Still Not Dead

I never really cared for zombies, never gave them much thought until now.  Could a corpse type, or would it simply headbutt the keyboard until its face was mashed beyond recognition?  Actually, I’m back to not caring.

I don’t know if many people still come here considering how little I’ve posted in the past year, but I just wanted to write a little message saying that I am, in fact, still alive.  I’ve not been neglecting my writings, far from it!  I’ve been focusing a lot more on my larger works over the past year and most of my spare time has been going into those projects.  When I’m further along I will update this site more then, maybe even post a few of the shorter stories I’ve got gathering dust in the dark recesses of my figurative basement.  And finally, to whoever is out there reading this right now: thank you for stopping by.  Much non-zombie love from me to you.  Catch you on the flipside.

Pale Horse


“The Race Track” by Albert Pinkham Ryder (1900)

I realise there’s not been much activity here for a while.  Fear not, I’m not dead (on the outside at least).  Please enjoy this short piece, written originally in November 2017.

Pale Horse

In the dead glade there is a horse I watch. A long perished creature, much like everything else in this desolate place. In memoriam, it treads the dampen earth and feeds upon blackened mosses, and in the revenant’s very existence I find enchantment. For it is undeniable; I am deeply lost in the enthralment of its ghastly beauty.

A silent cacophony of bone, the skeletal form exudes a strength and grace seldom seen in these bleak avenues.  Lit from within by an eternal green flame that engulfs its unique form, the wandering shade is an emerald nestled in the darkness of my surroundings, waiting patiently in the dusty avenues of strange and countless aeons for discovery.

Snaking and erupting from fissures between iced ribs and bottomless eye sockets, the licking flares are mesmerising. Terrifying in their unmatched vibrancy, they lash my ichor with the force of unimagined magics, snaring this lone traveller and denying reprieve.  They call this unchokable flame, the fire. Few of those who roam these lands possess it, but those that do are blessed with a superiority over others; they emit warmth.

A most radiant glow overcame me when first I encountered such a creature. As sound cannot exist in this place and radial anomalies differing from the mortuary chill of the plains are few and far between, the heat was instantly curious in its foreign nature to me. Lured, hypnotised like a rat to the viper, I followed its trail through the shadows and dark passages for many a mile, drawing ever nearer to this unseen star of the night. Intrepidly, and in fevered state, I walked till my bones began to crumble and joints began to fuse, but despite my agony the desire to witness was great, and ultimately my persistence was rewarded with the vision of that equestrian revenant.  I alone saw it, aglow in its green glory in a clearing of obsidian cedar.

How came such a beautiful thing to wander here alone, on this grim night, when I myself was so companionless for so long? We dwellers are cursed to ramble unseen by others, unheeded by all. We are stricken from the consciousness of others. Invisible and damned, we are the simple ghosts of the plains. Yet there I stood in that dead glade, transfixed and bewitched by the illumination before me. Warm, radiant, luminescent in its flickering forks of mesmerisation. Pale horse, whose beauty thaws my iced core, whose glory fires the blackest recesses of my prison and teaches me colours anew. Pale horse, why did you choose this wretched denizen over any other?

Some questions shall forever be without answer, and the vast and sprawling nightmares of this land are forever more wanting than all others. The vision gifted to me would never attain an explanation, and in truth I never expected one. Even so, the mystery of why has haunted me ever since that first glimpse through decayed boughs. I thought the moment to be fleeting, assumed the image too strong and that it would be long gone from my waking world. But still, from that trickle of sand to this, it remains with me, steadily burning its effigy into my consciousness. And to my pitiful joy, the haunting will not cease.

It has become, without doubt or shame, my curse. One born of wonderment and beauty, perhaps sent for reasons of damnation, punishment for a past I have long forgotten and can never recall to mind. Its reason, I know not. I am simply tethered, hypnotised forevermore in this dead glade. Companioned with my memories of the fire, and of the pale horse.


K.T. Burnett - Lantern (2014)

“Lantern” by K.T. Burnett (2014)

‘Tis the season of the pumpkin once more, and what better way to celebrate than with a suitably spooky story to tickle all thirteen of your haunted bits.  Here’s a tale about a ghostly encounter that goes from bad to worse and upsets a homeowner deeply.  Written on the 28th September 2017.


Tabitha crept down the stairs into the basement and held the torch in front of her. “Who’s there?” she whispered into the gloom.

“Me”, replied a coarse voice from the shadows.

Tabitha paused. “Who’s ‘me’?”

I’m me” came the reply. It wasn’t very helpful.

Tabitha wondered if she should press the disembodied voice for further details. But before she had a chance to speak again, the voice spoke once more. “Actually, I’m a ghost. Now before you get all scared and go running off, hear me out; I’m a good ghost. And furthermore, I live here”.

Tabitha was annoyed. She was not a fan of supernatural entities, especially ones that materialised in her house without permission. “A ghost? In my basement? This isn’t your home, spectre of the shadows, it’s mine. Now get out of here before I call a priest and send you back to Hell”.

The voice sounded mildly upset now. “I’ve got nowhere else to go!” it eventually lamented after it had sobbed for a minute straight. “And I didn’t come from Hell, for your information. I came from the graveyard over on Mayfield Road. Not like it’s any of your business”.

“Stop crying this instant!” barked Tabitha, banging her fist off the drywall in agitation. “I’ve got no time for blubbering ghosts, I’ve got guests coming round any minute and I don’t need a crybaby spook haunting the place up like some kind of petulant child. Now will you kindly leave?”

After the crying had stopped and an awkward minute passed in which it became clear that Tabitha would not have a change of heart and allow the ghost to stay, there came a shuffling sound from the far corner of the room. Then came a dull thud followed by a pained exclamation, and after that what sounded like somebody stuffing something squashy and fabricy into a duffel bag.

“What are you doing?” asked Tabitha, tapping impatiently on the dent in the wall.

“Rolling up my sleeping bag, if that’s okay with you?” came the short answer. The voice sounded more frustrated than upset now.

Tabitha didn’t reply. It was probably best not to engage the ghost in further conversation, lest the thing somehow take even longer to leave.

A couple of minutes later and Tabitha felt a cool breeze rush past her followed by rapid footfalls racing up the steps towards the kitchen door. Seconds later and the front door slammed shut.

Satisfied, Tabitha returned upstairs, and seeing no sign of the ghost, finished getting the tea and biscuits ready for her approaching guests.

Some time later, the doorbell rang and Tabitha warmly greeted her friends. “Hello my dears, how are you?” she asked, hugging each of them in turn and accepting their unnecessary gifts of biscuits.

“Good, thanks,” said Matilda. “But listen to this. On the way here we were passed by a floating sleeping bag!”

Mary nodded solemnly. It was a nod that did not need translating.

Matilda continued, “I turned to Mary and I said, ‘hey, isn’t that Tabitha’s sleeping bag, the one with the floral pattern on it?’”

“It’s true!” interjected Mary, unable to content herself with simply nodding any longer. “I’m certain it was yours. It just glided past us, like some kind of supersized free-floating worm”.

“That little thief!” blurted Tabitha. Both of her friends looked confused. “I just chased a ghost out of here a half hour ago, it had been kipping in my basement. The thing must’ve stolen my sleeping bag while it was down there!”

“Oh Tabitha, I’m so sorry. I wish I’d stopped it in the street now”. Matilda offered a consolation hug.

“But you didn’t. And now here I am, bereft of sleeping bag like some kind of plum”.

“It’s okay, Tabitha. You wouldn’t want it back anyway, a friend of mine once had a ghost under her stairs that slept in her sleeping bag. Full of ectoplasm when she finally found it. Washed it twenty times but still couldn’t get the smell out”. Mary patted her upset friend on the shoulder.

“Yes, you’re better off without it,” said Matilda. “Now let’s get inside and have some tea and biscuits, that’ll make everything better. It always does”.

The Devil Knows Lucha


“Luchador” by Dan (2010)

One of my heroes (Dr. Wagner Jr.) lost his mask on Saturday night at Triplemania XXV.  Losing your mask in the world of lucha libre is a huge deal and probably difficult to understand if it’s a subject you’re not familiar with.  Therefore, in tribute, here is a loosely connected lucha libre themed tale for your pleasure.  Originally written on the 27th February 2017.

The Devil Knows Lucha

In his infinite quest for happiness, Satan had tried it at. He’d been a satanic mechanic, an MMA fighter, a baker. Hell, he’d even taught stump painting to the amputee demons. But in all his endeavours, he’d never experienced the true sensation of happiness. He’d never known genuine bliss. That is until the day he discovered lucha libre.

“That’s it!” he’d shouted to the demonic parasite sucking cheese out of his toenails. “That’s my calling, I can feel it in my bones!” The parasite was promptly crushed into a decidedly hellish paste and Satan shifted closer to his six hundred and sixty six inch LCD screen. Through the mesmerising power of 666K HD, the lord of the underworld watched in glee as L.A. Park nailed Cibernetico with a Parkinator off the top rope and put him away for the three count. “This…is…gold!” barked the devil, foaming at both the mouth and nipples. “I have found my one true calling at long last. I shall become…a luchador!”

And so it was decided, Satan would try his hand at his new-found passion, Mexican professional wrestling. The devil didn’t thank God for much, but in his head he thanked him now for the ability to receive a decent television signal this far underground. First thing was first, he must acquire himself a mask and costume. For everyone knew that the most successful luchadors are the ones with the sweetest aesthetics and Satan intended to blow everyone away with his mad sewing and visual arts skills.

For six hundred and sixty six days and nights he toiled away in the seclusion of his satanic sewing room, during which a revolution broke out in Hell and several of his archdemon generals were blood eagled and gibbeted. Satan cared not for the distractions of the outside, he was focused on creating the single most awesome luchador costume and mask the world had ever seen, and at the conclusion of his seclusion he had achieved the ultimate goal in mascara manufacturing: the most awe-inspiring use of spandex, sequins and leather of all time.

After leaving his sewing chamber and thwarting the hellish revolution by clicking his fingers and turning the revolutionists into screaming puddles of viscera, Satan set about his second task: coming up with a suitably epic name for himself in the lucha world. He went to his personal place, that one special area of Hell in which he found solace and peace. It was a place of contemplation and soul-searching, a place no one else was allowed but him. It was his downstairs toilet. There, upon his throne of porcelain with its seat made out of petrified livers, the master of all that is evil considered his choices. “How about…” he drummed his fingertips upon his thigh. “El Diablo”. After staring into the framed picture of his deceased pet goat Carl for a few moments, he scrunched his face up and decided against it. “A little on the nose,” he reasoned. A few other names soon came to mind: Demonio Maligno, El Chico Rojo, Señor Miedo. They were all decided against in the end for the crime of being far too bland and boring.

It took some time for Satan to eventually come up with a suitable name to match the vision he had for himself. It was pretty lucky that he hadn’t had a bowel movement in over a thousand years and so had plenty of time to mull it over. As he finished off his thirty seventh roll of sentient toilet paper, it finally hit him like a steel chair to the face. The devil had his luchador name. And it was glorious.

* * * *

Nombre?” asked the clerk at the National Lucha Office in Mexico City. Satan was all dressed up and feeling somewhat self conscious as he stood in front of the glass panel, staring at the diminutive middle aged man on the other side. Satan didn’t like the look of him, he looked like a paedophile. In fact, he was a paedophile, and Satan knew it because he had a knack for smelling that sort of thing on people. He wondered if he should smite him right there and then, send his infernal soul to the pits below. Maybe he’d sentence him to an eternity of getting his fingers caught in a window hinge.

“Nombre?!” barked the man, a little louder than necessary.

“It is I, the one and only scourge of lucha libre, the single greatest luchador to ever walk the face of the planet. I am… Estrella de la Mañana! Fear me!”

The paedophile didn’t look up. He hadn’t actually looked the devil in the eye once during their brief meeting. Even if he had, he’d probably have no idea the man dressed up like an immaculate luchador before him was actually Satan himself. The man stamped some forms and slid a receipt under the glass, not saying another word.

Satan, now also officially registered as Estrella de la Mañana, was annoyed at this lack of respect. How easy it would be to turn you inside out and paint the building with your juices, he thought to himself as he took the receipt. Satan wasn’t going to do that though, he didn’t want to blow his cover. No, he’d made up his mind to do this properly. The devil was walking the Earth to achieve his relatively-recently forged dream; becoming a grand lucha libre superstar. If the people found out that he was the devil in disguise this soon he’d never make it far. No promoter would book him. No kids would buy his t-shirts or replica masks. No, the middle aged Mexican paedophile would live to see another day. Although Satan did use his demonic magic to secretively turn his cup of coffee into chupacabra urine.

Out in the bustling streets, Satan basked in the glory of becoming official. Now all he had to do was get himself on a card and prove to the world how awesome he was. He’d watched all the lucha libre TV he could in Hell and he knew he had it in him to be the very best. To Hell with starting out small and paying your dues, Satan was better than bingo halls and carnivals. He’d go straight to the big leagues and dominate the competition. A second later and he was asking passersby for directions to Arena México.

“I am Sat– ahem, Estrella de la Mañana. Book me on your show or you will regret it for the rest of your miserable life and beyond!” boomed the sequins-bequeathed eyesore to the man behind the ticket booth. The arena’s atrium was cavernous and made Satan’s words echo just like they did back home.

“Qué?” replied the spotty teenager, picking a scab on the back of his lumpy head.

“What don’t you understand, peasant? I am demanding that I am placed on this show in a match of high billing or I will destroy you and all of your beloved luchadors and I’ll probably even steal their t-shirt merchandise money!”

The employee didn’t reply this time, only stared. For one, he didn’t speak English, and even if he did he wasn’t in any position to call the shots of the wrestling event happening that night. The teenager farted nervously. Satan was not pleased. It was very hard for the exquisitely attired deity not to put the teenager through a world of hurt that would be incomprehensible to the human mind, or at the very least take his legs off and throw them through a wall. But somehow he controlled his displeasure and simply marched past the man and headed straight for the locker room. The employee probably would have tried to stop him, especially considering the luchador hadn’t paid for admission, but thought better of it on account of being stunned into submission by the thrilling lucha mask he’d been wearing. It was so beautiful that the teenager pulled out his mobile and immediately tweeted about it to his seven followers.

Upon kicking down the locker room door and flipping a few benches, Satan was promptly beaten over the head with a steel chair and powerbombed through the drywall into the public restroom next door. “Well that didn’t go so well,” mumbled the devil as he brushed pieces of broken toilet off himself. “Take two”.

“Okay you bunch of taco eating cloth heads! My name is Estrella de la Mañana and I demand to be put on this card immediately”. Once again, Satan found himself upside down in the public restroom.

The third time good old Mañana attempted to gain acceptance into the luchador’s locker room went a little better. He made a quick detour to the concession stand first and brought with him a caseload of cervezas and a bunch of foam fingers, attempting to bribe the grapplers into accepting him into their exclusive brotherhood. Surprisingly, it worked. Somewhat. For a large man in a silver and white mask who identified himself as the legendary Ángel Santo Jr. took all the beers, downed them in a oner and beckoned the brash newcomer to sit beside him.

“I’m Estrella de–”

“You already said that,” said Ángel Santo Jr.

“You speak pretty good English, Mexican,” replied Satan, eyeing the other luchadors as they shot dirty looks at him beneath their own vibrant, tasteful and undeniably majestic luchador masks.

“Of course I do, I’m the greatest luchador in the world. I’m good at everything. Now tell me, stranger, why should we put you on this show when we’ve never heard of you before?”

“Because,” said Satan, slapping his thigh as if he’d just told a joke but hadn’t and instead looked kind of ridiculous doing it, “I am the greatest luchador of all time, not you. In fact, now that I’ve gotten you drunk on cheap beer, I hereby challenge you to a match tonight. I will build my legacy off your misery!”

Ángel Santo Jr. stood up – almost falling over in the process – and slapped Satan right across the masked face. “How very dare you, cabrón! I shall beat respect into you. This is not how we go about things in lucha libre. I will take your challenge and make you wish you’d never put on that highly impressive and admittedly spectacular mask. In fact, let’s make things interesting. I hereby challenge you…to a Luchas de Apuestas!”

The entire locker room gasped in unison and several pre-match hotdogs were dropped onto the floor. A Luchas de Apuestas was the single biggest challenge a luchador could lay down in all of wrestling. It was a match where each competitor would put their mask on the line, with the victor taking their opponent’s, thus revealing their true identity and shattering the image all the little merchandise-buying kids had of their beloved idol. It was the ultimate challenge. As soon as the words had left Ángel Santo Jr’s lips, Mexico City was rocked by an earthquake, such was the devastation infused in such a powerful challenge.

Beneath his awe-inspiring mask Satan unrolled a sly grin. He’d gotten what he wanted already. And all it had taken was a few stolen beers.

* * * *

To the sounds of his well chosen theme music (“Don’t Give Me Your Life” by Alex Party), Estrella de la Mañana made his way through the curtain and into a baffled crowd of lucha libre fans. They’d never heard of this flamboyant individual before, why was he main eventing one of the biggest shows in Mexico against none other than Ángel Santo Jr. in no less than a mask versus mask match? What insanity was this? Satan let them all know by pirouetting, back flipping, somersaulting and handspringing his way down the ramp and into the ring like something not even a ecstasy-fuelled firework would be capable of, let alone an unknown luchador with a sweet mask.

A minute later and his opponent was in the squared circle, circling Satan in a circular motion which was apt because even though it’s called a ring, it’s actually square-shaped and not circular and so his circular movements contrasted well with the physical dimensions of the ring and looked quite artful, even if that wasn’t the intention. The bell soon rang and Satan immediately went for a running dropkick, a move he’d seen performed on TV countless times before and therefore obviously knew how to do himself without the need to practice.

With a mighty right hook, Satan was floored by Ángel Santo Jr. The crowd erupted. Seconds later and Satan had been German suplexed over the top rope and into the fourth row, wiping out a family of holidaymakers from Zimbabwe. The realisation dawned on him in an instant – much like an actual dawn at the equator where it happens rather quickly –, Satan wasn’t anywhere near as good as he’d previously thought he was. Before the newcomer could gather his thoughts of bitter revelation, Ángel Santo Jr. was flying through the air with the grace of a donkey falling off a pier and landed a thunderous elbow right onto Satan’s forehead. The devil was in trouble in Mexico City.

For forty five minutes Satan, the supreme lord and master of all that is evil and horrific, was subjected to an absolute beating from a near-fifty year old man in silver spandex. He was kicked and punched from pillar to post, thrown around like a rag doll and beaten to within an inch of his eternally infernal life. Never had the Mexican people seen such a one-sided affair, not even the time El Hijo Del Fontanero was utterly owned by Pato Verde in an Evening Gown Match. The pro Ángel Santo Jr. crowd were utterly enthralled and loving it, watching their beloved legend decimate this brash neophyte. They’d all get to point and laugh at his unmasked face soon, it was only a matter of time.

After yet another clothesline to the throat, Ángel Santo Jr. locked in the El Pulpo finishing manoeuvre which had won him countless bouts throughout his illustrious career. Satan was in a world of hurt, he’d never know true pain such as he felt now. It was quite the eye-opener actually, suddenly giving him a glimpse at what the worthless wretches below the surface went through on a daily basis at his command. Pain sucked. The referee asked if he was ready to give up and submit. Ángel Santo Jr. cranked back on his opponent’s spine even harder. Pain really sucked. That’s when Estrella de la Mañana gave up on his lucha libre dream and reverted back to being good old Satan: scourge of the damned.

It all happened so quickly. So quickly in fact that most of the fans in the arena didn’t realise what had actually happened until long afterwards. Afterwards, when Ángel Santo Jr’s molecularly compromised organs had plastered themselves all over the walls and rafters. Afterwards, when the ring had been vaporised and replaced with a steaming crater in the shape of a pentagram. Afterwards, when the first fifteen rows had been replaced with smouldering wreckage and charred human remains. Yes, it was only after all this that the surviving fans put the pieces together and actually acknowledged what they were looking at. Estrella de la Mañana was standing alone where the ring had once been, holding his opponent’s severed head in his hand. Despite the carnage surrounding him, Estrella looked immaculate. As did his sweet mask. That’s when the fans noticed it.

The tail.

There was a forked tail protruding from Estrella de la Mañana’s spandex tights, and it was red. “Sweet Santa Muerte!” screamed an elderly lady in a commercial grade replica Ángel Santo Jr. mask she’d bought at the concession stand mere hours before. “That’s no luchador! That’s Satan!”

All Hell surely would have broken loose right there and then but the devil froze them all to the spot with an icy stare. He enjoyed misery and panic in the masses, and he’d let them get to that in a moment, but first there was something important to take care of. Something he wanted them all to witness. Something he simply had to do on account of his obsessive-compulsive disorder. He’d started this journey to become a lucha libre legend, and by Christ (or a suitable underworld equivalent) he’d finish it too. Slowly raising the head of Ángel Santo Jr. into the air, Satan pointed to it.

In his devilish mind, he was the winner of this Luchas de Apuestas and he’d earned the mask of the legendary luchador. In one fluid pull, he yanked the silver and white mask off the severed head and revealed the bulging-eyed face beneath. Satan roared with laughter as he allowed the capacity crowd to resume their panicking and freaking out. “I did it, you old fool! I told you I was the best. Now look at you!” the devil jeered at the severed head.

That’s when it winked at him.

Satan dropped the head and jumped back aghast. No mortal was capable of that, as far as he knew, and he knew a lot because he had an IQ of six hundred and sixty six which is pretty high. No, he was pretty sure severed heads weren’t supposed to do that. If the winking had shocked him, then what was about to happen next would make him wish he’d never turned his giant LCD television on and watched the Lucha Channel in the first place.

The head lying in the smoking crater in the centre of Arena México started glowing like an angelic pumpkin, with beams of blinding white light shooting out of its eyes, nose, mouth and ears. It levitated – quite un-head-like indeed – and began emitting a loud hum, one unlike anything anyone had ever heard before. The stark raving mad fans in the crowd had utterly lost their innocent little minds by this point, a lot of them were just bugging out on the floor, flipping and twitching and just generally losing the plot. Satan took off his own sweet mask and stared in slack-jawed disbelief at what was unfolding before him.

The floating head suddenly exploded in a shower of gleaming sparks and vibrant lights, and when the light show had cleared, none other than God himself was stand before Satan.

You?!” blurted the devil in disbelief.

“Yes me!” retorted God, hands on his hips. “You’ve really upset me this time, Clive,”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Oh that’s right, it’s Lucifer now isn’t it?” mocked the Divine Father as Mexicans fainted so hard they went to Heaven.

“No it’s not! I stopped using that name years ago and you know it. It’s Satan now. What are you doing here, you righteous old fool?”

“You’ve discovered my secret pastime, and you couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you now Clive?”

“I told you not to call me–“

“Shut up!” commanded God, silencing Satan with a thought that sewed his mouth shut.

“I’m sending you back to Hell, and I’m taking your TV away too. No more lucha libre for you. I will not have you ruin this hobby for me. Now begone!” God fired his magical finger of celestial wonderment at his old foe and teleported him back to the fiery confines of the underworld.

“Right,” said the divine deity, surveying the carnage of Arena México around him. “A quick click of the old magic fingers here and we’ll be right as rain. And I think it’s high time to retire the Ángel Santo Jr. gimmick and start afresh”.

Absolute Helmet


“Ancient Antique Armor Fighter” by Mike (2017)

No, I’m not dead.  I’ve just been really busy working on some things recently, so haven’t posted much.  But fear not!  I have a treat for you (if you’re borderline mental and like outrageous weird literature).  The following is the first couple of chapters of a novel I was once working on that I may get back to one day.  It’s mean.  It’s degenerate.  It’s not very nice at all, and to be perfectly honest about it, it’s a bit of a bastard.  If you are easily offended by four letter words then just ignore this tale altogether.  If, on the other hand, you like living dangerously (or do not care for feeble warnings) then read on and allow your wig to be joyously flipped!

Absolute Helmet

Chapter I

Roland Pilejuice was a piece of shit from the Lower East Side of Pentagon City. He lived in a great big pile of pig manure that he’d stolen straight from a pig’s ass when he was twelve. One day, as Roland lay inside his horrific nest, jerking his pepperoni to the sordid thoughts in his malformed head, a brick was thrown through his bedroom window.

“What the fuck?!” yelped Roland as the brick bounced off the head of his penis, causing the shaft to fracture in the middle like a twig. Before he could do anything more, a junkie bastard with bubonic super AIDS clambered in through the broken window and leapt onto Roland like a pissclam possessed.

“Give me all your heroin!” screamed the little junkie fuck, throttling Roland’s throat like it was a cock and he was an epileptic prostitute.

“Get off me, dickhead!” gurgled Roland before throwing the junkie off him, which was easy to do given that junkies are notoriously feeble and pathetic. Roland stood up and kicked the ass fungus out of the intruder until his head exploded and he got brain mush all over his varookas. “God dammit. What was that all about?”

Throwing on his clothes, which consisted of a t-shirt with “Haemorrhoid Suckers Tour 1992” written on it in feces and a skimpy pair of short shorts stolen from a decomposing hooker he’d found in a dumpster, Roland Pilejuice picked the junkie scumbag up and walked out of his fermented pig muck hovel.

He marched all the way across town until he eventually reached the Doughnut n’ Bacon Pork Chopper Police Compound. It was easy to find, even without directions, as the stench of over-cooked bacon was hard to ignore. Roland stormed up to the front desk, dumped the corpse of the junkie onto the counter and headbutted the stupid little bell, letting the desk sergeant know that he was there.

“Fuck you want?” asked the great big fat pile of sweaty blubber and doughnut crumbs that came waddling out of the back office. He had his penis out. It was poking through his unzipped trousers and it was covered in steaming fresh colon fudge. Apparently, this upstanding member of the police force just bludgeoned a convict up the poop shoot because he could. Cops were as corrupt as shit pickles in Pentagon City.

“Fuck I want? Fuck you think, wank chops?” spat Roland angrily. “This skinny sliver of anabolic dog shit broke into my house and tried to choke me while I battered my rhythm stick!”

“So? You killed the bastard, what’s the problem?” The fat undulating mound of pork put his trotters on his hips, much like an uppity bitch might do when feeling mightily uppity indeed. His penis was still hanging out, dripping shit onto the crumb covered floor of the precinct. It was quite distracting, but not enough to prevent Roland from retorting with increased malice.

So, that’s the eighth time this week! I’m sick of this horseshit flavoured goat crap! I want something done about it, you big fat jelly doughnut guzzling puddle of rimjob paste!”

The sergeant got mad. Like, really fucking mad. His face immediately went deep red like a baboon’s hindquarters and he started sweating more than physically possible. It was so impossible that his entire body swelled up like a pork balloon and he shit his own ass kibble out, along with his intestines, heart, kidneys and semi-digested doughnuts. Then the fat sergeant burst like said pork balloon, showering Roland in bacon bits and bloody waves of annihilated pig.

Roland could tell right there and then that this pig cop wasn’t going to help him. Fuck him. So, thinking on his feet like the industrious little waster he is, he stole a couple of machine guns from the lock up using the exploded cop’s key and exited the building. If the useless police of Pentagon City weren’t going to clean the streets of junkie scumbags, he was.

Chapter II

The man known across the bustling city of bullshit and harrowing misery as Roland Pilejuice was more than just a piece of shit. He was a piece of shit with a cleft palate, a harelip, inverted nipples, a baked bean-shaped head, two left feet, scoliosis, various skin diseases, a fetish for sometimes eating shit and a grudge against junkie fucking bastards who broke into people’s pig shit cabins and snapped their dicks in half with bricks. Roland was going to wipe those bitches out, and he was going to do it with style.

But first, lunch.

Sautéed goomba dicks were on the menu down at Uncle Fudge’s Packed Clam and Filthy Crab Palace. It was a hole, but it was Roland’s favourite hole in the city. Well, besides the holes between old women’s crusty labia, or the ones between big sweaty ass cheeks. Roland, drenched head to toe in fresh piggy offal and wielding two stolen machine guns made his way through town to the old restaurant and ordered a bowl of sautéed goomba penises.

“You got coin for that shit, faggot?” asked the owner. Uncle Fudge was more of an asshole than a friend, but Roland felt close to the salty old fool anyway. They’d had a threesome once with an unidentified dead thing, so it was kind of like they were brothers. Roland loved Uncle Fudge a lot. So he shot him in the kneecaps with one of his new guns.

“Haha! Yes I do, you grizzly old piece of cod shit. Now get me my sautéed dicks before I shoot your forehead into next week”. Roland laughed heartily as he emptied the rest of the clip into the ceiling above a fellow diner and giggled as the plaster fell into her shark shit soup and the LED chandelier fell onto her head with a dull crunch.

A few minutes later and Uncle Fudge crawled back into the restaurant with a platter of goomba cocks, trailing his fragmented kneecaps behind him like some kind of almost-roadkilled skunk. Roland snatched the plate from the owner and pierced the fattest, most succulent goomba sausage with his fork. He brought it to his mouth, inhaled its gravy scent and opened his salivating mouth wide to enjoy the pleasures of a thrilling good chew.

Suddenly, from out of absolutely nowhere, all the windows in the restaurant were obliterated by the sounds of “Bad Medicine” by Bon Jovi being blasted at ear-rapingly high volume.

“What the fuck?!” exclaimed Roland, dropping the fork.

The entire front wall of the building exploded and a hot pink army tank crashed into the diner area. There were high wattage speakers mounted all over the thing, as well as lashings of colourful streamers and party balloons in the shape of mythical creatures, like dickrats. Roland couldn’t understand what he was looking at. He turned to Uncle Fudge for an answer, but there was no answer, only beloved old Uncle Fudge lying beneath one of the treads, popped like a bile-filled grape.

The hatch on top of the tank suddenly flipped open and Roland shit his short shorts in anticipation. To the god damn awesome sounds of eighties’ hair rock, something amazing emerged from the portal. Whatever it was immediately blinded Roland because it was so damn shiny. Shielding his eyes, the bewildered man beheld the thing extending out of the tank like a penis rising up out of a hole in a pair of boxer shorts. It was a helmet. A god damn, chrome-plated, titanium alloy, diarrhoea-inducing, wig-flipping, holy fucking shitting hell epic ass awesome as southern fried fuckery helmet. Roland fainted.

When he eventually came to, Roland noticed that the song was still playing. Maybe it was on repeat. The helmet had extended further out of the hatch and it was now clear that it was not just a helmet, but an entire god damn knight. This epic fucker was now straddling the tank’s cannon like it was some kind of giant phallus and he was holding his arms in the air like a messiah of metal.

“Roland Pilejuice!” boomed the mysterious knight.

“Oh shit,” mumbled Roland under his dog shit scented breath. It knew his name.

Chapter III

The glistening knight with the most amazing helmet ever to be a helmet back flipped off the tank, performed sixteen corkscrew twists on the way down and landed on the floor like a gymnast with high functioning autism. As soon as his feet hit the linoleum, the sound of a previously uninvented guitar riff rocked the room from seemingly nowhere. Roland had completely forgotten about his cold goomba cocks by now.

“Who-who are you?” asked the bewildered man.

The knight slid up to Roland and bedazzled him some more with a close up view of his god damn supreme helmet. “I am Balor Balcbéimnech!” he boomed.

Roland was flabbergasted, like a porn starlet discovering a small fishing vessel inside her on-screen partner during an elbow-deep fisting scene with an otherwise bland and boring storyline. “The Helmet Knight?” he stammered. “You’re Balor Balcbéimnech, the Absolute Helmet himself?!”

“Yes, Roland. It is I, the great and powerful keeper of the Absolute Helmet. I am here to tell you that you are a feeble fuckneck and that your junkie slaying skills are weak”.

“But I just killed one a half hour ago!” interjected Roland.

“Exactly. You killed one. And that was only after it managed to snap your dick in half. You may think that those two machine guns will make it a bit easier to wipe these scumbags off the face of the planet but you’d be wrong. There are many, many more junkies out there. Far more than you have bullets for”.

“So you just crashed in here to make fun of me, call me a fuckneck and make my goomba cocks go cold?”

“No, Roland. I am here so that you may fulfil your destiny”.


…To be continued?

Poets of the Fringe


“Volcanic” by Unknown

The amount of short stories and other works of fiction I’ve written about Hell could be made into a large volume all of its own (but I’m holding onto them, just for now).  It’s a source of infinite inspiration to me artistically, something I can’t say I particularly believe in but at the same time gives me a limitless supply of visions and constantly warping interpretations.  The following is a short piece that was originally part of something much larger.  I may get back to completing it one day.  In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!  Originally written on the 23rd May 2017.

Poets of the Fringe

On the shivering coast of the great circle sea of viridian plasm, that vast body of infernal solution with its myriad of ignitions, shock waves and bursts of dead light, there stand the stoic poets. These unwavering souls were deemed too valuable by the Unmaker to waste in the likes of the killing fields or to be fed into the mouths of the various, wandering titans. The intellectual perished serve a higher purpose: creation. Their sole function, to stand an eternal vigil between the dead waterline and the rotting dunes of oblivion.

On those shifting sands of fragmented dreams, the damned face the infinite nothing that both exists and does not beyond the horizon of the pseudo sands. And there they are forced to compose grotesque sonnets and vile poems to the infinite glory of the hell both behind them, and to the maddening mysteries of that which lies beyond.

Born in the excruciating ecstasy of a bastard spawning within the confines of perdition itself, their potent words take form and become continental extensions, such is their immense power. Resonating consonants that influence the very fabrics of the rock and air, expansions of the deadscape whipped and spun out of rancid thought alone. Verses birth mountains of purifying flesh. Choruses become bottomless depths of blood. Stanzas of horror metamorphosise into ghastly landforms, around which nightmare storms congregate and throw wild abandon in their orgies. And around them all, hideous, shambling abominations, once mere words themselves, crawl and twitch across the new clays.

Their repulsive compositions are infinite, and therefore so too are the maddening expanses of the inferno they spawn. With each new chasm and monolith influencing the words of the next poet laureate, it is an endless cycle of birth and evolution, soaked in the blood and agony of battery farmed creation. It is a most horrific process, a sickening childbirth played out to a thunderous symphony of crushing bones, tearing sinew and rattling gurgles.

With the breaking of each new dawn, their fried and soiled minds are wiped clean of their freshest conceptions, and they must endure anew the depraved forging process. Aeons without number, void of end, a special damnation without cessation or even the lingering hope of a distant reprieve. They are the unwilling architects of their own perpetual doom. A process so draining, so arduous and foul that it wrings sangria tears out of blackened sockets, eyes rendered mere ghosts after punishing centuries of burning visions assaulting their feeble tissues.

But still, they endure and compose. It is demanded, and the way is unquestionable.

The volcanoes vomiting liquid bone over the sorrow fields, the black smoke stacks belching fire and puss to the crackling sounds of consumed flesh, they are all products of the poets’ horrific artistry, twisted constructs of the maimed intellectuals’ finest works.

And for evermore, be it under the watchful eyes of the blood moons or the scorn and judgement of the scorching suns that they themselves birthed, the cursed compose on.


psychedelic_mess_by_acid_flo-d3cq9od 2011

“Psychedelic Mess” by Acid-Flo (2011)

I wrote this today when I should have been working.  Written on the 29th May 2017.


While out running down by the pond one day, Algernon suddenly tripped over a rock and tumbled head first into another dimension.

Occasionally (as in supremely occasionally, like, barely ever at all), things like this do happen. It’s got something to do with the ether. Or maybe it’s magic? Actually, no one really knows. Once it even happened to a duck, but that’s another story for another time in another dimension altogether, so let’s not dwell on it.

Poor Algernon had left the plane of reality he had known since he was a boy and now found himself to be quite discombobulated, rearranged and exceptionally baffled in an altogether new psychedelia entirely. It was quite disconcerting, to say the least.

He was now somewhere between thirty and thirty three thousand feet tall, and stretched as thin as a human hair. His new surroundings consisted of colours so loud and flavoursome that they couldn’t even handle themselves and instead burst into showers of foaming mushroom things before they had a chance to properly exist at all. It took some getting used to. So much getting used to, in fact, that Algernon didn’t get used to it at all.

Algernon ate a piece of mushroom. He didn’t want to, nor had he physically made the effort to do so. The shroom had simply become one with the inside of his mouth. After he’d not chewed it – yet had at the very same time – his teeth uprooted themselves and ran off into the exploding mushroom void and became distant stars that screamed a lot from afar.

In his understandable confusion, Algernon had forgotten to become scared and so, in the dawning realisation that he must feel something, lest existence itself become pointless, he resorted to radiating sheer, unaccountable and very much misplaced elation. In this brand new world however, elation existed solely in liquid form.

His leaking excretions made the broken slivers of exploded mushroom laugh at him. This upset Algernon greatly, and so he took it upon himself to begin smashing them with his gigantic fists.

Having all-new physiological anomalies for fists that were now wafer-thin and ridiculously sharp meant that rather than punch the mushrooms, he diced the little things up something rotten instead. And oh how they squealed when he did. The enamel stars, watching from afar were greatly upset by what they witnessed and howled so loud that they disintegrated and left the world a little less toothy.

Soon, Algernon had wiped out most of the laughing, screaming mushrooms and had left nothing but a floating carpet of grey pizza toppings and one singular mushroom with a decidedly terrified vibration emanating from it. The pitiful shroom looked beseechingly, in about as much as a mushroom that used to be a colour could, and hoped to appeal to the vast and murderous sliver of wrath’s better nature. But alas, it was not to be. Algernon was the Destroyer, the Cleaver of Worlds, he was the Ragnarök of the loud colour dimension and as he cut the last mushroom down with a mighty slash, the concept of colour ceased to be altogether.

In the next instant, Algernon landed face first in a muddy puddle beside the pond.

Massive Fuck Off Beard

The Bearded Lady, Madame Delait Vintage Postcard

“Madame Delait, the Bearded Lady” 1910

Some argue that women aren’t celebrated enough.  I argue that bearded women aren’t celebrated enough.  Therefore, in the spirit of justice, I have endeavoured to help change social attitudes towards the glory that is the thatched female and present this tale of intrigue.  Well, there probably isn’t all that much intrigue actually, but there is beardage, and to some that can be quite intriguing itself.  Written on the 20th May 2017.

Massive Fuck Off Beard

She was a woman with a plan. Her affliction had seen her childhood and teenage years ruined but now in the intellectual awakening that was her twenties she had a brilliant idea. Some may even say, a spiffing one.

At its core it was a rather simple idea, one which would turn her world on its head and reap great rewards. She would embrace her facial thatch and cultivate that which would become both revered and loved as, the “massive fuck off beard”. And so, she set to work and squeezed real hard.

In a month she was regularly mistaken for a man. In six months she had become a well respected wizard, despite knowing no magic. And in two years she could form a skipping rope with her facial foliage so long that up to seven children could jump it at once.

But now came the tough part: convincing the locals that she was indeed a she and not a he as many would initially presume.  For it is often said in carnie circuits that nobody buys a ticket to see a bearded man.

She pondered her options for some time. She could take her top off, but that would be lewd and no self respecting bearded woman would lower themselves to such a standard. There was also the option of getting pregnant and popping a crotch fruit in a public forum. But again, that would be vulgar. And besides, she wouldn’t have a child for such a ridiculous reason.

No, she would much rather prove her womanhood by not laughing at the next fart that happened in front of her. Then they’d know she was all woman. For it was a well known fact that this was something that could not be faked.

She’d show them she was all woman. All, bearded, woman.

The day finally came when an opportunity arose and a fireman farted beside her in church. All the men burst out laughing as the coffin squeaked off behind the velvet curtains. But the one with the gigantic forest for a face didn’t even crack a smile.

The reverend noticed first. He dropped his bible and pointed, a vacuous wheeze coming from his agape mouth. In the commotion that followed, several stained glass windows were shattered, the organ collapsed and the pews were weaponised and thrown around in the uproar.

This he was undeniably a she, and clearly in no way a he. And she was very happy that everyone now knew the truth behind her dense thicket of bristles. “Behold!” the woman shouted, calming everyone with a polite courtesy. “I am a woman, and if you wish to behold my massive fuck off beard, you may pay me tuppence at my house on Wilted Cabbage Road and see it at your leisure”. And with a brief flick of her skirts, she turned heel and left.

In the months that followed, many curiosity seekers did come to the house on Wilted Cabbage Road and the young woman was soon rich beyond her wildest dreams. After a time she decided that she’d earned enough coin and so shaved her local legend off, sold her home and left town altogether, coming to the conclusion that she would much rather spend the rest of her life beard-free and soaking up the sun on the coast than remain in the town which had once ridiculed her for her differences.

The town, having now lost a huge portion of its wealth to the absent woman, found itself bankrupt. And soon enough, as is the way with such things, it had fallen into disrepair and disrepute. Things eventually got so bad that the government threw up its hands and nuked it, pretending it had never existed at all. They sworn vehemently for the next several decades that the radioactive crater several miles across had always been there, and the twelve limbed dogs that the chased neon cats were indigenous to the area.

And somewhere out there on the idyllic sands of a distant sun-kissed beach, a content woman rubs her petite chin, and in the process reminds herself to grab a quick shave whenever she gets back to the beach house.

McAllister’s Woe

Back to Black - Laura in Bella Magazine1

“Back to Black” by Anna Gunselman (2014)

I am an odd person.  I have decided this based on the standard of weirdness that my writings regularly attain.  This tale is absolutely no different.  I won’t even give it a proper introduction.  Instead, here are two relevant points of interest discussed within: Laura Prepon and a toilet of God.  Sound fun?  Fantastic!  Have at it, reader!  Originally written on the 8th May 2017.

McAllister’s Woe

Reverend McAllister was thinking about Laura Prepon again. In addition to being a famous actress of her day, Laura was also a whimsical painter with dazzling nails and vast toes with which to cultivate them. Most of that is probably not true, but McAllister liked to think it was. In addition to being an employee of Christ, he was also a devout creep.

The man of God pranced through the vestry and over to the decorative gold toilet, whereupon he reflected on his manhood. As a general rule, he had always hated other men’s more picturesque genitalia because his own was not so aesthetically pleasing. The fact that he made a habit of stabbing knitting needles into it certainly didn’t help. Though, despite its flaws, it was alert and featured an above average pain threshold. It was an organ that encouraged his tendency to feel mighty.

As he picked out a piece of broken knitting needle, he saw something in the toilet bowl. Or rather, someone. Yes, it was unmistakable. It was a miniaturized version of Laura Prepon.

McAllister gulped. He glanced back at his manhood, waggling like a puppy dog’s tail and semi-obscuring his view of the little woman in the toilet. He shifted slightly to the left. Yes, there she was, floating alongside half a knitting needle, the love of his life and star of his most sordid dreams.

It was weird, yes, but who was he to question an opportunity like this? Perhaps the Almighty was finally rewarding his lifetime of service. This was his big chance to impress Laura Prepon with his knowledge of toenails and snag her for life. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Was he truly deserving of Laura Prepon’s love? He was a man who had once made a cup of nesquik for a senile blind person and smashed it in her face so many times she was never identified.

But not even a spiteful person who had once made a cup of nesquik for a senile blind person was prepared for the reason sweet Laura was in his toilet that day.

She was there to kill him.

Being astronomically in love to the point that, as mentioned, his genitalia wagged like a doggie’s rear appendage, tears of elation began to rain down from the reverend’s face like lemon juice off a bag of lemons being headbutted repeatedly into a wall by an elephant seal with a headache and a disdain for sour fruit. He had to regain his composure, else Laura Prepon might think he was weird. McAllister quickly grabbed a copy of the bible off the shelf above the toilet. He rubbed its fine paper pages, trying to reclaim some dignity.

Without putting his still wagging man-of-the-cloth away, McAllister reached into the toilet and was elated to see Laura reaching up to meet his grasp. Suddenly, he could see a look of devilry in her eyes. It confused him. Laura Prepon was meant to love him, it was written in the stars that he drew on the ceiling above his bunk bed. But devilish glints meant nothing to him anymore, he was so consumed, he didn’t care. Lust had taken control of his sensibilities as well as senses.

Suddenly, Laura glared with all the wrath of 2099 cold-blooded, murderous giraffes trying to coordinate a carpet bomb attack on a trio of primarily dessert-based nations. In a tone that made the toilet water quake, she screamed, “I loathe you and I want a nail clipper!”

McAllister looked shocked. No one ever expects a three inch version of their crush to appear in a toilet bowl and demand a nail clipper after confessing its supreme hatred for them. The reverend fingered the bejesus out of the fine paper biblette.

“Laura, I am your father,” he replied.

This wasn’t even remotely true, but clearly McAllister wanted to hurt Laura Prepon and that was the best he could come up with on such short notice.

They looked at each other in surprise for a moment, like two homeless Croatians who’d had a string of bad luck as of late and had thought they were about to turn things around only for someone to poo in their cheeseburgers and laugh. On their collective birthday.

Suddenly, Laura lunged forward and tried to punch McAllister in the moustache. Quickly, the reverend used the almost immaculate – but not quite because he’d been fingering its fine paper pages for a long time by this point, and with excessive force – biblette and brought it down on Laura Prepon’s soaking wet head.

Laura, the three foot woman with toes for days and nails to match was dead. McAllister’s heart was broken. The poor miniature woman, she looked so squished, like a trodden on burrito.

The reverend let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the toilet, smashing his head off the rim and, in his unconscious state, drowning to the point where he attained the biological event known as death.

It was not a beautiful death, however, as the vestry’s toilet remained unflushed throughout.

The Ship of Nails

Naglfar by Dhattura (2012)

“Naglfar” by Dhattura (2012)

One of my favourite things is mythology.  In particular, Norse mythology has always fascinated me.  With its rich tales and sagas, characters, gods and events, the old Norse stories have always been a source of inspiration.  I wrote this short piece a while ago about Naglfar, the ship of nails, and decided to post it here finally.  Hope you enjoy!  Originally written on the 23rd June 2016.

The Ship of Nails

It anchors in the fracture somewhere. Harboured in a cold world between the now and the imminent.

It is a ship. An infinite-masted hulk of immense age, one made entirely out of the fingernails and castings of the gallant dead. Behold tearful eyes to grand Naglfar, ship of the perished.

A ghastly vessel with a purpose as yet unrealised, it idles in meditation within the dead calm of the in-between. For a glacial eternity it has waited patiently for the moment the horns call its name; the rapturous trice Ragnarök comes to cleave the world asunder.

And when the time-encrusted and long submerged anchor is finally raised, Naglfar will set off, silencing into the new dawn, sails billowing with the gnashing winds of resolute cataclysm.

Vígríðr, attainable destination of the destinationless. Journey’s end for the driven cleaver of ancient waters. An unsettled harbour, an imminent surging of war, all this and oblivion lie beyond the vermilion curtain of horizon.

Below decks of weathered nail, chained to desiccated corpses, a horde lies in cargo. They will be ferried, fate-bound to engage in the great battle, a final confrontation with the stricken old gods. And all around them, as the ravaged skies fall like shattered ice, a lone wolf shall take the sun in its mighty jaws. And in his ravenousness, swallow it whole.

He of the jötunn will take the ship’s helm. An old sea captain, Hrym is his name. From Jötunheimr of the fracture he hails. His stern nod shall raise the anchor, heavy with the rust and barnacles of woe, and in his dying breaths direct the cadaverous hands that command rope.

He of Fárbauti and Laufey, father of the wolf will be the master’s equal. Together making unheard passage towards solemn Midgard, they will approach the decay of grandeur: the swallowing of time absolute.

A skeletal ship of nails heralding desolation in its spectral wake, it cuts the waters of the now and the imminent. A dying, muted symphony of portent separating the threads between worlds. The Harbinger of Dissolution will drift towards ruin, slicing its steadfast path into the murky unknown of futures untold.

Boldly, Naglfar sails on.