backpacks, clutching fistfuls of flyers and other promotional paraphernalia in their grubby mitts.

Two more side streets, across a main thoroughfare, and we had made it to the other side. In Granton, we, the Lit Fiends, tumbled out of the taxi and poured into Ranchlette Ridgwell. From here on in – the rest of the night became a vicious drunken nightmare. Everyone began to fall to pieces – even as somebody played – I fall to pieces by Patsy Cline on the turntable. The convos were heavy. I got chatting to the Editor of the Midnight Gun – Edina’s only free literary publication and one which was banned by the head honcho of the EIBF, who was in turn cursed by the infamous Fairie Boy Of Leith. Not long afterwards Elizabeth Sotheby suffered a series of personal tragedies and then died. Don’t fuck with Lit Fiends is the moral to that one. Anyway more trouble was brewing on the horizon.

‘I’m going to have to resign in protest at the reaction to your story,’ the Editor said as we smoked liked chimneys and drank like fish in front of a black faux marble fireplace, while all around us Lit Fiends danced, shouted, fought and fell over.

‘But, why man, why?’ I pleaded.

‘Somebody has to make a stand against these bastard hypocrites. You saw what we just escaped from, decadency of the first order. And yet according to these petty bourgeoisie scum a short piece of harmless fiction has the ability to corrupt the minds of Edina’s young folk.’

‘How can a story about a grown man shagging a septuagenarian corrupt the minds of todays youth?’

‘And that’s exactly why I’m resigning. It’ll be big news, in all the papers.’

I wished the Editor luck and then mingled. The night wore on. There was a tent in the garden that veered crazily to one side, inside of which were Lit Fiends No. 9 & 10 composing drunken haikus by candlelight. Somebody pissed up a tree. An owl hooted. The survivors, what was left of us, the rabble, stayed up fighting the dawn…

Sometime around ten-thirty the following morning I was awakened by a scratching sound at my door. I rolled out of bed and hit my head against the door. My body ached all over. What had happened in the night? I tried to reach up for the handle, but the effort required to do so was beyond me. Ranchlette Ridgwell has mad over-sized doors, like something out of Alice in Wonderland. The handles are positioned at least six feet from the floorboards.

‘Push it open,’ I croaked.

A face appeared around the gigantic door. It was Lit Fiend No. 2 mumbling something about the need for another drink. Apparently there wasn’t a drink left in the house.

‘Need a drink bad,’ said Lit Fiend No. 2.

‘Shit,’ I said, ‘Your drinking’s getting out of control.’

‘Get dressed. I must get out of this place – NOW!’

‘Okay, okay.’

I got dressed as if I was a hundred years old. There was a nasty purple and blue bruise traversing the length of my right ribcage. I couldn’t remember any action, but you can never tell. I checked my visage in a mirror. I looked bad, not as bad as Lit Fiend No. 2 – who looked like Brian Jones warmed up – but bad enough.

‘Maybe we should get some more kip, recharge the batteries?’ I said.

Lit Fiend No. 2 shook his head. ‘No… no, I’ve got a bad case of the Hattie Jacques and my flight leaves at one. I’m not sure I could negotiate those rickety airstairs onto the plane. What if I’m trembling so bad I fall off, taking an air-steward with me?’

‘I see your point. We’ll hit the Anchor Inn. It’s a swish place, so tidy yourself up a bit as you look like shit.’

At that early hour The Anchor Inn was only half full, mostly old geezers supping quietly. We strolled up to the bar and ordered two pints and two drams.

‘You’ve got to stop this drinking,’ I said.

‘I know. This is no good, no good at all. But for some reason it makes me feel better.’

‘And you don’t want to turn up drunk at the airport – they might not let you board.’

Lit Fiend No. 2’s face turned white. ‘Do they do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Not let you board if you’re pissed?’

‘Gerry Rafferty was once turned away because he was so drunk he couldn’t stand up.’

Lit Fiend No. 2 downed his drinks and ordered another round. ‘Maybe they were worried he was going to break out with a boozy rendition of Baker Street as they cruised 30,000 ft above sea level.’

We stood at the bar drinking. We talked about the depravity and degeneracy of the Festival. Some bar flies hovered above our heads. Gradually the pub began to fill up until it was crowded. The locals, however, gave us a wide birth. There was a ten foot circumference between us and the nearest patrons. I glanced in the mirror behind the bar, horrified at the reflections that presented themselves before my jaded optics. If anyone looked degenerate and depraved it was us!

After the eighth round of drinks Lit Fiend No. 2 held out his hand.

‘Steady as a rock,’ he said.

We left the Anchor Inn and stepped out into a dazzling summers day. I lowered my polarised sunglasses, essential kit for those harsh Northern hemisphere rays.

‘Will you make it to the airport?’ I said.

Lit Fiend No. 2 gazed determinedly ahead. ‘I have to. It’s the last available flight out of town…’

John Grochalski

tough guy poets knitting circle

it’s always the feminists
that give them shit for being honest

those feminazis with their hairy pits and unshaved legs who don’t understand their place in this literary patriarchy

they just don’t understand what these white male poets are trying to achieve

so they bitch about the feminists online
complain and gripe about the women ganging up on them in their very own tough guy poets knitting circle

one claims he’s too edgy for the masses no one gets him because he’s so raw

if only bukowski would rise from the dead anoint him and set all of these bitches straight

another tough guy poet is mad because those fucking feminists didn’t like his rape poem

the one that was about this girl but really wasn’t

because he changed her name from jess to jane
even though the rest of it he took verbatim from her blog

another one continues to hate the MFA poets he’s hated those effete bastards for years

it’s agreed amongst the knitting circle
that the MFA poets suck
that they’re as bad as the angry women poets

those fucking feminazis!
i’m a dish washer, one tough guy poet writes

so everything i put down on paper is authentic and real

fuck that, another misunderstood wordslinger posts i drive a truck, so that makes me the chosen one

yeah, well, i worked in the warehouses, another chimes in that is, until i got my cushy librarian job

but i’ll still take any fucker in a bar

fucking feminazis, they all write
lest they forget the purpose of this little gathering of brilliance

occasionally a woman poet will chime in
usually it’s something about how those feminazis are giving them all a bad name

real women aren’t like that, those enchantresses write

the tough guy poets knitting circle revel in those comments it proves their point entirely

people are just so easily offended everyone is so PC these days

the rape poem was a joke, the one poet says a commentary on the way the world works

how could she not see it that way?

and that poem about my ex-girlfriend’s smelly snatch man, that was just me saying shit for my art

no one gets art anymore, they agree

only the tough guy poets knitting circle understand what it takes to make great art

because they are all so edgy and raw and gut-wrenching and direct

only they can appreciate the appetites of jackson pollock

who killed art? they ask amongst themselves it must be the feminists

those feminazis who are giving true women a bad name

it always comes back to them
with their ancient gloria steinem bullshit
with their scratched ani difranco cds and butch tattoos with their small tits and penis envy
with their aggressive and pushy personalities
with their inability to take a joke

those feminists simply don’t know how penetrating and genuine the tough guy poets knitting circle is
because they can’t see beyond their own anti-male agenda

those tongue-pierced cretins who never understood hemingway those plain-faced haters who never understood saint bukowski

who hate all men
who are all secretly lesbians

those traitorous cunts who just want to turn and fuck the tough guys wives and girlfriends behind their backs

while the real men are off writing poems

about how hard it is these days being a visceral tough guy poet

the accusers and the victims
in a gender-wide conspiracy butthurt

pawns in world that fails to see them as true masters of the universe bathed in all the brilliant white light

of pure genius.

Stephanie M. Wytovich

Vicious Girls

Creatures,
creatures are what they are—
violent Eves, rotten apples,
victimized damsels, Salem witches;
they bit the snake that fed them
drank his poison,
pulled out his fangs
and now they bleed,
they bleed once a month for his death,
the death of the devil who cursed their wombs
for they are vicious,
they are venomous
they are women,
and they will wait,
patient and persistent,
ever-enduring
and damned
and they will sing,
sing in covens, sing in brothels,
sing for men,
sing for whores
and their words will kill
they will damn
they will puncture
for they sing with lips,
lips not of mouth but of sex
sex that weakens, that confuses,
that traps
and once they have you
have you between their legs,
they will kill you,
they will eat you,
and they will love you
the only way
that they know how

Joseph Farley

Screw Job

Satan was seated cross-legged on the rug in his office. He had asked his secretary to hold all calls.

The walls of his office were made of fire as was the door, but the rug was pleasantly cool, woven from the wool of his own legs. The rug was specially designed to remain cool enough to keep most plastics from melting.

Satan was playing with a Barbie doll. He loved playing with Barbie. He felt the toy was one of his greatest inspirations. How many young girls had suffered body image issues and low self esteem from having played with Barbie, the ideal girl? How many boys had seen images of Barbie and grown up with expectations of finding a woman with such unrealistic proportions?

What pleasure their misery had brought Satan over the years.

So much pleasure, Satan had developed his own infatuation with dolls, even curating his own collection. Every once in a while he felt the urge to play with them. He would tell his assistant to hold all calls and lock the flaming door to his office.

The lord of the underworld combed Barbie’s hair with a tiny pink comb. He clothed her in a stunning white and yellow sun dress.

He had her stand outside her doll house waiting for Ken to pull up in her convertible. Barbie had loaned it to Ken since he had a new job and needed a way to get there, but her boy toy did not seem in any hurry to return it to her or purchase his own vehicle.

Satan held Barbie in one hand and Ken in the other. Ken was dressed in a crisp white tennis outfit with shorts. Satan had Barbie and Ken talk with each other.

“Nice car,” Barbie said with a hand on her hip. “Looks familiar.”

“Yo, babe,” Ken said. “I appreciate you lending me your car. I’ll get it back you to you as soon as I can, but my job has me on the go. I need wheels and I don’t have enough for a down payment for my own. Plus, you know my credit is still shaky after the bank foreclosed on my beach house. It’s hard squeezing the contents of a house into a studio apartment.”

“I thought your house was condemned by the county because it was missing a wall.”

“It was, but they changed their mind. An architect concluded it was part of the design.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Barbie sighed.

“What do you mean?” Ken asked. “I still lost my house.”

“But maybe I won’t lose mine. My house is also missing a wall. Not all the time. It has a big set of hinges in the middle. The whole thing opens up for the world to see at the most unexpected times. Like when I’m walking around naked. Then everyone passing by can see what I am up to.”

“Why don’t you move?” Ken shrugged. He was starting at Barbie’s breasts.

“I’ll never get a house with a view like this.”

“What do you mean?” said Ken as he swivelled his head from left to right. “It looks like hell around here. You can do better than this.”

“I’m not Brain Surgeon Barbie. I’m just Vacation Barbie. This is the best I can do.”

“Why don’t we move in together,” Ken suggested. “Two can live more cheaply than one.”

“Is that a proposal?”

“Hell no. I like my freedom.”

Barbie thought about it, and answered, “You can move in if you can get out of the lease for your apartment.”

“Hot dog!”

Barbie cautioned him, “But don’t expect any sex.”

“What?” Ken said wide-eyed. “You know I’m squeaky clean. I don’t even have genitals.”

“Neither do I.” Barbie answered. “I don’t even have nipples.”

“Very frustrating, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Barbie nodded. “But I have a confession to make. Although I do not have nipples, a vagina or an anus, I do have a hole between my legs.”

“Wait, you have a hole down there?” Ken pointed to where the space between Barbie’s hip sockets.

“Satan put a screw in the crotch of G.I. Joe.”

“That bastard!” Ken shouted.

He turned his head towards Satan. Satan had a big grin on his face.

“What did G.I. Joe ever do to you!”

Ken turned away from the Prince of Darkness and looked back at Barbie.

“The poor fellow!” he said. “G.I. Joe is a good friend of mine. It must have hurt when Satan gave him that screw. I wondered how it got there. I always thought it was a war wound…”

“You knew about the screw?” Barbie asked.

Ken nodded, blushing a little.

“Yeah, but what’s it to you?”

“That bastard G.I. Joe used his screw on me. He raped me.”

“Shit! You’re kidding me…”

Barbie shook her head.

“I would not kid about a thing like that.”

“Tell me how it happened,” Ken asked quietly. He put his arm around Barbie’s shoulders.

“G.I. Joe came over one night,” Barbie explained. “He was drunk. It was very late. He banged on the door until I let him in. We had met before, at a toy show and exchanged numbers. Gone to lunch, shopping. I told him it was just friends. I liked him, but not that much, and I had told him that you and I had been dating for a long time.

I don’t know why I let him in that night, but I did. He kept raving about the horror. I thought he was having some kind of flashback to the war. He used to talk about the war a lot. A lot of his friends had died fighting Cobra or the Nazis or in Vietnam or Iraq. I’m not really sure where he fought. It all seemed to blend together. He had uniforms from different eras and combat zones, so it was hard to tell. But he just kept raving, so I tried to calm him down.

Next thing I knew he had me down on the rug. He screwed me. Drove that damn thing right through my dress and into the plastic.

It hurt like Hades the first couple times. After that I didn’t feel anything. I was just sort of numb inside. He screwed me over and over all night long. He left in the morning. I would have cried if I had tear ducts. I have been avoiding him since then, but now I got a hole between my legs.”

“Why didn’t you contact the police?’

“I couldn’t. You know they are all G.I. Joes or action figures. Those guys stick together.”

Ken squeezed Barbie.

“I feel for you,” he said softly. “I understand. More than you would think. I have a confession to make.” He paused, turning his face away from her, gathering courage.

He took a deep breath, and told her. “I have a hole in my butt. G.I. Joe screwed me, too.”

Barbie pulled away from Ken and put her hand over her mouth, “He screwed you? When?”

“About a month ago while we were out hiking. He was in camouflage jungle gear and a back pack. I was wearing shorts and a red plaid shirt. I had these nifty boots.”

“What happened? Was he drunk? Did he attack you and hold you down?”

“Something like that.” Ken hesitated. “I don’t remember. All I know is we climbed up this embankment onto this plateau covered with wild flowers in bloom. The weather was spectacular. I was really getting off on it, and so was G.I. Joe. Suddenly he turned to me and suggested we take our clothes off and hike in the nude. I thought well, what the hell, it will help with my tan.”

“Yeah, and then?”

“So, we were hiking naked. That’s when I saw he had this screw sticking out from his groin area. I asked him what it was. He said, ‘What do you think it is? It’s a screw.’ I asked him what it was there for? That’s when it happened. We were out there by ourselves, no one else around. He just came at me, threw me down. He’s a big guy.”

“I know,” Barbie nodded, “and then he screwed you?”

“He screwed me all right. He screwed me good…”

“Maybe we should go to the police anyway. That’s two people G.I. Joe has done this to. We have to stop him before there are more victims.”

Ken shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Those Joes, I don’t think they’ll listen to us, not when we are accusing one of them.”

“We have evidence. We have our holes.”

“They’ll say we did it to each other with a hammer and nail.”

Both of them grew silent for a moment.

Barbie asked him, “Do you know where G.I. Joe has gotten to?”

“Last time I saw him he was at my apartment,” Ken told her. “He came over last night and screwed me. He was still in bed when I left for work.”

“He screwed you again?”

“He’s screwed me at least twice a week since we went hiking.”

“I can’t believe it!” Barbie exclaimed. She threw her hands in the air. Not literally. She just raised her arms. “You and G.I. Joe? I thought we were a couple?”

“We are,” Ken said, putting his arm back around her. “You know we were always meant to be a couple. It’s fate. I think it is what both of us want as well. It’s just that, I do not have a screw, but I do have a hole. It was simpler when it was just the two of us and neither of us had screws or holes, but things have changed.

It’s much more complicated. I didn’t know you had a hole. I only knew I had a hole and that G.I. Joe had a screw. Maybe we can still be a couple, you and I without holes or screws, or maybe I can get a screw or we can both get screws. Anyway, things are different now. I’m still the same Ken I was in most respects, but in other ways I have evolved.”

Barbie stared Ken in the eye.

“If Satan gave you a screw, would you use it just on me or would you use it on G.I. Joe as well?”

Ken shrugged.

“I can’t say. I don’t know. My heart says I would just screw you, but if I had a screw I might think differently. The screw would change me. I would be part screw.”

“I bet you would screw G.I. Joe,” Barbie said coldly.

“But he doesn’t have a hole.”

Barbie snarled, “It didn’t stop him from screwing me, or you for that matter!”

“You’re right,” Ken said. “Maybe I would screw him. But as I said, I don’t have to get a screw. You could get a screw.”

“Why would I get a screw? I’m a girl.”

“Just think about it,” Ken argued. “What if you did have a screw? Would you use it just on me since I have a hole, or would you use it on someone else?”

“Me?” Barbie replied. “If I had a screw I’d use it on G.I. Joe, for sure. I’d tie him down and screw him until I made a big hole in him, then I’d keep screwing him until the plastic in his ass melted and oozed out in drops. Then I’d spit on him and ask him, ‘How do you like it now that you know what it feels like?’ And then I’d walk away and leave him to rot.”

“And then what would you do with your screw? Would you screw me?”

Barbie thought about it.

“Maybe. I guess so. If I couldn’t get it removed.”

“So what should we do?”

There was silence as they worked out the logic.

“Maybe we both get screws?” Barbie suggested. “Maybe I won’t keep mine forever, just for a little while. Just until I pay back G.I. Joe.”

Ken thought about this possible arrangement.

“Can I screw G.I. Joe too, while he’s tied up?”

“Sure,” Barbie smiled, putting her arms around Ken’s neck. “Why not. We’ll make it a date!”

The dolls turned and gazed up at Satan.

“So what do you think, Satan?” they shouted. “Can we get screws?”

“Don’t worry,” Satan chuckled, “I’ll make sure everyone gets screwed.”

Jimmy Beard

Motherfucking Zombies

The rotting bastards broke holes in the door just as I was finally getting to fuck Cindy Martin. She’d always told me she wouldn’t fuck me even if I was the last guy on Earth. Well, saving her from those flesh-eating assholes must have counted for something in that moment, because she wasted no time at all in dragging me into the back room of the safe house, where she proceeded to climb me like a jungle gym.

She was already rocking on my hard member, full tits bouncing in my face, when I first heard the thumping against the barricade we’d thrown up. The moans of the undead mingled together with those of Cindy, who wasn’t stopping for anything.

The first shotgun blast was deafening within the confines of the small room, splattering blood and rotten flesh. Cindy cried out, but it wasn’t in surprise.

“Die you shambling fucks!”

I shifted slightly so that I could see the door behind her, several sets of gray, decomposing arms reaching through the holes in our defence. One of them had poor Sarah by the hair.

“Don’t come,” Cindy breathed, feeling my sense of urgency. “Not yet…”

Meanwhile, those tits of hers continued to batter me in my face. To pace myself, I divided my attention between her smokin’ hot bod and Sarah, whose face was slowly being torn from her skull. I swear, her desperate, high-pitched screams were the only thing keeping me from blowing my load right then and there.

Another shotgun blast rang out as a pair of undead arms vanished in a mist of blood. Unfortunately for Sarah, however, they were instantly replaced by more. With a sickening tearing sound that could be heard over the wet slapping of Cindy’s crotch against my hips, Sarah’s half-peeled face finally gave way.

Her lidless eyes darted around frantically, her tongue lolling out amid gurgling torrents of blood. Nevertheless, she continued to beat and claw at the hands still grasping her bloody mound of a head. As still more arms shot through the holes on either side of her, those who’d been trying to help her were finally forced to take a step back, aghast at the grotesquery she’d become.

Cindy laid her hands upon my chest and pushed down hard, riding me like a wild stallion. I had never known sex could be like this before.

“Oh, God, fuck yeah,” Cindy moaned. “If I’d only known, I woulda fucked you a looong time ago…”

Meanwhile, what remained of Sarah’s head maintained its gurgling noises as the zombies fought over her freshly harvested face. Ripping through the skin and muscle until the gristle of her collarbone had been exposed, another pair of hands got hold of her flabby tits, tearing them both clean off of her body. Stark white ribs poked through the dripping globs of bloody fat and shredded muscle as they slowly pulled her apart.

Sitting upright, Cindy grabbed my hands and placed them on her hips. “Fuck me harder,” she demanded through clenched teeth, fingering her clit with one hand while tweaking her nipples with the other. With each of her downward thrusts, I ground my own hips upward, meeting her with everything I had. I couldn’t believe how deep I was in that pussy, and in Cindy Martin’s of all people.

As the zombies got a better grip on Sarah, it wasn’t long before they’d dug into her ribs, opening up her chest with a series of sickening snaps. Her heart and one lung spilled forth from her destroyed ribcage, the remaining lung left dangling from a shredded bronchial tube.

Cindy humped me even harder still. Her cries of ecstasy mixed with the cries of horror from the other survivors, fingering herself with lightning speed as she finally began to climax. It had been building for us both since the start, and nothing was going to stop it now.

When Sarah’s lower half finally separated from her throughly demolished torso, her intestines spilled out onto the floor in a great big sloppy heap. A groping zombie reached beneath the gap under the door and, accompanied by a brisk whooshing sound, swiftly sucked her guts into the other room.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

With a muscle-clenching, teeth-grinding, eyeball-popping orgasm, I busted my nut deep up in Cindy at last.

Sarah’s legs kicked out the last of their life as several  unidentified organs quivered in the puddle of blood, piss, and shit slowly spreading out from her carcass.

On the other side of the door, the zombies finally shambled off, having slaked their hunger for now.

In the back room of the safe house, Cindy finally fell against me, having satisfied her lust for now.