The Little Crap That Couldn’t

9_3shit-by-mike-mitchell-2010

“Feelings” by Mike Mitchell (2010)

Who says feces have no literary merit?  Someone, I’m sure.  Well they’re wrong, and of that I’m sure as well.  The following is a tale of loneliness, adventure, redemption and poo (not necessarily in that order).  Originally written on the 21st July 2008 without shame.


The Little Crap That Couldn’t

Once upon a time there lived a gentlemen. As a great and well-fed lover of food, he had spent an entire day at an international food festival sampling all of its marvellous and varied offerings. The gentleman gorged himself on many delectable delights, succulent specialties and tantalising treats and after many hours spent in this manner, his swollen belly began to protrude very ungentlemanly like indeed. So the man decided that he’d had his fill and it was high time to leave the wonders of the festival behind. Besides, the many loud expulsions heard emanating from his embarrassed hindquarters had upset the other attendees and he was asked to leave by management. Not that the gentleman particularly cared at that point though, he was feeling quite queasy anyway.

Later that night, as he was walking down the street making his way back to the hotel to sleep off his now rather painful overindulgence, the gentleman suddenly had the most intense urge to pitch the biggest loaf this side of the Warburton’s factory. He wanted to drop the deuce right there and then in his fine cotton boxers but, being a man of distinction, he chose not to (for he knew how to take care of a good pair of boxer shorts). Instead, in one fluid motion he pulled his chinos and fine cotton undergarments down and let loose the biggest sludge beast of brown plasticine he’d ever unleashed and watched in stark humiliation as it slopped all over the paving slabs beneath him like a malfunctioning chocolate fountain.

What a scene his public defecation did cause. Terrified women and children screamed and ran for their lives, ageing pensioners dropped unconscious and a double decker bus swerved into a church and exploded. Some bodybuilding macho man even tried to be a hero and took it upon himself to dive headlong at the puddle of potent poo, attempting to scoop it up in an empty bag of Doritos. But alas, the foul stench of the colon broth was far too overpowering and the wannabe saviour dropped like a fly.

Woe to the flustered gentleman, for his face and name would forever be associated with taking a dump in the street. But as much as the gentleman was deserving of it, infinitely more woe was owed to the poor little jobby he’d just birthed upon the pavement. Only five seconds out of the womb and already the world had shunned it. Before they even had a chance to embrace or take a photograph to commemorate the moment, the jobby’s biological father died after popping an embolism and crapping his intestines out, thus ruining his expensive chinos after all. The gentleman’s fine cotton boxers however, were snatched up by an opportunistic thief before the rancid river of rectal refuse could reach them. Alas, the little unloved jobby began to shed a tear, for it was orphaned already. Owing to the fact that it was born out of asexual reproduction, the bronze expulsion only had one parent, and he now lay dead in the street with blood trickling from his nose. The jobby broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. It had no home, no one to love it and no clue about the strange new world it now found itself lost in.

The little poo was used to swimming through the tunnels with all the other little jobbies, joyously splashing in the yellow rivers and popping the aromatic bubbles. That all seemed like a distant memory now as it lay plastered to the pavement in the middle of a bustling metropolis surrounded by unconscious bodies, pale-faced bystanders and towering confusions of concrete with a thousand glass eyes. The jobby noticed some of the windows on the monoliths were smeared with the white spatterings of pigeons, and with those lurid smears there came rushing the haunting memories of home which in turn brought a urinous tear to its leaky brown eye. The poor thing was a meandering mess of meaty marmalade, frightened and alone in a terrifying world. It remained by its father’s side for many hours, weeping and lamenting as the strange people walked around it and the darkness of night gave way to the light of day.

Even though it did not know exactly what to do next, a vague instinct eventually told the little jobby that at the very least it must get out of the open and take cover inside one of the strange edifices soon, for if it were to stay in the street much longer the hot midday sun would surely bake it into a diabolical deuce cake or a brown bowel batter brick right there on the unforgiving pavement. The little jobby spied a church and something told it that this would be a place of refuge and that safety and sanctuary from the blistering elements were surely to be found within its colossal walls. The church was just across the road, and there didn’t seem to be any more of those fast moving metal contraptions coming. So, ever so slowly, the little jobby smeared itself across the paving slabs and made its way to the kerb, leaving its deceased father behind forever.

After managing to shuffle half way to the edge of the road with great difficulty, the little jobby realised that it would take all day at that rate and it would be a smelly brown cake getting burnt on the pavement very soon. It pondered its predicament for a moment before having an epiphany; it would mimic the passersby and mould itself some stumpy legs out of its pliable body much like a person would do with clay or plasticine. And so that’s exactly what it did.

After a few minutes, the little portion of severely undercooked anal broth had made itself some new legs and now had the ability to make a speedy dash for safety. With new-found confidence and hope, the little jobby leapt off the kerb and began running gleefully across the road towards the church and the safety and salvation it was sure to find within. Its little mind was overflowing with optimistic thoughts and wonderment as it raced onwards.

But when it got halfway across, it was flattened by a bus.

The flattening of the fleeing feces was not its end, however. For in the next moment an alien spaceship from fifty billion light years away suddenly appeared above the road and used its teleportation ray on the giant skid mark, beaming the stretched-out jobby onboard. The aliens had meant to hit the bus but missed and wound up with a quarter mile of fresh human excrement in their cabin instead. The stench soon caused the aliens to have a series of debilitating strokes, and the spaceship crashed into the church, blowing it to smithereens. Owing to the fact that the ship was powered by incomprehensible alien technology that somewhat resembled nuclear fission, the entire planet went up like a nuke and was annihilated in an instant.

And that is why if you ever find yourself presented with far more food than you can knowingly eat, you should never overindulge. It’s greedy, and you never know what could happen if you do.

An Incident at the Pearly Gates

at-the-pearly-gates

“At the Pearly Gates” by Steven Smith

Even in the afterlife (the good one), things can be hard.  Here’s a story I wrote about how arduous it must be toiling away , day after day, at the gates of Heaven.  St. Peter’s been finding work a little difficult recently, so in his infinite wisdom he decides to train a robot to help lighten the load.  What could possibly go wrong?  Written on the 9th February 2017.


An Incident at the Pearly Gates

“You died in a jet ski accident”.

“No he flaming well did not!” spat St. Peter, bashing a spanner off the robot’s head.

The devout and hard working saint was particularly flustered today, normally his divine duty of manning the Pearly Gates™ was stressful – there were always unjudged souls ready to object to being denied peace everlasting – but today was extra aggravating because he was trying, between fresh neophytes, to build himself a robotic servant. No mean feat when the world’s population never took a break from dying and ascending that ethereal escalator in the sky.

“I told you already, this one died of a brain aneurysm, not a sodding jet ski. Now get that into your thick CPU or we’ll be here all day… Oh Jesus Christ, here comes another one…”

“Did somebody say my name?” It was Jesus, he’d appeared out of a pink cloud, a habit his father had asked him to stop because it was upsetting the more sensitive angels.

“Get lost Jesus, I’m busy here,” snapped St. Peter, jabbing a golden screwdriver into the robot’s auxiliary port.

“Well now, somebody’s uptight today. Better hurry up Pete, you’re starting to get a backlog there,” jested the son of God, pointing at the steadily expanding line of recently deceased on the other side of the gate.

“Shut up, you wood-whittling hippie!” barked the divine doorman. Jesus sneered and promptly left, kicking up a wisp of cloud in his wake. “Alright, you. Yes you. You’re next. Okay, let’s try this again. St. Peter 2.0, tell me how this man died, and I swear to the All-Maker you’d better not screw it up again”.

“Greetings sir, and welcome to Heaven. My neural sensors indicate to me that you have just died in a jet skiing accident”.

St. Peter exploded. Literally. Never in his multi-millennia long service to the Kingdom of God had he been this spectacularly angry. After his steaming skull chunks had settled over the clouds and the pulpy bits of his sizzling brain slid down the faces of the bewildered deceased, Peter’s head reconstituted itself and he resumed his tirade. “Damnit! You’re the single biggest piece of crap I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with in my entire life! Gabriel, hey Gabriel, get your bronzed buns over here and help me out with this pile of trash!”

Gabriel, who was nearby and busying himself with adjusting a quadriplegic’s bow tie, sauntered over to the gates and let loose an impressed whistle. He’d never seen a robot in Heaven before. And no, Jesus’ wooden golem didn’t count.

“Gabe, now you’re a smart lad. You know a thing or two about machines, what with that arcade cabinet you and Jesus threw together for Barachiel’s birthday last week. Tell me how to fix this piece of garbage before I lose it completely and set it on fire”.

“What operating system is it running?” asked the angel, rubbing his fake-tanned chin.

“Erm, excuse me…” asked a man timidly on the other side of the pearly barricade. “But could you tell me, is this Heaven?”

“Shut your mouth, you impatient wretch!” blared St. Peter. “I’ll get to you in a God damn minute, can’t you idiots hang on for just a second? You’re already dead, it’s not like you need to be anywhere or anything”. The angry old saint scratched the bald spot under his halo, it always itched whenever he was stressed. “Now let me think here… Um, yes, I think it’s Microsoft Windows: Divine Edition. That’s it. Why?”

“Oh,” said Gabriel, sounding suddenly quite hopeless. “I don’t know much about Microsoft systems, I’ve only ever worked with Apple ones”.

“Apple?!” spat St. Peter, kicking the robot and stubbing his toe in the process. “Apple?! You know damn well no apples are allowed in Heaven, not since the incident with Adam back in the day. How dare you speak such blasphemy!”

“Oh shut up Pete,” scolded Gabriel, turning and starting to walk away. “It’s an operating system by a company called Apple. It’s not an actual bleeding apple, you dick. I hope that robot falls over and crushes you, you nasty old man”.

“Fine!” yelled St. Peter with his finger pointing accusingly at the retreating messenger of God. “I’ll fix this thing all by myself! I don’t need you or your bad attitude anyway, Gabe!”

“Excuse me sir, but I really must insist: is this Heaven or is it not?” It was the man on the other side of the gate again. He seemed to have gathered some courage, for now he had stretched an arm through the bars and was tapping St. Peter vigorously upon the shoulder.

The gatekeeper of the afterlife was about to turn around and chastise the man for daring to lay his fingers upon a saint, but he didn’t get the chance. For at that very moment the robot kicked into gear and wasted no time tearing the impatient soul’s arm clean off. Howling in agony, the man fell backwards clutching his bloody stump as several other recently deceased gathered round and tried their best to stem the bleeding, but then gave up when they realised they were already dead and bleeding out probably wasn’t that much of a concern.

“Why did you do that?” shouted a woman accusingly.

“Yeah, that was completely uncalled for!” yelled another.

“You’re a malicious piece of work, that’s what you are!” cursed a third man with his arms folded.

“Oh go to Hell, you bunch of whiny babies. I didn’t tear his sodding arm off, now did I? It was this useless mountain of junk over here, he’s been botching up all day long and now this. I can’t win. I just cannot win today”. St. Peter glared at the group of confused and angry people awaiting both judgement and an apology on the other side of the gate. Then he turned his gaze towards his robotic companion. “St. Peter 2.0, why, pray tell, did you tear that poor man’s arm off?”

“Because, master, he was showing hostilities towards you, and I simply did as my defence programme dictates I do in such circumstances”. The robot stared blankly into space. The gatekeeper considered this for some time.

“Right, owing to your loyalty, I’ll give you one last chance. But if you get it wrong again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do. Now, tell me how that man lying over there died”. St. Peter stood back with his arms folded and awaited the robot’s response.

The mechanoid thought long and hard, his capacitors and circuitry buzzing and ticking as he processed the situation extra carefully, like a dog who’d been specifically told not to eat the biscuit, despite the biscuit having been placed upon his nose. “You died…” the robot paused. St. Peter’s eyes glared with the intensity of a thousand prayer candles. “…When a robot tore your arm off and you bled to death”.

“No! Damnit no!” screamed St. Peter in a foul rage. “A man can’t die twice! You imbecile! That’s it, I’m going to decommission the crap out of you, you worthless pile of bolts!”

“Actually,” said a voice from beyond the gate. “I think he’s right. This man is dead…again”.

St. Peter snapped his head towards the speaker, then looked down at the one-armed man. He was blue. And not breathing. The saint fell into deep shock, he was utterly bewildered. Such a thing had never happened before in the entire history of Heaven. No one had ever died twice. It simply wasn’t possible, surely?

Just then, the one and only Jesus Christ showed up once more, having felt a disturbance in the divine force. “What’s all this, what’s going on, we’ll have no trouble here,” he demanded as he marched over to St. Peter and saw the blue, one-armed man on the other side of the Pearly Gates™. “Is that man dead?! For my sake Pete, what have you gone and done now? You’ve killed somebody!”

“No I haven’t!” fired back St. Peter, shaking like a leaf. “People can’t die in Heaven, how can he be dead? It’s not possible!”

“Look idiot, he’s not in Heaven yet. He’s still on the other side of that gate, therefore, technically not in the afterlife yet. If you hadn’t wasted so much time with that hunk of junk over there, he’d be inside and enjoying everlasting happiness. Now look at him. He’s dead! I don’t even know what that means for his soul. He’s probably in purgatory now, for all eternity, no thanks to you. That’s it, I’m shutting this gate down!”

“What do you mean you’re ‘shutting this gate down’?” croaked a man on the other side. “We’ve got every right to be here! You can’t deny us entry into Heaven, we deserve our divine judgement! We’ve lived a life of righteousness for this moment!”

“Yes, yes, I know,” replied Jesus as he pulled a roll of caution tape out of his bum bag and began cordoning off the Pearly Gates™. “Don’t worry, I’ll open the second gate for you. Hadraniel’ll sort you out. His gate’s on the other side of Heaven”.

“How far away is it?” asked another.

“Hmm…’bout eighty six thousand miles away,” answered Jesus, affixing a large “CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC” sign.

“Eighty six thousand miles?! I’m not walking that! It’ll take ages!” whinged a little old lady, shaking her fist.

Jesus screwed up his face in annoyance as he straightened the sign and took St. Peter’s keys off him. “Alright! Fine, I’ll arrange a bus to come pick you up. Now don’t say Jesus isn’t good to you”. The Messiah turned to St. Peter once again and addressed him. “Pete, you done goofed royally this time. I’m hereby suspending you as official gatekeeper of the Pearly Gates™ and temporarily revoking your sainthood. Don’t look at me like that, Pete. You know fine well I can’t let this slide. A man is dead because of you. It’s not up to me to judge you for this, that’s up to my father. That’s why I’ve just texted him about what’s happened. He wants to see you now”. Peter opened his mouth to protest but Jesus cut him off. “Shut up! Don’t say a word or I’ll put my foot in your ass! Now go. He’s waiting. And take that damn robot with you”.

Peter, who was now just run-of-the-mill Peter and not St. Peter the revered doorman, grudgingly shuffled off towards God’s office, leaving Jesus behind to dispose of the blue, one-armed man. Peter wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about his impending meeting with the supreme deity, not when the reason behind it was him essentially losing an innocent man’s soul to the unknowable abyss of purgatory…possibly. He’d probably wind up getting fired, or sent as a missionary to Hell to try and convert demons like poor old Jegudiel after he’d burnt God’s bagel that one time. God didn’t mess around. As he and his robot made their way though the gardens and winding streets, Peter was hissed and booed at by the angels and other saints. Word got around quickly when somebody messed up in Heaven.

Up to the front door Peter dragged himself, pressed the buzzer and waited nervously for the response. “Come,” came the deep, booming reply. Peter opened the door and entered God’s office.

There wasn’t much inside, God was famously a minimalist. There was a small wooden desk that Jesus had built Him with some Lego on top of it, a reproduction painting of the Mona Lisa on the northern wall and a wilting potted plant. God was standing over the desk, putting the finishing touches on His Lego castle. “Pete. Take a seat”.

The robot walked to the nearest corner, faced the wall and put itself into power-saving mode. Peter looked around the barren office. There were no seats. “Um, there’s no chairs,” said the man glumly.

God didn’t look up as He put the roof on the castle’s east turret. With a nonchalant click of His fingers, a neon pink inflatable chair appeared in front of the desk. Peter took the cue and sat in it, squeaking and making a great deal of noise. Still not looking up from His work, God resumed talking. “It has come to my attention, Pete, that you have somehow managed to kill a man”.

“Well it wasn’t really me, it was–“

“You killed him with a robot”. Without looking up, God pointed to the hibernating automaton in the corner.

Peter looked at his feet. His big toe was bleeding. “Yes. Well, essentially. That’s pretty much what happened”.

God placed a Lego sheep in front of the portcullis, facing a pirate. “That’s not good. That poor man probably doesn’t exist anymore. Not even I know what lies in purgatory”.

“That’s a bit shit”. Before Peter even knew what he was saying he’d already swore in front of the Almighty. Peter’s mind flooded with terrifying thoughts of his employer smiting him senseless for the indiscretion.

“It is a bit shit,” agreed God, replacing the sheep with a ghost. “And considering that we have no choice other than to assume that the poor man will never find happiness again, I must punish you for your rather severe gaffe”.

Peter felt a strong sudden urge to pee now.

“Incidentally,” continued God, “why did you feel the need to use a robot during the course of your duties at the Pearly Gates™?”

Peter shifted uncomfortably in the inflatable chair, sending a loud squeal rippling through the office. “Well…” he began, his bald spot getting incredibly itchy. “I, uh, felt that having a helping hand would, I dunno, maybe speed things up a bit. You don’t know what it’s like out there at times, it gets so hectic. Especially when there’s a tsunami or earthquake or something. I needed some extra help. So I bought a robot”.

“And where did you get this robot?”

“Amazon”.

“I see”.

God fell into silence for some time as He removed both the Lego pirate and ghost and moved the portcullis further down the courtyard, allowing more space for His castle’s expanding walls. Peter toyed with the idea of scratching his itchy scalp, but thought better of it when he realised the inflatable chair would squeak far too much and he didn’t want to upset God any more than He probably already was.

“I had a coupon,” Peter offered out of the awkward silence.

“I was not aware Amazon delivered this far north”.

“Yeah. Only since they started using drones, but yeah”.

“I see,” murmured God, putting the finishing touches on His castle and putting it to one side.

“Right,” said the Father of all creation, folding His arms on the desk, “I have mulled it over. You have committed a very serious offence, but you have also served this kingdom for a very long time and, until now, have always acted with utmost professionalism. Taking that into consideration, I have decided to relieve you of your duties on a semi-permanent basis. When you leave this office, you will report to Gabriel–”

“Aww come on, God!” interrupted Peter, leaping out of his chair in protest.

“Silence! You will report to Gabriel, whereupon you will join him in his sacred duty of tying and adjusting the bow ties of Heaven’s quadriplegic residents. You will do this for the next four thousand years, and if you fulfil this duty without incident, then I will consider putting you back on the Pearly Gates™. Now get moving, and do not let me hear from you again, lest you wish to experience a more severe punishment. Begone”.

As Peter left the office with his head in his hands, God looked to the robot with its back to Him in the corner. It was the first time He’d actually paid any attention to it. Crossing the room, He began inspecting the machine more closely. There was a minuscule switch on the back of its neck. God leaned in, squinting His eyes. There was some small text above it. Pulling His prescription glasses out, He read the words aloud. “Jet Ski Mode. Huh, now that’s weird”. He flicked the switch to the OFF position and slapped the robot across the back of the head to wake it up.

“Robot, I am God. I’m not a judgemental guy, well, for the most part, so I want you to know that I don’t blame you for killing that poor man. I never granted robots the right to souls and feelings in the first place, so I know there was no malice in your actions. As I have just turned your Jet Ski Mode off, I want to give you an opportunity. I want you to go back to the Pearly Gates™, take down the cordon and get back to work. If you can make it through the day without any more fatalities, you’ve got yourself a full time job. Now get moving, there’s plenty more souls to judge”.

The robot beeped in acknowledgement and rattled off out the front door, ready to replace his former master. God walked back over to the desk and started rearranging His pirates and ghosts again. Removing the outer wall of the Lego castle, He revealed two homemade figurines hiding behind the portcullis, one of St. Peter and one of the robot. Smiling, God picked up the saint and put him to one side, leaving the robot all alone in the castle. “That’s better”.

When Nature Fails: Daddy Long Legs

crane-fly-by-derek-parker-20142

“Crane Fly” by Derek Parker (2014)

Nature, God, Earth Spirits, call them what you will but they don’t always get it right.  Perhaps the most spectacular fail in biology is the crane fly AKA daddy long legs.  Nobody likes them, and with very good reason.  The following is a quick overview of these…things…and an outline as to why they suck as profusely as they do.  Written on the 31st January 2016.


When Nature Fails:  Daddy Long Legs

A daddy long legs is a stupid thing that has no right to exist. Simply put, it’s a piece of crap. Utterly incapable of flight or anything even remotely resembling it, this idiotic creature still finds it necessary to have wings and ruin magical moments with its foul presence. Much like the penguin or Egyptian dodo, this winged-yet-land-bound animal is a true failure at life and as such is fully deserving of the extinction that it surely deserves and is long overdue.

Asides from its completely pointless wings which all other flying insects laugh at, it has a long body somewhat resembling a poorly rolled cigarette or elongated length of goldfish poo, though a stringy piece of fish crap is infinitely more pleasurable to be around than these disgusting things. It also has long spindly legs, not dissimilar to those of a spider, though unlike a spider it has absolutely no redeeming qualities. Actually no, you can pull their legs off fairly easily which is probably quite exciting if you’re a psychopath and into that sort of thing. The creature’s face is also uglier than sin and will make you want to stomp on it if it ever comes anywhere near you.

Speaking of which, if a daddy long legs does ever somehow managed to make its way towards you via the spasmodic and hysterical dance routine it probably thinks constitutes flying, you will immediately want to projectile vomit all over it to keep this degenerate filth-spawn at bay. These cretins have a propensity for targeting faces, particularly those of people who harbour an intense and lifelong dislike for them (i.e. everyone in existence). Despite having zero navigational skills or homing abilities, they can and will, without fail or hesitation make it their sworn mission from God himself to batter themselves and their stupid bodies off your screaming face forever until either you or they die of stress. The most efficient counter measure against this obnoxious behaviour is to strike at them wildly with heavy objects and/or projectile-firing weapons. Fire is also strongly recommended.

God was once quoted in Good Housekeeping Magazine as saying that he hates daddy long legs with a passion only rivalled by his disdain for Adolf Hitler, and that he only made them because he was drunk on celestial moonshine (again, just like Hitler).

Daddy long legs also have redundant straw things jutting out of the front of their hideous faces like they were stabbed with the world’s tiniest chop sticks. Perhaps they’re beaks or something but whatever the case, nobody actually cares. Despite having these ludicrous straws, the only thing that they manage to suck, is all the fun out of life. Some biologists speculate that the insects feed off the blood of shrews and voles but this is without doubt a massive lie because I’ve never seen them manage anything properly, let alone the basics of life like eating to stay alive. Other biologists and certain members of the clergy assert that they are a form of lesser demon or insect djinn and that the straws are horns gifted to them by Satan himself. I am very much inclined to agree with this hypothesis because I have never encountered another living creature which instils me with as much hatred and the desire to kill as these worthless things do.

In springtime, if you are really unfortunate, you might see these repulsive atrocities of the animal kingdom come sprouting out of your lawn like a bunch of miniature pencils with Parkinson’s disease. The general consensus is that they are crawling out of Hell because even Satan’s had enough of their asinine antics. It is strongly advised that you jump around the garden stomping their numbers into oblivion. This may initially seem cruel, but you are actually doing them a massive favour by releasing the from the terrible binds of life as a forsaken daddy long legs piece of crap.

Even when they’re innocent little maggots they still manage to suck because they’re only a reminder of things to come: a god damn disaster.

Resurrection Man

grave-digger-by-viktor-vasnetsov-1871-edited-3

“Grave Digger” by Viktor Vasnetsov (1871)

The following is a poem about body snatching, the dark and nefarious practice of stealing corpses from their graves.  Written on the 28th January 2017.


Resurrection Man

Silence, shadows and secrets grim,
Sneaking, creeping in bleakness dim.
Disinterring from rest those blessed six feet deep,
The sleepers so peaceful in their oblong keeps.
Stealing fresh bones as granite angels weep,
From consecrated ground a steel spade does reap.
Liberating from yards and sleepy burial sites,
Harvesting corpses on overcast nights.
Exhuming from plots beneath cover so black,
Shovelling grime till yielding coffin lids crack.
Prowling dank pits in cloak and cowl,
Excavating the grit with lantern and trowel.
Heeding no howl from owl or growling of ghoul,
Liberating from splinters their decaying jewel.
No moonbeam protection, no justice this night,
No stopping the resurrection; his devilish delight.
With a crack of thunder, and downpour sustained,
A funereal dress removed to the haunting refrain,
Of a thousand bemused demons, icy droplets of rain.
Dissection, grim study, lectures, display,
Sold as a product, on a table to lay.
And the people will cry when the morn does rise,
And her family discovers there she no longer lies.
Her bosom of earth, upturned and vandalised,
She is but a possession now taken,
The resurrection man’s prize.

Tetracamelism

www.hdnicewallpapers.com

“Four Desert Camels”

In an effort to bring weird education to the masses, I have written what I feel is a perfect addition to any dictionary and/or encyclopedia awaiting publication.  This piece deals with a subject not commonly written about, but one that most certainly requires its own dedicated word to aid in its description.  Please read on for the purposes of enlightenment.  Originally written on the 30th May 2016.


Tetracamelism

Tetracamelism is the state of having four camels run a country. It happens rarely, but when it does, it is usually quite disastrous. This was famously the case in the ancient nation of the Sand Djinn, who once ruled in the vastness of the Sahara Desert before modern humans came along and started bottling the Djinn. It is not quite clear why this was the case, but it is believed that the Djinn were extremely gullible and worth a lot on the open market at the time. In lieu of the Sand Djinn, their nation was colonised by camels, the four most intelligent of which formed a government and ruled over the sands for several centuries until they were wiped out by an asteroid.

During this period of political upheaval, the camels managed to absolutely ruin the economic stability of the Sahara by chewing all the foliage into extinction. This created a deficit in the native wildlife population’s food supply and therefore brought about the Great Locust Exodus which left the camels with nothing to coat in syrup and sell to tourists. In addition to crippling the economy, the camels also failed to maintain political ties with the various vicugna and llama tribes of the surrounding countries, resulting in constant raiding and skirmishes.

The last known case of tetracamelism occurred in Mesopotamia in 539 BC. The ruling Sumerians and Akkadians were attacked and ultimately driven north by four battle-hardened camels from the Camelidae Crusades. Once the former kings had been banished, the camels assumed governorship of the land and settled into what was to be known historically as the Great Camel Dynasty. This feudal system would last until 332 BC when the camels were vanquished by Alexander the Camel Slayer and his army of enslaved alpacas.

Other known nations which have experienced true tetracamelism (as opposed to governorship by fewer than four camels) include Finland, Imperial Russia and the Principality of Sealand.

Prior to the dawning of the internet and its infallible teachings, there was once a strong belief that Portugal was once ruled by as many as five camels at one time, and that subsequently pentacamelism should be a word. This, however, turned out to be a filthy lie, fabricated by the Portuguese equivalent of the mafia in an attempt to instil fear in the population for the purposes of racketeering. Besides, we now know that camels are incapable of getting along in numbers greater than four.

Maximum Pensioner Overdrive

doc_by_nickybarkla-d4st5j2-2012

“Doc” by Nicky Barkla (2012)

Occasionally, somewhere in this vast world, there is a person experiencing a profound moment of what is referred to as “batshit insanity”.  The following story is an account of exactly that, the moment one man’s life is altered so drastically that, although words can describe it, they’re almost inadequate.  As such, it is highly recommended that you acquire all of the drugs available to you within a twelve mile radius and do all of them before reading on.  Originally written on the 16th September 2016.


Maximum Pensioner Overdrive

He was an octogenarian, loved the swinging sounds of the Glenn Miller Orchestra and never left the comfort of his house without his Balmoral tweed flat cap on. His name was Sidney and he wasn’t known coast to coast for anything more impressive than his golf handicap. He most certainly wasn’t known as the geriatric with the most. That all changed one day however when he was celebrating his eighty seventh birthday.

There came a knock upon his front door, and after taking almost an entire day to get there in his squeaking Zimmer frame, he answered it to find a small pink rabbit standing upright and wearing an impeccable tuxedo. The rabbit didn’t speak a word, instead offering the old man a small boxed present with a nice bow on top. Sidney took the gift wrapped present and the rabbit promptly vanished into a puff of green smoke. Thinking it rather odd but probably a figment of his astronomically aged imagination, Sidney simply shrugged – dislocating both shoulders in the process – and shuffled back into his living room whereupon he opened the mysterious package.

Inside the box there was naught but a small purple pill. Thinking that perhaps this was his medical subscription being delivered by a flamboyant mute dwarf that looked a bit like a rabbit on account of his sight-crippling cataracts, the old man picked the pill up and swallowed it without another thought.

Around twenty minutes or so later, Sidney suddenly turned to his lumpy wife, launched the TV at her contorted face and announced that he was going to go apeshit on the world. He wasted absolutely no time whatsoever with stupid things like calling an ambulance for his bleeding spouse or having a change of heart and instead chose to grab a microwaveable taco and a pre-inflated seven foot banana that had materialized on the coffee table before him. Chewing, screaming and laughing, he leapt head-first through the living room window and left his Florida apartment forever. The spectacular legend of well-seasoned Sidney had begun.

No longer did he nurture a decades old love for Glenn Miller and timeless tweed. Now the old man found both comfort and vigor in the earth-shattering sounds of Megadeth blasting from the technicolour clouds above and the neon top hat with “Pussy Slayer” written on it in eyesore glitter that he swiftly stole from a passing pimp. Sidney had undergone some sort of change, he wasn’t entirely sure what, but he was so full of energy and the need to lose his proverbial marbles that he didn’t even remotely care. Bless that little pink tuxedo-wearing dwarf, he thought to himself – or rather shouted in a decidedly slurred voice into the strobe-lighted heavens – as he ran around the streets trying to focus his attention but failing miserably and instead discus punching tourists right in the clam.

First thing was first: discard the inflatable banana. It had served the senior citizen well, taking the impact of a seven storey fall, but now it needed to be tossed in a traffic warden’s face, which it quickly was. The warden was next pushed into oncoming traffic whereupon she burst like a bag of tomato soup and Sidney danced in the wash of red slush that blasted out the back end of the bus that obliterated her. Now, second thing was second: steal a car.

Sure, the old man had his own but it looked like a pensioner’s four-wheeled rust bucket (because it was) and Sidney knew that the only thing it did well was make him look like a wrinkly old ballsack with no sense of adventure and a decidedly awful taste in cars. The energetic retiree craved adventure now, not shit cars. He wanted to grab life by the balls, drench it in pussy juice and cocaine and snort that fucker till his heart exploded at the speed of light. To hell with that old Volkswagen with its convenient seat warmers. Sidney tore off all his clothes like Hulk Hogan, only with much more unintentional defecation and showboating, and scoured the Florida streets for a suitable replacement motor.

In no time at all he had completely lost focus and had fornicated with eight different fire hydrants, twelve bags of shopping and a palm tree before getting even more sidetracked and setting a world record for most windows licked in an hour. It was only when he licked the windshield of a supremely expensive sportscar that he remembered his original intention. Sidney had located and subsequently proceeded to steal a rich oil tycoon’s Ferrari and without a care in the world, he immediately tore off across the Atlantic Ocean at the speed of actual dog shit to gay Paris. Why Paris? Because excitement with a foreign twang, that’s why.

Upon reaching the Eiffel Tower by crashing directly into it whilst singing upbeat songs about nuclear kebab meat and deformed children, the naked old man changed into a business suit he’d found inside the car as he flew through its shattered windshield and set about scaling the tower like a wrinkly Spiderman on smack trying to chase an off-colour goblin up a skyscraper. When Sidney reached the top of the lofty erection, he tore the catheter out of his urethra and pissed a steady stream off the end, sang a song about boobs, did a triple backflip off the spire and then rode the top of the elevator back down to ground level like it was a nonsensical surfboard. He then proceeded to bitch slap the interfering policemen’s faces clean off and took great delight in watching them whiz through the air like fleshy frisbees before slapping into the side of a Polish sausage emporium. Off Sidney tore towards an ice cream vendor who luckily also sold meth and those super cool fuzzy top hats that party stores normal hawk, for there was much more apeshit to unleash.

Loading himself up on the crystal candy that makes you feel dandy and no less than thirteen neon top hats all stacked on top of each other, the tripped out coot ordered a ninety nine with a flake, didn’t pay and swiftly vanished into the city streets in a series of impressive and age-defying cartwheels whilst screaming his favourite dance lyrics and battering his flappy scrotum off several street performer’s painted faces. The mimes in particular were teabagged in abundance.

When Sidney was done power fingering all the fashion models he could lie about his wealth to, he stumbled into the Louvre, mooned the Mona Lisa, started an impromptu flash dance with a bunch of Japanese tourists who didn’t really know what was going on, ate the leg off a security guard and broke around fifty laws with his genitalia and a priceless Caravaggio.

Having tired himself of the arts, Sidney rewrote the laws of physics by swan dived upwards through the glass ceiling of the museum and leapt directly into the Seine like an elegant salmon of considerable age and flexibility. From there he swam northwards until a lesser spotted Parisian gator bit his sweet stack of hats off and made the old man bitterly angry. By this point Sidney was tripping balls to the point of absurdity and so he fought the lesser spotted Parisian gator like it owed him a substantial amount of money. He beat the reptilian’s scaly hide senseless with suplexes and other pro wrestling manoeuvres that he’d never learned properly but had seen enough of on TV to get the gist of until the snarling thing retaliated and bit his foaming head clean off, whereupon Sidney died immediately in a spectacular explosion of crystal meth and fireworks.

But that is clearly a god awful end to such an exhilarating story, so no, he didn’t die at all. Well, not his head at least. Sidney’s disembodied skull yelled at the Parisian gator and fired lasers from his spiralling pupils like some kind of spherical representation of profound epic. “Looky here, you son of a handbag!” bellowed the head of the old man in all its gory glory. “Spit me out before I bite your tongue off and fire it up a hooker’s credit card slot for points!” The gator, rightfully bewildered at such a peculiar and wholly unexpected happening, immediately obeyed the reasonable command and thus Sidney’s disembodied pimp head was spat out and shot clean over Europe before coming to a stop inside Mount Vesuvius like an olive being tossed into a Martini glass by James Bond, only much sweeter and with an even better soundtrack which would have won many industry awards if it had paid the entry fee.

The methamphetamine and stolen French ice cream in the old man’s bloodstream trickled into the ancient volcano and the big angry bastard of rock and magma erupted, showering the entire planet with lava and instantly killing absolutely everyone ever. All except for our beloved hero of course, who now ruled the Earth as a whacked-out severed head who had by now also learned how to hover like a dragonfly, only without the aid of wings.

Sidney continued to lord it over the crusty, steaming surface of the post-apocalyptic world and its remaining seagull population until his roll was eventually called eight years later whereupon he went to Heaven for being a true G and living life to the utmost max.

“Sid, you are totally rad,” greeted a warm voice as the pensioner’s head floated through the pearly gates, obliterating them in the process. It was the rabbit in the immaculate tuxedo once again, the same pink fuzzball who’d given him the little purple pill eight years prior. “I am God,” spoke the rabbit, kissing the pulsating head of the old man. “And I want you to know that in addition to being both bodacious and tubular, you are also my most favourite severed old man’s head in the whole wide world”.

It all made absolutely no sense now: the pill, the rabbit, the microwavable taco still in Sidney’s mouth that he hadn’t swallowed yet because he’d been too preoccupied going sensationally apeshit on the world. The phenomenally epic geriatric pushed the chewed up snack out of his mouth and shared it with the divine rabbit in thanks, thanks for showing him how to enjoy life and squeeze every last drop of fun out of it in his final days on Earth.

After they had finished the taco and the rabbit had shown the old man his impressive collection of potted plants, Sidney was justly appointed official Bad Ass Party Planner™ of the Cloud Kingdom and given the body of a twenty five year old steroid maniac because he deserved it and God obviously had a soft spot for him.

And to this very day, in an alternate dimension, where Earth wasn’t obliterated by the meth volcano, if you listen very closely on a cool night, you can sometimes hear old Sidney up there, banging all the angels in their love boxes and singing his favourite Megadeth songs a cappella like the most excellent pensioner that he is.

Terrek the Epic Bastard

world_of_legend_03_by_kekse0719-2012

“World of Legend 03” by Kekse0719 (2012)

To end the year on an epic note, here is a decidedly epic tale.  A finely woven tapestry of undiluted thrills so potent that several wizards did spontaneously combust (beard first) when they read an early draft of it.  Read now the wondrous and explicit tale of Terrek, the most epic of all bastards and his dealings with a challenger to his throne of bastardry.  Written on the 17th October 2016.


Terrek the Epic Bastard

After dumping his load in the goblin’s ass, Terrek pulled up his manly leather thong, slapped the green cheeks and promptly left the dingy cave. It was hard work being an epic bastard, even harder was being the most epic bastard in all of Haematomia. His legend was known from the stinking phlegm ocean in the east to the towering smegma mountains in the west. He was, without doubt, the single most incredible bastard in living memory.

Terrek was always performing epic acts, like bumming goblins without asking or sinking slave ships with bombs made out of elven diarrhoea. Terrek smiled to himself as he considered what new and epic things he was going to do next. But first, there was something old and familiar he had to take care of. Something that was going to make him feel even more epic than the time he stuffed dynamite down his peehole and cornholed the transparent areola god of Mammary Vale.

A few hours later, Terrek found a dildo unicorn in a shaded glade. There weren’t many dildo unicorns left in Haematomia, not since Dumfus the Buff had wiped most of them out with his syphilis. Dumfus was once an epic bastard like Terrek, though he was long dead now, a rotting victim of his own sexual deviancy. He rode the lands on his domesticated stoorworm, fingering females and headbutting entire forests down in his quest to find self fulfilment. He’d been pretty good at it too, that is until he’d caught the clap from a washed up bloater he’d found along the fecal swamps. It had impacted his health quite severely. No longer could he finger or sodomise whomever or whatever he pleased, his stamina was so bad he couldn’t catch anyone anymore. So he’d bit the proverbial bullet and started shagging dildo unicorns, which, due to the floppy neon appendages sprouting from their foreheads, were pretty awful at seeing approaching attackers. Dumfus the Buff’s sexual plague had annihilated most of them long ago, and to find a living one nowadays was considered an omen of good fortune.

Terrek removed an ogre foreskin from his satchel and lobbed it at the unicorn’s head, knocking it out cold. With a smirk, he checked the elegant creature’s rectum for gold, but found none. It was always worth checking. Thieves sometimes stowed their valuables in the most unlikely of places. Instead, the epic bastard slapped the beast around the chops with his scrotum, waking it up due to the ungodly stench of goblin excrement coming off it. Terrek leapt upon the animal’s back and instantly tamed it by screaming abuse and threats of violence into its ears. With a stiff kick to the ribs they were off. Their destination was Prolapse City. It was the capital of Haematomia kingdom, a lavish jewel of hedonism and consumerism. It was also the home of Odious, the reigning cannibal pig pope. Though to be honest, that detail plays no part in this tale and is nothing more than an interesting side note.

Some time later, long after the lurid green sun had disappeared over the ridges of the Poontang Mountains, Terrek and his faithful dildo unicorn arrived at the city gates. They were smeared with steaming shit stains. That was unusual. Normally the gates to Haematomia’s various cities were caked in steaming crap after Terrek left, not arrived. There were bodies too. Bloody ones, scattered all over the place. Some were torn in half, others resembled soup more than mortal remains. Something had gone awry in Prolapse City, and whatever it was it had a fondness for plastering large wooden gates with gratuitous amounts of feces. Terrek dismounted his commandeered unicorn and discus punched it in the face, sending it flying over the stables. He had no further use for the ridiculous animal. “What has happened here, peasant?” he demanded of a severed head and shoulders swinging from a pike on the battlements above.

The scrote lizard, whose head and shoulders belonged to the heap of entrails dangling from a lantern to his very, very far left, was somehow still alive. He looked down at Terrek and recognised him instantly as the most epic of bastards. The creature’s beady little eyes lit up like mating hydrogen toads. Terrek was the lizard’s idol, he even had a poster of him on his bedroom wall. “Terrek!” he croaked with blood spewing from his stupid lizard mouth. “Terrek, it was Gloptoid! He’s in the city. Said he came here to prove he was the most epic bastard in Haematomia, not you. Said he’d destroy the entire city with his cock if he had to”.

Terrek had heard enough, he threw a brick at the lizard’s head and put it out of its misery. Grabbing a splattered guard’s broadsword, he bowed and ran head-first through the huge oak doors, crashing into Prolapse City like only an epic bastard could. He hadn’t come to break a fool trying to claim his throne, but plans had most certainly changed. There was no way in the scum-smeared ringpiece of the undergod Crippilion that he was going to let Gloptoid steal his thunder.

As he sprinted through the winding streets, Terrek suddenly remembered the fat oaf who had besieged the city. He’d once signed his autograph on Gloptoid’s third chin. The brat had said he was a huge fan, which hadn’t surprised him. Everyone was a fan of Terrek. The youngster had said he was going to grow up to be an epic bastard too. Terrek had laughed and kicked him in the balls. Stupid kid, there was only room for one epic bastard in this kingdom, and as far as Terrek was concerned, it was him. He ran off down the blood drenched streets, yelling and screaming obscenities and nonsensical bullshit.

Meanwhile in the Fallopian Quarter, where the rich nobles and yuppies born into milk baths full of pampered privilege resided, there was much epic shit unfolding. Usually, incidents of an epic nature did not happen in the affluent Fallopian Quarter, not that being epic or acts of epicness were illegal there or anything, it was just that the snooty residents had hired a lot of builders to construct extra high and thick walls with highly skilled guards to patrol them with their shiny swords and scrotal slingshots. But sometimes a bastard reaches a level of epic that most other bastards can only aspire to. Bastards like Gloptoid.

It seemed that this particularly fat barrel of fudge was hell bent on becoming a bigger epic bastard than the glorious and much celebrated Terrek. His acts of epic had initially gone unnoticed, he had mainly been epic only unto himself. These acts usually involved his own mouth and expert yoga. They had given him confidence, and he was soon out in the wilds fornicating with woodland critters, breaking pedlar’s backs and punching out small conifers.

Gloptoid performed his acts of escalating bastardry mainly in the distant gimp plains of Masochistia, where pretty much nobody but the outcast gimp tribes dwelt. It was this isolation that allowed his slow but steady progression through the branches of the spiritual epic tree of bastard mana. His evolution went unchecked and unchallenged by lesser or equal bastards, and especially by the most epic of them all, Terrek. The gimps didn’t care, they didn’t do anything besides lick each other’s kneecaps and rub the twisted fruit trees all day long anyway. By the time Gloptoid had perfected his destructive headbutt, most of the smelly tribesmen of Masochistia were dead.

Gloptoid was well on his way to becoming an epic bastard. He’d made such advances in his evolution that he’d decided he was ready to a cement his legacy and finally prove himself to all. The grotesquely overweight bucket of lard embarked upon a pilgrimage of destruction and brutal self fulfilment all the way to the capital itself. There he would show the kingdom just how bad ass he was. He would prove that he was the new epic bastard, and Terrek would just have to suck it.

The fat jiggly mass was there now, causing untold misery and even setting dachshunds on fire with his nitrous farts. His ultimate goal was so close to his grasp that he didn’t even hear the true lord of bastardry coming, despite all his screaming and farting. Terrek was storming his way towards the Fallopian Quarter, but the pretender’s wrath was so loud he couldn’t even hear the flaming cat Terrek was swinging around his head as he approached.

The pussy swinger was the most legendary psychopath in the entire kingdom of Haematomia, though his position was now being challenged. Challenged by a big fat sweaty mound of blubber, but challenged never the less. Terrek was not pleased, he had come to Prolapse City for pleasure, not work. He tossed the fiery house pet through a shop window and skidded to a halt at the massive stone wall which signalled the entrance to the Fallopian Quarter. “Looks like this needs a little more epic,” he said aloud as he beheld the boring grey wall. Terrek slapped himself on the pecks and a stream of milk began spurting from his pierced nipples. The white liquid gathered in an old boot he’d found on another dead guardsman, and when it was full he started to churn it with the dead man’s arm. Soon he’d made Terrek cheese, a blue Stilton-like mess which smelled like the inside of a chode worm’s pleasure hole. The cheese wasn’t very good, it never was. He’d only ever tried his own cheese on toenail crackers once, and it had given him projectile diarrhoea. And that was the plan here. To shit. In abundance. Terrek ate the cheese out of the boot and pulled his leather man-thong to the side, pointed his brown eye at the stone wall and squeezed.

A second later and the most epic rainbow in the history of anal rainbows blasted forth from the great bastard’s yawning bumhole. It hit the wall and the entire thing went up like a paintball nuke. “Yeah bitches, that’s how Terrek rolls!” bellowed the almost-mythical man-bastard as he watched the shards of stone go flying across the city, decimating shops and houses and rocketing into the sky where they took out a V formation of lesser spotted twat dragons, no doubt on their way to roost in the ancient clit trees of Fudd Forest. The huge wall demolished, Terrek gloriously entered the besieged Fallopian Quarter with a swagger that only the devil could pull off if he had been a certified pimp, and Gloptoid finally noticed that he had a great big problem.

“Listen here, you fat oaf!” commanded Terrek, igniting his own chest hair with an epic thought. “I am Terrek, the most epic bastard in all of Haematomia. You are a podgy piece of barf-raptor shit, and your quest to be anything more is at an end”. Terrek spread the fire to the epic mullet adorning his head, and defecated a small piper who ran around the square wailing on bagpipes the brand new theme music that he’d just invented.

“I’m not going anywhere, you stupid old piece of festering puss butter!” returned the tubby menace as he perspired like an obese prostitute at an elephant seal cock ring convention. “I am Gloptoid, the new most epic bastard in Haematomia! Your time is up, dickface. This is the era of Gloptoid and I vow to be more epic and more of a bastard than you could ever have dreamed possible. Prepare to meet your shit-smeared end!”

The fight was on. Terrek didn’t waste a second and pissed in Gloptoid’s eyes, temporarily blinding him. Twelve slaps to the face with an entire four storey building later and the fat fool was down, crying and bleeding and crapping all over the place like a morbidly burst sausage of questionable epicness. Maybe Gloptoid wasn’t all that after all, thought Terrek to himself as he cartwheeled over and teabagged the bubbling, leaking mass of fat.

But Gloptoid was a little more epic than Terrek had given him credit for, and just as the salty scrotum of his nemesis spread across his vision, the obese menace vomited up a tsunami of bile that was so fluorescent and powerfully rotten than it sent Terrek flying into a pocket pussy stand, scattering its contents across the Fallopian Quarter like vagina-shaped confetti.

The fattest bastard to ever consider himself epic stood up and back flipped onto Rubber Fist Cathedral. Upon landing, the spire was immediately swallowed up by his anus and Gloptoid slid down until he’d engulfed the entire building up his copious bumhole. Then he prayed to the evil undergod Crippilion, only in reverse and with severely crossed eyes. This in conjunction with the bastard mana up his ass from the embedded cathedral caused the sunken deity to grant him the power of epic transformation, a skill that not even Terrek himself had learned yet.

Terrek wiped the bile from his eyes as he watched Gloptoid morph into the most epic demon-thing to ever live, and that included the time Terrek’s penis had a curse placed upon it by an uppity warlock with dementia and was transformed into some kind of razor-toothed slug-thing with googly eyes and Tourette’s. It was so demonic that it looked more like a necro slug’s elongated penis, only more red and angry looking. The newly-reconstituted Gloptoid roared to the skies, making flying turds faint and fall onto the rooftops like burst pigeons or winged sausages gone awry, but Terrek didn’t give a barrel of pickled fucks. There was a pretender to break.

Two of the most epic bastards in recent memory went at it tooth and god damn nail. It was the most epic fist fight in the history of Prolapse City and the kingdom of Haematomia as a whole. Nipples spat fire and magma, bellends screamed nasty words and war cries, flesh was torn from bone and feces were hurled in abundance. At one point, Gloptoid made it rain a hail of dead sheep, hoping to drown Terrek in their soggy wool. But Terrek sodomised each sheep one by one and threw them in the demonic titan’s snarling face, caking him in shit, semen and sheep sauce.

Terrek grunted and suplexed his foe into the chocolate fountain in the middle of the square, then tore the cathedral out of his screaming rectum, voiding his demon status and turning him back into a mere mortal. Righting the shit-caked building, the reigning epic bastard climbed to its lofty peak, posed like a bodybuilder a few times to accentuate his undeniable epicness, then elbow dropped the fat mess at the bottom, ejecting a tsunami of fatty viscera out through his opponent’s already stretched anus. Gloptoid roared in pain like some kind of dick and the sound offended Terrek, who suddenly remembered that he’d stuffed a dead guard’s broadsword up his peehole earlier. This proved to be the undoing of Gloptoid’s alleged destiny, Terrek was just too damn amazing in the end. Using the soiled sword, the true icon of all that is epic sliced Gloptoid’s foul and crying head clean off and pissed down his neck. The legendary bastard had finally slain the pretentious fat monster.

Now alone in the decimated Fallopian Quarter, Terrek was the sole bastard in the vicinity. The single most epic bastard in the entire kingdom. He snatched up a scurrying rat, lit it on fire with his nipple flame and smoked it, surveying the scene. All the rich residents of the once opulent neighbourhood had perished, obliterated in spectacular fashion on account of all the epic that had befallen their little isolated slice of the city. Their thick walls and private guards had protected them from the realities of true epicness for so long, and so their feeble bodies were not ready to experience so much in such a concentrated time and space. They had simply burst, like ogre haemorrhoids. Terrek shrugged and sat down on an oozing remnant of Gloptoid’s shattered head, admiring the bloody mess around him.

Then he remembered, he’d come to Prolapse City for a reason. Now that another mighty explosion of his unstoppable epic had been unleashed and that pitiful blob of yeast butter was stone cold dead, he could finally indulge in his greatest pleasure of all. The one thing that made him feel more epic than anything else in existence.

A few streets over and Terrek finally found his calling. It was a great relief to finally be inside. All lovely and warm. Hot, crusty and black. The festering vagina belonged to Clamarella, the prostitute goblin queen of Prolapse City. Terrek pushed his whole body into her and rolled around inside, the rotten tar and stringy fungus coated him head to toe and he closed his eyes, letting the most intense euphoria an epic bastard had ever known flow through him, like chocolate-flavoured heroin.

Consumed

jeff-easley-astral-dreadnought-1987

“Astral Dreadnought” by Jeff Easley (1987)

This is a short piece of fantasy flash fiction about another time and another place, and the powerful and inescapable force that resides within its disjointed folds.  Originally written on the 9th September 2016.


Consumed

The Outsider coursed through the astral realms like a virus in the blood. The burning of a dim, spectral light glowing in the thing’s eyes, it traced a serpentine path through the in-between worlds in search of its prey.

Its arrival in the deeplands was announced by an unshakable and powerful dread, the beings in this pool of the void knew well what was approaching. There was no escaping it, no fleeing from the insatiable hunger. It took what it wanted, wherever and whatever that may be. It had done so for all eternity, and would continue to do so until the threads fell apart and time itself was annulled. None would ever halt it in its infinite cycle of travelling and feeding. It was, in some respects, the balance between life and death.

In the vacuum of the ethereal dominions, their screams in negative space formed doorways and entry points to other, unknowable corners. Though none large or powerful enough to escape through.

The feeding began immediately, the tearing of matter heralded the opening of the titan’s mouth. The seers fell apart, their visible screams snaking away into distant recesses of the void, shattering and creating more wormholes. The gnashing of phantasmal teeth, the tolling of massive jaws, rending plasma from tissue and soul from reality.

In a moment, it was over, and the Outsider floated on, snaking its way once more through the random valleys of the other world in search of the next.

The Big, Mean, Smelly Giant That Hates Me

cormoran_-_project_gutenberg_etext_17034-by-arthur-rackham-1918

“Cormoran” by Arthur Rackham (1918)

Some days you just can’t get rid of a giant.  So what do you do?  Why, write to your local councillor of course!  Here’s a letter from a man with precisely that problem, for your reading pleasure.  Written on the 21st October 2016.


The Big, Mean, Smelly Giant That Hates Me

Dear Councillor Oberick,

As you may know, I live under the beanstalk. Yes, that beanstalk. It’s a god damn disgrace. And since said disgrace lies within the boundaries of your constituency, I feel the need to write you this very sincere and heartfelt letter of frustration.

I hate that big stupid beanstalk. I hate it almost as much as I hate the evil monstrosity that lives at the top of it. You know the one, the large cretin who feels that it’s perfectly acceptable to twat my sheep up like they’re balloons at a birthday party. They both suck gratuitous amounts of buttock, and I vigorously demand (with all of my vigor) that you wipe both of them off the face of the planet post-haste.

It’s been many years since Jack scaled that forsaken thing and taunted the big brute that lives up there. I never liked Jack, he was an inconsiderate prick, to be perfectly honest. He never once considered what would happen to the rest of us if he ever ticked the giant off. Jack’s been dead a while now. I’ll never forget the day I ran outside to bring in my washing because I thought it was raining but it turned out to be his blood splattering my roof and ruining my good long johns. Damn you, Jack. Damn you to Hades.

And that, my dear councillor, is the very day my long string of beanstalk-related problems began. My house lies right under that stupid stalk, and when the giant discovered how Jack got up there and into his cloud kingdom in the first place, he started climbing down it to see what havoc he could wreak. He messes with me all the time now. All the damn time. Last week I couldn’t even get my front door open because he’d shit on the doorstep. How can any living creature drop a deuce that god damn large? I swear I hate the rotten monster. Hate him with every fibre of my being.

The first time I encountered the giant was actually at Jack’s funeral. You remember that, right? The funeral that claimed the lives of seven old biddies and three pallbearers? Of course you do, if I recall correctly you lost an arm. Now like I said, I never liked Jack, but my mother and his mother were old cribbage friends, so I felt somewhat obliged to attend. There was a coffin, which I thought was kind of odd considering the circumstances surrounding his grizzly death. A bucket would have been more appropriate, if you ask me. Regardless, when the pallbearers lifted it, you could hear him sloshing around inside. It was disgusting. It also made his mother cry a lot. Anyway, as we began the second hymn, all of a sudden there came a massive crash and the church door went flying down the aisle, nailing the minister to the organ with a splat. Everyone turned to see the giant squeeze himself into the church and start tearing the place apart. I think he even ate the organist, but I can’t be sure. There were no more sweet organ solos that day though, I can confirm that much.

He likes to pee a lot too, that’s another wonderful habit of his I’ve learned about. It started with my beloved sheep. I used to find them absolutely soaked through, and they’d be dyed a nasty yellow hue. The wool was ruined, nobody wants to buy a scarf that reeks of giant piss. Then he’d start to pee down my chimney at night, putting out the fire. Once, I was even outside walking up the path to my door when he jumped out from behind the house and urinated so hard in my general direction that I was fired back down the road until I crashed upside down into a lemon tree. I reiterate: I hate that big, mean giant.

So I ask you this simple question, Councillor Oberick. What are you going to do about a giant, smelly menace like that? He’s huge and I’m no match for his size or power. I suggest you remove your one remaining hand from your private cavity and sort this mess out. I’ve had it up to here with that beanstalk and the foul thing that lives above it. Get it sorted.

On a side note, I have heard that he likes bread. I’ve also heard that he likes to steal it from the baker each dawn. Maybe you could bake him a loaf of special bread, and fill it with rat poison or dynamite. Whatever, it’s just a suggestion. Just make sure you teach that no good son of a genetic defect a lesson that he’ll never forget.

Anyway, I must dash now, for I have just spotted the hulking brute shimmy down the beanstalk once again. Judging from the expression on his face, he looks about ready to block my front door with copious amounts of steaming feces again. I’ll write to you once more in a week if I have not seen any improvement in the nasty giant situation. In the meantime, I suggest that you get your act together and sort this sorry shambles out. Good people like me are paying the price for Jack’s idiocy and we shouldn’t have to stand for this anymore.

Yours sincerely peeved,

Uchtred Ramherd

Vlad the Impaler’s Rainbow Rampage

Portrait of Vlad III by Annonymous (c. 1560).jpg

Portrait of Vlad III by Anonymous (c. 1560)

Strange tales are what I primarily have to tell, and this one is no exception.  This story was originally written on the 9th September 2016 as part of the New Bizarro Author Series (Eraserhead Press) Evil Rainbow Microfiction Competition.


Vlad the Impaler’s Rainbow Rampage

Vlad Dracula was a Wallachian prince with a problem. He had returned from the grave, and he wasn’t very happy about it. The product of a lightning bolt from a nuclear warhead detonation and a perfectly timed incantation from a now-vaporised cult of wannabe vampire emos, the resurrected corpse now stalked the lands of modern day Europe with nothing but anger coursing through his revived veins.

Why had his ancient slumber been disturbed? Why was the land so different than he remembered it? Where were the Turks? Vlad was confused. And deeply, deeply, pissed. There was only one answer to all of these burning questions: genocide.

Vlad loved genocide. It was his number one thing to do when he’d been alive. So he called upon his own personal demon from beyond the veil to grant him a weapon with which to commence the slaughter. Owing to the fact that he held a lot of sway in the afterworld, he was immediately gifted a hand cannon. It was an ethereal rainbow blaster, the kind that never requires reloading or even a license.

“Sweet tits!” exclaimed Vlad, having taught himself English and vulgarity during his time in Hell, as he started firing the thing indiscriminately at peasants, buildings and cows. The land was soon awash with the fragmented entrails and liquefied soup smears of the dead. Vlad laughed and cheered, danced and pirouetted as he unloaded round after round of nullifying rainbow beam into people’s screaming faces.

But soon, the gays appeared. As did the transgender people, the bisexual otherkins and the ones who refused to be pigeon holed. They arrived with their placards and signs and began cheering the irate slaughterer on. Vlad was unsure what they were doing. He’d never seen so many genders or piercings in one place before. The crowd grew bigger and bigger, swelling with seething diversity until it was soon a massive entity all of its own, screaming and chanting things about sexual liberation and social justice.

“Thanks for standing up to our oppressors!” shouted one man.

“Bless the zombie rainbow dude!” yelled another.

“He’s wiping those privileged bastards off the face of the planet for our cause!”

Then it clicked. Despite his brain being more of a paste than an organ these days, the reanimated prince figured out that social attitudes towards sexuality and gender and their associated arguments had taken over the collective consciousness of the world since his original departure from it. Judging from their loud t-shirts, posters and face paint, it seemed that the rainbow was a symbol of their unity and cause. They thought that Vlad the Impaler was there to bring sexual justice to the world, via his ethereal rainbow blaster.

But it wasn’t true. This wasn’t symbology, it was a genocidal madman doing what he does best. Sure, Vlad didn’t discriminate (unless it was against the Turks), but he also didn’t care about people’s feelings. And so he blasted the cheering mob into a billion pieces of red slop.