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.

Infernal Solicitations

L0030887 An angel leading a soul into hell. Oil painting by a followe

“An Angel Leading a Soul into Hell” by A Follower of Hieronymus Bosch

Life in the underworld isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Allow me now to share with you this revealing tale of one depressed denizen and his harrowing experiences in the pit of eternal suffering.  Originally written on the 12th May 2016.

Infernal Solicitations

He had always hated Bilefield, what with its stupid citizens and copious amounts of flesh statues on every corner. It made him sick, which was appropriate given that the constant vomiting of bile from its inhabitants was precisely how it came to acquire such a striking name in the first place. Most locals assumed it was the smell from the flesh mines to the east that irked their insides so, though some insisted it was simply the Overlord’s wish. Whatever the case, it was a foul place, one in which the residents perpetually felt like killing each other. More so than they were expected to, at any rate.

Drekavac Merihem was a socially maladjusted Poliknish drinker with buff knees and very handsome exo-spines. He’d lived in Bilefield since his sack burst and he’d crawled out of the birth divots in larva form. His old friends had once seen him as a strong, sometimes squealing, suicidal nutcase, the kind that really goes places around those lawless haunts. Once, he had even revived a dying, paraplegic wasp queen with gout after she’d had a heart attack whilst teaching aquatic yoga to troubled larvae in the hot mucus springs. That’s the sort of demon he had been.

Nowadays however, he was an alcoholic shut-in. His friends were long gone, he’d dumped their ruptured bodies down a shaft at the nearby flesh mine. They nagged way too much anyway. He’d spent his most recent years throwing back the glowing radioactive liquid and spending his last coal coins on deformed prostitutes, the kind that smelled and dressed like unwashed toilet lids.

Drekavac got up off his bed of screaming bones, stretched, chose a set of arms for the day and shuffled over to the pentagram-shaped window overlooking the square. He gazed down with malice at the other spawn, mindlessly going about their day, maiming, devouring and generally causing a scene. “Look at this hole,” he muttered to himself with disdain. “The worst district in all of Dis”. He glared at the soul destroying surroundings. It was lucky he had no soul of his own, the ones he’d collected in jars on the outskirts usually burst within a matter of hours, though they did smell nice for the brief time he had them. The sight of the busting square below made him want to pee. Not out of the appendage he usually urinated out of, no, but rather the curved tumour growing out of his right eye. He only ever peed out of it when he was bitterly angry or depressed.

Thunder rumbled overhead once more. Drekavac wondered if the large, fapping centaur on top of Mount Cyst was abusing himself again. Sure sounded like it.

The demon poured himself a mug of molten iron and added a liberal splashing of Poliknish, favoured tipple of the damned. It sizzled as it tore a hole through his throat and blistered his gullet. Drekavac wheezed and looked back out the window. “What a life”.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It sort of looked like a dead whale, one that had already exploded and hadn’t done a very good job of stitching itself back up yet, pieces of gelatinous fat were falling off as it drew nearer. Eventually the figure got so close that its awkward gait was unmistakable. That shambling, stumbling disaster of tissue was the festering figure of Philomena Catastrophe. Philomena was a worthless whore with sagging, pierced knees and an atrocious set of bleached blonde spines held together in a tight bun. She was disgusting, she was diseased, she was renowned in Bilefield for her catastrophic existence of putrefying horror. She also happened to be the deformed prostitute that Drekavac currently owed the most coal to.

The demon gulped back the rest of his drink, tore some skin off the wall and sewed it over the gaping wound in his throat. He was not prepared for a visit from Philomena.

As Drekavac stepped outside and Philomena came scuttling closer, he could see the trademark belligerent glint in her one good eye. It made the left side of his head collapse. “I am here because I want my damn coal!” the broken wreck of femininity bellowed in a fat tone that curled both paving slabs and roofing tiles. With a grunt, she slammed a podgy fist against Drekavac’s spiny chest equal to the force of a shotgun blast. “I frigging hate you, Drekavac Merihem. You gave me bum sex for nine hours last Friday and didn’t pay a damn thing. Cough up the coal or I’ll tear your head off and squirt my rancid teets down your neck!” Most clients would pay a small bag’s worth for an experience like that, but Drekavac wasn’t a normal client. His personal tastes never involved Philomena’s teets, they reminded him far too much of his former career as a nipple remover on the dead hooker barges.

Drekavac looked back, his wall of depression collapsing beneath the wrecking ball of nervousness that Bilefield’s worst prostitute had brought to his door. He started fingering a marginally seductive earwax candle he’d picked up off the table where he kept his keys and hatchets. “Philomena,” he eventually replied, “die in a ditch”.

As the town clock struck thirteen and the roosting bundles of carrion took to the red skies, the two demons looked at each other with upset feelings, like two leaking, little lobsters abusing each other at a very gimpy orgy, one which had thumping organ music playing in the background and two lazy uncles dancing to the beat in crops tops and stilettos.

In the stewing silence that ensued, Drekavac regarded Philomena’s pierced knees and blonde spines for a moment. They sure made him sick. Spurts of vomit erupted from his shoulder pipes and coated them both in steaming foulness. With a snort and a shake of his head, the depressed demon eventually held out a claw in truce. “Let’s not fight,” he whispered about as gently as a hacksaw to the head. “Come into my house and we shall soon sort this mess out”.

“Hmph,” sulked Philomena, passing gas in abundance at the helplessness she felt when trying to argue with him. Despite his attitude and tendency to never pay for their sordid and more-often-than-not crusty escapades time and time again, she had a soft spot for him. She thought it was probably in her post-gastric love box. Once, she’d even tried to cut it out with a rasp, but to no avail. There was just something about Drekavac that made parts of her melt like boiled lard.

“Please?” begged the demon with puppy dog eyes. That is to say, with a puppy dog’s freshly plucked eyes in his clawed hand, something that he very much liked to play with whenever nervous or bored.

Philomena looked ravenous, her bulbous body blushing like a teenage nymph after lifting a stranger’s kilt to discern that which hangs beneath. Try as she might, she couldn’t fight the urge to be with Drekavac one more time. His array of detachable appendages and unique secretions never failed to rock her underworld, and she was an afflicted whore very much in need of a good rocking.

With a menstrual belch that stripped all the pebbledash off Drekavac’s house, Philomena waddled inside for a nice drink of Poliknish and the prospect of yet another unpaid cardiovascular workout. Little did she know that it would be the last anyone would ever see of her. Well, except for the eye fungus that grew at the bottom of the flesh mine, anyway.

The following morning, as the haemorrhaging moon broke the horizon and scared away the feasting nightkin, Drekavac Merihem stood at his window overlooking the square once more. With a mug of molten iron laced with Poliknish in his hand, he counted up the tally in his head and scratched another line into the frame. “I hate this town,” he quietly wheezed as a piece of Philomena’s fat melted away in the steaming mug, like a creamy ice cube.