PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE
Editors
Ben John Smith ~ Arthur Graham Copyright © 2017 by Horror Sleaze Trash ISB N -13: 978-1975745523 IS B N -1 0 : 19 7 5 7 4 5 5 2 3 /is book is a work of 3ction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ im agination or are used 3ctitiously. /e use of nam es of actual persons (living or dead), places, and characters is incidental to the purposes of the plot, and is not intended to change the entirely 3c tio n a l c h a ra c te r o f th e w o rk . No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system , o r tran sm itted b y an y m ean s w ith o u t the w ritten perm ission of the authors or publisher, with the exception of short excerpts used in articles and critical review s.
Foreword
HST isn’t run w ith any real sense of consistency or urgency. O r professionalism for that fucking m atter. It’s run from the oddity-crow ded spare room in a house in W estmeadow s, M elbourne. It’s ran w ith a scream ing one year old running dow n the hallw ay banging on a pot lid with a wooden spoon. It’s ran in conjunction w ith a full-tim e job as a sandblaster w ith a m ortgage. It’s patched together w ith saliva and claret. It’s ran b y all th e afo rem en tio n ed th in g s an d th en it’s not. /e reasons why HST has had its longevity, credibility, and staunch loyal supporters is because of th e q u ality o f its co n trib u to rs. It’s really fu eled b y th e read ers an d th e w riters o f th e literary frin g e. It’s said often am ong w anky com m unity types that a team is like “fam ily.” H ST is a fam ily, but its parents are divorced, none of the kids talk to each other, its aunties and uncles are cult leaders living in bunkers wearing tinfoil hats, and the cousins are all queers, queens, and com m unists. It’s a b ro k en fam ily – b u t it su re ro ck s a m ean fu ck in g online zine, am irite? HST is a pure facilitation of freedom. Write what you w ant, how you w ant – and H ST w ill put that motherfuckin’ sh it o u t th e re . I’ve had people contact m e saying, “thanks for accepting m y w ork, it m eans a great deal to m e,” and I appreciate that kind of feedback, but... are you fu ck in g k id d in g m e? /anks for fucking sending me this shit! /anks for thinking highly enough of our little fucking broken fam ily to w ant your shit on our site! D on ’t th an k u s, the pleasure is O U R S. T oo m any w ebsites and publication com panies got the w hole fucking ballgam e wrong if you’re ask in g m e. I d o n ’t see how anyone has the right to tell anyone th eir w o rk isn ’t w o rth y o f p u b licatio n , isn ’t w o rth y o f having an audience. FU C K TH E M PE O PLE . Make the press work for you. YOU are the only fucking reason our press survives. SPIT AND BLEED INTO TH E FUCKING KEYBOARD. H ST IS NOT A PLACE FOR TH E FUCKING FAINT OF HEART, AND IT NEVER WILL BE. So, w ith all m y bursting black heart – m y m ost sin cerest ad m iratio n , ap p reciatio n , an d gratitu d e to all th e w o n d erfu l w riters w h o h ave sen t in th eir w o rk over the years. K eep it com ing thick and fast; you guys are fucking rock and roll.
Editor in Unison, Ben John Smith In trod u ction
When I 3rst started editingHST Quarterly, o u r ongoing poetry zine, I rem em ber thinking, “M an, wouldn’t it b e n ice if w e co u ld d o th e sam e sh it w ith all the prose that’s been posted over the years?” B ut th e task alw ays seem ed to o d au n tin g ; th ere w as sim p ly to o m u ch of it to w ad e th ro u g h . Now, after months and months of reading and editing, narrow ing dow n m y selections from nearly ONE THOUSAND PAGES worth of material, I can see w h y I w as initially put oM by the task. S till, looking back, I’m glad I saw things through to fru itio n , as th is is o n e h ell o f a co llectio n yo u are n o w holding in your hands. To echo Ben’s sentiments, HST has always been and will always be for the mis3ts. It has always been a place for the w riters and the stories shunned by publishers of the bland and inoMensive. Just because your w ork doesn’t sell in airports or big-box stores, or just because it gets rejected by “serious” journals or out3ts in desperate need of their ad revenue, that doesn’t m ean it isn’t any good, or that there’s no audience for it out there. All it means is that you need to start sending more of your shit our w ay, because w e fucking love it. /ere’s a lot of good variety to be found between these covers, including various shades or horror, sleaze, an d trash , b u t as p ro m ised b y th e su b title, I’d say it all falls u n d er th e b ro ad er categ o ry o f “P ro se in Poor Taste”. Seven years worth of it, to boot. In m ost cases, I’ve tried to keep m y edits to a minimum. Should you happen to be a contributor and should you happen to disagree, I’ll either buy you a drink or let you punch m e in the face if w e ever ch ance to m eet, perh aps even both if I think you’re sexy oM-p ap er as w ell. Enjoy!
Editor in Unison, Arthur Graham
Acknowledgements
“S u p erm an ” o rig in a lly p u b lish e d b y B a re B a c k P re ss
“G o t M e a D ate w ith an U p to w n G irl” origin ally published by /ree M inute Plastic
“C h arlie’s C hunky M unching M eat” o rig in a lly published by Grivante Press
“/e Case of the Already-Solved Case” originally published by Bizarro Central
All others, to the best of the editors’ k n o w le d g e , originally published by H orror Sleaze Trash
Table of Contents
Slow est Drink at the Saddest Bar Steven Storrie 1
An Observational Piece of Flash Fiction I Will Probably Never Publish JeM O ’Brien 8
Buttons Alfonso Mango 10
A Boykiss Drip Misty Rampart 12
Turkey Buzzards Matthew Borczon 13 Dan Tells Me a Story at 4 a.m. While We Wait for Our Cabs Mather Schneider 16
Tarzan and Jane Discuss Identity Politics Melanie Brown 19
My /erapist Brian Rosenberger 20
Skywalker Steven Eggleton 22
I A w o ke W ith M y F ace in th e D irt Ju d so n M ich ael A g la 27
Family AMairs Ben John Smith 29
Mother’s Day Arthur Graham 34 Do Not Feed the Animals Paul Heatley 37
Motherfucking Zombies Jim m y B eard 40
Skin Flakes Tami Richardson 44
Superhero W ith a Bad Back Adam Hazell 46
All Rotten Apple Pie and Diseased Howdy Doody Kurt Eisenlohr 48
5/1/2017 Elliot Ross 53
Why Not? Sam J. Drane 55 Charley Matt Hutchison 58
Universal /emes Anyone Can Relate To Chelsea Martin 62
/e Owner’s R o o m Andrew Hilbert 64
Pretty Girls Mathias Nelson 72
Sexless Relationship Jen n y C atlin 77
Crimson & Chrome A. Lynn Blumer 79
No Contest Leo X. Robertson 87 Euphemistic Solipsistic Arthur Graham 88
/e Wasteland Motel Bud Smith 91
Screw Job Jo sep h F arley 99
/e Delivery Jo h n D . R o b in so n 107
Fairytales for Hard Men Tom Leins 111
Superman Karina Bush 116
Retreat Ben John Smith 118 Got Me a Date With an Uptown Girl Douglas Hackle 120
My Kind Of Justice Cal Marcius 127
Charlie’s Chunky Munching Meat Stephen M cQ uiggan 130
Tits, Cheapskates & Some Very Bad Poems Brenton Booth 138
Casual Sex At Narcotics Anonymous Michael Marrotti 143
Just M e and M y M icropenis Frank Greasestain 152
In ap p ro p riate R elation sh ip Robert Vogt 157 /e Metaphor of Poundcake Jo n K o n rath 162
/e Ugly Duckling (I’m a Fucking Swan) Brendon Lampe 173
Love At First Sight Tyler Gates 176
Excuse Me, But Did You Know Your Boobs are Made of Magic? Shawn Berman 178
/e Wilted Hipster Michael Marrotti 184
Household /ings David P. Bates 188
Im p o rted from A d d is A b ab a Ben Newell 191 /ere are No More New Art Forms, /ere are No More Summer Lifeguard Jobs Steven Storrie 198
/e Great Zima Heist Arthur Graham 203
/e Midnight Call Paul Heatley 205
Grimbolatron Ju stin G rim b o l 215
Adult Movies & /e Atlantic Monthly Brenton Booth 218
/ey All Want to Piss on You Fiona Helmsley 222
Som ething About Sunshine Ben John Smith 225 Daddy, Daddy, Candy Eater Tim Tobin 227
/e Lucky Ones Christine Stoddard 229
Requiem for an Ass Zoltan Komor 232
Apt. C Arthur Graham 235
/e Woman Who Loved Floppy Hats Jo h n D . R o b in so n 237
Condom-Leeches Zoltan Komor 243
It C am e F rom th e G arage Ken Alexopoulos 246 A Man of the Cloth Steve Slavin 248
Bring Me the Head of F.W. Murnau Alex S. Johnson 252
It’s A lrigh t Arthur Graham 257
State of the Union Ted DeCalb and Leonard Cockshut 259
/e Last Shot Steven Storrie 264
/e Perfect Neighbor Kurt Nimmo 266
Shanty W hore J.M . M u rp h y 269 Falling Down Drunk at the Poetry On Fire Detroit Gig Kurt Nimmo 270
Porn-Fugitives Zoltan Komor 279
God Shines Brightest on the Highest Man Kyle Kouri 283
/e Case of the Already-Solved Case Douglas Hackle 294
Death By Committee Ian Sh earer 302
/e Happy Ending Jo sep h Jam es C aw ein 307
Slowest Drink at the Saddest Bar Steven Storrie
It w as F riday aftern o o n , th e late side o f lun ch tim e, and I w as drinking the last drop from m y ⇡nal beer in a sem i-crow ded bar. I h ad dran k it slow ly as I co u ld, trying to m ak e it last. I couldn’t a ord another one and couldn’t yet face going back outside. D rinking slow ly isn’t an easy th in g to d o w h en yo u ’ve train ed yo u rself all th ese years to drink fast and drink hard and do it often. Now my ⇡nal bottle was ⇡nished. I had about 5 good minutes left before they got suspicious and came to ask if I’d like another, a further tw o m inutes after I’d declined before they asked m e to leave. It isn’t good for business to have som eone sitting there w ithout a drink in front of him, especially when he’s drinking alone. O dd enough as it is, that you’re by yourself. I sat th ere in m y b lue w ork sh irt w ith th e sleeves rolled up, looking dow n at the tattoos on m y arm s and w ondering exactly w hen it w as that tattoos becam e fashionable again. It probably didn’t m atter. %ere weren’t many people left in life that I knew who didn’t have tattoos. I loo ked at th e girls cro w d ing ro u n d th e bar, all do lled up in short skirts and high heels and heavy m akeup and fake nails, giggling and drinking w ine. %ey had tatto o s. HORROR SLEAZE TRASH
I stared at them for a w hile, w ondering w hat other tattoos they had, ones in hidden places and not on public display. O nes that only bland, square jaw ed men with hair products and stomach muscles and bullshit pickup lines would ever get to see. I im agined what tattoos these women had. I imagined what they looked like naked, w ho w as shaved and w ho w as w ild, who screamed when they got fucked and who groaned. W hat was their dem eanour when they had a piss and w hat did their assholes look like? It w as pretty obvious I w asn’t going back to w ork, and I sigh ed at th e th o u g h t of th e on slau g h t ah ead . Eventually I rose to leave. %e place was getting crow ded w ith people w ho had ⇡nished their w ork early and w ere getting a head start on F riday night. Men came in with perfectly manicured beards and reeking of aftershave. %ey w ere w earing their best clothes and had their gam e plan all m apped out. I watched them all jostling at the bar, jostling to be seen , to be served , to be n o ticed . %ey were trying to employ all their little ‘moves’ to get served quickly, cheap things like standing up tall and straight to look com m anding and im portant, or leaning forw ard w ith a tw enty note betw een their ⇡ngers so they looked ready to go. I had been a barm an once before, and I knew none of these tricks ever w orked. %e good ones serve w ho th ey w an t to fu ck ⇡rst, the best ones keep score and serve in ord er. When you stand back and look at it from a safe distance, society is a ridiculous and childish, pointless th in g . N o b o d y w o u ld jo in it if th ey d id n ’t h ave to , and everyone w ould opt out if they could. I shook m y head and headed out to the white pick-up truck ready to b rave th e d ay.
2 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE
On the street I almost bumped in to Ernie, the local garbage m an. H e began telling m e som e w ild story about a prostitute that ran by here last night w ith half an ear sliced o and one shoe on. “O h m an you really m issed it” he groaned, “should have been there”. I tell him I wished I’d been there to and w as sorry I m issed it. He asks me if I’m going back to work and can he get a lift? I tell him I’m ⇡nished for the day and am going the other w ay. W ell, that’s just about half true at least. If I told him I’d quit w ork he’d o er m e a job dow n at the garbage yard. E xcept he never really o ered you a job so m uch as positively insist you took it. O n and on he’d go about how great it w as and all the perks you got and how all the guys back slapped and looked out for one another. I couldn’t be bothered w ith it, not now . I had a slight beer buzz and the sun w as up and I w anted to ride around a while. I told Ernie goodbye and see ya later. He seem ed happy enough w ith that. I d idn ’t kn o w yet exactly w h ere I w an ted to d rive to , and that felt good in itself. P eople alw ays have som e place to be, and wherever they are they generally wish th ey w ere som eplace else. I w as as guilty as th e rest on th at co u n t, b u t m o stly I m ad e m y o w n , slu g g ish w ay about the w orld. I got everything done on tim e, but it was my time that I got it done on. To hell with some manager telling you what the deadline was. Some manager in a cheap suit with an ugly wife and two fat kids and a granddaughter going the sam e way. W hat the fuck did he know ? W hat m ade his life such a roaring, shining success? A nd w hat did it m atter whether I stood on the near or far side of the conveyor, or w hether the letter w as sent before or after 12pm ? O r even the day after that. It didn’t. None of it did. It was all a big con. I’d known that in stin c tiv e ly sin c e th e a g e o f ⇡v e .
3 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH
So there I w as driving slow ly around in m y w hite pickup when I was m eant to have been punching the clock in som e dreary factory, slaving aw ay w ith another 4 and a half hours to go before I’d be free. I h ad b rie 4 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Two weeks ago, I had had a writing student shadow me at work. It was part of him getting some education, apparently. A ll his class w as out som e place doing it. H ell, the only education he was getting around here w as not to end up here perm anently, not to be stuck in here 8 hours a day for shit pay, m aybe chaperoning som e young punk w ho had bad acne and couldn’t get the sh rink w rapping o his dick. And he wanted to be a writer? “Y es sir, very m u ch so .” “W ell w h y th e h ell are yo u p ayin g fo r so m eo n e to tell you how to do it?” %at bit genuinely confused the sh it ou t of m e. It alw ays d id . “W ell... so I’ll be go o d at it.” Jesus C h rist! %ere w as no hope for this dirtbag. H e was never gonna make it as a writer, I could tell that much right away. He may as well hand over his money to me, and maybe I’d give him his education. “K id , to b e go o d at it yo u h ave to go o u t th ere, in to the w orld. G et your nose and spirit broken and have your balls gnaw ed on. I m ean, really gnaw ed on. A ll you have to do is m ake som ething happen, then w rite about it.” “M y teach er said ...” “L o o k ” I b ro k e in , th is geek w as begin n in g to p iss m e o , “don’t you think if you’re teacher w as a good writer he’d actually be a writer instead of teaching you how to do it? Your teacher is a hustler and a thief and a degenerate. T ell him that M onday w hen you go back to class. %at’s your ⇡rst lesson. D o that and you may yet make it.” “%an k yo u sir” h e said , fu riou sly scribb lin g in to h is notepad. I clipped him around the head with the back of m y hand. “Y o u ’re w elco m e” I said . 5 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Later that night I went back to my motel room with a brow n bag ⇡lled w ith groceries and a bottle of whiskey for the slog ahead. I hadn’t found any heroes on the road. I ⇡gured they w ere probably all driving around looking for m e, and that w e’d bum p into one another soon enough. I tu rn ed o n th e b all gam e an d set th e w h isk ey d ow n by the TV before putting the groceries aw ay. %en I went to take a piss. %e bathroom was still in a savage mess from last night. I had brought a friend back that I h ad fu cked o n ce b efore. H er h air w as b lon d e b ack then. N ow it w as pink but the fuck w as basically the sam e. A great lay. W e had done it on the bed ⇡rst th en ag ain later in th e b ath ro o m . She w as bent over the basin, gripping it w ith her hands as I fucked her from behind, w atching m y funny little self in th e m irror. If you’ve ever w atch ed yourself fuck then you know how pathetic and oddly rid icu lo u s yo u lo o k . W e all d o , n o w ay aro u n d it. It’s an odd ritual to do, at the nut of it, thrusting back and forth, in and out and in and out of som eone. B ut it’s still the best and m ost sim ple ritual w e have, the only thing unchanged for m illions of years, relatively untouched by technology and taxes. It’s the only thing le ft th e b a sta rd s h a v e n ’t ⇡g u re d o u t h o w to ru in . So we had fucked in the bathroom and trashed the place. W atching m y cock ⇡ll her hole and seeing her spine protruding as I forced her further dow n and gave it to her harder w as a great thing to behold. I knew where all her tattoos were. %inking about it as I sat on the bed and unscrewed th e cap o the w hiskey w as m aking m e hard, but there w ould be nobody to play w ith tonight. Instead it w a s 9 in n in g s o f b a se b a ll a n d a m ic ro w a v e m e a l. %at’s the way it went some days, in life as in Friday nights. Som etimes you got lucky and som etimes you didn’t. And som etimes you didn’t care which it was. 6 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE So I sipped m y drink and cooked m y m eal, watched the 3rd basem an ground out to third as I bit into m y burger with the warm , chew y bun. %en I put som e paper into the typew riter. And then I wrote this. 7 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH An Observational Piece of Flash Fiction I W ill Probably N ever Pu blish Je O 'B rien It w as just as the m uscular, tank-topped guy nam ed Bradley began regaling his friends about the chick he’d fucked six w ays to Sunday last night w hen he noticed tw o n ew p atro n s en ter th e cig ar b ar. Both were well dressed and ⇡nely groomed. Neither had a single hair out of place, and one of them was wearing a pink dress shirt. Bradley’s ⇡rst thought was that these two were obviously queers, so what the fuck were they doing in his favorite establishm ent? And since when did homos even smoke cigars? Resuming his story of the prior night’s events, describing how this chick had deep-throated his massive cock like she was trying to give herself an endoscopy, he couldn’t help but be distracted by how close the new com ers w ere now sitting at the bar. Great, h e th o u g h t, not only are they fags, but they have to a u n t it, too. He continued his tale seemingly undaunted, going on to describe how he’d next throw n this bitch dow n on her back, dem olishing her pussy like his gargantuan dick was Exxon-M obil and fracking her cunt like it was the Saudi Arabian Ghawar oil ⇡eld. 8 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the poofs lean over and give the other a kiss on the cheek. %is deliberate display of gayness was com pletely uncalled fo r, b u t h e d id n ’t let it h in d er h im fro m resu m in g th e story that had his buddies w rapt in anticipation, wondering what would happen next. With extra careful attention to detail, he explained how her tight little slit w as barely able to accom m odate his m ighty trouser python, so in an altruistic act of kindness, he titty-fucked the shit out of her for a while instead. A s he did so, he heard the tw o fairies give the w aitress their order, w hich consisted of a raspberry vodka tonic and an am aretto so u r. T o m ak e m atters even m o re u n b earab le, th e tw o queens had begun holding hands as the waitress went to g et th eir d rin k s. Bradley was visibly irritated by this point, but proceeded on nonetheless to explain how the tit-bang got boring, so he bent her over and gauged out her sh it lock er lik e h is tu rg id h o g leg w as th e g o p h er fro m Caddyshack burrow ing the depths beneath the golf course. Finally, he concluded his saga with a retelling of how the chick had begged him to grab her by the hair and spray her face like it w as a canvas and his exploding cock w as Jackson Pollock. Upon the tale’s completion, Bradley and his bros found they had little else to talk about, and so they just ordered another round of beers and stogies in ste a d . “Y a know ,” B radley began, nonchalantly eyeing the gays who were now quietly puJng on their cigars, “if th ey w an n a b e g ay th at’s ⇡n e. B u t w h y d o th ey g o tta 9 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Buttons Alfonso Mango Buttons. Yeah buttons. It’s all just a bunch of buttons. %at’s right. We’ve moved millennia through time and shit-show space just to create a bunch of dam n buttons. I w ake up and hit the snooze button. T en m inutes la te r, sn o o z e b u tto n a g a in . %en again and again. %en I hit some more buttons and I check my condensed virtual social life. S ocializing is im portant you know . %en I hit a few more buttons and some %ai food show s up at m y door. M y m other calls and I hit a button that says I’m busy. M y ex-w ife calls and it’s all to o co n ven ien t; I ju st h it th e b u tto n ag ain . 3:30 rolls around. I hit the show er and hit som e buttons and the water is hot. I wash aw ay all m y sins. I w atch as it all p ou rs d o w n th e d rain. %e d irt, th e whiskey, little shooter bottles, cigarette butts, a ham ster. All goes right dow n the drain. I eat th e %ai food in the show er. I drink a show er beer. I pray to Jesus. Praying is im portant you know . I alw ays hit the 'like' button on those Jesus posts, you know the ones on Facebook. H it this or go to H ell. Better safe than sorry. I loo k in th e m irro r an d I’m fat. %ere’s n o b u tto n to ch ange that. I throw on som e B erm udas and a button up and I walk m y fat ass to the liquor store. I ⇡gure if I kill m y sto m ach , I’ll be th inn er. 10 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I buy a carton of cigarettes. %e h oly cash ier h its a bunch of buttons and m agic green num bers show up on the screen. I put m y card in the reader. W e sit silen tly, w e d o n ’t talk. I h it a few b u tto n s an d I’m o n my merry way. I stop by Sam ’s T ow n. I hit the A T M buttons and tak e m y last fo rty b u ck s o u t. I p u t m y last fo rty b u ck s in the penny slots. It disappears. %e colors are pretty th o u g h . I literally to o k fo rty b u ck s o u t o f a m ach in e, paid six dollars to do so, then fed that forty dollars to another m achine. %is is how my life has been. Maybe I’m the button. Maybe the Big Guy is pushing me. Testing me. Hit th is o r g o to H ell. I get h o m e an d d rink m o re. H it th e rem o te b u tton s, watch the dancing girls dance. W atch the jewelry ch annel. I stop w atching. I stare at the ceiling and I sin k in to th e co u ch . O n e m illio n m iles d eep . A ll th e way down to Chinatown. Before I disappear completely, I hit the alarm button on for the m orning, so tom orrow I can hit these here buttons once again. 11 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH A Boykiss Drip Misty Rampart Heaven must’ve forgotten me. I’m badly done up in makeup, and my wardrobe consists of only man-made colors and animal prints. Tits–maybe too big, but I’ve never fo u n d a boy th at w o u ldn ’t m ak e go od use of th em . Once in a while I gag (consider myself lucky), but it’s ok; I’ve sucked o such a string of tyrants you wouldn’t believe. My pretty eyes will gladly grant you membership in my mouth. Join m y joy luck spit club and joyfully I w ill receive your long, hard revelation. And you’ll thinkthat pink m isty, now there’s a pretty pussyyou could alm ost w ive. N obody ever goes th ro u g h w ith it, th o u g h . Praise! And pray, let the heraldry of your trum pets call its bursting on m y cheek, a boykiss drip! B ut until th en , yo u b etter resp ect m y h eels, m y th ig h s b o th welcoming and sending you away. “I’m going to com e on your fucking face!” you say... there are no w ords to defend against it. I’ll never get you out of th ese la sh e s. Will need to begin again. Later I will contemplate it, discovering that spit is som ehow a spiritual thing, so o th in g th e friction of love. 12 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Turkey Buzzards Matthew Borczon It had on ly tak en tw o years fo r his w ife to leave him . She’d grow n sick of the sm all tow n, the sm ell of shit on his boots, and the fact that E than was just angry all the tim e. H e could not blam e her for w anting to leave, but he also did not follow her or try to m ake her stay. Som ewhere along the line, E than had started drinking in the mornings. No one was around, so no one ever noticed. Booze made the work easier, or so he thought, but the truth was it just made it easier for him to ignore all the farm w ork he’d been putting o . It started w h en th e ⇡rst co w d ied . E th an left it in th e ⇡eld for w eeks rotting in the sum m er sun, and it would’ve stayed there had the neighbors not com plained about the sm ell. A s the turkey buzzards began to crow d the ⇡elds, his m other com plained to him as well, ⇡nally paying som e local college kids to scrap e th e ro ttin g carcass o th e gro u n d . Ethan kept drinking and ignored the world around him, fantasies of going back to Chicago and his wife drifting through the haze inside his head. H e knew he’d never go, but the idea allow ed him to believe he had a plan. 13 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Five more cows would die within the next year, and each tim e E than w ould ignore their bodies until the neighbors brought the law out to talk to him. In the end, he w ould hire som eone to do the w ork and he would continue with his drinking, and the farm continued to lim p along like a horse that had just th ro w n a sh o e. Eventually, Ethan and his mother stopped talking altogether. She grew tired of the argum ents and disappointed in the son she raised, so they took to haunting opposite sides of the house. She lost herself in m ourning her dead husband and w ore her sorrow s lik e a n o ld d re ssin g g o w n . %e morning Ethan found her hung from a rafter in the hay barn, he realized that he hadn’t know n his mother at all. For the ⇡rst few days, Ethan ignored the barn entirely, telling him self he needed to ⇡nd the note she was sure to have left. He searched her room and the rest o f th e h o u se b u t fo u n d n o th in g . An envelope of money under her mattress distracted Ethan for a few more days, as he ⇡nally had the means to drink like he’d always wanted to. %ree days later and staggering drunk, he had ⇡nally w orked up th e n erve to w alk in to th e b arn . %e smell and the fact that she was covered in her ow n excrem ent convinced E than it w ould be best to leave her h anging for a spell, at least until he’d hosed her dow n. It took about an hour, but once he’d cleaned her up, E than decided to go back into the house and grab som e fresh clothes for her, so she’d be dressed w hen he cut her dow n and called the authorities. 14 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %e feeling of control Ethan felt as he picked out her dress and sipped on her panties was nothing short of electric. A fter he’d ⇡nished dressing her, he w ent back to the house to get his m other’s m akeup kit and sp en t th e aftern o o n co m b in g h er h air. One week later, it was the smell once again which prom pted the neighbors to sum m on the police. %eir visits to the farm were becoming fairly routine by this point, but no one was prepared for the sight of Ethan drunk and doing a slow waltz with his mother’s corpse, still dangling from the rafters. For the ⇡rst time in years, Ethan looked like a man contented. In his m ind, he w as back hom e in Chicago, his old life ⇡nally restored. In reality, how ever, he’d ⇡nally lost everything but his herd of sick an d starvin g cattle. %e trees were ⇡lled with turkey buzzards, and only th ey seem ed to k n o w h o w th is w as all g o in g to en d . 15 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Dan Tells Me a Story at 4 a.m. While We Wait for Our Cabs Mather Schneider So I’m up in the fucking foothills and I get a call over th e co m p u ter, th at little b eep co m es o n to tell m e a fare is in m y area. W e never know w hat w e’re getting into, do w e, just th e gen eral area of th e call, th at’s it. Could be fucking Charles Manson for all we know. Still, naturally I accept it; there’s just not enough calls to reject o n e, yo u k n o w th at. Y o u accep t th em an d you take your chances. %e address is way out in zone 584, which isn’t where I’m at at all, I’m in fu cking zo n e 45 7 ! Y o u kn o w h o w th e d isp atch system d o es th is so m etim es, th ese mistakes, but I ⇡gure what the hell, I go for it. Takes me 25 minutes to get there, and I can’t ⇡nd the place at ⇡rst, m y G P S system takes m e straight at a brick wall and insists I go through it. %at female computer voice of the G P S navigator is alw ays sending m e dow n dead ends. Rem inds m e of m y ex wife, ha ha. %ey might as well program that voice to say, “Turn right in a half m ile on G rant R oad, you w orthless idiot.” H a ha. A nyw ay, I ⇡nd a w ay around it and ⇡nd the other part of the road and ⇡nd the right address. It’s a fancy house like all th e houses up th ere, th ose rich fu ck s an d th eir fan cy h o u ses, b u t th e ⇡rst th in g I notice is a burrito laying in the yard. It’s just laying th ere h alf o p en , ch ick en it lo o k s lik e. 16 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %en I notice other things in the yard: lettuce, carrots, so m eth in g th at loo k s lik e o atm eal, a freezer p izza, all just throw n about. W hat the fuck? I think. I try to call the num ber but of course there’s no answ er. So I get out of the cab and head for the door, I m ean, hell, I drove all the w ay up there. A s I’m w alking to the door I see other things in the yard: a pile of Tum s, beans, rice, a broken bag of 17 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Well the water and cigarettes are 9 bucks, and when I get back out to the cab the m eter still only says 17 dollars, by the time I get back to her house it says 22. I knock on the door again, standing there w ith m y little sack. She opens up, and I give her a ⇡v e . I k in d of peek into the house and I can see the 18 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Tarzan and Jane Discuss Identity Politics Melanie Brown %e ⇡rst time Jane discussed identity politics with Tarzan, they ended up in the bedroom. Jane was wearing those silky hose that she knew drove Tarzan mad with wild lust. She tried explaining to Tarzan that she w as a progressive dem ocrat and that she w as staunchly pro-choice. H e just kept grunting and rubbing her legs. Jane w as trying to ⇡g u re o u t w h ere Tarzan might fall on the political spectrum. She was tryin g to g et h im to tak e a q u iz o n F aceb o o k . Tarzan wasn’t interested in Facebook. He wanted to poke Jane for real, in his bed. Jane started to think the situation w as hopeless. T arzan m ight never m ake up his m ind about his political aJliation. After a while, sh e p ersu ad ed T arzan to tak e th e qu iz. %ey were shocked to see he identi⇡ed with the Paleoconservatives. Tarzan looked at Jane to gauge her reaction, but Jane was staring at his loins. Tarzan sw ept Jane into his arm s and show ed her his new Tempur-Pedic, covered with a chinchilla/rabbit com forter. T arzan poked Jane until they w ere both exhausted. %en he showed her how to swing into the next room where he poured them some orange juice and they watched cage boxing. 19 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH My ,erapist Brian Rosenberger She says I’m depressed. No shit. Really? No PhD needed for that diagnosis. Even my Mom says the same and I only talk to her once a week on the phone. My therapist suggests making new friends, trying new th in g s... M ayb e jo in in g a b o o k clu b o r a w in e tastin g group. I tell h er it’s a K ind le age. I h ave n o tim e to read an d George %orogood summed it up pretty good already, when he sang “I drink alone.” I tell her I drink to m ake th e day taste better. She makes a note in her always handy notebook. Long ⇡ngers, short strokes. Always a pencil, never a pen. Som etimes she licks the graphite. She favors green nail polish. Like the skin of som e endangered rain forest frog. I’ve noticed. A t $35 bucks an hour, I’m paying attention. She asks if I’m seeing anyone. %at’s therapist code for dating/fucking/sharing m y thoughts and feelings with another human being while NO T being charged at a professional rate. 20 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I resp o n d tru th fu lly an d say on ly m y co -w o rk ers, w h o are all m ale, one step up from N eanderthal, and herself. I point out that she’s paid by the hour but so are m ost of m y co-w orkers. She looks at her w atch, scribbles in her notebook, brings the pencil to her lips. I’ve never seen w h at’s in her no teb oo k . N ever asked . %erapy session over, we shake hands. She has a very delicate handshake, like her hand is made of porcelain or egg shells. %en she sm iles, all pearly w hites, sayin g I’ll see yo u n ext w eek . I pay at the desk. %e recep tion ist is yo u n g, 2 0 - so m eth in g , ab o u t 1 0 on th e cu ten ess scale, an d alw ays sm ilin g , alw ays frien d ly. Maybe she realizes I’m clinically nuts and doesn’t want to provoke negativity. She’s attractive, know s it, and should be selling worthless products on late-night infomercials in a bikini, or else involved in local politics. I’d place an order and/or vote. After paying for my session, I stop at the bathroom on m y w ay out. I jerk o in the stall, im agining m y therapist, her green nails carving into m y hips as m y cock ⇡lls that pearly w h ite m outh. I th ink th e th erap y is w o rking. 21 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Skywalker Steven Eggleton I rem em ber m y m om w oke us up early that day. It was Saturday and we usually slept in. My sister was running around the apartment scream in g . “D addy, D addy, D addy!” It had been alm ost a year since w e had seen m y father, but here w e w ere getting ready to go see him . My mom was wearing lipstick and an unusually tight sk irt. H er tits p u sh ed u p th ro u g h th e to p o f h er low - cut blouse. I had n ’t seen her th is “d ressed up ” in a w h ile. “C o m e o n , Jim m y. G et yo u r ass in gear. W e go tta b e at the D airy Q ueen in a half hour,” she said. My sister was wearing the dress my grandmother had gotten her for Easter, and she scream ed as m y m other ran a b ru sh th ro u g h h er h air, tryin g to tam e th e m ess sh e u su ally let ru n w ild . I w en t to m y ro o m an d cam e out in som e old corduroys and m y polo shirt with the little ⇡re breathing dragon on the pocket. “Jim m y, th at fu ck in ’ sh irt h as a stain ,” m y m o m observed with a cigarette dangling from her lips. “You kids are gonna be the fuckin’ death of m e! G et over here.” 22 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE She sprinkled som e water on my head and her cheap perfum e burned m y nose as she com bed m y stick- straigh t h air b ack d o w n in to its n o rm al b o w l sh ap e. I lo o k e d lik e a n a d o le sc e n t C a p ta in K a n g a ro o . As we rushed out the front door, our neighbor Mr. Hernandez (who had been trying to fuck my mother sin ce h e m o ved in ), sat o n h is p o rch sm o k in g a stu b of a cigar. “L o o k in g go o d , L in d a!” h e called after h er. My mom 23 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “W ouldn’t you know it,” he chuckled. “It’s fucking closed.” His eyes were red and his knuckles scabbed over. He had the faint yellow outline of a bruise circling his eye. M y sister jum ped out of the car and ran over to him, throw ing her arm s around his neck. “D ad d y, D ad d y, D ad d y!” sh e said . W e all go t o u t o f th e car an d jo in ed m y d ad at o n e o f th e tab les. “W h at the fuck happened to you?” m y m other asked him . “Y eah, D addy, w hat happened to your hands and face?” m y sister asked, touching his cheek from her seat on h is lap . “A h h h , yo u kn o w . Ju st so m e bad gu ys yo u r dad d y h ad to take care of,” he shrugged it o . “Y ou know w hat I’m talking ab o u t, d o n ’t ya co w b o y?” h e said, tu ssling my hair. My mom dug in her purse for another cigarette, then got up to take a closer look at his eye. “Is th at w h isk ey I sm ell o n yo u r b reath !?!” sh e ask ed . “I told you if w e cam e dow n here you better not be fu ck in g d ru n k !” “C alm dow n! It’s from last night. I haven’t been drinking at all this morning,” he said. “Y o u lyin g piece of sh it!” m y m o th er said . “R eally, L inda??? Y ou w anna do this in front of the kids right now ?” Suddenly m y m om started looking around. “And where the fuck is your car, anyways?” “It’s over there,” he said, m otioning around the corner, not really w anting to answ er the question. “A re yo u fu ck in g k id d in g m e, Jim ? I’m stru gglin g to make ends meet, and you’re driving around in a goddam n M ustang!” 24 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE My mother, livid, started around the corner to get a better look. “W H O TH E FUCK IS TH AT BITCH ??” she scream ed . In th e fro n t passen ger seat sat a w illow y blon d e. “G et the fuck up kids. W e’re outta here,” she said, com ing at us full speed. “Just calm the fuck dow n L inda. H old on. Just hold on,” m y dad said, scram bling back to his car. H e cam e rushing back just as m y m om w as getting into her seat. “Ju st w ait a d am n m in u te, w o u ld ya?” h e yelled at her. “I got som e stu for the kids.” “H ere yo u go , sw eetie,” h e said , h an d in g m y sister a Barbie doll through the open window. “And here is som ething for you, cham p.” H e handed m e a L uke Skywalker action ⇡gure in his Bespin fatigues. I had been wanting it for m onths now .“I love you guys,” he said . As he turned around to leave, my mom attacked him. Her nails digging into his face. Blood poured from his wounds as he clutched his cheeks in agony. “You crazy bitch!” he sh outed. %e blonde ran over to intervene and my mom made short w ork of her. B efore anyone knew w hat w as going on, m y m om had pinned her on the ground and was ripping out handfuls of her hair. M y sister scream ed in terror as m y dad tried to w restle our mother o of her. I began honking the horn out of desperation, unsure what to do. %e scene was utter ch aos. Finally, she came hobbling back to the car on one broken high heel. W e peeled out of the parking lot and I w atched from the back w indow as m y father and the w illow y blonde shrank in the distance. M y mom was crying and my sister shook uncontrollably fro m th e o rd eal. 25 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I slid b ack in m y seat an d loo ked at m y n ew to y. %e yellow m olded hair and the tiny plastic gun. My mom dropped us o at our grandma’s without even bothering to com e in. She asked w hat w e w ere doing there, and m y sister recounted the tale for her. She led us inside after that, shaking her head and mumbling to herself. Sitting us dow n at the table, she fed us cereal while the T rix rabbit stared at us, unaw are of all the crazy shit in the w orld. H is red box rem inded m e of m y fath er’s bloodied face. After being unable to get ahold of my mother all afternoon, m y grandm other loaded us up in her car and decided to drive us hom e. W hen w e got there, the door w as cracked and the lights w ere all o . M y grandm a pushed us behind her as she slow ly stepped in sid e . %ere my mom sat all disheveled, mascara running dow n her cheeks. An em pty bottle on the 26 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I A w oke W ith M y Face in th e D irt Ju d so n M ich ael A g la I aw oke w ith m y face in the dirt, aching beneath a pile of dead ⇡sh, tin cans and candy wrappers. I stru ggled u p into sitting p o sition an d w iped th e grunge o m y face. It w as cold by the shore that night, and the fog covered everything in sight. I could just barely m ake out som e dead hedges in the hazy darkness behind m e, but I could only see about ten meters or so down the misty beach. %e waves came in b la c k , g liste n in g lik e o il in th e m o o n lig h t. %e moon was a shy one that night, only occasionally peeking out from behind the clouds. Illum inated by th is m eag re lig h t, I esp ied a m u rd er o f cro w s feastin g on w hat appeared to be a pile of dead ⇡sh near the water’s edge. I had no recollection of how I had gotten there, where I had come from, or even who I was. Standing up, I decided to check m yself over for id e n ti⇡c a tio n , ⇡n d in g n o th in g in th e p o c k e ts o f m y rip p ed , so iled sh o rts. M y o n ly o th er article o f clo th in g was a running shoe about two sizes too large, and, judging from the pain in m y foot, there w as evidently so m eth in g else in sid e it. Kicking o the shoe and shaking it out, I was surprised to see tw o gold coins fall out onto the ground before m e. %ey appeared to be quite old and worn with no discernible markings. 27 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Still covered in ⇡sh guts and assorted other beach debris, half naked and freezing with no recollection of anything, I attem pted to assess m y situation. M y only assets being a pair of torn shorts, an ill-⇡tting shoe, and a couple of strange gold coins, I concluded that I sh o u ld p ro b ab ly get on th e m o ve. I w as so re as h ell as I m ad e m y w ay d o w n th e sh o re, stu m b lin g o to go d kn ew w h ere. Passing the crows from before, I m ade a grisly discovery – what they were feasting on was not dead ⇡sh at all, but rather the rem ains of som ething hum an, judging by its bones. I quickly lurched on by, relieved th at at least it h ad n ’t b een m e. It w as then I caught a glim pse of som ething in the distance, a shrouded ⇡gure I thought, but at this point I couldn’t trust anything, least of all m y senses. %e one thing I was sure of was that I’d prefer not to meet the same fate as my unlucky friend I’d passed along the w ay. Eventually I came upon the cloaked man. %ere he sto o d b esid e h is b o at, a sin g le lon g o ar laid acro ss its gunnel. I couldn’t see his face beneath his dark hood. As I approached, he stretched out a long, skeletal hand as if to receive som ething. I assum ed he didn’t want my shoe or my shorts, and so I gave him the coins instead, w atching as they m elted into the nigh t. I do n ’t recall m u ch after th at. 28 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Family A airs Ben John Smith Six hours dead, and the porter still had a fresh, healthy grin spread across his face, head pointed sk yw ard , arm s sp read ou t to h is sid es as if 29 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ey will be nibbling on her ear lobes to make her more com fortable, m aybe even aroused. W e can keep her alive for alm ost 24 hours usin g these techn iques. He let out a sigh and continued: en she will have just the thin blade drawn across her torso from clit to collarbone. M y girls w ill open her up and replace her heart w ith a 'stful of silver coins. She will die very confused, alone, and in a tremendous am ount of physical pain. I assure you, it w ill be a horrible way to die. I sh u Ved u n co m fo rtab ly, silen t. I h ad sp en t th e last few hours pleading, crying, o ering everything I had and things I didn’t to this m an. I explained in alm ost poetic detail the adoration I had for m y w ife, the recen t b irth o f o u r seco n d ch ild alm o st 1 0 years after her sister, how long we had tried to conceive... N ot once did he turn around. N ot even w hen I shit myself. Never once did he turn away from his view of the lake. H e just stared peacefully at a sm all hut that bobbed on the water only a few hundred m eters from th e sh o re at o u r feet. O n ly n o w as h e sp o k e to m e, with his face near mine, could I see his eyes. He was a beautiful, tanned m an, w ith perfect teeth and the most soft, gentle, greenest eyes that turned grey when he began to speak. It w ill be a very con ictin g tim e for her... A very horrible way to die. He came closer to me then, kneeling down to run a hand across the sand at my feet. It made a pattern. If I had to gu ess its sh ap e, I’d have to say “R ainb ow ”. 30 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE e women never have an option. I never give the women a choice. Woman upset me. Women are, by nature, sel'sh. eir needs are always hormonal. I think it’s som ething m en lack. M en, by nature, carry a physical pain already. It’s in their bones, you see? ey have earned a perm anently bent and broken spine. ey carry the w eight of G od on their skinny shoulders, you understand? He said this almost in a whisper, pulling and exposing his penis from the side of his leather chaps and rubber undies. We carry our curse as an appendage, not a void. e in's vs. the outs. Heaven vs. Earth. He bounced a very large, thick, uncut slab of dick in his palm. You have a choice, how ever; I can give you an option. Placing his tanned cock back into his rubber undies, he looked out again to the hut that bobbed upon the water’s choppy, grey surface. I giv e you m y w ord; n o harm w ill com e to you w hile you are inside. is hum ble vessel will take us out there... He beat the claw hammer against the hull of a nearby motorboat. ...a n d I w ill let y o u o u t in 2 4 h o u rs. O f th is y o u h a v e m y word. Crossing his heart with his left hand, he *** 31 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH O we sped across the lake. I was still bound, but my hands w ere in front of m e now , m y legs similarly lashed together. I let m y head rest in m y hands, bouncing with the motion of the waves. When you are freed for the 'rst time, you will say the sam e thing every m an says, or a variation of such. M en are predictable - like dogs. W om en are like cats. You will say the sam e thing. %e beads of sweat running down his face seemed to form a pattern, a pattern resem bling nothing so m uch as raindrops upon a w indow pane. If I had to guess its sh ape, I’d have to say “H eaven”. *** Opening the hut door with one hand and guiding me by the neck with his other, he said, Real feeling is only heightened by human su$ering. His eyes cloud grey, and he continues, Why do you think men seek a female mate? What do you th in k lov e rea lly is? *** As the hut door closed, the thin slither of light from outside slow ly narrow ed until it cut across m y face lik e a k n ife . I liste n e d a s th e lo c k c la m p e d in to p la c e . %ere was no room to move inside the hut, which sm elled sw eetly of the sea. In the pitch darkness of my prison, the only visuals were colour swarms, like pressing ⇡ngers against your eyelids. If I had to guess their shape, I’d have say “A lone”. I listen ed to th e b o at’s m o to r as it started u p an d faded into the distance. %e next thing I heard w as the crackle of a speaker pop to life above m y h ead. 32 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %e sound of a newborn crying. Another voice asking for her daddy, a young girl, m ust’ve been around ten. %e calming lulls of a familiar female voice, assuring all three that everything w as going to be ⇡ne. %at daddy would be there soon. %en the sound of something mechanical, a whir, like a blender, or a grinder kicked into a perfect m achined bore. %en two w om an laughing. L aughing and kissing som ething soft and white. 33 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Mother’s Day Arthur Graham Norman Mailer once said that “Writing books is the closest m en ever com e to childbearing.” H uh, and here I was thinking the closest we ever came was taking a massive shit. Same thing for some, I guess. I close m y laptop and set it on the table in front of me, nodding to the barista behind the counter as I rise to collect m y things. It is M other’s D ay, incidentally, and I’m o to m ail a card that’s going to be late enough already as is. I’ve alm ost m ade it to m y car outside before I’m accosted by a pair of young w om en, ostensibly in their early tw enties, though looking physically m uch older. Ju d g in g fro m th eir strin g y h air, sick ly p allo r, an d ju st generally disheveled appearance, these gals have clearly m ade som e poor life choices. “E xcu se m e, sir,” on e of th em beg in s. “M y sister an d I are stranded, and w e’re trying to get bus fare... do you think m aybe you could help us out?” %e talker isn’t much to look at, but her sister is all rig h t, at least in a sn ag g leto o th ed m eth h ead k in d o f way. “Y o u girls m o th ers?” I ask , loo k in g th em b o th u p an d dow n. %ey glance confusedly at each other. “Huh?” “N ever m ind,” I say. “Y ou m ust at least have a mother, right?” 34 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “U m m m , sure, m ister... do you have any spare ch ange? A nything helps.” “I think I can probably do you better than that on Mother’s Day,” I say, digging out my wallet and le a ⇡ng through the bills. “H ow ’d you girls like to make a quick $20?” %ey look quickly at each other, then back at me in disbelief. “$ 2 0 each ?!” “N o , yo u get to sp lit it.” %ey shoot each other another quick glance. “Y eah , su re!” th ey rep ly in n ear un iso n . “G et in th e car.” I’ve been living in this tow n for years now , and if th ere w as o n e th in g I’d learn ed , it’s th is: N o o n e g ives head like a m eth head, if only because they’re always either com pletely cranked or just desperate to get there, all w hiplash and drool as both a m eans and an end to the next hit. It is a sim ple fact of com m erce th at th ese p eo p le w ill d o ju st ab o u t an yth in g to g et them selves ⇡xed, and I am but an innocent bystander to th e eco n o m ic realities o f th at w h o le situ atio n . If it had n ’t been m e, it w ou ld’ve been so m e oth er perv th ey’d lan d ed . When the older sister ⇡nally comes up for air, I grab the younger one by the hair and really let her tonsils have it. “Y our m other w ould be soooo p ro u d ,” I say to h er as she chokes the w hole thing dow n. I’m so into fu cking h er th ro at th at I do n ’t even n o tice the knife com ing up against m y ow n. I feel th e exq u isite sting of air as m y n eck op en s up to th e o u tsid e w o rld , sp illin g m y b lo o d d o w n m y sh irt. 35 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH My murderer ri 36 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Do Not Feed the Animals Paul Heatley Jan in e’s 37 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “No,” I laughed. In fact, th o se th ick b lack rim s look ed q u ite go od o n her. She had pale skin and red hair that was tied back. In addition to her tongue in m y ear, I could vaguely recall that she w as m ost de⇡n itely a natural red h ead as w ell. After breakfast she sent me on my way. “I’ve got your num ber,” she said. “Cool.” I couldn’t remember giving it to her. Didn’t expect her to call. She did, a week later. A Friday. I’d just sat dow n in front of the television w hen m y phone began to ring. “H ey, it’s Janine,” sh e said. “Hey.” “What are you doing?” “Nothing.” “Wanna come round?” “Sure.” I w as glad I’d been sob er th is tim e. We went through a few more condoms. She kept a box of them in her underwear draw er. %ree buses rattled the windowpane from eight until ten th at n ig h t. Jan in e in sisted w e leave th e cu rtain s open and the bedside lam p on. %e buses w ere all double deckers. M y back was to the glass, so I forgot about potential voyeurs and got on w ith the task at hand. Afterward, we lay back and stared out the window. A few stars pocked the clear nigh t sky. “%ey could probably see us,” I said. “On the buses.” “%ey probably could,” Janine said. 38 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “%at kind of thing get you o ?” She shrugged. “M aybe. People always ask m e if I’m bothered that everyone on the top level can see inside. It do esn ’t. I do n ’t care if th ey loo k. U su ally th ey do. If I stand at the w indow and stare back, they look aw ay.” “And what about when you’re fucking?” “%ey don’t turn away then. You know what I do when it gets late, and the last few buses are passing by? I lie here on the bed, totally naked, and I play with myself. Right here under the light. You should see th e faces, esp ecially th e b o ys. %ey squeeze up to the w indow , like they could reach m e through the glass. %ey pull out their m obiles and try to snap pics and vids before the bus pulls aw ay. %ey look like th ey’re at th e zo o , w atch in g so m eth in g really rare, lik e a panda trying to m ate.” “Why do you do that?” She shrugged again. “W hy not?” I still see Jan ine. S h e still insists w e leave th e cu rtains open and the light on, and I don’t argue. I’ll keep seein g h er an d w e’ll k eep d o in g th is, u n til eith er o f u s gets som ething long-term or decides to address the fact w e’re in a relatio n sh ip . Maybe then I’ll say something about the curtains. Or maybe I’ll just leave them be. 39 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Motherfucking Zombies Jim m y B eard %e rotting bastards broke holes in the door just as I was ⇡nally getting to fuck Cindy M artin. She’d alw ays told m e she w ouldn’t fuck m e even if I w as the last guy on E arth. W ell, saving her from those 40 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Meanwhile, those tits of hers continued to batter me in m y fa c e . T o p a c e m y se lf, I d iv id e d m y a tte n tio n between her sm okin’ h ot b o d an d S arah , w h ose face was slowly being torn from her skull. I swear, her desperate, high-pitched scream s were the only thing keeping m e from blow ing m y load right then and th ere. Another shotgun blast rang out as a pair of undead arm s vanished in a m ist of blood. U nfortunately for Sarah, how ever, they were instantly replaced by more. With a sickening tearing sound that could be heard over the w et slapping of C indy’s crotch against m y hips, Sarah’s half-peeled face ⇡nally gave way. Her lidless eyes darted around frantically, her tongue lolling out am id gurgling torrents of blood. Nevertheless, she continued to beat and claw at the hands still grasping her bloody m ound of a head. As still m o re arm s sh o t th ro u g h th e h o les o n eith er sid e of her, those w ho’d been trying to help her w ere ⇡nally forced to take a step back, aghast at the grotesquery she’d becom e. Cindy laid her hands upon my chest and pushed dow n hard, riding m e like a wild stallion. I had never know n sex could be like this before. “O h, G od, fuck yeah,” C indy m oaned. “If I’d only know n, I woulda fucked you a looong tim e ago...” Meanwhile, what remained of Sarah’s head maintained its gurgling noises as the zombies fought over her freshly harvested face. R ipping through the sk in an d m u scle u n til th e gristle of h er co llarb o n e h ad been exposed, another pair of hands got hold of her 41 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Sitting upright, Cindy grabbed my hands and placed them on her hips. “Fuck m e harder,” she dem anded through clenched teeth, ⇡ngering her clit w ith one hand while tweaking her nipples with the other. W ith each of her dow nw ard thrusts, I ground m y ow n hips upw ard, m eeting her with everything I had. I couldn’t believe how deep I w as in that pussy, and in C indy Martin’s o f a ll p e o p le . As the zombies got a better grip on Sarah, it wasn’t lo n g b e fo re th e y ’d dug into her ribs, opening up her ch est w ith a series of sickening snaps. H er heart and one lung spilled forth from her destroyed ribcage, the rem aining lung left dangling from a shredded bronchial tube. Cindy humped me even harder still. Her cries of ecstasy m ixed w ith the cries of horror from the other su rvivo rs, ⇡n g erin g h erself w ith ligh tn in g sp eed as sh e ⇡nally began to climax. It had been building for us both since the start, and nothing was going to stop it now . When Sarah’s lower half ⇡nally separated from her throughly dem olished torso, her intestines spilled out onto the 42 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE In th e b ack ro o m o f th e safe h ou se, C ind y ⇡n ally fell against m e, having satis⇡ed her lust for now . 43 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Skin Flakes Tami Richardson He’s a twisted bastard. I awake, his legs on my sh o u ld ers. H is co ck in m y face. “Suck it!” he scream s, pressin g h ard ag ain st m y lip s. I give it on e exp loratory lick . T aste of sw eat, cu m , m y ow n pussy. “T ak e a fu ck in g sh o w er, It’s b een th ree fu ck in g d ays already!” “Suck my cock you dirty bitch!” I shake m y head no. H e pins m e dow n com pletely, stro k in g it fu rio u sly, ru b b in g it ag ain st m y m o u th . I close m y eyes tigh t and w ait for him to ⇡nish . I can feel it as h e cu m s; w arm , w et, an d stick y. I lick my lips, sweet and slightly salty at the same time. It drips dow n m y chin, dow n m y neck, slow ly pooling on m y chest. He gets up and I turn on the fan, already plotting my reven g e. “You mad, baby?” he calls from the kitchen. “No babe, of course not.” I w alk up behind him as he pours the m ilk in his cereal. H is spunk (dried now ) h as begun 44 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE He returns to the table and digs in. After 3 or 4 bites, I’m lau gh ing so fu ck ing hard I just have to tell him . “You sick fucking bitch!” He ⇡nishes the bowl anyway. “I love yo u !” he says and tries to kiss m e. I ru n . 45 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Superhero W ith a Bad Back Adam Hazell I take another hit because I can’t throw no m ore punches. I m ean, I haven’t oJcially retired or anything, but I w ill never again be called back into action. O f this m uch I am certain. Once a week, some ungrateful civic servant comes and checks on m e. She asks som e questions and ticks som e boxes. W hen she leaves I pick o th e g u m sh e stick s u n d er th e co ee tab le, p u t it in a p lastic b ag g ie and place it in the fridge. I don’t know w hat I plan to do with the evidence, confront her maybe? Som eday... Anyway, I can’t 46 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %ey’ll be starting to outnumber this generation soon. Maybe I’ll get lucky and die (if I can) before I’m com pletely out of m y stash . I look o u t from m y sixth 47 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH All Rotten Apple Pie and Diseased Howdy Doody Kurt Eisenlohr I’ve been slow ly turning over the contents of m y wallet to the girls at Mary’s, the oldest strip club in Portland. It’s a shady landmark and so am I–shit faced, suicidal, dreading the arrival of closing tim e, reck o n in g th e en d o f th e rid e. I’m afraid to go hom e. %ere’s n o th ing th ere. I’m alw ays afraid to go hom e. T onight the feeling is magni⇡ed. %ere’s a guy sitting next to me at the rail who’s been tipping nothing but twenties for the last three hours. It’s C hristm as E ve, rapidly crashing into Christmas day. “LAST CALL!!!” I order one last w hatever I can a ord an d toss th e rem ainder of m y cash onto the stage. %e d an cer sco w ls as sh e sco o p s it u p . S h e’s b eau tifu l. I like h er. She’s totally beyond m e. %e guy sitting next to m e taps m y shoulder and scream s into m y face, “W here the fuck can you get a drink in this tow n?” R ed hair, baseball hat, big ears, nose full of broken blood vessels. I tell him th e bars sto p serving at 2 a.m . “All of ‘em?” he says, blue eyes, bad teeth. “Follow me. I’m staying at the Benson. We’ll hit the mini- bar.” “Right,” I slur, and stagger after him. Stagger Lee. Good Seattle band, since disbanded. I hum one of th eir tu n es w h ile tryin g to w alk a straig h t lin e. 48 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE It’s cold ou t bu t th e B en son is close. W e get th ere an d dude tips the doorm an forty dollars. H e tips the elevator operator, w aves to the desk clerk. %ey all sm ile an d seem to kn o w h im : M r. B ig B u ck s. I 49 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %e bellhop raps on the door and Big Bucks gets up to let h im in . %ey do their business and I ⇡x m yself another drink from the m ini-bar. B ig B ucks tips the kid sixty dollars, twenty, twenty, twenty, quick in the palm, shuts the door and tells me all about it. “All he could ⇡nd was crack,” he says, sitting down and hooking him self up an em pty C oke can to sm oke it from . “Y ou w ant som e?” “I h ate th at sh it,” I tell h im . T ru th is I’ve n ever tried it b e fo re . “You’ll want some later.” He gets up and turns on the televisio n : C ab le p o rn . N o p en etratio n . I go to the bathroom . I check m y eyes, throw som e water on my face, spit into the mirror like it’s some stu p id m o vie. When I get back, Big Bucks has a chair pulled up close to the T V . H e has his pants o and he’s trying to jerk o . “I love th is ch ick ,” h e says. B u t h e can ’t get it up . H is piggly wiggly little dick is useless. H e keeps working at it, breaking every few strokes to bring the C oke can to his m outh. H is dick lays there like one of those dead worm s you see on the sidew alk after a hard rain. I close on e eye an d loo k at th e T V . %e sm ell o f th e crack rem inds m e of a cancer w ard, dead relatives, open wounds. %e girl on the TV is beautiful. I know her but I can’t rem em ber her nam e. “God,” Big bucks says, “I wanna fuck her. Are you bi?” “No,” I tell him. Her name is Blake. %at’s her last nam e. I’m no good with nam es. But I’m right about th is o n e. “I th ink I’m bi,” he says. 50 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE It strikes m e as fu n n y to th ink I w as on ce m arried an d in love, that I used to eat m eals and go for w alks and kiss m y w ife goodnight and not feel terri⇡ed on the holidays–so funny I want to cry. But that will come later, w hen I get back to m y apartm ent. %e su n w ill be stream ing through the window s and I’ll want to be dead. Not that it matters now . I p ick u p th e C ok e can , p u t a rock in th ere, an d ⇡ll my lungs with chemicals, exhaling a noxious cloud of hopelessness. Six million dollars. M oney can buy just about anything. B ut it’s not enough. B ig B ucks probably w on’t live long enough to spend it all. O r worse, he will. “Can I suck your dick?” he says. “No thanks,” I tell him. I lay dow n on a love seat and let B ig B ucks do his drugs. %e crack m akes m y brain feel like a pinball machine, but I close my eyes and try for unconsciousness anyw ay. W hy is crack so m uch easier to ⇡nd at 4 a.m . than w eed? B ecause the dealers are using and the stoners are all asleep. I have som e X anax in m y pocket. I take a few , let th em d isso lve u n d er m y to n g u e, slip in an d o u t o f b ad dream s. H ours seem to pass. I lift one eye and see Big Bucks squatting in front of the TV, blue 51 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “Hey, listen, I’m out of cigarettes.” “%ere’s some money on the table,” he says. “Take a ten. G et us a couple packs, C am el L ights.” H e turns his face back to the TV . I p age th ro u gh th e m agazine. It’s called E xo tica. %e girls are called “escorts.” I zero in on the ugliest, m ost psychotic looking tranny I can ⇡nd, dial the num ber. Give the address, the room. %ere’s a pile of cash sitting on the end table by the door, hundred dollar bills, ⇡fty dollar bills, twenties, tens, ⇡ves–the whole fucking bag of bones. I grab a handful, then decide to grab it all. I stu the bills into my pocket, every pocket. I ligh t a m atch , to ss it in th e w aste b asket. A 52 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE 5/1/2017 Elliot Ross Som ebody ow es me. I’m no t staring at th e blan k page killing o a bo ttle of bottom -bunk bourbon because I enjoy it. %is hand I was dealt can only win by bluJng. I know w hat you’re thinking... “Sad w riter w oes, whoopdee-doo!” and you’re right. I wouldn’t be writing this if my brain was healthy. I wouldn’t write at all. But when you are born to a failing rock musician and a stripper w ho lock you in your room at night so you don’t wake up and catch them doing drugs– Who let their dealer babysit you– Who divorce and let it show that you were never a priority by m arrying som eone w ho hates you or moving away to New Mexico– %en talk to me. Som ebody fucking ow es me. I’m sitting at th e bar betw een a dick an d an assh o le. I guess that m akes m e the taint. Whatever, I’ll be the taint. Nobody ever expects much from a taint. I can just sit here, m anboobs aching, hair thinning, belt-buckle bursting, barely existing. 53 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %inking about how I was always told how smart and talented I w as, and the things I w ould achieve, and not about the ingrow n hair above my junk that would would plague me for several straight days. Som ebody ow es me. If not m o n ey th en at least an o th er bo ttle of th is sh it. 54 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Why Not? Sam J. Drane As he twisted his wrists against the leather straps, Billy Douglas realised that he’d gotten mixed up with so m e real b ad d u d es. %ey lik ed th e feel o f cru n ch in g live parasites betw een their teeth w hilst sticking expired chocolate biscuits into other peoples cavities. Som e real high end business-suit-during-the-day- zippered-shut-gim p-m ask-by-night-type cats. Billy had gotten bored of his solo sweat sessions and answ ered a classi⇡ed ad one day. %is one prom ised pleasures beyond that which were on o er anyw here else. Intrigued, B illy had sent an anonym ous em ail. At this point he would’ve been content had a man or a w om an answ ered, so long as they w ere over the prescribed age. H e got a reply within twenty minutes. It read : “M r B illy D . W o u ld yo u like to m eet fo r a co ee or som ething else?” Well, th o u g h t B illy . Som ething else could quite possibly be a suck session, so of course! But back to the steel table that he was currently strap p ed to . %ere was an old woman standing over him now with a bow l of w hat sm elled like a m ixture of barbecue sauce and cough syrup. She appeared not to be clothed. A dull voice slowly slid into the room like a snake. 55 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “I see yo u ’ve m et m y m o th er. Y o u can call h er m oth er so o n , to o . If yo u ’d like? S h e’d like th at... S h e’ll n ever break character, either.” %is was the one who had called himself Blake. He was standing at the head of the table now, looking dow n into Billy’s eyes. “Would you like a... basting, Billy?” Mother said. Her voice was deep. Was that an Adam’s apple? “No. No, I’d like to go home. Please.” “But Mother can stu you like a turkey, if you’d like?” Blake o ered. Jesu s, B u d dha, A llah, help m e, th o u g h t B illy . “Or perhaps Father could o er you some wine? Have you said hello?” said Blake. Billy twisted his head up. In the corner of the room atop a tall stool sat a sm iling, lipsticked old m an. Again, minus any clothes. A bottle of red wine at his feet. A n early d rain ed g lass in h is h an d . %e glass w as sm eared w ith his kisses, and there w ere several pairs of panties wrapped around his wrists. “Hello there, Billy. Fancy a drop, my boy?” “Why? Why would I want that?” “We thought that you wanted this, Billy. %at you were committed to the team.” “I w as. I am , still. B u t th is...” It w as then that B lake lifted the pig m ask from his face. “Billy. We’re in the middle of a global ⇡nancial crisis, and you don’t have any previous call centre experience. H ow else do you expect to get a job here?” Mother put her bowl down. “Billy, I honestly think you could make manager if you tried hard enough.” She said. 56 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Meanwhile, Father had apparently fallen asleep, but he seem ed to be sm iling with approval. Broke and horny, Billy ⇡nally submitted. H e eventually m ade team leader. 57 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Charley Matt Hutchison %e ⇡rst time I saw her she was all hips, eyes and sex. A golden band of toned midri displayed above a pair of jeans she m ust have been poured into like w et cem ent. A diam anté belt buckle glinting in the disco lig h ts a s sh e sw u n g h e r h ip s to th e m u sic . Oh, and what hips. I was leaning against the bar to keep from swaying and it’s possible I m ay have been lo o k in g c o o l b y a c c id e n t. P ro b a b ly n o t th o u g h . S h e buzzed around m e, acting disinterested, while I subtly gave her the once over. Well, probably not too subtly. I knew it w as m y m ove. She w as w aiting but still I le a n e d 58 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Facts: Her name is Charley, she’s 18, she knows my brother, she’s heard all about m e, she drinks W K D blue, and I only have to buy her one of them before we are ready to get a taxi back to my place. I live in a sh ith o le in th e w orst b it o f tow n b u t sh e seem s u n p ertu rb ed b y th is an d g igg les as I h u stle h er up the dingy stairs into the front room . She asks no questions about the padlocked door to the spare bedroom w hich conceals, w hat the police w ould describe as, ‘a com m ercial scale m arijuana grow ing operation’ w hich is currently m y m ain source of in c o m e . We sit on the sofa. I light a joint that is waiting for me in the ashtray, the product of a rare piece of foresight, and o er her som e. She takes a couple of drags before passing it back and I have one m ore and then w e are kissing. She is a teethy kisser so I pull aw ay and kiss dow n her neck tow ards her tits. I kn o w I am so d ru n k I w ill eith er cu m too q u ick o r not at all, so I get her undressed and go dow n on her as a kind of ‘get out of jail free card’. H er pussy could do with a trim but sm ells ok. I think I m ake her cum , at least she m akes all the rig h t n o ises, b u t sh e p u lls m e aw ay after ⇡ve m in u tes or so. She turns, kneeling on the sofa and I fuck her from behind, standing, pulling back on those hips, watching her arse jiggle as I pound it. She has a Celtic style tattoo on the small of her back. I last less th an a m in u te an d cu m h ard inside h er. S h e doesn’t seem to m ind but I’m not that bothered anyw ay. I am asleep in bed before she is ⇡nished in the bathroom . In the m orning, I drive her hom e in my Rover. It has a huge dent in the door and the electric w indow s don’t w ork. It doesn’t pay to look like you have any m oney around here. She seem s im pressed by the leather seats and w alnut dash. 59 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH She wants m y num ber. She lives in the worst bit of the next tow n. H er m um is outside w hen I drop her o and I can hear her shouting as I drive aw ay. I took her num ber but I probably won’t ring. Over the next month we fuck several times. Usually when I am drunk and tired of wanking. She seems to think som ething signi⇡cant is happening betw een us but I am unable to feel anything for her. She always seem s to be held dow n by the w eight of sadness inside. D epending on m y m ood and level of drunkenness, I am either a crap lover or I fuck her brutally, she seem s to like it although I som etim es hear her crying when she thinks I am asleep. W hether that is caused by the crap, the brutal or som ething else, I don’t know . Som etimes we drink together before fucking. She is not much of a conversationalist. Nor am I. One night she rings me when I have some girl over. I tell her I am busy and she asks if I have another girl th ere an d I can ’t even b e b o th ered to lie. %e n ext few tim es I try and ring her she doesn’t answ er so I carry on with m y life. She’s a handy fuck but not m uch fun to b e aro u n d . I m eet m y bro th er for a pint an d ask him ab o u t her. “Charley, fucking hell, now that bird has lost the fu ck in g p lo t.” “Yeah? How do you mean?” “She’s fucking fruit-loop, m ate. She stabbed another girl in the eye w ith a com pass at school, left her fucking blind in one eye.” I am im pressed. “Yeah? Fuck.” “Her old man got four years for abusing her, didn’t la st six fu c k in g m o n th s, stru n g h im se lf u p o n e n ig h t.” “Fuck. Fair enough.” %ere wasn’t much else to say. We all had shit to deal with. 60 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE A few weeks later she rings and wants to come over. I’m n o t su re I w an t to get into it all again b u t I am doing nothing else. H er eyes are full of ⇡re and her body singing with life and we drink som e beers and sn i som e coke she has brought and have som e fun before we fuck. She is laughing and enjoying herself and m aking m e laugh too. F or the ⇡rst tim e since I met her I like her. When we go upstairs and fuck, she is like a tigress; biting, claw ing, scratching, spitting, snarling. She is possessed by an infectious passion and w e end up cum m ing together in a furious frenzy of scream s and violence. I think I m ight ⇡nally understand w here she is c o m in g fro m . When I turn the light out she gets out of bed and sits naked, looking out the w indow , hugging her knees like a rescued child. A s she sits there the m oonlight glints o tears, like diam onds, rolling dow n her ch eeks. I w ant to com fort her but I can’t. In the m orning she w as gone. She didn’t return m y phone calls. About a week later the discharge started from my knob. %en I understood where she was com ing from . 61 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Universal ,emes Anyone Can Relate To Chelsea Martin I w ould not kiss E than goodbye after a short and poorly organized ⇡ght about m y levels of insecurity and his unw illingness to give up control and m y tendency to use m y depression as an “angle” and his in a b ility to re m e m b e r th e re so lu tio n s o f o u r p a st ⇡ghts. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we can have sex when I come back.” “I’m bu sy,” I said. He’s the ⇡rst person I ever loved, but of course I can make that true for someone else if need be. I tried to w rite a poem about it, but it seem ed too much like a poem about Adobe Photoshop’s clone stam p to o l. In m y novel, the protagonist m eets up w ith her ex- boyfriend after several years of not seeing him , and she sees that he has decided to becom e H ispanic in th e n am e o f fash io n . H is h air is slick ed b ack an d h e’s wearing a kind of construction boot and has acne. %ey are happy to see each other, but neither one has anything planned to say. %ey hug and she feels a vague sadness about not keeping in touch w ith him or his fam ily, w ho she used to feel close to. %eir conversation is m inim al and strained, though , because he speaks in broken English and is highly distracted by any girl in denim leggings. 62 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “You didn’t used to be H ispanic,” the protagonist says. “Well,” says the ex-boyfriend, “You didn’t used to be [u n in telligib le S p an ish w o rd s].” %e protagonist feels the same panicked, guilty rush to get aw ay from the ex-boyfriend that she felt w hen she broke up w ith him . She know s that there is no getting aw ay from this feeling once it has arrived, and th at th e m o st p o lite th in g to d o is g et aw ay fro m th e situ ation as q u ick ly as p o ssib le w ith as little confrontation as can be m anaged. “I’m so rry,” sh e says, “B u t I left so m eth ing at m y house yesterday and I have to go see if I’m going to need it today.” Som etimes I feel lonely from being the only occupant of m y body. I feel like I desperately w ant to rub som ething onto my genitals. 63 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,e Owner’s R o o m Andrew Hilbert We were drunk. It was stupid but we were drunk. It’s not an excuse. It just is what it is. We were celebrating So⇡a’s acceptance into grad school. W e w ere anticipating having no free tim e between us once she started, so we decided to do the whole Airbnb thing and rent a vacation home in Arroyo Seco, the mountains in New Mexico. On our way up, we stopped by a small bar. %anks to th e liq u o r law s in th at state, w e co u ld d o all o u r b u lk shopping as w e sat on barstools and drank cocktail after cocktail. A bottle of Jack. Two twelve packs of Bud. Fuck it. Make that two bottles of Jack. %e house was beautiful. Heated 64 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “L et’s get n ak ed ,” I said . “%e h o t tu b ’s read y.” We wasted no time at all getting down to our birthday suits. I uncapped the Jack, took a big chug and passed it to So⇡a. She did the sam e and passed it back. I took one of the twelve packs with m e as we went outside. “%is place is fu ck in g beau tifu l,” S o ⇡a said . “U h h u h ,” I said an d to o k an o th er sw ig. Fifteen minutes later we were both drunk. W e can drink, all right. An hour was about all we could take in the tub. %e water had been heated to 101 degrees. M y poor, sagging nutsack couldn’t w ithstand m uch m ore despite all its alcohol-induced num bness. And I had whiskey dick. So much for being naked... By contrast, it was something like twenty degrees outside. %e snow w as packed in. A s soon as I step p ed o u t o f th e tu b , m y n ip p les g o t h ard as ro ck s, and m y previously pendulous scrotum shrivelled up to th e size o f a co in p u rse. “H u-huh-holeeeeeeeeeeeeey F U U C K it’s cold!” “U m hum , YE E A H it is!” So⇡a giggled. O ur w ords waxed longer with our waning sobriety. We slop-hopped back into the house, naked and giggling all the w ay. %e good thing about vacationing in the m ountains is that there aren’t neighbors to disturb. W e could be as drunk and naked as we dam n-well pleased and there’d be no one to ju d g e o r try sto p p in g u s. “O h m y go d , oh m y go d ,” S o ⇡a said . “I j-just h ad th e, um m m , fuck... I forgot...” 65 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “R em em ber it w hen you tell m e,” I said, m y eyes crossing as I tried to roll them back into m y m ind to ⇡gure out exactly how drunk I was. “O h !” sh e said . H er feet w ere clum sy an d h er an k les wobbled as she shivered into some kind of clarity. “I got it! I had the, um m m , ca-raziest think – thought. I think, w hat if, w ouldn’t it be fucking crazy if the Gordon, if that’s his REAL name, was like whacking o right now w atching us on a w ebcam or so m eth in g ?” “Pssssht...” m y m outh w as num b. “Fuck you. H e’s propubly, probubbly, probably looking at m y fucking dick thinking, Woah, that’m big’m.” We both busted out laughing because we looked dow n at m y dick at the sam e time. It was clearly still recovering from the intense cold. N obody’d think th at’m big’m a b o u t it rig h t th e n , if e v e r. So⇡a wandered away from me and I stum bled around looking for the other bottle of Jack. It w as, of course, rig h t w h ere w e left it. R ig h t n ext to th e fu ck in g fro n t door, which we’d forgot to even close. I un cap p ed th e Jack an d to o k a nice, big ol’ sw ig. “W h at? W h at? W h at? L arry!” S o ⇡a so u n d ed confused – not confused like sh e had no capability of understanding w hat she w as confused about, but confused like she w as on the verge of understanding but never quite there. “W hat? W hat? W hat? W ow . Woah. Larry!” “I’m c-co m in g, I’m c-co m in ’,” I said , b elch in g lou d ly as I tried to locate her w ithin the strange house. “L arry, L u h -luh -lurry!” S o ⇡a’s eyes w ere only half open by this point, the left one looking upw ard and the right one drifting rightw ard. She w as absolutely fucking ham m ered. “W ha-w ha-w hat’s erse ser?” “W h -w h u t?” I ask ed . 66 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “W haz erd sare?” She pointed to the placard on the door. It took m e a second to quit seeing double, but sq u in tin g h ard I w as ab le to m ak e it ou t. “O h n o ro o m ,” I said , “O h n o r’s ro o m , do n o t en ter.” “O w n er’s ru m ,” sh e rep eated , n o d d in g w ith p ro fo u n d understanding. “Fuck him ! W e pained f-f-for therse, we go whern we wantgoer. I, I... I thought we lived in a freedom country??” I raised m y han d fo r a high ⇡ve. “Fuck yeah,” I said, “Fuck him . %is is A m erica!” Suddenly I felt the urge to hurl, catching m yself just in tim e. “I alm ost threw up,” I said, and then I did. %ick chunks of whiskey-infused vomit sprayed all over the door before us. L ooking dow n, I could see that the large puddle I’d spew n had already begun to 67 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “W e needuh SS-SL -A M M inna it...” I said. I m ade the m otion w ith m y shoulder into the door. “%lee counts,” I said. One, two, three... %e door came o its hinges and we landed inside. “I th in k m y b u th ’s go k sp -sp lin fers,” S o ⇡a said , picking at her upraised ass. She had a good laugh, to o . But then the laughs wore o – they always do – and we were still splayed upon the 68 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I co u ldn ’t h elp b u t lau gh at th e ridicu lou sn ess o f th e scen e. “W h at’s so fu n n y??” th e m an sq u ealed . “%at fu ck in g paddle has NA ILS in it!!” Sure enough, I could see the reddened points on the th e p ad d le w h ere it h ad retu rn ed to th e ceilin g . “Every tim e, every tim e, EVER G O D D A M N TIME I swing for a sip of water or a bit of kibble, every tim e that goddam n bloody paddle com es dow n and...” He could hardly ⇡nd the words between his welling tears. “...I d o n ’t e v e n k n o w h o w to e n jo y it a n y m o re !” “W ha-what?” So⇡a ask ed . “%e kibble or the sp an k in g ?” He didn’t answer. He just swung for water and got sp an k ed fo r it. “%e b astard . %e B A ST A R D !!!! M akes the kibble extra salty, so I can’t help but get thirsty... T w o spanks! T w o spanks, guaranteed! W hat kind of monster?!” So⇡a and I looked at each other. W e knew we weren’t dream ing or hallucinating, but w e couldn’t help th in k in g th at som eth in g about our unholy level of in to x ic a tio n w a s m a k in g th is e v e n m o re b iz a rre th a n it a lre a d y w a s. %at moment of drunken wonderment between us was cut short by a splash of warm liquid from above. I loo ked back up . %e fat gu y w as no w pissing on us. “W oaah, oaah, w oaah,” he m oaned in agony. “%at bastard! %e fucking son of a bitch! H e’s w atching! And he’s loving every minute of it! I KNOW he puts so m eth in g in th e w ater to m ak e it b u rn w h en I p ee... He loves this! He LOVE torturing me!” 69 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “L uh-luh-lissen, dude,” So⇡a said , stu m b lin g to h er feet. “L isten, you know ? L ike, riight?” She then prom ptly slipped in the puddle of piss and fell b ack d o w n o n th e 70 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE As before, his ass was greeted with a savage swat of th e p ad d le. “O W W !!!” So⇡a looked over at me. “I’m scared...” she said, w iping the puke from her mouth. “%e door is o its hinges. Once Gordon discovers that, we’ll never g e t o u r d e p o sit b a c k !” “Y eah,” I said, rubbing m y groggy head. “U nless he know s we know so m eth in g w e sh o u ld n ’t...” I pointed up and w inked at So⇡a. She sm iled back, giving m e a look like I w as the sm artest guy in the world and I was the one going to grad school. 71 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Pretty Girls Mathias Nelson One college night, Stacy sat at a small café counter in little w h ite shorts, h er legs long and fresh. S he licked at an ice cream cone, lapping around its edges, her tongue dappled cream y w hite. H er friend N ancy w as dressed m ore m odest, in jeans and a low -cut sweater. She ate a banana split with a spoon, slow ly cutting in to it lik e a so ft p h a llu s. %e tw o of them sat on their sto o ls to g eth er, sw ivellin g like sch o o lgirls an d la u g h in g . “But Mark has such ahugecock!” Stacy whispered to Nancy. %ey covered their mouths to keep from sp ittin g . Nancy swallowed, then whispered to Stacy, “Johnny has rhythm , but he alw ays w an ts to titty fu ck . G o d I can’t stand it m uch longer! M y heart’s gonna bruise!” She put a hand over her chest as they both cracked up and ice cream dribbled dow n their chins. Meanwhile, the owner of the café was washing dishes back in the kitchen, periodically turning an ear (and an eye) their w ay. “Well,” Stacy said, “you think that’s bad, once Mark was giving it to me doggystyle and he slapped me in the back of the head! C alled it a donkey-punch!” %ey both keeled over, dying. As Stacy regained her composure, she locked eyes with her BFF and had one of those weird moments where she wished she was bi. 72 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %en, cone in hand, she looked over at the tables lining the w all w here a lean, older m an sat in a frayed, dirty green coat. %e bright lights re 73 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “Uh, I know,” Stacy answered. “%e dorms are seven blocks aw ay, but I don’t think he’ll be able to catch us if w e ru n ...” %e owner was walking all around the café now, cleaning o tables before close. A s he approach ed the man’s table, the man said, “Get me a beer for the wait, would yuh?” “Sure thing, m ister,” the ow ner replied. “W hat yuh waitin’ on, anyway?” “Heaven,” the man said, still facing the two college girls. Bustling o with an armload of dishes, the owner cast a sidelong glance at them on his w ay back to the kitchen. “What the fu ck was th a t a ll a b o u t?” S ta c y g a sp e d . Before N ancy could reply, the owner came back around and brought the m an his beer. Still staring at the girls, the m an grabbed it o the table w ithout even looking dow n. A nd then, draining it in se v e ra l slo w , ste a d y c h u g s, h e lic k e d h is lip s, se t th e em p ty b o ttle d o w n , an d to o k an o th er lo n g d rag o his cigarette. “What’re we going to do?” Nancy squealed, pulling dow n the back of her top to m ake sure her thong wasn’t showing. “Just leave?” Stacy chanced a quick glance outside. “%ere’s a gas statio n acro ss th e street,” sh e said . “W e can ru n o ver there and w atch to m ake sure he doesn’t follow us. If he does, we’ll call the fucking cops.” Nancy faltered for a moment, then gave Stacy the briefest of nods.“We’ll just leave it on the counter,” sh e called to th e o w n er as th ey jum p ed u p an d b o lted for the door. “K eep the change!” 74 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Jayw alking betw een headlights, 75 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %e girls bought a magazine with a shirtless pop sin g er o n its co ver. T o g eth er th ey stro lled o u t o f th e gas station, sm iling despite them selves. T raJc had slow ed d o w n qu ite a bit. It w as gettin g late. As they began their walk back to campus, Stacy couldn’t h elp but glance back over at the café across the street. Suddenly she stopped and grabbed N ancy by the arm . “Look...” she said, pointing. Inside the darkened café, there w as ow ner, sniJn g th e sto o ls th ey’d b een sittin g o n . 76 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Sexless Relationship Jen n y C atlin We don’t fuck anymore. Did we ever really fuck, so often? M aybe in those ⇡rst days, the risqué days when it w as sexy and sleazy to frequently fuck a drunk and crazy girl, w h o belonged to another m an. It bothered m e m ore in the beginning; now I tell myself it’s okay, normal even. We are aging at a rapid pace. W e watch fake new s and roll to our respective bed corners to sleep o the day, and I cannot pretend his hard-on against m y back at night doesn’t bother me a bit, ignoring my questions about what he does with it while I’m at work all day. Don’t dare to wonder why all the phone sex lines still call and text him at all hours of the great tw enty four. I d on ’t ⇡xate o n m y w eigh t, m y age, m y sagging tits as m uch as I ⇡rst did. E xplaining to m yself, over cold morning co ee, that I am not all that repulsive. My ow n nature sliding aw ay to recesses in m y m em ory that hold other things like how to m ake an origam i sw an or the com bination to a high school friend’s lo c k e r. %e distant m em ory of sex sliding into the useless hard drive of unnecessary inform ation. I don’t think about fucking anym ore, really. D on’t risk ch allen g in g m y in secu rity an d rag e, m y d isg u st at what I’ve become, what we together have become. I don’t hear the stories of his youth, stories of naked girls in boots and w anting to fuck everyone all the tim e. 77 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I w alked through the apartm ent once, getting ready for an interview naked in go-go boots. %e shadow of to o m an y sto ries silen ced w h en h e to ld m e th e b o o ts weren’t his favorite. I am a character from a B ukow ski poem . O ld, dry, and useless. A body held onto for com fort and habit and som ething else too deep and Freudian to lash out at. So I sit here and chain sm oke, reading other people’s stories. F eeling prudish and angry at the sexy bits, I tell m yself it is perfectly ⇡n e to h ave a sexless relatio n sh ip . If yo u ’re eigh ty. 78 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Crimson & Chrome A. Lynn Blumer White light shot through Hank’s skull like buckshot. He didn’t remember drinking enough to split his very mind apart, but, then again, he didn’t remember much of anything from the night before. He draped an arm over his eyes, relished w hat he assum ed to be th e co ld b ath ro o m *** %e bar seemed o , quiet. He walked across the narrow room and slid onto his regular stool. %e bartender cam e over soon after. “H iya, H an k .” “H ey, T rix. Ju st beer to n igh t.” Triksey gave him a playfully suspicious look. “You sick or som eth in g ?” “N aw , just tak in g a break .” She chuckled and pulled a brow n bottle from a cooler under the bar. %e cap clinked onto the 79 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %ree beers in without another soul speaking to him, Hank began to wonder if it was him who had set the bar o tonight. %e usual am ount of patrons w ere about, but none of them w ere m ingling like they usually do. H e looked around at the faces he knew , tryin g to catch so m eo n e’s eye, b u t everyo n e seem ed content w ith keeping to them selves. As he turned his head back to the bar, Hank noticed a w om an now standing beside him . She held a beer in each hand, and betw een those beers w ere a pair of supple breasts supported by a golden bra under a black tank-top. H er tits swelled ever so slightly from each cup, form ing a cleavage you could bury your face in . A cleavage you could lose your whole head down and die in. He was pretty sure her hair was brown. Hank was relatively attractive himself. It was how he got aw ay with being such a drunk asshole, eight-out- of-ten tim es, and still got laid on the regular. It didn’t hurt that he wasn’t bad in bed either. As a result, he was used to decently hot women buying him drinks now and then, but this bitch was easily a bangin’ ten. As she extended one of her beers in his direction, he watched the salacious smirk creep across her full, red lip s, fu ck m e b eam in g fro m h er eyes. N o m an w illin g and able could’ve possibly refused her o er, but shortly after he’d accepted it w as w hen things had gotten hazy. *** %e bitch had drugged him. 80 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Slow ly sitting up, Hank grimaced as his eyes adjusted to the blinding light, taking in his surroundings. H e wasn’t in a bathroom at all. Fluorescent lights overhead gleam ed like knives upon the chrom e bars of his cage. %e concrete w alls w ere window less and th e 81 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Before anything else could be said, H ank heard som ething else m ove through doorw ay behind her. He could see nothing distinct but a slight distortion in th e a ir. %e w ater on the 82 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE His captor’s stilettos clicked upon the *** Hank came to in mid-thrust. He was naked now and the woman was on top of him, corset gone and tits bouncing. %ey were on a platform surrounded by a silent audience, a m ix of men and women, their gilded accessories glittering like stars in the darkness beyond the stage lights. 83 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH All Hank could do was fuck. His wrists and ankles were open vermillion sores, and his wounded palm bled freely upon her hip. D espite his deepest urge to throw the bloodless w hore o o f h im rig h t th en an d there, he w as nothing but a rock-hard cock-puppet about to bust a nut. And when he did seconds later, the woman grinned with immense glee, and the crowd gave an amiable applause. She pulled back slow ly, letting his limp dick slide out of her and slap against his stom ach. A nd then, spraw ling out betw een his inert legs, she leaned on one elbow , closed her eyes, and slipped a hand dow n between her legs. As soon as she started playing with her clit, the crowd fell silen t o n ce ag ain . Lost in a druggy, postcoital haze, Hank could only watch as she brought herself to climax. Her back arched and her legs trem bled as the audience grew audible once again, seats squeaking as everyone leaned in fo r a b e tte r v ie w . %en, something began to emerge from her sex- slick ed vu lva. As the head of a large rattlesnake came forth, the woman released a guttural roar from between tightly clench ed teeth. S h e fell onto her back, still panting and pushing vigorously, until ⇡nally she lay still and seren e. What the fuck…what the fuck! Hank was still helpless atop the platform. Whatever was in that syringe kept him her inanimate captive, bound to her every wish. 84 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %e snake slid over her thigh and up her belly, leaving a slim y trail of cum across her skin. It slithered between her tits, still glistening w ith sweat, and eventually cam e to rest on her shoulder. Sm iling with maternal bliss, she placed a gentle hand upon it, stroking her new born lovingly. A nd then, just as quickly as th e reptile itself could’ve struck, sh e took it in her grip, grabbed its thrashing body w ith her other hand, and sank her teeth deep into its neck. Dark blood spurted out over her lips, down her chin, and pooled in a lake above her collarbone. W ith a savage tw ist, she tore the snake’s head clean o its body, spitting it o to one side. Hank could see the thing still snapping its fangs in a vain attem pt to take som ething– anything d o w n w ith it. Its body thrashed as w ell, but the w om an had both hands on it, literally squeezing out its guts all over her naked, writhing form . When a shiny, black sphere materialized where the sn ak e’s h ead u sed to b e, 85 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %rough all of this, his senses remained fully intact. His body lay still and silent, but inside the agony subsum ed all else, including his ⇡nal incoherent th o u g h ts. %e hellish thing consumed him entirely. %e crowd was already on their feet. %e sphere pulsed three tim es an d th en b eg an to sh ift its sh ap e. Elongating and concaving upon itself, it morphed in to th re e lo n g sp ire s w h ic h sp ira le d a ro u n d e a c h other but never touched. W aves rippled across its fresh ly w rough t surface as it solidi⇡ed into a crim son crystalline statue. %e audience roared with applause. %e woman retu rn ed to th e sid e o f th e p latfo rm an d to o k a b o w . *** An auction was held later in the evening over cocktails and m orsels. %e statue sold for 6.9 billion dollars. 86 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE No Contest Leo X. Robertson We meet in the treehouse every Sunday and upon our penises w e w rite w hat’s m ost troubling us. %e plightless or cockless have no business here. Brent, last week’s winner went ⇡rst. Another week without iguana meat, his shaft said. Next went my girlfriend Deirdre. Her pecker read, I ate m y ow n dad. She got a sm attering of applause from our eighteen other m em ber-w ielding m em bers. Our mate Barnaby tugged at his pants, though his ailm ent w as obvious to all of us. %e poor fucker’s legs got m ashed by T uesday’s torrent of squid beaks. H is battered lim bs slipped eerily out his trouser cu s. Bleached, mangled trees with bloody foliage. We read everyone, but Barnaby got the cup in the end. Its bronze eyeball looked at m e w ith rage as a rare p arasitic S T I d isso lved th e last in ch o f m y d ick . What could be a worse predicament? And yet I lacked the canvas upon w hich I w as to scroll the description of this m axim um m isery, as per the rules! Guess I missed my win this lifetime. 87 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Euphemistic Solipsistic Arthur Graham Moose Knuckle, Ninja Boot, and Camel Toe walk in to a b a r. %e bar is called Sam's and it’s located in one of the tougher neighborhoods of P hiladelphia, the so-called city of brotherly love. Seated at the rail, the trio has just been served their ⇡rst round of drinks when they notice another trio of euphem ism s at a nearby table. “W h at are th o se q u eers loo k in g at?” N in ja B o o t ask s his two com panions. “I dunno,” C am el T oe replies, nonchalantly sw irling his scotch, “but if they keep it up, they’re gonna get th eir asses b eat...” “H ey,” M o o se K n u ck le says, “h ere co m es on e of th em now .” “Y o fellas,” B earded C lam begins, sauntering up. “G u ess y’all just h ad n ’t heard, b u t th is h e re 's our b ar, so m e an d m y boys here are gonna have to ask you th ree to lea v e.” “O h yeah ?!” C am el T o e sh o o ts b ack , jum p in g o h is sto o l an d in to B eard ed C lam ’s face. “Y eah,” replies H am W allet, suddenly appearing beside Bearded C lam . “%ere just ain’t enough room for m ore than one trio of euphem ism s in this bar.” 88 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “Y eah , w ell fu ck yo u ,” N in ja B o o t says, tu rn in g aw ay from them and back to his drink. “Y ou dudes w anna start som ething?” asks B eef Curtains, storming over to join Bearded Clam and Ham Wallet. “N o w w ait a m in u te gu ys,” M o o se K n u ck le in terjects, com ing betw een C am el T oe and Bearded C lam . “%ere’s no need to ⇡gh t o ver th is. W e’re all reasonable adults here, so I’m betting w e can resolve th is issu e without re so rtin g to v io le n c e .” “O h yeah ?” B eard ed C lam says, starin g d o w n C am el Toe hard. “How’s that?” “I say w e start b y d iscu ssin g th e valid ity o f yo u r request and the m ethod by w hich w e’ll determ ine who gets to stay and who doesn’t,” Moose Knuckle su g g ests. “W ell, to start w ith ,” B eef C u rtain s says, “it m ak es more sense for euphemisms of our kind to focus on edible item s – dovetails m ore nicely w ith the w hole 'eating pussy' thing, ya know ?” “B u t th at’s fallaciou s reaso n in g,” N in ja B o o t rep lies, pausing to take a swig of beer. “M oose and cam els can be eaten, too. A nd, com e to think of it, so can ninja.” “Y o u m ay h ave a p o in t th ere,” H am W allet co n ced es, “b u t w h at yo u’r e talk in g ab o u t is th e litera l consum ption of things. L ike 'eating pussy', w e at least keep things on the ⇡gurative level.” “W ell,” says C am el T o e, “so w h at if yo u ’re ⇡gu rative in one sense? W e’re ⇡g u ra tiv e in a n o th e r.” “B u llsh it...” “B u t it’s tru e!” M o o se K n u ck le p ersists. “W h ereas yo u three are just unappetizing food m etaphors, w e three are pretty clever podiatric m etaphors.” “O k ay, bu t...” 89 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH It is th en th at yet an oth er trio w alks into th e bar. “A w w m an n n ...” B eef C u rtain s sigh s. “W h o th e h ell are you g u y s?” “H ey. P in k T aco .” “S u p . W h isk er B iscu it.” “V agin a. P leased to m ak e yo u r acq u ain tan ce.” 90 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Wasteland Motel Bud Smith Bo was unhappy. He should have been grateful to be a m em ber of one of the last few clusters of hum anity that’d survived the apocalypse, but w hoop-de-doo, he wasn’t. He decided one Wednesday morning that he wanted more from life. He didn’t like tending the goats: brushing them , feeding them slop, shovelling their sh it. 3 2 years o f th at w as en o u g h . H e p u t in h is tw o week notice with Todd, the goat boss, deciding to try his luck in the wasteland beyond the rusted steel walls of the cam p instead. Not surprisingly, when he said to Todd, “I’m putting in m y tw o w eeks notice,” T odd replied, baVe d , “Y o u ’re what?” “I read about it in an old book C razy C harlie gave me, when I was a kid...” Charlie had been a lunatic, a total drain on the camp, but som ehow he’d m anaged to teach Bo how to read before he died. So that was nice. Bo said it again, “Two weeks notice.” No one had ever quit a job post apocalyptically. %is troubled many of the people in the camp. Especially Mort and Linda, who talked rather harshly about B o to w hoever w ould listen. “H e better not think he can w altz over here and get a job w ith us and our chickens...” 91 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “If he can’t handle goats, he certainly can’t handle ch ickens.” “Or the eggs.” “Or the pecking...” %ey all agreed, no one was hiring Bo. But Bo didn’t com e around to ask anyone for a job. N o, for his last tw o w eeks in cam p, he just w ent about his business, conserving his w ater and rations, and sharpening a spoon into a sm all dagger as defense against the unknow n dangers beyond the cam p’s tow ering walls. After his last shift with the goats, he said goodbye to everyone. %ey’d all gathered around in a loose circle, regarding him nervously. D irectly behind B o w as the ram shackle gate m arking the forbidden perim eter. Nothing came in. Nothing went out. “Where you going?” Clara asked. “In to th e W astelan d ,” B o said o h an d ed ly. %e crowd gasped in unison. Clara opened her mouth to say something but her mother kicked her shin, prompting her to remain silen t. “D ave, open 'er up,” said the m ayor in resignation, motioning to the lone guard on duty. “Let the kid go...” As unfathomable as it now seemed, really they’d all seen this com ing. B o had alw ays been a strange dream er, and his dream s tended to prom pt two very distinct reactions from others in the cam p. M ost of them w ere afraid of people w ho dream t, inviting disaster as it often did. %e rest of them didn’t fear him at all; he just m ade them feel guilty about not follow ing their ow n dream s them selves. “%e Nukies are still out there. S’all I’ll say, boy,” a shrivelled-up old w om an said to him . She w as blind and could barely w alk. 92 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “Nukies, jeez,” the mayor remarked. “It’s been alo n g tim e sin ce an yo n e m en tio n ed th em ...” “Maybe there’s werewolves out there too,” Bo said, hoping to lighten the mood. Nobody said anything in response. It was awkward. But it’d been so many years, people didn’t know what to believe about the outside w orld anym ore. %e cam p o ered safety, but safety from w hat? N o one really knew , but Bo intended to ⇡nd out. Bo shook everyone’s hand as the door was pried open fo r th e ⇡rst tim e in a generation. B efore w alking out in to th e b lo w in g sa n d s, h e tu rn e d a n d sa id to h is cam pm ates, “I hope to see you all again soon.” “Don’t forget the secret knock,” the mayor reminded him. “Shave and a haircut, two bits,” Bo replied. And with that, he walked out into the wasteland. His destination was supposedly just a short walk across the dunes, m aybe half a m ile or so, just long enough for him to contem plate w hat C harlie had told him all those years ago along the way. “R eason you suck at shovelling goat shit’s cos your fam ily u sed to o w n a m o tel rig h t u p th e ro ad ...” “A what..?” “A m otel,” the old m an repeated, “fer vay-cay-shun- ing. Q uite the fam ous place, if I rem em ber correctly. Why, folks used to come from miles arou...” Charlie had abruptly stopped talking then. Before Bo could even ask him w h at either a m otel or a vay-cay- shun w as, the old m an freaking died, right there in fro n t o f h im . To make matters worse, it turned out no one else in the cam p w as any help explaining the term s to him either. “A ll G reek to m e,” M ort had joked. 93 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Bo decided to drop the subject after Charlie was buried in the ground, but for m any years after, his curiosity rem ained. Cresting the ⇡nal dune between him and his birthright, Bo gazed dow n upon the trail of crum bled asphalt lying just on its other side. F ollow ing the highw ay north, it wasn’t long before he caught sight of a severely dilapidated building in the distance. A large, faded sign rem ained standing out front, its bright red letters having long ago faded to the lightest of pinks. It read sim p ly, “M O T E L ”, just like C h arlie said it would. Bo crouched behind a rock and waited, staking out the hills for any sign of life. H e hadn’t seen m uch sin ce leavin g fo r th e m o tel, b u t h e w asn ’t ab o u t to g et am bushed in all his excitem ent to get there. Once he felt certain the coast was clear, Bo came out from his hiding place, took a deep breath, and bravely marched forward. He stayed there all alone that night, a little lonely and just a tad bit frightened. H e occupied him self by straightening up the place, w hich looked like it had su rvived a n u clear w ar. D igg in g aro u n d in o ld p iles o f papers, sorting thorough various debris, it wasn’t long before he discovered som e brochures that gave him a pretty good idea of what a motel was supposed to be. He was stunned, gazing at the old photos of a time before he w as born, w hen people actually traveled freely, occasionally com ing in from the road to rest, relax, put their feet up and enjoy a nice, ice-cold beverage. Wow, imagine that? An ice-cold beverage... 94 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE A week later, when Bo returned to the camp and announced his new m otel, they all just laughed at him. H e explained to them in detail what a vacation was. %ey all just laughed even harder. “A w astelan d vacation !” cried L in d a, M o rt’s w ife, clutching at her belly as she doubled over w ith la u g h te r. “No wonder you didn’t want to shovel my goat’s shit,” Todd the goat boss said, “you’re a comedian, not a goat tender!” Bo had been hoping for a warmer reception, but he resolved to w in his form er cam pm ates over eventually. He traded some goods discovered in the rubble for som e m uch-needed supplies, returning over the dunes to h is n ew h o m e th at n ig h t. Som etime the next m orning, his ⇡rst guest arrived. Turned out Clara didn’t like living in the camp anym ore either. She traded som e sex action to B o in exchange for room and board at his m otel. He set her up in a room around back. “Sorry about the giant concrete hole in the ground,” he said. “W h en m y fu n d s get 95 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH One day, Bo found a set of keys. He had no idea what they w ere m eant to unlock. H e show ed them to Clara. She had no idea, either. Bo regarded the keys curiously for a w hile before hanging them up on the wall behind the front desk. A few days later, the camp mayor paid a surprise visit to th e W astelan d M o tel. H e cam e o n h is an cien t, sp u tterin g d u n e b u g g y in a sw irlin g h aze o f san d an d noise. Bo took the mayor all around the grounds, showing o the m otel and all its am enities w ith pride. %e mayor just laughed at ⇡rst. “P lace is a du m p !” h e said . %at was before Clara invited him into a room. When he cam e out, he wasn’t laughing anym ore. “I’m still n o t su re of th is p lace,” h e said , bu tto n in g h is pants as he prepared to leave in his dune buggy. %e next day, he came back with Linda. He rented a room , fucked her in it. %en L inda cam e and sat around in B o’s oJce afterw ards. %ey shared a can of beef stew w hile the m ayor w ent into the room w ith Clara once again. %at day Bo ⇡nally discovered what the keys were for. %ere was a hatch around back, next to the big concrete hole in the ground. B o unlocked the h atch and w ent dow n into the darkness. H e w as scared for his life but just had to ⇡nd out what was dow n there. What he found was stacks and stacks of white plastic bags. Inside the bags were chlorine pellets. H e didn’t know what chlorine was or what it was used for, but he ⇡gured it out rather quickly from the writing on th e b ag s. %e concrete hole in the ground was supposed to be a sw im m in g p o o l. H o w n ice... 96 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %ere was something else down there, too. Som ething like 4,000 pounds of red string. In crates. %is too puzzled him, for some time afterwards, until the day he found the plaque beneath a large pile of ru b b le o u t fro n t. “TH E W ORLD’S BIGGEST BALL OF ST R IN G ”, it read. What a turn of events. No one was laughing at Bo anym ore. Eventually, the motel became a very popular place for all the people from the cam p. %ey cam e there to get aw ay as tim e and w ork allow ed, and they alw ays brought goods to trade in return for their stay. On the one-year anniversary of its reopening, Bo decided to throw a big party at the m otel and he invited the w hole entire cam p, free of charge. %e y a ll cam e over the dunes and celebrated together. It w as a very happy day indeed. How foolish they felt as they all milled about, joking, laughing, and drinking by the pool that night. It felt good to sw im in the cool, clear w ater, far aw ay from cam p. %ey spoke about the odd curiosity of “%e World’s Biggest Ball of String” and what it must have meant to travellers from tim es past, back w hen the road outside still went som ew here. But that was the other th in g . “%e ro ad cou ld go som ew here, couldn’t it?” M ort said . “I su p p o se...” %e m ayo r w as forced to ad m it, 97 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Bo looked up at the stars and lost himself in reverie. He felt great pride for having left the camp, re- staking their claim on the outside w orld, w hen everyone else had been so fearful and close m inded. For the ⇡rst time in his or anyone else’s recollection, th ey felt h o p efu l, u n w o rried as trib e. Certainly no one was worried about the silent, sh ad o w y fo rm s closin g in on th em . Deformed. Scab-faced. Hairless humanoid mutations. Armed with cinderblock clubs, repurposed car parts, and sharpened, ax-like stop signs, let’s just say they were far less concerned with “%e W orld’s Biggest Ball of String” than they were with the pool of 98 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Screw Job Jo sep h F arley Satan was seated cross-legged on the rug in his oJce. He had asked his secretary to hold all calls. %e walls of his oJce were made of ⇡re as was the door, but the rug was pleasantly cool, woven from the wool of his own legs. %e rug was specially designed to rem ain cool enough to keep m ost plastics from melting. Satan w as playing w ith a Barbie doll. H e loved playing w ith Barbie. H e felt the toy w as one of his greatest inspirations. H ow m any young girls had su ered body im age issues and low self esteem from having played with Barbie, the ideal girl? H ow m any boys had seen im ages of Barbie and grow n up w ith expectations of ⇡nding a w om an w ith such unrealistic proportions? What pleasure their misery had brought Satan over th e years. So m uch pleasure, Satan had developed his ow n infatuation w ith dolls, even curating his ow n collection. E very once in a w hile h e felt the urge to play with them . H e would tell his assistant to hold all calls and lock the 99 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH He had her stand outside her doll house waiting for Ken to pull up in her convertible. Barbie had loaned it to K en since he had a new job and needed a w ay to get there, but her boy toy did not seem in any hurry to return it to her or purchase h is ow n veh icle. Satan held Barbie in one hand and Ken in the other. Ken was dressed in a crisp white tennis out⇡t with shorts. Satan had B arbie and K en talk w ith each other. “Nice car,” Barbie said with a hand on her hip. “L o o k s fam iliar.” “Yo, babe,” Ken said. “I appreciate you lending me your car. I’ll get it back you to you as soon as I can, but m y job has m e on the go. I need w heels and I don’t have enough for a dow n paym ent for m y ow n. Plus, you know my credit is still shaky after the bank foreclosed on m y beach house. It’s hard squeezing the contents of a house into a studio apartm ent.” “I thought your house w as condem ned by the county because it was missing a wall.” “It w as, but they changed their m ind. A n architect concluded it w as part of the design.” “Well, that’s a relief,” Barbie sighed. “What do you mean?” Ken asked. “I still lost my house.” “But maybe I won’t lose mine. M y house is also missing a wall. Not all the time. It has a big set of hinges in the m iddle. %e whole thing opens up for th e w o rld to see at th e m o st u n exp ected tim es. L ik e when I’m walking around naked. %en everyone passing by can see what I am up to.” “Why don’t you move?” Ken shrugged. He was startin g at B arb ie’s breasts. “I’ll never get a hou se w ith a view like th is.” 100 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “What do you mean?” said Ken as he swivelled his head from left to right. “It looks like hell around here. You can do better than this.” “I’m not B rain Surgeon B arbie. I’m just V acation Barbie. %is is the best I can do.” “Why don’t we move in together,” Ken suggested. “T w o can live m o re ch eap ly th an on e.” “Is th at a prop o sal?” “Hell no. I like my freedom.” Barbie thought about it, and answered, “You can move in if you can get out of the lease for your apartm ent.” “Hot dog!” Barbie cautioned him, “But don’t expect any sex.” “What?” Ken said wide-eyed. “You know I’m squeaky clean. I don’t even have genitals.” “Neither do I.” Barbie answered. “I don’t even have nipples.” “Very frustrating, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Barbie nodded. “But I have a confession to make. Although I do not have nipples, a vagina or an anus, I do have a hole betw een m y legs.” “Wait, you have a hole down there?” Ken pointed to where the space between Barbie’s hip sockets. “Satan put a screw in the crotch of G.I. Joe.” “%at bastard!” Ken shouted. He turned his head towards Satan. Satan had a big grin on his face. “What did G.I. Joe ever do to you!” Ken turned away from the Prince of Darkness and lo o k e d b a c k a t B a rb ie . 101 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “%e poor fellow!” he said. “G.I. Joe is a good friend of m ine. It m ust have hurt when Satan gave him that screw . I w o n d ered h o w it g o t th ere. I alw ays th o u g h t it w a s a w a r w o u n d ...” “You knew about the screw?” Barbie asked. Ken nodded, blushing a little. “Yeah, but what’s it to you?” “%at bastard G.I. Joe used his screw on me. He rap ed m e.” “Shit! You’re kidding me...” Barbie shook her head. “I w o u ld no t kid ab ou t a th ing like th at.” “Tell me how it happened,” Ken asked quietly. He put his arm around Barbie’s shoulders. “G.I. Joe came over one night,” Barbie explained. “He was drunk. It was very late. He banged on the door until I let him in. W e had m et before, at a toy show and exchanged num bers. G one to lunch, shopping. I told him it w as just friends. I liked him , but not that much, and I had told him that you and I had been dating for a long time. I d o n ’t k n ow w h y I let h im in th at n igh t, b u t I d id. He kept raving about the horror. I thought he was having som e kind of 102 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE It h u rt like H ad es th e ⇡rst co u p le tim es. A fter th at I didn’t feel anything. I was just sort of num b inside. He screwed me over and over all night long. He left in the m orning. I w ould have cried if I had tear ducts. I h ave b een avo iding h im since th en , b u t n o w I go t a hole between my legs.” “Why didn’t you contact the police?’ “I co u ldn ’t. Y o u kn o w th ey are all G .I. Jo es o r action ⇡gures. %ose guys stick together.” Ken squeezed Barbie. “I feel fo r yo u ,” h e said so ftly. “I u n d erstan d . M ore than you w ould think. I have a confession to m ake.” He paused, turning his face away from her, gathering courage. He took a deep breath, and told her. “I have a hole in my butt. G.I. Joe screwed me, too.” Barbie pulled away from Ken and put her hand over her mouth, “H e screwed you? W h en ?” “About a month ago while we were out hiking. He was in camou 103 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “S o , w e w ere h ikin g n ak ed . %at’s w h en I saw h e h ad this screw sticking out from his groin area. I asked him what it was. H e said, ‘W hat do you think it is? It’s a screw .’ I asked h im w h at it w as th ere fo r? %at’s when it happened. W e were out there by ourselves, no one else around. H e just cam e at m e, threw m e dow n. H e’s a big guy.” “I kn o w ,” B arb ie no d d ed , “an d th en he screw ed you ?” “He screwed me all right. He screwed me good...” “Maybe we should go to the police anyway. %at’s tw o p eo p le G .I. Jo e h as d o n e th is to . W e h ave to sto p him before there are more victims.” Ken shook his head. “I d o n ’t k n o w ,” h e said. “%o se Jo es, I d on ’t th ink they’ll listen to us, not w hen w e are accusing one of th em .” “We have evidence. We have our holes.” “%ey’ll say we did it to each other with a hammer and nail.” Both of them grew silent for a moment. Barbie asked him, “Do you know where G.I. Joe has gotten to?” “Last time I saw him he was at my apartment,” Ken told her. “H e cam e over last night and screw ed m e. He was still in bed when I left for work.” “He screwed you again?” “He’s screwed me at least twice a week since we went hiking.” “I can’t believe it!” B arbie exclaim ed. She threw her hands in the air. N ot literally. She just raised her arm s. “Y ou and G .I. Joe? I thought w e w ere a couple?” 104 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “We are,” Ken said, putting his arm back around her. “Y o u k n o w w e w ere alw ays m ean t to b e a co u p le. It’s fate. I th in k it is w h at b o th o f u s w an t as w ell. It’s ju st that, I do not have a screw , but I do have a hole. It was simpler when it was just the two of us and neither of us had screw s or holes, but things have changed. It’s m u ch m o re co m p licated . I d idn ’t kn o w yo u h ad a hole. I only knew I had a hole and that G.I. Joe had a screw . M aybe w e can still be a couple, you and I without holes or screws, or maybe I can get a screw or we can both get screws. Anyway, things are di erent now . I’m still the sam e Ken I was in m ost respects, but in other ways I have evolved.” Barbie stared Ken in the eye. “If S atan gave yo u a screw , w ou ld yo u u se it just o n me or would you use it on G.I. Joe as well?” Ken shrugged. “I can ’t say. I d o n ’t k n o w . M y h eart says I w o u ld just screw you, but if I had a screw I m ight think di erently. %e screw would change m e. I would be part screw .” “I bet yo u w o u ld screw G .I. Joe,” B arb ie said co ldly. “B u t h e doesn’t have a hole.” Barbie snarled, “It didn’t stop him from screwing me, or you for that m atter!” “You’re right,” Ken said. “Maybe I would screw him. But as I said, I don’t have to get a screw. You could get a screw .” “Why would I get a screw? I’m a girl.” “Just think about it,” K en argued. “W hat if you did have a screw? W ould you use it just on m e since I have a hole, or would you use it on som eone else?” 105 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “Me?” Barbie replied. “If I had a screw I’d use it on G.I. Joe, for sure. I’d tie him down and screw him until I m ade a big hole in him , then I’d keep screw ing him until the plastic in his ass m elted and oozed out in d ro p s. %e n I’d sp it o n h im a n d a sk h im , ‘H o w d o you like it now that you know w hat it feels like?’ A nd th en I’d w alk aw ay an d leave h im to ro t.” “And then what would you do with your screw? Would you screw me?” Barbie thought about it. “Maybe. I guess so. If I couldn’t get it removed.” “So what should we do?” %ere was silence as they worked out the logic. “Maybe we both get screws?” Barbie suggested. “M ayb e I w o n ’t k eep m in e fo rever, just fo r a little while. Just until I pay back G.I. Joe.” Ken thought about this possible arrangement. “Can I screw G.I. Joe too, while he’s tied up?” “Sure,” Barbie sm iled, putting her arms around Ken’s neck. “W hy not. W e’ll make it a date!” %e dolls turned and gazed up at Satan. “So what do you think, Satan?” they shouted. “Can we get screws?” “D on’t w orry,” Satan chuckled, “I’ll m ake sure everyone gets screw ed.” 106 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Delivery Jo h n D . R o b in so n Malcolm Sedgw ick w as a thirty-eight-year-old, beastly, obese m arried m an of four young children with a mortgage and a strong commitment to his spiritual faith. H e w as a very w ell-respected and le a d in g ⇡gure in the local church com m unity; any spare tim e, M alcolm w ould use to organize fundraising events and social gatherings to help spread the good w ord. Malcolm worked as a courier for a small but busy inner city delivery service, ‘Speed G uaranteed.’ H e rode a H onda C B 125 and his hulking m ass dw arfed the sm all m achine and the other couriers w ould laugh as he left the depot w ith the bike coughing and sputtering beneath his w eight. M alcolm had been em ployed at the com pany for ⇡ve years; m ost of his fellow em ployees w ere younger and he felt them coarse and unread and he m ostly kept just him self to himself. He was loyal and punctual. As usual Malcolm was the ⇡rst to arrive at the depot at 08:15. H e parked the H onda and strode slow ly into th e o Jce to b e g iven h is ⇡rst d elivery o f th e d ay. Manager Bob Stone had the day’s deliveries sorted for each courier. H e sm iled and greeted M alcolm , w ho stood before him w ith tiny beads of sw eat gathering upon his forehead. 107 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “I’ll give you an hour to deliver this and get back here,” said Bob. M alcolm took the sm all package and nodded his head and made his way back outside. As he placed the package into the top-box he noted the nam e and address, a local adult sex shop. H e stared h ard at th e p ack ag e lik e it w as a b o m b ab o u t to explode. H e couldn’t help but ponder w hat m ight be in the package and he began to feel uncom fortable and unclean as he tried to shut those thoughts from out of his m ind. Malcolm made good time. He pulled over and killed th e en g in e. F o r a few m o m en ts h e sat feelin g an xio u s and confused, his m ind still racing w ith im ages of what the package possibly held, torn between light and darkness. He climbed o the bike, took the package out of the top box and w alked across the road to som e public toilets. H e locked him self in one of the cubicles and with shaking damp hands he opened up the package. His ⇡ngers were trembling as he looked down at the photographs and he felt disgusted and aroused sim ultaneously. H e began loudly cursing the photographs; “YO U FILTH Y W H O RES! G O D DAM N YOU! YOU HORNY SINFUL BITCHES! OH FUCK! OH FUCK!” He unbuckled and whipped out his throbbing member; feelings and sensations that had laid dorm ant for years w ere unleashed and w ere now scream ing through his body and m ind and he w as pow erless against it. “O H , O H YO U D IRTY LO USY BITCH ES, O H SH IT! O H YO U,YO U ARE FUCKING BEAUTIFUL! O H ! O H ! YO U D EM O N WHORES! 108 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE With an overwhelming urge he began masturbating and very quickly clim axed over the photographs. H e sat p an tin g an d p u Jn g an d th en in a su d d en rag e o f self loathing and guilt, he ripped up the sticky photographs and threw them onto the 109 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Malcolm had begun to apologise when he felt a ⇡st sm ash into the side of his face, and his legs w ere kicked from under him . H e had let go of the package and one of the youths snatched it up and opened it and dum ped its contents onto the pavem ent. “L o o k at th is sh it!” Malcolm curled into a ball to protect himself from the volley of kicks that cam e w ithout m ercy. Several hours later, he awoke in the hospital having sustained num erous injuries. H e saw his w ife and ch ildren standing beside the bed and beyond them in the corridor w aited tw o police oJcers. He lied to his wife and children and he lied to the police oJcers. H e related how he had been forced by a gang of young m en into som e alleyw ay, som ew here he didn’t know , and how they had attacked him, ro b b in g h im an d d estro yin g h is d elivery b efo re beating him unconscious. %e story was featured in their local newspaper. He received dozens of w ell-w ishing cards; particularly from the church com m unity, from fam ily and friends and from his em ployers and from total strangers. Each card that arrived was a reminding stab of guilt and sham e. Every day he lives this lie and everyday he lives with guilt and cannot ⇡nd it w ithin him self to forgive himself. H e thinks of this often, of what he did, and he feels asham ed and em pty of goodness and no longer feels w orthy into looking into the eyes of those who love and trust him most. And every time he thinks of those photographs, the primal urges surge, and he mutters a prayer to heaven. 110 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Fairytales for Hard Men Tom Leins Ordell knew he wanted to be a hooker the ⇡rst time he saw M am a zip up her thigh-high boots, lean against the sink and scrub her rancid fanny w ith a wet-wipe. In fairn ess to O rd ell, it w as a valid career op tion . E ver sin ce th e lip stick facto ry sh u t d o w n , th ere h ad n ’t b een to o m an y g o o d jo b s in T estam en t. Mama didn’t think so. When he told her, she whipped his arms with a wire coat-hanger until the backs of his w rists and hands w ere cracked and bloody. I d idn ’t m ind h aving a sissy fo r a b ro th er. It gave m e so m eth in g to ⇡g h t fo r... an d I fu ck in ’ loved ⇡g h tin g . When I was eleven, I ruptured the spleen of a boy nam ed C urtis C orliss for punching O rdell in the lunch line. I didn’t even know w hat a spleen w as, or where to ⇡nd one, but I beat that little fucker black and blue. Mama and Ordell never got on, and that made me sad . K in is kin , w ay I see it. We all end up buried under the same patch of dirt in th e en d . M ay as w ell b e p leasan t to o n e an o th er w h ile we’re still sucking down the same rotten air. *** 111 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Most of the boys from Shady Pines trailer-park headed dow n to the recruiting oJce on their 17th birthdays, shipping out as soon as the paperwork cleared. M e, I never did like the dam ned h eat. T w o years in a hell-shaped sand-box w ould have ruined me. I w as o n e o f th e lucky o n es, I gu ess. I go t to w restle instead. It w asn’t a scholarship as such – m ore of a favor. P eople told m e that Shriek W atson felt guilty tow ards m y M am a, but I w as never really sure w hat th ey m ean t. Shriek’s wrestling academ y was in the Old Testam ent badlands, in the basem ent of his spraw ling fam ily hom e. It was know n as the Ghoul School, on account of the hauntings, but the scariest thing I ever saw th ere w as h is sister’s w ebbed feet. On my ⇡rst day, it was sub-zero temperatures, or pretty fuckin’ close. W hen I arrived, there were seven other boys standing aw kw ardly in Shriek’s basem ent, wearing their gaudy, hand-me-down wrestling tru n k s. %e sm allest, a kid nam ed A lvin L upus, w as sh iverin g so h ard h is ro tten teeth w ere ch atterin g . “Say, M r. W atson, can you ⇡re up the boiler?” he asked. “It’s aw ful cold dow n here...” Shriek gazed at him playfully, through rheum y eyes. “Sure thing, young m an. If you can get out of this arm -lock I’ll let you help m e get that boiler going.” Shriek’s wheezy breath hung in the frozen air. Moments later, he’d snapped Alvin’s elbow joint like a dry tree branch. With Alvin out of commission, I had to practice with Shriek instead. %at ⇡rst day he clotheslined m e so hard I felt blood trickle dow n my throat. 112 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE He was a hard man, but a good man. His methods were a little unorthodox, but within six months I had sign ed m y ⇡rst contract w ith F ingerfuck F lanagan and the T estam ent W restling A lliance. M am a w as so dam n proud of m e that day she almost soiled her mesh panties. *** Ordell is sat in a ripped-out car seat outside the Testament Savings & Loan Association, wearing Mama’s old, scu ed boots and not much else. An older woman named Angel is painting his nails slau g h terh o u se red . P ain tin g righ t o ver th e sh it- 113 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH He rolls his thickly lashed eyes at me. “W hat do you need m e to do?” “I do n ’t n eed yo u to do n o th in ’. I just n eed yo u r car.” “H u h ?” “I’m go n n a steal h er bo d y h o m e.” “H u h ?” “B ury her in the yard – next to the septic tank. In between Uncle Am os and Little Julie.” *** In th e en d , O rd ell o ers to drive m e. I try to sq u eeze in, bu t th e steering w h eel presses into my gut, even with the seat reclined. %e damn horn shrieks like a handicapped child until I m anage to wriggle free. I glance across at O rdell on the w ay there. H is lipstick m atches his bloodshot eyes. H e keeps them train ed o n th e rag g ed asp h alt u p ah ead . %e county morgue is a squat, brown-brick building, adjacent to T estam ent F alls. %ere is a sluice that runs out of the back of the m orgue into the river. It stinks of entrails and bone-juice. I used to sw im in th e F alls as a ch ild . M an ... th e in n o cen ce o f yo u th . “W ait h ere, O rd ell.” He shrugs and starts to reapply his lipstick in the rearview m irro r. *** Mama sure is heavy for a dead gal. I waddle across the parking lot w ith her brittle body slung across m y shoulder. I’m sw eating like a hog in the slaughter- lin e . 114 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “H o race, loo k ou t!” I’m not sure w ho is shouting at ⇡rst. %en I realize that it is O rdell. H e hates his accent. T ries on new voices the w ay som e people try on unfam iliar item s of clothing. I turn and see a cop in a sw eat-stained uniform gaining on m e. H e is alm ost as fat as I am , but not quite. I dum p M am a’s body in the backseat and squeeze into the passenger door. “G o , O rd ell, go !” %e ⇡rst gunshot spiderwebs the windshield. %e cop smiles at me through the cracked glass as he raises h is gun again. I sm ile back , an d I realize th at th is is th e closest I am ever gonna get to a happy ending. 115 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Superman Karina Bush Friday night. It’s an animal market. Hordes of bodies. %ey all want to be part of it. It’s party time. Every weekend the Stag Parties. Packs of dribbling drunks. Eat. Shit. Drink. Dump cum. Drink. Puke. Repeat. Halloween costumes. Carrying a blow-up doll. Som eone dressed as a cock. Shouting and swagging and bullying each other. L ittle boy gang playing the la st g a m e fo r o n e . L a st n ig h t o f fre e d o m . A gang gathered at my window. All dressed as Superman. Fat Superman. Fat Superman II. Fat Superman III. H ippy Superman. A sian Superman. Superman’s Dad. Clark Kent. %ey put a cape on him. Pushed him at me. And 50 euro into m y hand. A stag in the headlights. Shaking. Like a newborn calf. Like someone’s retarded little brother. Like he needed his inhaler. Like his X-Box just green screened. I tried to take his han d . G en tly lead him to th e bed . Rigid. Couldn’t move. 116 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I do n ’t bite. I pro m ise. I’m n o rm al.” Nothing. A mute. It couldn’t be the stag. U nless he arranged his marriage over the internet. I tried to m ak e him lau gh . C o llap sed on th e bed . “S ave m e S u p erm an !” He was way too frightened. It happens. I was in my Dominatrix dress. I could have mashed him into a pulp. Scooped him into the condom bin. I to ld h im h e co u ld stay for th e 2 0 m inu tes. A n d h is friends w ill never know w hat happened here. W hat happens in A m sterdam stays in A m sterdam and all that crap. H e sat in the chair and played on his phone. Time to go. I ru Ved up his hair. T ook o his cape and w ore it. Took him by the hand back to his pack. 117 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Retreat Ben John Smith It w as m ean t to b e a retreat for w riters. W ell, n o t a retreat retreat. It w as a school, basically; “retreat” is too strong of a w ord. %ey had a room cornered o with a clothesline that housed a single bed. Another room , also bounded by clotheslines, h oused a special blend of quasi cat- arm adillo-type creature. A w om an w ith a clubfoot and a perfect sm ile fed it shiny yellow gold⇡sh. I guessed she was our teacher. %e ⇡rst lesson was a simple one. We were asked to record our feelings in front of a ⇡lm cam era. %ree men with extremely large heads were there to operate th e eq u ip m en t. %eir faces w ere norm al-sized, but their heads w ere three tim es as large. L ike tiny facial features on m assive islands of 118 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %e teacher stood up and slapped me hard across the face, th en calm ly ask ed m e to leave. S h e said I w o u ld never make a good writer. %e person next in line for the cam era stuck a ballpoint pen into the eye of his dick, and everyone applauded. As security dragged me out, I spat on every one I could along the w ay. %e “retreat” had failed to teach me anything. Outside in the car park, dusting myself o , I lit a sm oke and thought of all the cool things I should have said to m y teacher when she was being such a cunt. 119 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Got Me a Date With an Uptown Girl Douglas Hackle After owning a beeper for decades and not receiving a single page on the dam n thing, I concluded there must be something wrong with my beeper number. So I called my service provider to change it. As a consequence, I also had to order a new batch of social calling cards, ones that displayed m y new beeper num ber. I placed a bulk order online, got a pretty good deal for 5,000 cards. After the weighty box arrived in the mail a few days later, I got into m y car and spent the day driving around to place my cards all over town–to let people know I was out there in the world, that I existed, that I w as a perso n in need of so cial interaction . I left m y calling cards on tables and chairs in the waiting rooms of doctors’ oJces, dental practices, psychiatry practices, and law ⇡rm s. I left them on the sinks in public bathrooms–men’s and ladies’ rooms alike–in movie theatres, shopping malls, restaurants, and gas stations. On park benches, in bus stops, on the seats of subw ay cars. I tacked th em to u tility p o les u n d ern eath garage sale 120 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I left m y calling cards all over dow ntow n. A ll over midtown and uptown too. %ree days it took me to get rid of them all. Several months passed before my beeper ⇡nally went BEEP, BEEP, BEEP...I w as at hom e in m y trailer when it happened, relaxing in my recliner, playing Sega G enesis, and sm oking a fat clow n tear-laced primo. %at m y beeper had ⇡nally beeped w as exciting enough, but I also noticed the num ber 121 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “I su p p o se I co u ld’ve p u t m y cell n u m b er on th e card s in ste a d .” “A n d w h at’s w ith th is w h o le callin g card th in g to begin w ith? W ho even does that? It’s w eird. A nd creepy. I m ean, has anyone ever passed out social calling cards like this?” “U h, yeah. I m ean, I think so. I think people did it back in the olden days som etim es.” “Is it still th e olden days?” “A re yo u alw ays th is sarcastic?” “Y es.” “H ey, w o u ld yo u like to m ayb e... yo u k n o w ... go o u t on, like, a date with, uh, like, m e som etim e, m aybe?” “P ick m e up at seven ,” Ju liet said befo re sh e h u n g up . *** I u sed u p m o st o f m y life savings to ren t a stretch lim o for the date. U nfortunately, I w as only able to a ord the lim o and not a driver to drive it, so I w as obliged to be m y ow n chau eur. After I picked up the wheels, I purchased a James Bond costume from the bargain bin at a H allow een store. See, I w anted to im press Juliet by w earing a tuxedo, but I didn’t even ow n a cheap suit, let alone a tux. I sure as shit couldn’t a ord to rent one after sh elling out the dough for the limo. %e Jam es B ond H allow een costum e w as essentially a fake tuxedo. It w ould have to d o . Back at my trailer, I shat, showered, shaved, and doused myself in Axe body spray. On my way out the door, I grabbed a C D I’d created earlier in the day consisting solely of the song “U ptow n G irl” by B illy Joel played over and over again hundreds of tim es. 122 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Som ewhere along the highw ay during the ride from dow ntow n to uptow n, with “U ptow n G irl” playing at a low , com fortable volum e, I realized I didn’t know where the hell I was going. Juliet had never given me her address. So I called her on my cellie. “H ello, C h esterw in k le,” m y b eep er’s u n m istak ab le, tinny, babyish voice answ ered on the other end. What the fuck!I thought as m y right hand fell from the steering w heel to grapple at m y right hip, w here my beeper should have been clipped to the elastic waistband of my fake tuxedo pants. It w asn ’t. “W h ere th e h ell are yo u ?” I bark ed . “I’m at Ju liet’s m an sion . Y o u k n o w , u p to w n . I’m o n a date with her. A fuck-⇡rst-eat-later kind of date, if you know w hat I m ean. H eh-heh. Sorry, but I gotta go now .” “N o w just yo u h o ld on a m in u te, yo u little sh it. %at’s MY uptown girl you’re with! Tell me where you are. Gimme her goddamn address. RIGHT NOW , ASSHOLE!” “S o rry, b u t I’m afraid I can ’t d o th at, C h esterw in k le. And by the way, I quit. Go ⇡nd yourself a new beeper. Better yet, m aybe it’s tim e you catch up to the tw en ty-⇡rst century and stop using beepers and those rid icu lo u s callin g card s. Y o u m ig h t w an t to lay o th e terrib le A xe b o d y sp ray to o .” “Why you motherfuck–” “D o n ’t b e cro ss, b o ss. O r ex-b o ss, I sh o u ld say. H ey, I’m not such a bad beeper. In fact, I felt kinda bad about this w hole business, so after I slipped aw ay from you earlier today, I decided to hook you up, mofo! Press the button to lower the privacy partition in your lim o. T ake a look in the back, and you’ll see ju st w h a t I m e a n .” 123 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %ough I was bristling with rage, I pressed the button to low er the tinted sheet of glass that separated m e from the passenger area. I glanced up at the rearview mirror to see a ripe corpse propped up all the way in th e b ack . Despite the bloating and the liquefying stage of putrefaction, I recognized the body as belonging to a form er neighbor of m ine from the trailer park: Ol’ Man Jenkins, an elderly, morbidly obese man who had som ehow m anaged to hang himself in his trailer not two weeks prior. Now this colossal sti was in my lim o, still w rapped up in his plus-size death-suit, only now he sported a wig of long, straight, shiny platinum hair, and his thin, receding lips were all gooped up with garish, blood-red lipstick, producing a grotesque clow nish e ect. %at enorm ous belly of his looked like it m ight burst at any second under the m ounting internal pressure of the corpse gases brew ing w ithin. “T a-d a!” m y b eep er said . “I m ad e yo u yo u r very o w n uptow n girl!” “I’m gonna ⇡n d yo u , yo u o b so lete little sh it,” I said through clenched teeth. “Y ou hear m e, you sonofabitch? A nd w hen I do, I’m gonna spike you dow n on the ground and stom p you into thousand bits and pieces!” “H ey, good talk, bro, good talk. B ut I gotta go, yo. Ju liet’s ab o u t to g ive m e an A + u p to w n b lo w jo b !” T o my chagrin, I heard Juliet giggling in the background. “S o rry yo u d o n ’t ap p reciate th e p artin g gift th at to o k me so much trouble to prepare for you. So I guess this is see ya never again, dickface. A h-hahahaha...” My former beeper hung up on me. 124 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I glanced back at the grisly thing in the backseat. Shuddering, I slapped the button to raise the tinted glass so I w ouldn’t have to look at it anym ore. N ot sure w hat to do next, I turned up the volum e of “U ptow n G irl” a few notches and just kept driving, eventually getting o the exit ram p to uptow n. As I navigated the mansion-lined avenues of the uptow n hills, I couldn’t help but glance in the rearview m irror at that tinted glass barrier, a pit of dread ballooning in m y guts. A t som e point the in te rc o m b e e p e d , sta rtlin g m e . “T aaaake m eeee back to the cem eteeery,” O l’ M an Jenkins’ croaked through the speaker. “L ow er m e back into m y graaaaave. %en stay dow n there w ith meeeeeee. W e can playEmpire Strikes Backdow n there. Y ou can be L uke Skyw alker, and I’ll be that tau n tau n th at fro ze to d eath o n H o th . Y o u can cu t open m y gas-⇡lled belly and clim b inside. It will sm ell bad, but it’ll keep you warm and protect you from the frig id H o th n iiiiiiiiiiiiig h t!” Fuck. Shit. But sadly enough, it appeared I didn’t have anything better to do. “O k ay, O l’ M an Jen k in s,” I said , d efeated . “I gu ess w e can go play Empire Strikes Back in y o u r fu c k in g g ra v e .” I pau sed , sigh ed heavily. “H ey, you kn o w w h at?” “W haaaaaat?” the horrifying, undead voice rasped th ro u g h th e in terco m . “Y o u ’re m y up to w n girl.” “A nd youuuu, you are m y dow ntow n m aaaaaaan.” I sm iled an d fro w n ed at th e exact sam e tim e, b lin k ed aw ay boiling hot, chim panzee-sem en tears from m y crispy tater tot eyes, and took a big bite out of a Rubik’s cube that I’d brought along for a snack. 125 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “%at’s w h at I am ,” I said , grin d in g co lorfu l p lastic between my molars. 126 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE My Kind Of Justice Cal Marcius We’re sitting in a bar, well through our sixth beer, but that’s okay w ith m e. It’s good just sitting here and talk in g . “N obody should com e betw een a m an and his dog,” says M ikey. “N obody. N ot an ex-w ife and especially not a brother.” Mikey is small time. Been in and out of jail. Never learns. B ut he’s m y best friend. I stuck by him w hen others didn’t, and he stuck by m e. H e w as the only one who’d ever com e and visit. I got ou t a w eek ago . F ive years inside fo r a crim e m y brother set up. %at’s w hat you get w hen you w ork with family. %e only consolation was our parents weren’t alive to see it. “Should’ve kicked that asshole out w hen the ⇡rst money went missin’,” Mikey says, sipping his seventh. “C o u ld’ve saved yo u rself a w h o le lotta tro u b le.” “D id n ’t kn o w w as h im .” “D id n ’t w an n a kn o w . %ere’s a di eren ce.” Mikey’s right. Of course I knew my brother was siphoning m oney o th e co m p an y. H o w else co u ld h e have a orded the BM W , the D & G watch. A ll the expensive restaurants he took his dates to. F irst he took the m oney, then m y w ife, and then he set m e up. Made it look like I stole the money from our own com pany. A lm ost tw o m illion. 127 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Now, he didn’t want to give me back my dog. %e one I rescued from som e dum pster when he was still ju st a p u p . “W e gonna go get him ,” M ikey says. “R ight now . He’s your dog.” It’s th e d rink talking, b u t I like th e idea. H arry’s my dog. I’ve got a right to get him back. W e pay the bartender. Leave a good tip. %e guy’s working his ass o just trying to m ake a living. %e clientele doesn’t help. Losers and whores, all drow ning their sorrow s. We walk. Mikey’s car is broken and mine had been repossessed. W e’re too drunk to drive anyw ay. It takes us forty m inutes. %e cold air sobers us up a little, but it’s too late to turn back now . W e’ve been talking all th e w ay h o w w e’re g o in g to d o it. When we get to my house, the house I’m not allowed to set foot in anym ore because m y brother now lives there w ith m y ex-w ife, I alm ost turn back. “D o n ’t be stu p id ,” M ikey says. “W e do it as w e said .” %ere’s a ladder in the shed out back. Big, expensive th in g . H eavy as h ell to o . W e try to b e q u iet b u t it’s not easy, the thing being m etal and all. I lean it against the w all of the house and clim b up to the oJce window . I hesitate. “G o on,” M ikey says, sniggering. “B efore som eone sees us.” I heave the w indow up and clim b on through, tripping over a stack of papers on the 128 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE She’s m oaning, talking in a way she never talked to me. I tiptoe over and look through the gap in the door. And there she is. My ex-wife. Naked, legs wide open, with Harry in between. I turn and 129 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Charlie’s Chunky Munching Meat Stephen McQ uiggan Murder... Charlie rolled the word around his mouth like a hot ch ip but could not bring h im self to utter it. H e looked around the drab con⇡nes of h is cell and tried to take it all in, but he w ould have a lifetim e to do th at an d th ere really w asn ’t th at m u ch to see. H e prayed for his sister’s visit, checking his w atch constantly, but tim e craw led by m ore slow ly now he was aware of it. Charlie had lots of time; he had been sentenced to life im prisonm ent for m urder and all because of a Spam sandw ich. When some men take alcohol they turn into wife- beaters. W hen som e m en take drugs they turn into thieves. W hen C harlie W alls took a Spam sandw ich he turned into a pair of panties; one slice of the sickly pink m eat w as suJcient to transform him into the nearest fem ale’s undergarm ents, and in that form he would stay until she deigned to remove them. It had n ’t alw ays been th is w ay. He could remember childhood picnics, ⇡ghting o ants and aunts from the sandw iches, w ol⇡ng dow n Spam w ith youthful gluttonous abandon and rem aining the fat little boy he aw oke as. C ountless weddings of poor relations where Spam was com pulsory fare and he had sco ed it all through the reception betw een rivers of cheap G erm an beer, and nothing untow ard had happened to m ake the bride blush further. 130 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE But one day as he sat working late in the oJce, sw am ped by the accounts of w ealthier and happier men, he nibbled errantly at a Spam and lettuce on rye and found him self w rapped inexplicably around the hips of big Donna, the oJce slut. Donna, like most fat people, was a stranger to the concept of personal hygiene, and it w as over a w eek later before C harlie found him self stu ed inside her laundry basket. H e clim bed unseen from her bathroom w indow that night, putting his misadventure down to sleepwalking. For the next few days he su ered from vivid uncanny nightm ares where he tottered perilously on the edge of a vast and hair-strewn canyon. He explained away his absence from work by feigning illness, and his colleagues w ere quick to com m ent on how pale and drawn he still looked. By the time Donna arrived in late, hitching at her skirt and announcing that her panties w ere sim ply eating her, they w ondered if perhaps they should call a doctor for him. He took some time o instead, visiting his mother to placate her habitual animosity tow ard his bachelor statu s an d to save h is p h o n e fro m m eltin g fro m all th e visceral pleas she poured upon it like boiling oil every other night. She asked politely, as is a m other’s way, of his job (are) an d h is 131 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Charlie didn’t mind the head games. All in all he was genuinely pleased to see the old girl; it was nice to be made a fuss of, and she was still the best damn cook a man could wish for. A few years away from home, living on a steady diet of m icrow ave noodles and boil in th e b a g c u rrie s h a d le ft h im w ith th e p h y sic a l attributes usually reserved for people on O xfam posters. A dream of roast potatoes had lured him here, of ch icken and sprouts and m um ’s hom em ade gravy, and perhaps a sherry tri 132 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Charlie wasn’t sure where Biafra was, or if it even still existed, but to his m other it w as synonym ous w ith hunger; if a child from Calais appeared on the news looking a little on the thin side, then B iafra w ould be a stone’s throw from D over. But before he had time to chew his crusts he found himself wrapped around the loins of his origin. H e felt his m other pluck him hastily from betw een her butt cheeks (smutty place!) an d issu e a little sig h . It w as a d read fu l exp erien ce an d on e th at left C h arlie fran tically tryin g to recall if h is m oth er ever did h ave that bow el operation, the one she said w ould tighten her stool. Even if the sm ell was fam iliar and strangely com forting, h e could not w ait to be free; it w as one th in g to b e clo se to yo u r m o th er, b u t... He ⇡nally came to in her muddy back garden, clothes pegs still attached to his shoulders. Finding him in su ch a state, n u d e in a m ess o f h er w ash in g , sh e co u ld only assum e he’d m ade good on his threat of getting pissed the night before. W ith how suddenly he’d vanished from her parlour, just like his no good drunk of a father, she hadn’t even had tim e to tell him about the lovely clean girl w ho’d just m oved in next door, and how single she appeared to be. He 133 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Over the next few days he began experimenting with a feverish intensity he had never felt before. A s w ith all great endeavours though, his ⇡rst e orts at reproducing the K afkaesque transform ation proved utter, abject failures. First there was Tracey from the upstairs 134 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE He spent the rest of the morning being slowly su ocated by lycra as Sara indulged her passion for exercise bikes, row ing m achines, and countless other form s of unnatural m adness dow n at the local gym . Later, back at her 135 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH It w ould be nice to think he got his w ish, that he sp en t th e rem ain d er o f h is d ays ad o rn in g M alan d ra’s cream y hips, caressing her peachy buttocks, and grazing her holiest of holies w hilst w ol⇡ng dow n untold tins of Spam between changings. Yes, it would be nice to think he ⇡nally m ade it, living happily ever after in the golden-snatched cottage of his m aking. But, let’s just say that’s not exactly what happened. Life’s kinda like that; deal with it. Not two blissful days into his vulvar vacation, Charlie’s idyllic little world all came crashing down. As it turned out, Malandra’s Greek boyfriend had just returned from visiting relatives at a S oho strip joint, and he spent his entire ⇡rst day back attem pting to rew rite th e K am a S u tra. At ⇡rst this didn’t overly bother Charlie; it was obvious that a girl like M alandra would have a plague of m ale adm irers. In fact, during his surveillance, he had seen a long procession of verm in accom pany her hom e, rattling her headboard long into the night. H e really didn’t m ind she w as such a pied piper, and if tru th b e to ld it q u ite excited h im ; th ere w as su re to b e a surplus of bodily 136 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ‘O h M alandra!’ m oaned M anos. ‘Y ou so sexy, I’m gonna eat those panties right o a you!’ %e last thing Charlie remembered, before his rebirth in the stom ach of the doom ed, hungry horn-dog, w as a scream , an explosion, and a m uVed ‘O h h SH E E E E T !!!’ Later, the police found him curled on the *** Murder... He still couldn’t bear to think about the word, but he’d have a nice, long time to practice. A lifetime, in fact. Where the hell was his sister? She was late, and the guards were strict about visiting tim es. H e needed to see her, needed som eone to say they understood and lo v e d h im n o m a tte r w h a t. And then there she was, Eileen, sweet Eileen. %ere she sat before him, her lips all aquiver; her glistening B am bi eyes... R aising her hand to the sh atterp ro o f g lass (th e w ay sh e’d seen th em d o in all the prison m ovies), she w as just able to w him per, ‘O h , C h a r le s ...’ ‘O h E iuurrruurrhhg,’ C harlie gurgled in response, his mouth full of Spam he’d smuggled from the com m issary. What the hell, h e th o u g h t; Eileen always had a cute ass. 137 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Tits, Cheapskates & Some Very Bad Poems Brenton Booth I 138 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %ough the rest of the time it’s pretty good. It is Sydney’s red light district and the last place left in Sydney where you can just be yourself. And the more screw ed -u p yo u are, th e better yo u ⇡t in . I am headed for m y favourite strip club. I notice a thin blonde hooker in a corset w ho is really too old trying her best to convince a young E nglish tourist to go upstairs with her. She m ust be new to this; I have never seen her before. I decide to have so m e fu n . I sto p an d tap th e to u rist o n th e sh ou lder to get h is attention. “It’s a great deal, m an,” I say. “Just last week I went with her and got something extra for free.” “Y ea, w h at did sh e give yo u ?” “A n in fection ,” I said w ith th e straigh test face I co u ld. He walked away quickly and I continued on to the strip club. I could hear the hooker telling her pim p what had happened behind me in a voice that could ⇡ll an ancient Greek am phitheatre. %ey soon caught up with me. She was obviously out for blood, though he seem ed unsure of w hat he wanted to do. %e thing is I am 5’11” and weigh over 200 with a 139 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I got to th e strip club a few m inu tes later. %e fat Lebanese doorman with the terrible Japanese dragon sleeve w as on . I alw ays go t a go o d p rice w ith h im . “5 do llars,” I said . “C ’m o n m an , it’s S atu rd ay n igh t, I can ’t let yo u in fo r th at.” “I w ill go acro ss th e street th en . %ey’ll let m e in th ere.” “A lrigh t, 10 do llars.” “S even .” “E igh t.” “O K .” I got a h an d stam p from th e d ead -loo k ing cash ier in th e lo b b y, th en left th e clu b fo r th e liq u o r sto re d o w n the block. I bought a 6 pack of bourbon and coke and to o k th em b ack w ith m e. “%is O K ,” I said to th e do o rm an w ith a ch eek y grin . “Y ea,” h e said in a fru strated to n e. %ose fuckers wouldn’t be ripping me o with their overpriced, watered-down drinks tonight. It w as p retty b u sy inside. %ere w ere lots o f m idd le- aged C hinese tourists ⇡lling m ost of the seats. Y ou quite often saw them here, m en and w om en. %ey would arrive on tours in little buses on the main strip. %e doormen would always swarm on them before they thought of a reason to say no, charging them all rid icu lo u s en try fees. I noticed an em pty row of seats and sat. %e seats rem inded m e of the ones I used to occupy back in school, and w ere probably just as useful. I cracked a can and w aited for the show to start, w atching a cheap-looking porno on a T V m ounted to the w all beside the stage. 140 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE A few minutes later, the music began and a girl came out. She had a face like a horse but her body knew no fault. She m ust have been around 20. She w as so high she w as struggling to stand, let alone dance in her heels, though she did her best up there and I couldn’t knock her for that. All the girls that danced here were junkies, anyway, strip p in g an d d o in g d ild o sh o w s fo r virtu ally n o th in g . I h eard so m e lau gh ing, tu rn ed an d n o ticed tw o go od - looking girls w alking in. O ne of the girls asked if they could sit in the seats next to m e. I said it w as O K . %ey were really excited, cheering the junkie stripper on. %ey’d obviously never been to a strip club before, probably just turned 18. “D o you think she’s sexy,” I leaned over and said to th e b ru n ette. “N o . H o w m u ch did yo u pay to get in ?” “8 do llars.” “W e p aid n o th in g. I just sh o w ed th e d o o rm an m y tits and he let us in for free.” “Y ea, w h y do n ’t yo u sh o w m e yo u r tits.” “Y o u are so ru d e! I sh o u ld– ” “– C ’m o n fo r fu ck s sak e! W e’re in a go d d am n ed strip club...” She sm iled and glanced over at her blonde friend, pulling dow n her bra to just above her nipple. “Is th at it?” She giggled and started whispering with her friend. %e blonde then looked at me and said, “You wanna see m in e?” “S u re.” Without missing a beat, she just pulled up her top and w hipped ‘em right out. 141 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %ose pert young tits were like diamonds in a huge ⇡eld of shit; they were de⇡nitely the best I’d seen in a long tim e. Sadly, it w as only seconds later w hen she put them back aw ay. %e two of them laughed hysterically together, getting up and leaving without so m uch as a goodbye. Ju st m y lu ck , I th o u g h t. It could have de⇡nitely gone better for a Saturday night, but this sure beat the listening to my neighbour practicing scales on his saxophone. I’d take m y time ⇡nishing the cans and then I’d hit the 24-hour new sagent to read the latest poem s in the A tlantic and N ew Y orker; they w ere alw ays good for a laugh. %en I’d head back to my apartment and try to write so m eth in g w o rth w h ile, an yth in g to beat th e n igh t. 142 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Casual Sex At Narcotics Anonymous Michael Marrotti My only friend Tony has turned his back on me for som e slut in D orm ont nam ed T rish. Y ou know the world’s spinning out of control when someone as hideous as Tony has found a girl to fuck him. She’s cute too. U nbelievable. A nd h ere I am jerking o to free online porn instead of m aking an e o rt to cu m the good old-fashioned w ay. I’m not a bad-looking guy; there’s a slut out there w aiting for m e to slip it in. I just gotta ⇡nish these pizza rolls, grab som e drugs and ⇡nd her. If not I’m doom ed to a solitary existence. It’s tim e to get rid of this hand lotion and get on out there. I’m all d ressed u p o n th is %ursday night, now all I gotta do is snort these drugs. I’m running on em pty over here, dow n to m y last two pills. %is is no good. If I don’t score som e m ore shit soon I’ll be the manifestation of a good thing gone bad. Anyways I crush m y last tw o pills on the dresser, grab m y favorite straw and em brace the light. It’s instant grati⇡cation to the point that I run to the bathroom fo r m y ⇡rst narcotic shit of the day. M y system s are 143 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I h ave th is ingen iou s p lan . It en tails going d irectly to th e N arco tics A n o n ym o u s m eetin g u p th e street fro m my apartment to handle both my needs. All I gotta do is a little play acting. After all, I’m a fan of drugs, they purify m y life. %e only drugs w orth doing are th e o n es th at g ive, an d th ese tin y little p ills I b lo w u p my nose have made me a better person. I’m the me I alw ays w anted to be. A nd the fem ales at these su p p o rt gro u p s are alw ays so vu ln erab le. %ey sit th ere and obsess over num bers. W ell congratulations, bitch. I’m th e th irteen th step go ing d irectly into yo u r vagina. As I walk through the doors of the Methodist church it b e c o m e s a b u n d a n tly c le a r th a t C h ristia n ity is a religion of decadence. %is place of w orship and recovery is craw ling w ith scum bags from all w alks of life. R eform ation in the m aking, if they can just resist the pleasures of ch em ically induced bliss. It sm ells like relap se an d b u rn t co ee. I tak e a co o kie and have a seat next to a recovering addict. She looks like som ething straight out of a N azi propaganda poster. M inus the track marks. I’m on e b ite into th is stale-ass co o kie b y th e tim e sh e tu rn s h er tro u b led little h ead in to m y d irectio n . “H i, I’m G in a,” sh e said . “M y assh o le b o yfrien d usually com es to these things with m e, but today he decided to go get a bundle of dope and shoot up som e sh it in stead . %at bastard! H e doesn’t care about m y recovery. A ll he cares about is getting high. W e’re th ro u g h . I can ’t tak e it an ym o re. It’s all ab o u t h is needs, his w ants, his spoon. %at stupid fucking spoon! H ow about this shit; he still has the original spoon he used to shoot up w ith for the ⇡rst tim e. Unbelievable, right? He says it’s his good-luck spoon, th at’s w h y h e’s n ever o verd o sed , o r at least th at’s w h at he claims. Anyways, fuck him! It’s over...” 144 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Wow. %at was intense. %ese people are brutally honest. I like it. %is is way better than a sitcom . %is woman may be strung out, crazy and/or depressed, but she has one hell of a sexy ⇡gure. Entering her love tunnel w ould be a pleasure. M y pleasure. I loo k into h er p retty b lue eyes an d say, “H e so u n d s like a real asshole. W hat’s a sexy w om an like yourself doing wasting time with som eone like that? T ake a look around, honey. W e all know you could do better.” “O h , th at’s sw eet. Y o u ’re on e of th o se n ice gu ys, I can see it from here. A w om an deserves a nice guy after years of dealing w ith sel⇡sh assholes. W hat’s your nam e?” I tell her m y nam e’s M ario as I co n sider ho w tigh t her pussy m ight be. I’m dubious of this, but the wom an does have a sm oking hot bod, plus she’s blonde. %ose aren’t easy to come by in Pittsburgh. I’ll just h ave to w rap it u p , th at’s all. I k n ow it su cks, but it’s better than jerking o again or contracting hepatitis. But before I can seal the deal, I’m rudely interrupted by the ex-junkie speaker standing up there at front. “H i, I’m M ark and I’m an addict. It’s been several months of a living hell, but I feel as though the worst is b e h in d m e . %e re o c c u rrin g d re a m s o f p in p ric k s and prostitution are a thing of the past. H ave faith in God, people. With the almighty Lord anything is possible. If there’s hope for m e, you better believe th ere’s h o p e fo r yo u . A s I lo o k in to th e cro w d I see a new face. Let’s all give him a warm welcom e as he tells u s ab o u t h is stru g g le.” For the love of G od, I wasn’t expecting this! %is junkie fuck just put m e on the stand, m an. I don’t wanna face all these scumbags, I just wanna get high and ⇡nd m e som e pussy to fuck. 145 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Maybe this wasn’t the most thought-out idea after all... “G o ah ead , M ario,” says G in a. “W e’re all w aitin g fo r you.” I reluctan tly go u p fro n t for all th e b loo d sh o t eyes to see. I’m so fu ck in g n ervo u s th at I’m w alkin g fu n n y. Man, fuck! If they catch onto my act I’m doomed. I might even catch an ass beating by the bottom barrel of society. Fucking losers. W hat’s so hard about using in moderation? “H i, I’m M ario an d I’m an ad d ict. I’ve b een a slave to narcotics for ⇡ve years too many. I’d work sixty hours a w eek to support m y habit. %ings w ere ⇡ne until I couldn’t score. I brutally beat m y boss one day after I show ed up dopesick w ith a bad attitude. H e questioned m y appearance and w ork ethic; I questioned the integrity of his chin. %at cocksucker collapsed after just tw o punch es. N ext thing I know I’m w ith o u t a job an d m y freed o m . P raise sw eet b ab y Jesu s! G ran t m e th e stren g th to m ak e it th ro u g h !” All the stupid fuckers began to clap their shaky hands. B e careful, you brittle bastards. I w ouldn’t want you to break any bones over it. A couple even said am en . %ey all fell for it, and now Gina is giving me the eye. Everything is going according to plan. “M ario, th at w as great. It’s so n ice to h ear d i eren t sto ries. A fter a few years h ere, it all b eco m es monotonous. It’s one of the reasons why I started looking for new places on m y body to shoot up on. We all need a little change now and then, you know?” 146 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I ask G ina how m uch longer the m eeting is as I second guess th e conquest of th is vagina th at’s likely been around the block one too m any tim es for m y liking. Junkies aren’t the m ost virtuous people in Pittsburgh, after all. I’m w illing to b et G ina slep t aro u n d A L O T to feed her addiction. Is that too far-fetched to believe? She tells me no more than an hour. In the meantime, I co m e close to sh attering m y teeth on th is G o d d am n rock of a cookie. M aybe I should go get a styrofoam cup of ch eap-ass co ee to go w ith it as w ell. %at would kill a few minutes. Meanwhile, addicts keep getting up to explain their deplorable stories for an audience that just can’t get enough. %ese people are delusional. %ey put all their faith in G od w hen they never even personally met the woman. What do atheists do? Just believe in them selves like rational people and kick the m onkey o their back. %at’s what they do. I loo k aro u n d an d n o tice a cliqu e m en tality h ere. It’s startin g to feel lik e h igh sch o o l all o ver ag ain . %is is doing nothing m ore than m aking m e w anna use a little extra next tim e around. %ese ex-junkies are pretentious, too. It’s all about them . I guess the problem s of the outside w orld don’t m atter w hen you’re trying to stay clean. Maybe they all took a page out of my father’s shallow book: “Just w orry about yourself, son.” W ords of wisdom by my narcissistic father. If we all followed his callous exam ple, the world would go back into the dark ages. H e wouldn’t care though, unless it a ected him personally. W hat a fucking dick... Finally, this boring spectacle has reached its climax. 147 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %e serenity prayer is the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in m y life. I’m aw arded a one day sober coin for m y e orts, along w ith a bunch of super⇡cial su p p o rt fro m p eo p le I’ve n ever m et. %anks, but no thanks. I w ant G ina as m y sponsor. %is feels aw kw ard and peculiar. %at’s ok, though. It’s just for today. O ne day at a time. W hat m ore can I ask for? H ow about so m e clean p u ssy an d p rim o d ru g s, bitch ? “G ina, let’s go get som e co ee or som ething. I’m buying.” “O k ay,” sh e agrees w ith a sm ile. We’re walking out through the doors of deception when she pulls out her phone and says, “Oh my fucking G od! I just got a text... L em m y has passed on to th e afterlife!” “W h at th e fu ck ? %at’s terrible! I w as su p p o sed to see them this sum m er at the P E P avilion! L em m y doesn’t know how to die...” I give her a big w arm hug for com fort. L em m y w as th e m an , b u t I d o n ’t w an t h im sp o ilin g th e m o o d . “I’m so fucking depressed now . F irst m y asshole ex- boyfriend, and now the dem ise ofMotörh ead ... I can’t take any m ore. T oday’s a ⇡ne day to relapse...” “I co m p letely agree, h o n ey. L et’s go sco re so m e sh it.” “N o need; I’ve got a Suboxone in m y car. I’ve been savin g it fo r a rain y d ay.” Rain magically begins to fall from the gray, depressing skies of Pittsburgh as we m ake a run for her old, beat-up T oyota C am ry in the parking lot. Whatever pessimism was left inside me has now com pletely depleted. %is plan so far is perfect! 148 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Gina cuts the Suboxone strip into four pieces and hands one to m e. I never took this shit before, so I ask her w hat to do w ith it. She tells m e to put it under m y tongue, but w arns m e of the aw ful fruity taste th at lin g ers afterw ard s b efo re lu n g in g at m e an d jam m ing her tongue dow n m y throat. We make out for a minute; she’s a good kisser. I manage to slip my hands up under her tank top and cop a good feel during this transition. W ow . %ese are som e ⇡rm titties. I can’t help but feel the death of Lemm y has helped me in my conquest. I know in a way it’s kinda fucked up, but I’m sure Lemmy wouldn’t mind. %e man was all about pussy. Now we’re driving to the store for some beer, liste n in g to M o törh ead ’s Iron F ist a lb u m , m y p e rso n a l favo rite. %e album itself is perfect. N ot a single th ro w aw ay track o n it, p lu s it’s th e last alb u m w ith Fast Eddie on guitar. It was all downhill for the band after this one. G ina happens to agree w ith m y every word. She has good taste in drugs and music. I’m feeling the e ects of this Suboxone already. I haven’t been this fucked since yesterday. %ose fools at the NA meeting are missing out, big time. Just for today, huh? Yeah, there’s always tom orrow . By the time I run into the store for a cheap six pack, I’m beyo n d fu cked up . I m u st loo k like a real p iece of sh it in h ere, ru b b in g m y face an d scratch in g all over. I quickly m ake m y purchase, running back to her car with lightning speed. I’m eager to smell her vagina. Nothing’s more exciting than fresh snatch. Back at my place, Gina has me straddled with her to n g u e d o w n m y th ro at o n ce ag ain . I m an ag e to g et her shirt and bra o , sucking those perky tits. I can already feel the pre-cum seeping out m y cock, just one step aw ay from discovering the color of her pubic hair. 149 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %at’s when she jumps o of me and says, “I’m sorry, Mario. It’s too soon; I just can’t do this...” I gaze u p at h er say, “H on ey, p lease d o n ’t d o th is to me. It’s not right. You’ve got me all worked up over here.” She says, “I’m sorry, I just can’t,” as she takes another sw ig of beer. “It’s nothing personal, so please don’t tak e it th e w ro n g w ay.” “Fuck this. If I w ere a stam p bag, I’d be in you already. W here’s your im agination? P retend I’m a fucking bundle of dope, dam n it!” “M ario, yo u ’re beco m in g h o stile. I do n ’t like it!” I take a big sw ig of beer, hold it in m y m outh, and sp it it righ t in to h er p retty little face. It g o es everyw here; into her eyes, into her m outh, and even up her nose. She’s a walking disaster at this point, and frankly I’ve got som e cleaning up to do. B ut ⇡rst th in g s ⇡rst; tim e to rid m yself o f th is g arb ag e. “Y o u so n o f a b itch !” sh e scream s, stagg erin g backw ards as she wipes her face with her hands. Who’s being hostile now, bitch? “G et out you junkie w hore! G et the fuck out! M y modest cock is too good for anyways!” “N o ! W e n eed to talk ab o u t th is!” Jesu s C h rist. I th o u g h t a m o u th fu l o f b eer in th e face would be all the initiative anyone could possibly need to w alk o u t th at d o o r. F u ck , I g u ess n o t... M ayb e m y contem ptuous feelings aren’t getting through to her. So I go for round two; another m outhful of beer in her face. She’s scream ing at m e again, only this time she’s w alking out the door as intended. H er hair is so ak ed an d h er m ak eu p is ru n n in g all over th e p lace. I never did get to tap that ass, but now that ass is a th in g o f th e p ast. G o d g ran t m e th e stren g th to carry on. %is is bullshit. 150 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “G o o d rid d an ce, yo u fu ck in g h ero in ad d ict! S h o o t u p or shut up, bitch! G od’s an asshole and so are you!” %e door to my apartment slams shut, along with this ch apter of m y disappointing existence. W ell fuck m y life. I’m back to square one again, and m y ugly friend Tony is knee-deep in primo pussy. I tell ya, I’ve got all the luck in the w orld w hen it com es to drugs, but little to n o n e w h e n it c o m e s to w o m e n . Maybe I’m just not ugly enough. %at’s what I’ve noticed about dating in Pittsburgh. It’s always som e hot-ass bitch w alking around w ith som e goofy- looking dude. %ese cunts are shallow in the opposite aspect. Fuck it. A t least I’m stoned and alone. I’ll relax as I scratch in peace. M aybe I’ll ⇡n ish th is Hemingway novel. 151 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Just M e and M y M icropenis Frank Greasestain “You know, before I get started with girls, I ask them, ‘you like it w ith skin on or skin o ?’” Roy started cracking up at his own joke; dude could barely breathe. M eanw hile, I just sat there in utter in c o m p re h e n sio n . He noticed the blank look on my face and asked, “W h at, yo u do n ’t get it?” “N o , I get it,” I said w ith n o co n ⇡dence in m y voice whatsoever. “Y o u do n ’t get it! It’s becau se I’m an an teater, h ah a!” “O h h h h h ,” I said , do in g m y best to fak e ‘gettin g it.’ “I’m n o t circu m cised .” “O h !” I said , ⇡n ally actu ally gettin g it. My eyes fell swiftly to the 152 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I w as m ad e fro m m u d . It w as m ean t to be. G o d d am n you, G od. Whenever I get embarrassed, like I was discussing Roy’s sexual exploits, my penis shrinks even further up into m y body. Som etim es I worry it’ll never com e back out again. %is was one of those tim es. I had a sligh t p an ic attack in m y m in d b u t n o o n e co u ld ever tell. M y p alm s w ere sw eatin g . “Y o u alrigh t, M ike?” “Y eah , yeah . I’m ⇡n e.” Fine? I couldn’t even masturbate. “Y o u ’re n o t ⇡n e, bro . W h at’s w ro n g?” For som e stupid reason, I felt like telling the truth. “I’ve n ever h ad sex. I’ve n ever even m astu rb ated .” “W hat?? Y ou gay, dude?” “N o , I just p h ysically can ’t. N ever m in d . It’s n o t a b ig deal...” It truly w as no big deal. L anguage has a w ay of hanging us. “W hat, M ike, you got a little V ienna Sausage or so m eth in g ? S o lon g as it can crack th e cu rtain s, it can jum p through the w indow if you know w hat I m ean!” He slapped me on the back, seeking my approval of his joke. A V ienna Sausage w ould be great, but I could hardly claim a L ittle Sm okey. I’d neglected to m ention w e w ere at M cD onald’s. After we’d ⇡nished our large Cokes, we both had to piss, so we went to the bathroom together. I’ll bet yo u can gu ess w h ere th is is going. I can ’t p iss d irectly n ext to an yo n e w h en th ere are n o dividers between the urinals. I’m always w orried th ey’re sizin g m e u p in co m p ariso n to th eirs. It really, really b o th ers m e. 153 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH But there we were. Some fat ass was in the only stall. If I d idn ’t p iss, it’d raise su sp icion , an d so I to o k th e only free urinal next to Roy. Figuring I could fake it if nothing else, I unzipped and pinched m y ‘Johnson’ (w h at’s d im in u tive fo r Jo h n so n ?) o u t o f m y d raw ers. But before I could squeeze anything out, I heard the loud, heavy stream pounding dow n on R oy’s urinal cake. N ow I knew I de⇡nitely w ouldn’t piss. “A in’t you gonna piss, m an?” R oy asked, turning to lo o k rig h t a t m e . “N o t w h en yo u ’re starin g at m e,” I said . “W h at, yo u go t a sh y blad d er?” I ign ored th e qu estion . “H o ly sh it, m an ! Y o u call T H A T a pen is?” At Roy’s urging, my already tiny penis tried to escape back into m y body once again, m aking m y present pissing situation all the m ore impossible. I quickly zipped up w ith no fear of getting caught and storm ed out of the bathroom . Ditching Roy at McDonald’s (because fuck him), I drove to a nearby park, sitting on a bench by m yself. %ere were some high school kids making out as they strolled past, backpacks slung across their fronts to hide their boners. A trick I knew of but never had to use myself. It w as th en th at R oy texted m e, su ggesting th at I tie a string around m y dick and w eigh it dow n w ith so m eth in g . “It’s su re to stretch ,” h e w ro te, tryin g (an d failin g) to be helpful. “I read it on the internet!” 154 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE He obviously had no idea how hard it was to tie a knot around a m icropenis. A lm ost im possible. I’ve tried . I’d even th o u g h t ab o u t cu ttin g o th e b lo o d supply w ith a string like som e people do w ith w arts and skin tags, just letting m y pathetic little excuse for a dick shrivel up and die. I had no ho p e. It w as useless. When I got home, my mom was cooking breakfast for dinner. I loved having breakfast for dinner. “W e’re m ak in g b aco n !” sh e said , sm ilin g as I en tered th e d o o r. “F uck you!” I yelled at her and stom ped o to m y ro o m . “%is is m y house! D on’t you dare speak to m e like th at!” “Y o u ru in ed m y life!” “I gave y o u life !” “%an k s a lot!” I slam m ed th e d o or b eh ind m e an d lay d o w n o n m y bed, staring at the ceiling until I fell asleep. I dream ed I w as w alking dow n a lon g hall w ith brow n carpeting, w h ite w alls, and kitsch paintings of 155 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Meanwhile, the smell of delicious bacon had begun to waft through the air in my room. I got up, went dow nstairs, and made my way to the kitchen. “Sorry, m om ,” I said, grabbing for som e bacon. She never m ade sausage. O r hot dogs. A ll things considered, sh e w as a considerate w om an. “It’s ok ay.” “W h y co u ldn ’t yo u gu ys just agree to give m e a p u ssy? I w ould have never know n the dam n di eren ce.” “Y o u ’re just as G o d m ad e yo u .” “Y eah , m iserab le...” 156 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE In ap prop riate R elation sh ip Robert Vogt I stick m y h an d u p Jen n ifer’s skirt at H ipp ies P u b while we’re sitting at the bar. I begin playing with her pussy right then and there. Pretty m uch anyone who wants to take a look can see what’s going on. We leave and take a cab back to the college where I teach, X iang G uang U niversity of T echnology. Halfway up my stairwell she stops, grabs me and kisses m e hard, pushing m e back against the railing. It ap p ears th at if I w an t h er, I can h ave h er righ t h ere on the steps. I glance at the doors to the other teachers’ apartm ents, up and dow n the landings. I can tell that th e d an g er is g ettin g Jen n ifer h o t. She starts reaches dow n and starts rubbing my crotch, but it w ould’t do to get caught fooling around w ith one of m y students in the stairwell. I send her up the step s w ith a sm ack o n h er ass, h ead in g fo r th e p rivacy of m y apartm ent. I close an d lock th e doo r an d w e are ou t of ou r cloth es in a m atter of seconds. Moments later I’ve got Jennifer on the bed, lying on her belly as I lick and kiss that soft ass, working m y way towards her pussy, when we hear the teacher across the hall entering his apartm ent. For a second, a vision 157 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Also, I seem to recall something about the statement, “in ap p ro p riate relation sh ip s b etw een stu d en ts an d teachers not perm itted,” being som ew here in the contract I h ad signed w ith the sch ool eight m onths earlier.Fuck all that, I th in k to m y se lf, g e ttin g b a c k to th e b u sin ess at h an d . Soon I’m kissing Jennifer’s sweet, wet snatch. %en I’m d rilling aw ay an d sh e’s m o an ing, “I... love... yo u ,” in betw een labored breaths. She sti *** A month later, after summer vacation has started, I’m standing outside of H ippies Pub ordering som e barbecued chicken legs from a street vendor. M y cell phone rings, and it’s Jennifer. I’ve been looking forw ard to h er return ever since th e last tim e I’d seen her, before she’d left cam pus last sem ester. 158 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE She has been calling m e every hour or so since mid- afternoon, telling m e she is on her w ay back. %ere is a trip planned w ith the school’s photo club that she is going on. She asks m e to order a couple of chicken legs for her. I grab a few H arbin beers to go, then get in a ta x i a n d h e a d b a c k to th e u n i. Sitting together in my living room , I wash dow n the ch icken w e’ve just ⇡nished w ith a big sw ig of beer. %en, sliding towards Jennifer on the couch, I’ve just begun kissing those thick, luscious lips w hen she pushes m e aw ay and asks, “W hy does m ans always want to touch girls?” “I m issed yo u ,” I rep ly. “I’m so rry,” sh e says, “b u t I can ’t d o th at n o m o re... Whenever I see my father, I feel so guilty. Like when he look at me he know I let man touch my body.” “F u-uuck...” I m oan, just barely audible. I grab m y beer and take another couple of big swallow s, trying to b lo t o u t m y fru stratio n s. I don ’t view th is girl as sim p ly so m e piece of ass. I am absolutely crazy about Jennifer and have suggested marrying her after she graduates. “If you were ten years younger,” had been her reply. I crack another H arbin and contem plate how I am going to get laid tonight. W hether or not I am in love with Jennifer, I need some action very badly as it has been so m e tim e since anyone has given it up. I th ink back to a situ ation in w h ich a m ale stu d en t of mine had been dumped by his girlfriend because he had been too nice to her. At that time, the subject of th e b reak -u p h ad co m e u p at d in n er w ith so m e o th er foreign teachers at the school. %e general consensus was that some Chinese girls don’t like to be treated too nicely and that, in fact, a num ber of them m ight lik e b e in g tre a te d b a d ly . 159 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH And while I’m not normally one for mistreating my girlfriends, tonight, in the interest of getting som e pussy, I decide to give it a shot. “So? W hat..?!” I yell a little. “D o you w anna fuck Dennis?!” I motion towards Dennis Zhu’s apartment across the hall. “%at fuckin’ asshole..?! Y ou w ant his cock instead of m ine..?!” She seem s a bit shocked, as I have never raised m y voice to her before. B ut I continue, w ondering if this act is w orking. “Y ou fuckin’ leave last sem ester, don’t even say goodbye..?! D on’t even com e to the goodbye dinner with the other students..?! What the fuck..?!” After a bit of this, I can see that she is visibly upset, th at th is strateg y is n o t w o rk in g after all. S h e even seem s to be sh ak in g a bit. “M aybe, I should go back to dorm itory...” she su g g ests. “N o ,” I tell h er, “n o n eed fo r th at... H ey, w h at sh all our E nglish conversation topic be for tonight? A nd where are you going for your photography trip to m o rro w ?” “%e h o m e of Q i B ai S h i,” sh e rep lies co ldly. Later, with Jennifer in bed beside me, I drift o to sleep having com pletely given up on the idea of fucking her this blazing hot H unan sum m er evening. Suddenly I’m roused by Jennifer’s soft, angelic little girl voice, the one she uses only after having been a to tal fu ck in g cu n t b efo re. “I w an t yo u to to u ch m y b o d y...” sh e w h isp ers in m y ear. Soon I’m riding that sweet nineteen-year-old ass once again, loving every m inute of it. 160 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I w ant you to com e on m y breasts,” she says, after she’s gotten hers. I gladly oblige, pulling out and jerking m y cum all over those lovely, ⇡rm tits. H aving drained m yself dry, I collapse beside her feeling relieved . “I didn’t fuck you because I love you,” she tells m e then. “I fucked you because I w anted a m an inside of my body.” I fall asleep th ink ing, I don ’t giv e a fuck w hy you fucked me. 161 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,e Metaphor of Poundcake Jo n K o n rath “W e seek co m fo rt in pattern s...” I aw oke to a cop talking truth and fantasy w hile taking a piss on the cardboard cutout of B arbara B ush in m y ⇡re p la c e . “E ach of us look to the future in determ ination, to help us feel at peace with the present. But w e will never reach it.” %e police oJcer moaned and started to piss blood, a brow n, chunky, sew erage stream of bacteria-infested kidney disease and failure. “C elebrate the journey of the natural hierarchy, the sacred p ath of th e w arrior.” He shook twice, zipped up, then grabbed his nightstick from his belt holster and sm ashed m y com m em orative A lan A lda urn, containing the ash es of m y great-uncle %eodore, a habitual peyote user and m anager of a m ini-m art on an Indian reservation in O k la h o m a . “N ever stray fro m th e p ath . A n d clean yo u r k itch en . It loo k s like an an th rax research lab in th ere.” *** I m ust have fallen asleep w aiting for the phone call about V irgil’s execution. 162 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %e fever dream of the evening involved walking on a desolate college cam pus in the w aning, vanishing hours of w hat I thought w as the imm aculate ro m an ce, so m eth in g th at h ap p en ed fo r a th ird o f m y life, causing m e to w onder if the dream really did happen. It took sixteen hours of travel to get to the cam pus from the city: three trains, tw o layovers, and a four- mile walk in a snowstorm that caused my wheeled suitcase to In the w eeks of phone calls and em ails prior to the voyage, I w as prom ised unlim ited sex, all-you-can eat of her young ass, and as m any trips to D enny’s as I could m uster. B ut, w e both m anaged to catch a destructive viral pneum onia that no am ount of over- the-counter syrups or pills could touch . %e clo sest w e got to the prom ised w eek of torrid, unprotected sex was a midnight brunch at a place that served almost raw eggs B enedict, and a reluctant handjob in the parking lot. (Com e to think of it, those eggs could have been how we got sick.) 163 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH After a two-day puke and shit marathon, I spent the rest of the w eek killing tim e in a m otel w hile she went to work. M y only solace in the high fever hallucination state w as a hack I found in 2600 magazine with an article on cable phreaking. A magic code enabled me to watch all of the 90s-era soft-core porn for free, an endless stream of basketball-sized tit im plants, frizzy hair, long Predator-like w h ore n ails, an d over-en thusiastic fake lesbian threesom es. H ow did they ⇡nger so m uch with inch-long acrylic press-on nails? And why did my breath smell like a seventies land⇡ll? %is sickness was killing me, even in my dream, like those Freddy Krueger movies. Desperate for a lunch other than the year-old extruded peanut butter and cheese crackers from the motel lobby vending machine, I stumbled outside and tried to h o o f it to a W en d y’s d istan t o n th e h o rizo n . Its sign , w ith th e carto o n p o n ytailed red h ead , sto o d atop a ⇡ve-hundred-foot steel pole, telling people on the highw ay to pull over and m eet their m aker, for only $2.99 plus tax. I crossed a series of grassy knoll medians, which chopped apart a grocery store parking lot from a series of used car dealerships, form ing a maze of torment that threatened to face-plant me into the asphalt w ith every dozen steps. A man painted on the windshield of an old Chevy with white shoe polish, spelling out “ELEC TRO N IC C A R” and a price point that seem ed to o g o o d to b e tru e. %e fro n t o f th e car ro se from the ground at a sharp angle, like a converted low -rider w ith air shocks, about to launch from the ground in a sideshow parking-lot m aneuver. I could tell, even at a d istan ce, th at so m e assh o le to re o u t th e old V -8 and hastily R ube G oldberged som e kind of household appliance m otor into the front, m aybe a pow ered golf cart’s drivetrain. 164 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “It’s a real electro n ic,” th e u sed car salesm an to ld m e. His jacket looked like the tablecloth to a defunct pizza joint from the 70s, and he reeked of cheap cigar sm oke. “Y ou can apply for the tax credit and everything. I don’t have the paperw ork here, but I’m sure the D M V can set you up. Y ou don’t do m uch highw ay driving, do you son? It only tops out at about 38 kilom eters an hour. But it gets a thousand m iles a gallon, theoretical. A nd lots of torque. T orque is all you need. T orque w ins you races. T orque is Jesus. Torque from Ork – nanu nanu! How’s your credit, boy?” I kept w alking past, turned up the headphones and blasted the A nal C unt tape louder, so I w ould not exist, be invisible. I needed food, fried food, heavy, grease-laden food to survive. Lay dow n a bed of solid grease, and you can ride out any chronic diarrhea. M y tem perature w as at least 104, and everything looked like a direct-to-video John C arpenter m ovie about Armenia. I wanted a frozen beverage and enough extra bacon to kill god. I w anted this dream to end, but after I woke, I sort of wished it would continue. *** I m u ted th e T V , fo u n d a sp iral n o teb o ok an d a p en . %e ballpoint was from an Uncle Kenny’s Sex Dungeon in Wailea, the one in the basement of the Maui Four Seasons. %e plastic barrel was covered in tooth m arks, w hich I hoped w ere only m ine. I th o u g h t ab o u t d eath a lo t th at w eek , w ith V irg il o n th e w ay o u t. I h astily p rep ared a n o te: 165 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH In the ev en t of m y death, I w an t a fun eral w here m y body is not em balm ed or preserved. It w ill be propped upside dow n on a geodesic dom e playground m onkey bar thing, like the cov er of the 'rst Suicidal T endencies album . ere will be no Pepsi. Donate my orthotic inserts to the Salvador D ali m otorcycle m useum in C learw ater, Florida (NOT the Salvador D ali museum in St. Petersburg. ey are false prophets.) Serve Taco Bell D oritos Locos tacos at the reception. D O NOT invite my cousin Marty or his whore wife, because not only will they eat all the fucking tacos, they will only eat the m eat and cheese and lick the shells but not eat them , and then they w on’t shut the fuck up about how ca rb s a re a n ev il con sp ira cy to keep u s a ll fa t. Play “Free Bird” on repeat, and the 'rst person to suggest th a t it sh ou ld b e tu rn ed o$ should be buried aliv e in the coEn and grave I purchased ten plots dow n from B ruce and B randon L ee’s crypt at L ake V iew cem etery in Seattle. Burn my body and have everyone snort the ashes. Don’t forget the thing about Marty. I 'nger-fucked his wife at anksgiving dinner in 1987. I’m not proud of this, but it w as before they w ere m arried, and I’m dead now , so fuck it. Peace out. I read th e n o te carefu lly, ch u gging fro m a w arm can of M eister-B rau, then sealed it in an envelope and put it o n th e ⇡replace m antle, now an altar to broken urns and diseased cop blood. H aving a friend get killed makes you question your own mortality, and that was about to happen. *** Virgil had a dad that got the electric chair for mortgage fraud when we were ten, an absurd irony in the w ake of his ow n pending death sentence. 166 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Virg Senior was the kind of old-school, trapped-in- th e-p ast d ad th at still slick ed h is h air b ack w ith Brylcreem like a Sha Na Na reject. He talked about chopped deuces and daddy-os w hile w e cringed and hoped nobody at the mall saw us with him. After his old m an rode the lightning, V irgil went from bad to worse, a series of alcoholic and drug-addled stepfathers that beat him like a used golf ball at a driving range. H e ⇡nally decided to run aw ay, leave th e state w ith ten d o llars in ch an g e an d a sto len LaserDisc player he’d fence for tacos somewhere in ru ral N eb rask a. I go t th e po st card m o n th s later: no retu rn ad d ress, no nam e signed, just a picture of the country’s third- largest ear of corn, on the outskirts of som e tow n in Io w a o r M o n tan a o r L ao s, a car-sized h u sk w ith tw o goofy farm ers in front of it. %e inscription said “FO UN D YO U’RE M O M S D ILD O !” in sharpie, with a smaller note scrawled in ballpoint, his unm istakable, illegible cursive: Met a shower curtain salesman – let’s dudes bang his wife in motels – said he’d give me his car if I sucked his dick – just borrowing it for now – his wife’s a good lay, but too quiet – will send pics – fuck the puke, and Jesus! – V I hoped he m eant fuck the puke and fuck Jesus. I didn’t w ant a 3A M phone call of drunken bible platitudes from a borderline illiterate high school dropout. I already got that pretty m uch every day when I went to public school in Indiana. I brought the card to m y state-appointed therapist. During the breaking-the-ice meeting, she told me she saw Forrest Gum p 200 tim es and only wanted to date mentally disabled men. I think it was supposed to tu rn m e o n . 167 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I’ve slept w ith enough m ental health care professionals to know the w arning signs, but also knew you always hold out for som eone w ho can prescribe drugs. E ven if you don’t w ant the drugs, even if you’re one of those health food freaks w ho isn ’t in to th e id e a o f lo a d in g u p o n d e a d ly n a rc o tic s, you get the doc w ho can w rite for m eds, because then you know they love you. Love is drugs. I saw it on a t- sh irt on ce; it m u st be tru e. After therapy, I paced the halls of the hospital and th o u g h t ab o u t C ap tain B eefh eart d ro p p in g o u t o f th e music business, moving to the desert and painting, and w ondered how it applied to m y job m aking roast beef sandw iches and w iping uneaten food o of plates. %ey told us not to feed potatoes into the In S ink E rato r, so I th rew a ch illi b o w l into th e spinning blades, just to see w hat w ould happen. %e entire kitchen vibrated like an alien abduction roto- rooter stuck in a w hale’s asshole, and I w atched the tim e-space continuum becom e dislodged and start to reverse itself. I tried to calculate how m any pieces of ch ina I w ould have to feed into the m ach ine to get m e back to a point where I could feel. I didn’t think the tow n’s pow er grid w ould hold out. A deformed man in a custodial uniform cleaning an unnatural am ount of puke from a hallway broke m y reverie. “I can’t rem em ber w ho got blam ed for the Princess Di assassination,” the janitor told me. %e puke sm elled like candy corn and am m onia. “I think th e M o ssad g o t th e b lam e, b u t w e all k n o w C o n A g ra fo o d s d id it. I d o n ’t h ave p ro o f, b u t it ju st feels rig h t, you know?” He wore Halloween makeup – Dracula lipstick, zom bie face paint, F rankenstein’s m onster stick-on neck bolts – and tried to look sexy with it, lik e a D e a d C a n D a n c e d ra g q u e e n . 168 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I th o u gh t it d istracted fro m th e jan itorial w ork , th e pure craftsm anship involved in m opping dow n a vom it spill, spreading the puke saw dust, applying the pink germ icidal spray cleaner. H e seem ed happy, or at le a st m o re h a p p y th a n I w a s a t th e m o m e n t. *** %e phone echoed hold music on speaker, while an hours-long m arathon of stupid clip show s echoed in th e b ack g ro u n d , late o n a T u esd ay n ig h t. In d u strial Robot Disasters Caught on Tapewas the ambient so u n d track fo r m y p an ic state, b ecau se I w as to o lazy to pick up the rem ote and change the channel. %e robo-call w ould con⇡rm the execution schedule, or announce it w as pushed another 48 hours. %ey liked to schedule their killings to knock the latest scandal out of the new s cycle, and the Assistant G overnor just got caught having butt-sex w ith a dead illegal sch o o lteach er, so I ⇡g u red it w o u ld be a go . But the robo-call didn’t simply spit out the pertinent in fo rm a tio n I n e e d e d ; it ⇡rst played an ad for a 90- minute VHS tape of Randy Savage taking a massive dum p. I m ean, it’s not one dum p; it’s like three or four spliced together w ith a bunch of retrospective footage, and the play-by-play is done by M ean G ene Okerlund. $99, or three easy payments of $49. And Okerlund refers to Machoman as his close, personal, lo n g - tim e frie n d 1 6 8 tim e s, to o . *** You read the only magazines you can ⇡nd,Vibe For Pregnant Teensand Country Shitkicker Kitchen, w h ile the guards get the m an from the insides of the prison to the visiting room . I w ould have killed for an issue of Ju ggs, o r e v e n Us Weekly. 169 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH You expect the maximum security facility to look like th e p it w h ere th ey k eep H an n ib al L ecter b eh in d plexiglass at the B altimore State H ospital for the Criminally Insane, but it resembles an elementary sch o o l b u ilt in th e eigh ties, th e k in d w ith o p en ro o m s and no sharp corners, and big, round sinks like fountains you operate w ith your feet, that utopian elem ent of bizarre ergonom ics that never quite caught on outside of the Epcot center. Add a ring of guard rows with shotgun slots for ⇡ring in teargas canisters during riots, and heavy locked doors to protect the m inimum -wage em ployees from crazed and psych otic m en, broken for life by their 50- year torture sentences for getting caught w ith tw o matchstick-sized rocks of coke. Schools and prisons are all built by the sam e low est bidder, with identical lead paint and asbestos-stu ed walls. At least that’s what the urban legends tell you. Virgil earned the prison name of Poundcake, even though he’d never been raped in the show ers. %e nicknam e alone is hazing enough to keep him just a hair’s width outside of sanity. You ask him why he killed her, the basic Q & A for your dissertation. “She w as the kind of bitch that lived for pregnancy scares an d h igh d ram a. F u ck ed h er w ith th ree co n d o s and she still said they all broke. G ave her six bills to hoover out the little fucker, and she used the abortion money to go swim with manatees in Florida. Posted the shit on Facebook and everything. So I say to myself, either I put a gun in her mouth, or I watch her fake breast cancer and m ake m ad bucks online. %e judge didn’t buy it, though. Fucking Obama.” Before prison, before the girl, when I ⇡rst m et Poundcake, he was obsessed with Anne Frank, to the point w here he dressed like her, w ith a horrible syn th etic w ig an d a b righ t yellow star h an d -sew ed to all of his clothing. 170 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE By the beginning of junior high, he started skipping classes every day to hide in the attic of h is m om ’s house, pretend all of the people in our subdivision were Nazis (which was at least partly true, if you ever took a look at our hom eow ner’s association new sletters,) and scraw l his thoughts in a spiral notebook diary. His attic was lined that Owens Corning pink ⇡berglass insulation, which tore apart his skin like a ch em ical w arfare w eapon every tim e he hid up there. And modern notebook paper contains so many ch em icals and post-recycled w aste, it turns brow n and disintegrates and gets eaten alive by dust m ites in a matter of months, so all of his entries were basically unreadable, the deranged ram blings of a m an gone in sa n e b y in su la tio n to x ic ity . %e poor fuck ended up spending two semesters in the lockdow n w ard of the local children’s hospital, hooked on oxycontin for insulation exposure, babbling incoherent conspiracy theories about how Anne Frank’s diary really talked about chemtrails and the upcom ing U FO arm ageddon, but her dad cut out everything before release. H e got o oxys by sm oking hashish his uncle brought back from ‘Nam , but liked to d ab b le in sch ed u le-o n es after th at. Now, twenty years later, the cycle repeats, the same madness, a di erent plastic window and intercom system , a d i eren t en d gam e. Y o u talk ab o u t n o th in g , about sports and w hich neighbors have fallen dow n the drug k-hole, have ended up in other prisons for stealin g co p p er w ire o r k illin g p eo p le at B lack F rid ay sales. He asks for a Satanic Bible, but you can’t get it past th e g u ard s. 171 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH You promise to mail him a cake with a bottle of your aunt’s Percocet baked into the center, but you know it won’t get there on time. You think his death will be a huge thing, like when they fried those Lindberg baby guys, but the state kills people m ore often than G ucci Mane drops new albums. Virgil’s death got a single line on the news pages, and it g o t p u sh e d o u t o f c irc u la tio n w h e n K im K a rd a sh ia n tw eeted that she liked co ee enem as. Y ou think death would bring closure, but like every other thing in life, it d o e sn ’t. You leave, and stumble through the streets of a previous era, a di erent city, another case of horri⇡c digestive system failure. Y our rental car looks like every other car, and you think you parked it by a Chinese restaurant, but it’s Chinatown and everything is a C hinese restaurant. E very car is the sam e, every restaurant is the sam e, every life is the sam e. Y ou consider ditching your entire life, m aybe starting over, spending another ten years in school, becom ing an autistic biologist who sits around slicing up brains and m ounting them on slides, anything that doesn’t involve people or talking. Poundcake is a metaphor for the voice in your skull tellin g yo u everyth in g is w ro n g , n o th in g is w o rth living. E ven after he is no longer alive, the m etaphor rem ain s. 172 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Ugly Duckling (I’m a Fucking Swan) Brendon Lampe Come with me children on a journey through utter self indulgence, over the m ountains of victim ization, th ro u g h a river o f “o h sh u t yo u r little h o m o m o u th , your life w asn’t that bad” till w e reach our destination of a little town called “I’m so m uch better than everyone because I overcam e diversity.” %is is the story of an ugly little duckling, who probably wasn’t that ugly to begin with, it’s just that nobody explained to him that he wasn’t a duck at all and that’s w hy all the other ducks hated him ... get your tissues handy people; this story w on’t m ake you cry, but you w ill w ant to w ipe the bullsh it o your screen s. So as far back as this little ducking can rem em ber, he never seem ed to quite ⇡t in with the others 173 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH But high school was a public school, and that was a place where anyone and everyone was free to express and be them selves. W ell, unless you’re any of the follow ing (a faggot, dyke, redhead, runt, poor, too pretty, not pretty enough, intelligent, A sian, or basically any di erent from the guy or gal who could best beat the individuality out of you). I w o n ’t drag th is ou t, bu t su Jce to say th at instead of painting m yself yellow and covering up m y twisted beak, I decided to go through high school w ith ZERO friends, and when I say zero I mean not even my brothers or sisters wanted a bar of me. It was so fucking sad to the point w here I w ould sit at hom e on a F riday night and have conversations w ith friends I made up by covering my walls with posters. I was ridiculed, beaten up, and deem ed a social pariah by even m y older duckling brothers. Following high school, this ugly ducking decided to venture out into the w ider, m ore vast and exciting ponds of the w orld, w here perhaps other ducks like me would swim and I would be accepted, popular, even LO V E D ! HAHAHAHAHAHA! I have to lau gh ; w h at a silly little qu acker I w as. I spent so m uch tim e obsessing over w hat feathers went with what, just to impress and ⇡t in, the funny thing is w hen others stop hating you for not being a duck, all you want to do is be a D U C K . Fucked up, rig h t? I w o u ld sp en d so m u ch tim e p eering at m y re 174 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE It w asn ’t u n til I saw it on e w inter’s d ay th at everything changed. A SW AN in all its majestic, moving-everything-in- its-path (especially ducks) G L O R Y . It seem ed to have no reservations, com plete con⇡dence, not only accepted but adm ired, PO P U L A R ... L O V E D !!! It w as at th at p o int th is u gly little d u ckling look ed dow n at his re 175 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Love At First Sight Tyler Gates %is is it, what all those songs and movies are always talk in g ab o u t. %ere is no doubt in your collapsing heart, this is love at ⇡rst sight. Your eyes run the length of her body, savoring her from head to toe, and as they do you gently run your ⇡ngers through her thick, red hair. Focusing on her eyes, you begin to drift away as you stare lon g in g ly in to th em . %ey 176 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I L O V E YO U upon her belly with your latex-gloved ⇡nger. Just then, a nurse enters the room , interrupting you both to ask: “D o cto r, is th e bo d y prep p ed fo r au to p sy yet?” “Ju st give m e a few m o re m in u tes, please.” 177 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Excuse Me, But Did You Know Y o u r B o o b s a r e M a d e o f M a g ic ? Shawn Berman You have the nicest boobs I’ve ever seen. It’s just th at...... I feel like I don’t see your boobs often enough, and it m akes m e really sad. I w an n a k n o w h o w yo u r b o o b s are d oing th ese d ays, and I m ean that in a genuine kinda w ay, not in the ‘oh hey, I didn’t see you there. A re you still going to sch o o l? O h yo u d ro p p ed o u t an d yo u ’re w o rk in g fu ll- tim e at W alM art now ? %at’s co o l. No, nothing new with me. I’m still living at home with my three cats. Yea, we should de⇡nitely try and hang out som etime. M aybe grab a beer or two and catch up. Y ea I’ll put your num ber in m y ph one. Sorry my phone’s slow. Gotta get a new one soon. Same area code right? A ctually I still have your num ber in my phone, look at that. Okay... Yea. I’ll talk to you la te r, it w a s g o o d se e in g y a ’ k in d a w a y . Correct me if I’m wrong, or just let me keep going– But, would you be honored or o ended, if I superglued m y hands to your boobs and forced you to walk around all day, week, or month like that? It w ould be totally non-erotic, of course, because I would only do it to make people jealous that I was to u ch in g yo u r b o o b s. 178 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE When other people see me with my hands superglued to your boobs, they w ill say, ‘w ow , he is so lucky. I wonder what it’s like to take a nap in between those boobs.’ And if I’m not overstepping my boundaries, I feel like I sh o u ld bu ild a to w n on yo u r bo o b s an d live th ere. I’m n o t really into con stru ction , bu t I w o u ld assem b le a quality team and w e w ould do things the right w ay. I w o u ld m ak e su re th ere w as ru n n ing w ater an d to n s of natural resources. A nd there would be schools and highw ays and houses and parks and hotels and public transportation, and it w ould even have a straw berry farm so there’s fresh jam to put on your toast every morning. It would be the greatest place in the world to live. Eventually, Travelocity would rate your boobs #1 for ‘best place to run aw ay from your responsibilities and start o ver w ith yo u r life’, an d w h en th at h ap p en s yo u will feel so proud that you let me build a great city on your boobs. If that doesn’t w ork out, m aybe w e can turn your boobs into a circus. Don’t take that the wrong way– Your boobs would be the main attraction. People would come just to see your boobs and they would be th e star o f th e sh o w . %e carnie would say, ‘step right up and see the greatest boobs on earth. Forget what you know about boobs, these boobs are w ay better than any tight- rope-w alking-tiger-w restling-sw ord-sw allow ing-freak you’ve ever seen.’ You have a special gift and people need to recognize th at. I hope you’re getting the point that I’m trying to make. 179 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I like your boobs so m uch that I didn’t even m ind when you gave me a concussion with them that one tim e. Remember when I forgot to pay the heating bill and you w ere like, ‘it’s okay, don’t w orry about it. P aying bills is so last season’, and you let m e use your boobs as a blanket? I w as so hap p y. And lately I feel like a totally di erent person whenever I think about your boobs. Like I’m not average. Like I don’t need to contemplate suicide. Like I don’t need to jump out of a two-story window just to have a good day. %ank you. ‘M y doctor thinks that prem arital sex is healthy and I agree.’ Your vagina has been scienti⇡cally proven to cure all so rts of th in g s– Like cold sores, hangovers...... e v e n c a n c e r! And I’m not just saying this just to say it, or to make me look cooler than I actually am– Because I’m really not th a t c o o l. Anyway– I’m saying it because it’s a fact th at your vagina can cure cancer, because it’s been proven by scientists– And not like those kinda scientists that you see in Hollywood movies, like the ones from Jurassic park th at created g en etically m o d i⇡ed dinosaurs that ran around eating people. 180 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Nah, these scientists work at universities and labs and sh it lik e th at. And I’m glad your vagina is all science-y and shit. It’s pretty hot, because I’m not nearly sm art enough to cure cancer, and if I ever tried to cure cancer, scientists w ould just be like, ‘can you not? W e’re trying to do som ething here. G o out and play and let the grow nups do their grow nup w ork.’ And I wouldn’t argue with them, either. What I’m trying to say is that I loved your vagina when we were together. But I loved so many things about you other than your vagina. I loved yo u r h air, th e w ay you clogged th e d rain after taking a show er every tim e, how you w ould take your hair and give yourself a ponytail m ustache and then give m e a kiss w ith your ponytail m ustache and say, ‘you just kissed a dude! E W W W W W W !!!’ I loved th e w ay yo u w o u ld ru n to th e store an d get m e more beer or reach into the fridge and grab me another one and say, ‘you looked like you needed another beer’ w hen I w as only halfw ay done w hen m y current beer, how you licked your lips after putting on ChapStick, and the faces you made after eating so m eth in g so u r or eatin g ice cream to o fast. Our love was great. It w as like know ing all the lines to every A dam Sandler ⇡lm, or like G ryJndor winning a gam e of Quidditch by capturing the golden snitch, or like ordering a cheeseburger with just the right am ount of medium rareness and juiciness to it. If so m eon e bit into th at m ed ium -rare ch eeseb u rger at a BB Q or restaurant they w ould say som ething like, 181 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ‘M Y GOD, THAT IS ONE GODDAM N CHEESEBURGER!!! IT’S SO JUICY–I CAN’T EVEN CO NTRO L TH E JUICES TH AT ARE DRIPPING FROM MY MOUTH–THIS MUST BE SOM E KIND A W ITCH CRAFT OR SPELL, TAKE M E TO YOUR LEADER BECAUSE I AM NOT WORTHY!!!’ If our love w as a body of w ater, it w ould be like Bahamas temperature, and you could jump right into it w ith o u t stic k in g y o u r to e in ⇡rst, w o n d e rin g if it would be too cold for swimming. Remember that time I let you beat me in M ortal Kombat because I felt bad for you, and then you got mad because I let you beat me, and then the next time we played you told me to ‘try my hardest’ and then you really did beat m e? You were Subzero and the game was all like, ‘FIN ISH H IM ’ and you pounded away on the controller and killed m e. You were so happy about that– You told everyone. Well... Today I saw you, and you were riding your bike with HIM... And you were both wearing helmets and laughing and riding on the sidew alk. On the fucking sidewalk! I couldn’t help but think that som ehow he’d turned you into a pussy. A major fucking pussy. A riding-on-the-sidewalk-while-wearing-a-helmet- on-a-bike kinda pussy. Just tell me one thing–and I’m only asking for an im a g in a ry frie n d : 182 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Are you happy? y/n? Once you decide, email me your response. And when you email me, you’re gonna get an autom atic reply saying ‘are you sure you w ant to send th is’ o r so m eth in g . Ju st h it resen d . It’s ju st a secu rity thing that N orton A nti-V irus has been doing lately to ⇡lter out the spam . Hope to hear from you soon. 183 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,e Wilted Hipster Michael Marrotti %e last fat bitch I fucked made me cum after thirty minutes of slippery penetration. %at’s what I like about fat w om en; you can truly enjoy yourself instead of busting a sticky load w ithin two m inutes. Sexy women just make me cum too quick, and I’m out for lo n g e v ity . Her name was Mandy and her colossal panties smelt like C hinese food. W hen life becom es redundant, I often take solace in the scent of her panties. U sually, afterw ards I order w u-tang chicken as I bitch and rant on m y blog. %e food is never delivered on tim e. I’ve been running m y blog for tw o years now w ith barely any interaction whatsoever. People on the web just don’t give a fuck about w hat I have to say. I never would’ve thought that people worldwide could be as callous and pretentious as they appear to be. T o tell you the truth, I’m kinda inspired by it. My phone rarely rings, but when it does it’s either a bill collector from a third world country going by the moniker of John when their English is atrocious, or it’s m y g irlfrie n d G in a . I b e tte r a n sw e r th a t. “H ello.” “H ello, V ito . I’ve b een tryin g to get a h o ld o f yo u fo r hours now . W hat the fuck?” “S o rry, G in a. I’ve b een b u sy o n m y b log, an d w aitin g fo r C h in ese fo o d . It still h asn ’t arrived .” 184 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “O h , th at’s g reat. O b sessin g o ver yo u r stu p id b log in ste a d o f stic k in g y o u r d ic k in m y p o o r lo n e ly pussy... %ere is no reason som eone as sexy as m e sh o u ld h ave to reso rt to m astu rb atio n .” “L ook G ina, I’m gonna have to call you back. %e Chinese food ⇡nally arrived, and I’m starving. Don’t worry, my eager cock will be there soon.” “It b etter b e. I’m all h o t an d w o rk ed u p o ver h ere. I want you inside me. I miss you. I love you.” “I love yo u to o , h o n ey. I’ll see yo u so o n .” If she only knew I fucked fat bitches on the side. Wow. %at would be devastating. It might even drive her to suicide. W hat a dick thing to do. C heat on your super sexy girlfriend w ith fat bitches. I should feel asham ed, but all I feel is hunger. I’m gonna go vigorous on this w u-tang chicken. Gina’s small apartment is located in the nicer part of to w n , in D o rm o n t. %e cheap beer 185 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH My ice-cold Chianti isn’t going to be cold for long. I didn’t even have time to drink more than a sip before Gina slid my average-size penis down her throat. She’s slurping away and m aking a pig out of herself, just like she alw ays does, all the w hile w ith a tw inkle in her eye. I’m fondling her perky C -cups and thinking how lucky I am to have such a hot, determ ined fuck tool by my side. I throw her sexy ass on the bed and slip it in, doggy style. %ree m inutes la te r I b u st m y lo a d o n h e r p re tty little fa c e . I tell her I love her, then focus on m y blog as she sleep s. H er sn o rin g p ro b lem go tta go . Still no action on my blog. Well, ain’t that predictable. Bunch of antisocial media motherfuckers! All these dorky fucking assholes can fu ck o ! I’ve w asted years on this blog w ith no fucking bene⇡ts! I’m shutting this fucker dow n. %is blog and redundant lifestyle are ⇡nished! It’s over! In the m orning I go to M arrotti’s C o ee to get m y ⇡x. %is seem s like a good place to relax. A good place to ponder the possibilities, and hopefully a good place to em pty my asshole. “H i, I’d like a trip le sh o t o f esp resso w ith a sid e o f seltzer w ater, p lease.” %e hipster nerd with his red glasses and his pointy beard says, in a condescending m anner, “You sure about the seltzer w ater? P eople never order that w ith espresso in this shop. M ost bona ⇡de bean enthusiasts relish in th e aftertaste o f esp resso .” “W ell p erso n ally, I co u ld g ive a fu ck ab o u t w h at yo u r other custom ers are enthusiastic about. I didn’t com e here to engage in contentious conversation over fu ck in g co ee, b ro . I cam e h ere to ⇡gure som e things out, and take a healthy shit.” 186 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I’m so rry sir, b u t w e d o n ’t p erm it p eo p le w h o ch ase their espresso w ith seltzer w ater to shit on the prem ises.” “Y o u fu ck in g h ip ster p iece of sh it! G o an d get m e th e goddam n m anager, right now !” “I am th e m an ager, seltzer bo y.” And that’s all it took for me to feel alive again. A new life experience. I’ve never hit a m an w ith glasses, but once I ⇡nally did, it felt better than any of the tim es I fucked fat bitches or any of the tim es I shot cum in Gina’s pretty little face. %is belligerent hipster fuck went 187 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Household ,ings David P. Bates I pulled the entertainm ent stand aw ay from the dum pster less than 10 m inutes after the guy who was moving out had left it there, dragging it clear across th e p ark in g lo t to m y o w n ap artm en t. I w ent upstairs, found the screw driver, cam e back dow n and unscrew ed the shit that held the top and bottom parts together. A fter that, I was able to haul th em b o th u p stairs, reattach th em , an d set u p th e 188 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE You can ask me how many beers–I won’t be able to say for sure–but at one point I could’ve sw orn the entertainm ent stand moved, its silv e r p la stic le g s seem ing to shudder a bit. I’d barely had a chance to rub m y bleary eyes before I noticed that they had taken on m ore of a shiny, blackish sheen, looking so m eth in g lik e a beetle’s carap ace When its legs began to lengthen, staggering beneath the w eight of the T V as it rose up higher still, it w as all I could do to sit there slack-jaw ed w ith a beer in my hand. It w as sw eet A ngelina Jolie w ho appeared ⇡rst, luscious lips projecting from the 189 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “W hat?” she asked, annoyed. “G et your ow n dam n beer...” It is no w 4am . I’m allow ed to en ter th e kitch en , bu t if I try to escap e d o w n th e h all, th e T V is th ere o n its stan d , block in g m y w ay. “B ab y, please h elp!” I cry ou t to m y w ife. “Sleep on the dam n couch, you fucking drunk!” Meanwhile, the stand’s legs have begun to morph into long, w aspy stingers as Scarlett Johansson closes in o n m e . 190 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Im p orted from A d dis A baba Ben Newell “M ommy, LOOK at TH E M ONKEY! H e’s PLAYING with HIS –” %e little girl was going to say “pee-pee” until her em barrassed and shocked m other m uVed her m outh and w hisked her tow ard the concession booth for som e cotton candy; her daughter loved the stu , maybe the 191 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Som ewhat reluctantly, the riotous crow d m oved on, am bling tow ard the next zoological attraction as the baboon yaw ned and scratched his dirty pink ass. *** “O k ay, ok ay, H arry, pip e do w n . It’s co m in g, bu d d y...” %e zoo closed for the evening as the zookeeper, crate of ⇡eld corn balanced on his shoulder, unlocked the cage. H arry w as starving, screeching and dashing from corner to corner as his handler stepped inside. %e zookeeper knelt, opened the crate, and tossed the green ears onto the concrete 192 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %at simple act of courtesy had touched him, infusing the zookeeper w ith a rare jolt of con⇡d en ce; th ey’d ch atted w h ile the kid hunted for the m ustard, and by the tim e he’d returned, the zookeeper had Jessica’s digits tucked in his shirt pocket alongside his ever- present Roi-T an. %us began the best sex of the zookeeper’s life... Jessica could never get enough. And nothing was o limits. She liked it doggy-style, cow girl, reverse-cow girl, old- fashioned m issionary, every w hich w ay tw o people could fornicate. N o h ole or sequence of penetration was prohibited; she was especially fond of ass-to- mouth, introducing the relatively inexperienced zookeeper to the practice. E ven now , he got a hard- on every tim e he used the A T M , each bittersweet transaction rem inding him of Jessica’s desertion. %e heartless whore had left him for an eighteen- year-old produce clerk nam ed M aurice. A ccording to Jessica, M aurice could stand on one foot and juggle three coconuts. A lso, M aurice had a tw elve-inch cock and testicles the size of lem ons. Presently, Harry screeched for more food. PuJng on his cigar, the zookeeper tossed the rem ainder of the corn in his direction. %e plan was to go back to his apartment, swill just enough beer and sm oke just enough dope to low er his inhibitions and/or fear of capture, and then procure Jessica as sh e ⇡n ish ed h er sh ift at n in e. %e zookeeper had been stalking her for w eeks; he knew Jessica’s schedule backw ards and forw ards. M aurice w orked days, so he wouldn’t be there; he would be back at her place, puJng on a jay, priming his twelve-inch pole and big nuts. Sorry, M aurice, but there’ll be no nooky tonight. 193 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Not for you, anyway... %e zookeeper watched as Harry attacked the corn. at’s it, buddy. Eat it all. You’re going to need your stren gth for later... He waited until Harry swallowed the very last morsel before pulling the tranquilizer gun from his belt. %e darts w ere loaded w ith just enough azaperone to knock H arry out for a few hours. Sedation w as necessary. O therwise, the perpetually-horny baboon was liable to jack-o three or four times before he could do the job... And that just wouldn’t do. Harry had to be atfu ll potency for this. “Sorry, H arry,” the zookeeper said, aim ing the gun, “b u t yo u ’ll th an k m e later.” %en he squeezed the trigger. *** Sitting behind the wheel of his twenty-seven-year-old Pontiac Fiero, the zookeeper’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel. In hom age to Ted Bundy, he had rem oved the passenger seat, a ording him a nice 194 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “Don’t–” “He AIN’T been CUT!” “You actually like–” “I lov e m e som e U N C U T C O C K !” Each and every heated argument came 195 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH He then whacked her in the back of the head, knocking her unconscious as he pushed her in, rushed around to the driver’s side, ⇡red up the F iero and hauled ass back to the zoo. *** %e enclosure’s overhead lights rendered the tableau a sick ly yellow . W ield in g a w ater h o se, R o i-T an juttin g from his m outh, the zookeeper stood in the corner of the cage, eyes glazed over w ith m alevolent w onder as he took in and adm ired the scene. Hands cu ed behind her back, a naked and groggy Jessica w as spraw led out on the concrete. She had begun to revive, but w as still not fully aw are of her predicam ent just yet. A s for H arry, w as just about fully w oken up, the azaperone having ⇡n ally relin q u ish ed its p o ten t g rip . Unable to delay any longer, the zookeeper activated the hose and blasted Jessica in the face. She coughed and sputtered, w hipping her w et head around, slinging w ater in all directions as H arry am bled around her. “LO O K A LIVE, KID S! RISE A N D SH IN E! IT’S PA RTY TIM E!” %en he sprayed Harry right in the kisser, and that sealed it. B arin g h is fan g s, screech in g an d 196 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “TH A T’S IT, H A RRY! G O G ET IT, BO Y! TA P TH AT NASTY POONTANG!” Jessica’s bow els cut loose then, spew ing shit beneath her squirm ing, kicking form . But H arry didn’t care as he mounted her from behind. He liked some stink with his pink. 197 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,ere are No More New Art Forms, ,ere are No More Summer Lifeguard Jobs Steven Storrie %is is it. All you have in your life right now is all there’s ever gonna be. Quick, how do you feel about that? I cam e h o m e fro m m y job d igging graves covered in mud and aching from my brains to my boots. I dropped m y leather gloves and fell heavily onto the couch. Sports and beer and dip. N ew spaper unfolded and laid out to cover the rug. I could never ⇡nd ‘m y kind of people’. M olly is sitting by the window , neon lights illum inating her features, talking about things she w ould rem em ber w hen she grew up. She has blonde hair and a tiny nose ring that m akes her look as perfect as it’s possible to be. She’s pulling petals o a 198 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Naming all my gold⇡sh ‘Sarah’ because it was my favourite nam e w hen I w as ⇡ve. Noah’s Ark wallpaper. Crying about a shiny piece of paint in my old room. %e Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Backstreet’s Back, Billie Piper, Ce’s La Vie. Broken arms and 10 year olds with ‘complex’ relatio n sh ip s. I rubbed m y forearm s and sore tattoos. M ade co ee and w atched L etterm an repeats. M olly stared out the window, hard, through the rain, all the way to California. %e moon was cream as stage lights and all the m onsters w ere out to play on the streets below . %e horse I had my money on was sick and yellow, 199 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH You’ve never had a place that felt like home. Legoland and overcoming fears with theme park rid es. You’ve seen your favourite m ovies one too m any tim es. ‘F unhouse’ and dream s of depositing the token on the go kart round. You hear nothing but chainsaws ⇡lling your ears all day. 1994, Friends, ER , Ellen, Frasier. You know what those constant headaches are for. Finally understanding the sex jokes when I was older. %e rain beats the glass and foam pokes out of the sofa. W ishing for som ething only m akes you bleed more. Women get their hair done in the salon across th e street. B u ses ru n late, o r th ey ru n o n tim e. It’s last call som ew here in the w orld. M olly tucks the knees of her ripped jeans under her chin and I wonder how it’s going to end. South Park, Am erican Pie and Tony Hawk. Sleepovers and water ⇡ghts and Blind Lane Park. Lying to get into ‘12’ movies. ‘G old’ chocolate bars and hot pink H i-T ops. Teddy Ruxpin, My Little Pony, Polly Pocket. Kids named after Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Fairy Liquid bottles, cupcakes and glitter glue. Topanga, Sean and Corey, Boy Meets World. I tie a w et rag around an old w ound. N one of the candidates speak for m e. I close m y eyes, see badly deform ed babies and the worst answers ever given on Family Feud. %ey never show Married with Children anym ore. A l Bundy doesn’t belong here. 200 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %ere’s the stench of a celebrity in town. You can feel it. It’s in the air and the pores of everyone you see. %is place is about to burn itself to the ground. Every word to the Bring It On cheer. Teen melodrama and hypocritical addiction. %e MTV Movie Awards. %eme tunes without words. Charlie Brown and Fraggle Rock on VHS. %e Brat Pack, %e Frat Pack and easy movies with typ ecasted acto rs. Basketball, Gap t-shirts. Kangaroos and naming a ham ster ‘Dinky.’ Cool movies associated with men with oddly shaped heads. %e Truman Show and how it could be real. “Som eday a real rain will com e and wash all this scum o the streets.” Whose party is this anyway? Bring more cake, bring more wine. %ere are no more new art forms. %ere are no m ore sum m er lifeguard jobs. Y ou can escape from anything if you say ‘I prom ise.’ A cockroach scrap es alon g th e 201 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I on ce set ⇡re to a bird . I w o n d er w h at th e pap ers w ill say ab o u t u s w h en w e’re g o n e. I w o n d er w h at th ey’ll say ab o u t m e. I h o p e th ey catch m y go o d sid e. A h u g e clock ticks on the w all, in the sh adow s, despite the fact I rem oved its batteries som e ⇡fteen d ay s ag o . I can’t sleep. I dream of narrow alleyw ays and a m an with elongated features. %ere’s a leak in the kitchen, a pipe that just can’t hold it together. I wake up sweating even with the windows open, and I think I know why. %ere isn’t anything in the B ible about this stu . I checked and ch ecked again. I tell M olly it’s nearly tim e. I can’t tak e it an ym o re. S h e tak es it w ith g o o d g race. S h e’s a good girl. She know s what to do. Irration al fears o f Ju rassic P ark , sh o w ering an d feath ers. Fancy dress costum e as Baby Spice. She ⇡nally advances tow ards m e. %e waiting is the hardest part. A w ave com es over m e all at once. I grind m y teeth w ith fury, convulsing until m y gum s bleed, and yell an in⇡nite scream . Pulling split ends. Grass stains and sunburn. %at’s what I’m gonna remember when I grow up. 202 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Great Zima Heist Arthur Graham “E veryo n e kn o w s th at 9 /1 1 w as N O T th e w o rk of al- Qaeda!” I scream at Tony, ⇡ring the .537 over my shoulder at the giant, vintage m onster truck on our ass, ten-foot tires threatening to grind us into the asphalt at any m om ent. “O h?! So w ho w as it then?!” T ony scream s back at me, fumbling to reload the shotgun as Bigfoot takes aim , extending his ow n pistol through the w indow of his nam esake truck. “Aliens? Illum inati? %e U .S. Government?!” “W hat?!” A high-pow ered round ricochets o o f m y arm or-plated headrest. “N O , you fucking jackass!” Tony spins around and unloads with the buckshot, putting a six-inch hole through B igfoot’s/B igfo o t’s windshield. “All right, cock, who was it then?!” “D o n ’t be such a m oron!” I scream over the how ling wind and gun⇡re. “Who ELSE stood so much to gain?!” “I d o n ’t know !” T ony scream s back at m e. “Fuckin ’ WHO?!” “%e goddam ned TRAVEL-SIZED TO ILETRY IN D U S T R Y !” “W H A T ?!?!” Evidently none too pleased with the damage done to his prized vehicle, Bigfoot guns the engine to ram our Zima-laden trailer hard from behind. 203 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “M otherfucker!” I scream , w atching as the bottles explode across the highw ay. “H e’s g o n n a trash o u r haul!” “W h at are w e go n n a do , m an ?!” Desperate times call for desperate measures.... Prom ptly unzipping my pants, I whip out my cock, in se rt it in to th e m o d i⇡e d n itro u s in ta k e v a lv e , a n d mentally prepare to drain o a long, hot piss. “W hat the fuck are you doing?!” T ony scream s, glancing dow n at m y junk. “D o n ’t look!” I scream back, shutting m y eyes to picture H elena Bonham Carter and Isabella Rossellini scisso rin g o n a p ile o f b lud g eo n ed b ab y seals. “I can ’t distill the right form ula with an audience...” As my own special blend of liver enzymes, water- soluble vitam ins, and pharm aceutical run-o b eg in s to 204 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Midnight Call Paul Heatley Amy was half-asleep when the phone began to ring. She started, the m ovie she’d been half-watching still playing. It looked like it w as nearing the end. She turned dow n the volum e and picked up the phone. “H ello?” It cam e out as a croak. She cleared her th ro at. %ere was no immediate response, but she could hear breathing. It w asn’t heavy, w asn’t lecherous. It w as lig h t. “Hello?” Still nothing. Am y hung up. She stepped away from the phone, stretched and yaw ned, decided it w as tim e for bed. In th e kitch en sh e go t herself a glass of w ater, keep ing one eye on the television screen through the open door. Amy lived alone. Her 205 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Amy eyed it, ran her tongue round the inside of her mouth. She contemplated picking it up and putting it straight back dow n. U nplugging it. It w as late. If som eone w as m essing around, she w asn’t in the mood. “H ello?” %e voice was quiet, but clear. Male. “Please don’t hang up.” “W h o is th is?” “It d o esn ’t m atter w h o I am . I k n o w w h o I’m talkin g to .” “W ell, yo u ran g m e, so I’m n o t su rp rised .” “I co u ld h ave th e w ro n g n u m b er.” “D o yo u ?” “Is th is A m y T aylor?” Amy said nothing, froze. “I’ll assu m e fro m yo u r silen ce th at yo u are.” “W h o is th is?” A m y said . “I to ld yo u , it do esn ’t m atter.” “T ell m e w h o yo u are or I’m go in g to h an g up .” “P lease do n ’t h an g up .” “I w arned you.” She m ade her voice ⇡rm . “A ren ’t yo u cu riou s?” “A b o u t w h at?” “W h y I’m callin g.” “W h y do n ’t yo u just sp it it ou t?” “If I do th at, yo u ’ll h an g up .” “I’m going to hang up anyw ay!” “I’ll tell yo u , if yo u pro m ise yo u ’ll stay on th e ph o n e.” “S o tell m e.” 206 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I w an t to fu ck yo u .” Amy’s jaw slackened. Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips, tried to sum m on som e spit, looked to her door to m ake sure the chain w as on. It w as. She walked over, checked the handle. Locked. “A re yo u still th ere?” “I’m still h ere.” “%ere’s n o n eed to b e alarm ed . I d o n ’t m ean rap e. If it’s n o t c o n se n su a l it’s n o t w o rth it.” Amy said nothing. “H o w do es th at m ak e yo u feel?” “What? W h o is th is? W h at do you w an t?” “I’ve to ld yo u w h at I w an t.” “Y o u ’re n o t go in g to get it.” “%at do esn ’t m ean I can ’t be h o n est.” “T o o h o n est.” “Y et yo u ’ve stayed on th e ph o n e.” “I said I w o u ld.” “P ro m ises are easily bro k en .” “I do n ’t break pro m ises.” “N ot even ones m ade on the phone to com plete stran g ers yo u can ’t see?” “Y o u ’ve m ad e m e cu riou s.” “Y o u w an t to kn o w w h o I am .” “Y es.” “Y o u th in k yo u ’ll be ab le to ⇡n d ou t.” “H ave w e m et?” “%is isn ’t tw en ty qu estion s.” “%en w h at is it?” “It’s a co n versation .” 207 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “A ll righ t. W h y do yo u w an t to fu ck m e?” “W h y w o u ldn ’t I?” Amy realised she was still standing. She turned o the television, took a seat. “G ive m e som e reasons.” “Y o u ’re very beau tifu l.” “A re yo u on ly in terested in loo k s?” “W e’re talkin g on a ph o n e. W h at do yo u th in k ?” “%at so u n d s like w e’ve m et.” “I like h o w yo u w ear yo u r h air th ese days.” Amy paused. “What?” “D o n ’t get m e w ro n g, I liked it w h en it w as lon g , b u t it looks better short. It suits you. It show s o y o u r face. Y our eyes have alw ays been your best feature, but now they really stand out. %ey look bigger alm ost. I hope you take that as a com plim ent. I m ean it a s o n e .” Amy couldn’t talk. Until his description of her, she’d th o u g h t th e w h o le th in g w as m ayb e ju st so m e jo k e. %e voice was a mystery. It didn’t belong to anyone she knew . B ut he knew her, apparently, w hat she looked like, how she w ore her hair, and how she used to h ave it. She was scared. “I’m sure m any m en tell you how beautiful you are. You’re generically pretty. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. But th ere’s so m eth in g d i eren t ab o u t yo u . S o m eth in g sp ecial.” Amy opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “Y ou’re scared, aren’t you? Y ou don’t need to be scared .” Amy went to her door again, double-checked the lo c k . “A re yo u still th ere?” 208 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “Y es,” A m y cro ak ed . “Y o u ’re n o t talkin g .” “Y o u cau gh t m e by su rp rise.” “N o th in g sh o u ld su rp rise yo u . I’m talkin g ab o u t yo u , after all.” “O kay. O kay.” A m y took deep breaths, regained her com posure. “S o w hat m akes m e ‘special’?” “%at’s so m eth in g h ard to exp lain . It’s w o rd less.” “G ive it a try.” “O k ay. W ell. S o m etim es I w o rried th at yo u w o u ld b e one of th o se girls.” “W h at do yo u m ean ?” “%e kind that look very nice, but w hen you talk to th em yo u realise th at’s all th ey are. %at is th e en tirety of their being – the w ay they look. Inside, they’re em pty. V acant. %ey have no interest in anything or anyone other than them selves. It’s disheartening.” “A n d th at’s n o t m e?” “Y o u kn o w it’s n o t.” “M ayb e th o se girls do n ’t eith er.” “P ro b ab ly th ey do n ’t. B u t th at’s h o w th ey are.” “Y o u k n o w so m u ch ab o u t m e, b u t I still d o n ’t k n o w anything about you.” “T ell m e w h at yo u w an t to k n o w , I’ll see w h at I can do.” “W h at’s yo u r n am e?” “Y o u ’re bein g to o am b itiou s. Y o u kn o w I’m n o t go in g to tell yo u th at.” “O k ay th en . W h at do you lo o k lik e ?” “Y o u w o u ldn ’t be in terested in m e.” “%at so ? H o w can yo u be su re?” 209 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “I’m su re.” “W h y’s th at? A re yo u defo rm ed or so m eth in g?” “M ayb e.” “Y o u ’re n o t givin g m e m u ch to w o rk w ith h ere.” “I did n ’t say I w o u ld. I said I’d see w h at I co u ld do .” “S o w h at w ill yo u give m e?” “W ould you feel m ore or less inclined to continue talk in g to m e if yo u th o u g h t I w as h an d so m e, o r grotesque?” “Y o u said I w as sp ecial. Y o u tell m e.” “%en let’s say I’m h id eo u s. L et’s say I’m hunchbacked, my ⇡ngers are webbed, half of my face has been horribly scarred in a ⇡re. I lost an eye in that sam e ⇡re. %e left on e.” “%at’s a great d eal o f m isfo rtu n e. B u t yo u r vo ice doesn’t sound like you’ve been so badly burned.” “H ow does m y voice sound?” “It so u n d s deep ... it so u n d s...” W o rd s failed h er. “D oes it sound sensual? Strong? H andsom e? Sm art? Sexy?” “Y eah , ok ay. I su p p o se it do es.” “It kep t yo u on th e ph o n e.” “P ossibly. M aybe. I don’t know . It could have been part of the reason. Y ou m ade m e curious. Y ou sp ark ed m y in terest.” “If a w om an called m e out of the blue, claim ed she wanted to fuck me, it would spark my interest, too.” “%en w e’re on th e sam e page.” “M m m . D o I scare yo u ?” Amy hesitated. “I don’t know.” “I w o n ’t h u rt yo u . I w o n ’t even ask to m eet yo u .” 210 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “%en how do you expect to fuck m e?” “I don’t expect it – I w ant it. G o to your w indow , open the curtain.” Amy looked at the drawn curtains but didn’t move. “W h y?” “G o to it. L o o k ou tsid e. Y o u w o n ’t see an yth in g. Y o u won’t see me.” Amy prised the curtains open. “Well?” “W id er. A ll th e w ay.” She did. %ere w as another block of 211 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “Y es, yo u are. Y o u w ill tak e yo u r cloth es o , yo u w ill stan d n ak ed , an d yo u w ill let m e see yo u .” “W h y?” “B ecau se yo u w an t to sh o w m e w h at I can ’t h ave.” “Y o u w an t m e to tease yo u ?” “N o, I w ant you to show m e. A nd you w ant to be adm ired.” Amy bit her lip. “D o n ’t be sh y. It’s just yo u an d m e.” “It’s a w h o le bu ildin g.” “N o b o d y’s loo k in g.” “Y o u can ’t be su re.” “D o es it m atter? T ak e o yo u r cloth es.” Amy hesitated. She kept the phone to her ear. %e voice was silent. Patient. Waiting. Still holding the phone, she slipped o her cardigan, one sleeve at a tim e, let it fall to the ground. Paused. She took o her jeans next, m ost of her legs concealed by the w all below the w indow . %en she to o k o her t-shirt. H er clothes lay in a heap at her feet. She kicked them to one side and stood there, presenting herself. “%e un d erw ear, to o .” %ough she hesitated for a moment, Amy unclipped her bra, let it fall. She stared straight ahead. She’d given up on trying to pinpoint his location by now . “E veryth in g,” h e said . She low ered her knickers, stood back up. “Y o u ’re very beau tifu l.” “%an k yo u .” “T o u ch yo u rself.” 212 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I’m n o t go in g to – ” “Y ou w eren’t going to take o your clothes. Y ou know you’re going to do this. Close your eyes. Listen to m y voice. Im agine m e there, w ith you, behind you, my arms around you and my mouth at your ear.” Amy did as he said. “N o w , to u ch yo u rself.” %e phone in her left hand, still at her ear, she slid her right across her stom ach until it was between her legs. She stroked herself slow ly. She w as already moist. She rubbed at her clitoris, gasped into the phone. “A re you...” She sw allow ed. “A re you doing the sam e?” “I’m th ere w ith yo u , m y h an d s u p o n yo u r w aist. I kiss your ear, your neck, your back. M y hands cup your breasts. M y ⇡ngers stroke your nipples until they harden. I spread your legs.” Amy gasped. “Yes...” “I go to m y knees, put m y face betw een your buttocks, tease you with m y 213 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “D id yo u ... did yo u like w h at yo u saw ?” “I liked w h at I saw . D id yo u like w h at yo u h eard ?” “Y o u kn o w I did .” “I’ll h ave m o re fo r yo u to m o rro w .” And with that, he was gone. Amy stood at the window, still naked, still exposed, Her orgasm still coursed through her limbs, tingled in her toes and her stom ach. Slow ly, her heartbeat calmed, her breathing returned to n o rm al. She closed the curtains. 214 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Grimbolatron Ju stin G rim b o l Bella came into my oJce. I was working on a poem. %e poem was about butts. I w an ted to w rite a w h ole b oo k ab o u t b u tts. C alled it FRA N KEN BO O TY. “W h at th e fu ck is th at?” B ella ask ed . “It’s FR A N K E N B O O T Y . It’s going to be the next great Am erican novel. O r poem . O r whatever.” “N o I m ean th at pile of trash in th e co rn er.” I loo ked over. A n im p ressive pile of old ph o to s, D V D cases, sh itty books and other junk. “A re yo u bu ildin g a n est?” sh e ask ed . “N o w ay. Ju st a pile. Y o u kn o w h o w I like piles.” “Y o u su re do .” “I w as th in k in g ab o u t pu ttin g a blan k et over it.” “%at’s n o t a bad id ea.” “Y o u do n ’t w an t m e to clean it?” “I m ean , I d o . I d o w an t yo u to clean it. B u t th at’s a really intense pile. I w ouldn’t even know w here to begin.” She was wearing fuzzy red sweat pants she got from my stepmom. %ey were baggy and cozy looking. I grabbed her pants and pulled her close. I sm elled her crotch. 215 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH She laughed and told me to stop. “I can’t help it. I have a libido. It ⇡lls m e w ith passion.” “O h bab y,” sh e said . And she started trying to get it on by kissing my neck and grabbing m y dick. “Stop,” I said. “I can’t do that right now . I gotta write.” “F in e.” She looked at m y com puter screen. M icrosoft W ord had been m inimized. YouT ube was up. %ere was a video of a lady w ith a big booty tw erking. “%is is yo u w ritin g?” “S o m etim es w h en I w rite I w atch Y o u T u b e. It g ives me inspiration. You know that.” “R igh t.” She walked o to the living room . And I continued writing. But I didn’t write about butts anym ore. I started working on a list that I was planning on sending to Cracked. %e list was called: TOP FIVE SEXIEST TRANSFORM ERS (AND YES GOBOTS COUNT, DON’T BE A SNOB) I co u ld o n ly th ink o f a few T ran sfo rm ers. %ere w as Arcee. %e pink lady from the movie. She was hot. Great legs. %en there was that chick from the GoBots but she kinda seem ed like a tranny. I thought trannies w ere sexy. B u t d id I really w an t to op en up ab o u t th at in an article about fem ale transform ers? I w as online researching fem ale T ransform ers w hen Bella came in again. 216 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE She looked at the screen and saw a picture of a Transformer. “Y o u h ave to be kid d in g m e,” sh e said . I sh u t m y lap to p . “It’s n o t w h at yo u th in k ,” I said . “%is is fu ck ed ,” sh e said . She stormed o . I ch ased after her. She liked that. Soon we were playing tag. I cau gh t h er at o n e p o int an d th en I p u lled h er p an ts dow n and sm elled her butt. %en I dragged her o to the bedroom. We started having sex. “H ave you noticed our sex has gotten a lot m ore cuddly?” I asked. She nodded. %en she kissed me. %en I kissed her back. 217 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Adult Movies & ,e Atlantic Monthly Brenton Booth Long Willie was broke. At one time he was the top- payed perform er in the adult ⇡lm industry, but those days were long gone. Born W inston Chester, Long W illie had originally been discovered at a M cD onald’s urinal. H e was just standing there relieving him self w hen E ddie H ard, the fam ous porn producer, looked over and noticed at le a st se v e n in c h e s o f so ft m e a t o n th is y o u n g m a n . Eddie couldn’t believe it. By the time they’d washed hands, he’d already had him signed. W inston declined Eddie’s traditional handshake. Soon after, W inston began making movies under the moniker of Long Willie. He was in hot demand. It seem ed lik e everyo n e w an ted h im (o r a p iece o f h im ) in th e ir ⇡lm s (o r b o d ie s). He was making a fortune. He went from living on boiled rice and water to eating a la carte an d d rin k in g single-barrel w hiskey. H e no longer w alked everyw here; he drove around in a new red sports car. And his sex life went from nonexistent to never- ending. It w as all q u ite stran ge to W insto n . O riginally h e’d wanted to be a writer. He would write and write–all day and night. It was all he ever really thought about when he wasn’t working. 218 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE His biggest problem, though, was that he never really seem ed to have m uch to say. A nd although this never stopped the m asses of university graduates and dropouts in the past–he wasn’t so sure. He was never really co n ⇡dent about his w ork. He continued trying regardless. After a while, the sto ries b eg an to im p ro ve. H e even tu ally d ecid ed th at his stu was actually pretty good. He began sending it to th e A tlan tic M o n th ly. %ey w ere a class publication, he thought. He sent fourteen stories over a period of seven years. He was rejected each time. W inston’s favourite writer, like most other unpublished writers, was himself. N o one else really com pared. A part for Henry Miller, but he needed to separate the self in d u lg e n t fro m th e sto ry , w h ic h a t tim e s m a d e h is stu w o rse th an a 219 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “O nly problem is he’s too sm all,” E ddie explained. “%e th in g is th o u g h , h is p aren ts are rich . I to ld h im all about you W illie, uhhh, sorry, W inston, and he’s de⇡nitely interested.” “W hat do you m ean?” said W inston. “Interested in what?” “In yo u r co ck .” “I don’t do that anym ore. B esides, I never did gay stu .” “H e d o esn ’t w an t to screw yo u ; h e w an ts to b u y yo u . He wants your dick, Willie. Look, you don’t need it anym ore, and I know you’re broke. %is kid w ill give you thirty-thousand for it.” %e day after the operation, Winston died. Now the kid has his cock. Eddie nam ed him Long Forcash. About a week later, Long felt some movement in the middle of the night from his newly grafted-on cock. It w asn ’t yo u r usu al 3am half-sti y, eith er. He peered down there and swore it looked alive. %at’s when the cock started speaking to him. It said to g rab a p en an d start tak in g n o tes. Long was naturally reluctant at ⇡rst, unsure if he wasn’t just dreaming the whole thing. “D o as I say,” said th e co ck , “o r I w o n ’t fu ck fo r yo u anym ore.” He ended up writing all night. Line after line, page after page. H e ended up w riting ⇡ve com plete stories. It w as am azing! %e cock told him its nam e w as Winston. It had had writers block for years, though now the words just wouldn’t stop. When it ⇡nally ⇡nished dictating, the cock gave instructions to send the stories w ith a self-addressed stam p ed en velop e to th e A tlan tic M o n th ly. 220 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE What Winston didn’t know was that Long Forcash’s father w as a big shareholder in the m agazine. W hen Long handed the stories to him, he assumed his son had w ritten them , and w as just pretending to be su b m ittin g th em fo r a frien d . N eed less to say, all ⇡ve of them were published. And Long’s father was proud to h ave a w riter for a son , rath er th an a porn o actor. It did w arm his heart to know that his son had been screw ing so m any w om en, though. Winston continues to write. He dictates to Long Forcash every single night. H is stories have becom e so m e of th e m o st read in th e w h o le en tire w o rld . Forcash is currently regarded as one of the greatest writers living today. Yet no one knows where the words are really coming from. 221 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,ey All Want to Piss on You Fiona Helmsley High on heroin, we had sex on his mom’s blue-grey dining room carpet, and the sm all of m y back w as ripped raw and bloody by the carpet’s sti ⇡b ers. Curly-q’s of frayed skin formed a frame around the tram p stam p of a w et w ound. H e w ent into the kitchen to get paper towels to clean m e up, and m e fro m th e carp et. “W h y did n ’t yo u say an yth in g ?” h e ask ed . “It w as stran ge,” I an sw ered . “It d id n ’t really h u rt, bu t I knew that if w e didn’t stop, there w ould be a consequence. I had to m ake a choice. U sually the pain makes the decision for you. I decided not to decide.” I w atch ed in th e dining ro om m irror as h e dab b ed th e area of m y back w ith peroxide and care. “%is m igh t leave a scar,” he said. “I’m not going to lie. I like the idea that I m ay have scarred you forever.” H is eyes gave o an electrical m edicated sp ark le. Over the next few weeks, he’d randomly lift the back of m y shirt to chart the healing process. When we last saw each other, the scab had fallen o , revealing a faded blue-grey bruise underneath, a su rp risin g ly close m atch to h is m o th er’s carp et. %ere was a slight scar, but years later, only I, know ing what to look for, could ever m ake it out. 222 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE *** A few weeks into our coupling, my present boyfriend and I w ere having sex on the industrial carpet in his work shop. We’d been drinking, and were still in that ⇡rst stage of a relationship, when you are polite and considerate, and on your best behavior. H e w as grinding into m e, the sm all of m y back *** One more. 223 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH A few years ago, I became painfully skinny. %e only thing I didn’t like about m y size w as m y breasts. Every part of me had been reduced, my breasts in c lu d e d , a n d I b e c a m e in trig u e d w ith th e id e a o f getting a breast job. I w as seeing a guy in B rooklyn, w ho m ade a good salary. “Y ou should pay for m e to get a breast job,” I su g g ested , on e S atu rd ay m o rn in g , over co ee. He seemed to think about it. “W hat if w e broke up?” he said. “I w ouldn’t w ant another guy touching the breasts I paid for. N ah, I don’t think I like that.” “O b viou sly, yo u m u st h ave so m e d o u b ts ab o u t o f o u r relatio n sh ip , if w h en yo u lo o k in to th e fu tu re, yo u see so m e oth er m an to u ch in g m y breasts.” “I do n ’t like it. M ayb e I’d do it if w e w ere m arried .” “W ell, I w o u ldn ’t w an t to be m arried to a p erso n w h o didn’t trust m e enough to cover m y breast job unless we were married.” %at seemed to put him for a loop. His large salary wasn’t based on intellect. “I’d have to think about it,” he said, a sneaky grin sp read in g acro ss h is face. “I d o kin d of lik e th e id ea of scarrin g yo u fo rever.” 224 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Som ething About Sunshine Ben John Smith Lipstick. She had applied and removed over ⇡fteen layers of lipstick in the last 24 hours. C herry reds. Deep purples. Silver. Orange. Gold. Judging by the ashtray piled high w ith grey ash and white butts, she had been there at least 24 hours. %e butts w ere all sm eared w ith di erent shades of her on-again-o -again lipstick oils. O ils still perfectly; forensically ornate in the raised gels of her face ’s ⇡ngerprint. She lit another, breathed in shallow ly and rubbed at her lips with a cotton cloth heavily soaked in acetone. %ere was a muted porno playing on a small pink television above her dresser. F ull-color Scandinavian hardcore from the early nineteen seventies. Technically beautiful in every way. A white sheik in a Indian harem w hipping a black w om an tied to a chaise lounge. %e scene w as full of lavish color, everything red and pink and ⇡lm ed beneath harsh burning spotlights. One of her neighbors could be hear shuVing around next door, the sound of a belt buckle and the chiming of som e keys. %e click of a door. She un-m uted the television, and the sounds of whipping and moaning ⇡lled the air like a sadistic sym phony. A cat w alked along the headboard of her bed silently. 225 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH She was thinking of a time when she used to play dirty video gam es on the fam ily hom e com puter. She was remembering her process and how proud she was of her discipline in not letting her excitem ent get her caugh t. She would wait days to get the house to herself, the anticipation driving her to m any cunning w ays. She skipped school. W oke up late at night. She thought about the tim e it had taken her in order to prepare herself back then. In serting th e C D , u n zipp ing, installing, d eleting, em ptying, rem oving ⇡les. %e gam e w as all in Jap an ese. S h e d id n ’t speak or read a w ord of it, but she m anaged to get through its turn-based conversation lines and replies to know w h ich w ay to go. It w as a social tim e for her, as sex w ould eventually becom e; a tim e to m eet new people, w ork th ro u g h th eir lin es an d rep ly. In stall, d elete, rem o ve. She was thinking of losing her virginity at thirteen in the sunshine. T o a boy w ho read P lato. She thought about plum m eting to the earth from a billion light years aw ay, forever. She thought about la n d in g . A b o u t c ra sh in g . %e thought about death. She thought about death like sex. About lipstick. And acetone. A nd m oaning. At her feet, she thought of a forest. %ick leaves and trees entangling her so tightly they bruised her peach- so ft sk in . S h e th o u g h t ab o u t yo u . She turned o the light, re-m uted the television, lay in bed and thought about you. 226 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Daddy, Daddy, Candy Eater Tim Tobin A woman she’d never met had been the one to name her Candy. After her mother passed, a father she’d always loathed had tasted the candy, often. She wrote Candace on her job application but her real nam e stuck. She was Candy to the oJce, especially to th e m en , an d th o se m en sam p led th e can d y, to o . McMillan, Murphy and Collins, attorneys at law, enjoyed candy. C andy endured, not enjoyed, the attention, the gifts, the 227 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Candy stopped in a convenience store and bought a box of chocolate cherries, her father’s favorite. %e clerk com m ented on how m uch of it she bought. Candy smiled her sweet little smile at him while she paid. Pulling into the driveway, Candy killed the engine and w alked up the front steps of her house, rem in d in g h erself to tak e o u t th e trash b in b efo re sh e went to bed. Damned thing was over 228 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Lucky Ones Christine Stoddard Before Tinder and Grinder and OKCupid, we had the E ast E nd B ridge. It w as not a land of love but a la n d o f fu c k s a n d y o u c o u ld g iv e a s m a n y , o r a s fe w , a s you w anted. B ut you cam e there to lie in a bed of used condom s, shit-covered leaves, and broken glass with one intention: to give, or receive, at least one fuck. A lcohol and drugs w ere m erely appetizers, and th e o n ly restau ran t yo u g o to ju st fo r ap p etizers is TGI Fridays. All others either win or lose you with th e m ain co u rse. Sum m er after sum m er, the East End Bridge boasted a loyal custom er base. E ven in the w intertim e, you could ⇡nd local kids em bracing each other, panting little clouds of their w arm live breath into the air, stretched out on a strip of cardboard if they w ere lu c k y . A mediocre meal is better than no meal at all. Everybody’s got to eat. Or, as my mom used to say, “Everybody’s got needs.” We went there because most of us didn’t have our ow n bedroom s like kids in the m ovies. M ost of our parents didn’t have jobs, at least not steady ones, which meant none of us had our own cars, let alone hot rides with leather seats. Privacy was just another m iddle-class luxury we couldn’t a ord. 229 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH You either went all the way under the East End Bridge or saved yourself for m arriage like Pastor Jenkins com m anded from the pulpit of our otherw ise- abandoned strip m all church: Chastity is a virtue. Chastity is divine. Chastity will save yo u fro m h ell⇡re. I h ad p lan n ed o n saving m yself for m arriage less o u t of a concern for hell than a concern for cutting m yself on a sm ashed bottle under the East End Bridge. It w as no bed of roses, even that tim e our biology teacher, M s. R ussell, tossed ⇡fteen b o u q u ets o ver th e edge. H er ⇡ancé sent the 230 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Her tits are 231 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Requiem for an Ass Zoltan Komor My girlfriend gets fed up with all the people who are alw ays staring at her ass, so one day she locks herself in th e b a th ro o m w ith a g ia n t k itc h e n k n ife a n d c h o p s o both of her buttocks, just like that. %ey would’ve sew th em back on at th e h o sp ital, bu t sh e lies an d says sh e lost th em . Actually we keep them in a cardboard box on the top of the wardrobe, and I’m the only one who get to look at them . B ut one night som eone breaks into our house, and I ⇡nd a stranger sitting on our 232 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE So next day, I ⇡nd four strangers up there, just sitting in a circle around the box. It looks like they are in som e kind of deep m editation state, trans⇡xed b y tw in m o u n d s o f ass-m eat w ith in . Before they’ve even noticed me, I grab the box and hurry back dow n the ladder. At the moment, we’re keeping the box in a locked draw er. I carry the key on a string around m y neck. Every now and then, a stranger sneaks into our home and peeps through the draw er’s keyhole. My girlfriend’s wounds are healing, but she still looks kind of like an apple som eone took a couple bites from . E very tim e w e m ake love, w e take her buttocks out from the draw er. I put on som e latino m usic, and I tell her: “Shake your ass, baby!” So she begins to shake the cardboard box in her hands – her buttocks bouncing around in sid e . With the use of some adhesive tape, we temporarily reattach her butt back onto her, and she gives m e a really n ice lap d an ce. %e ad h esive tap e isn ’t alm ig h ty, how ever, and she leaves one of her asscheeks in m y la p . It’s a b it aw kw ard , b u t sh e sm iles just th e sam e, sn atch in g u p h er assch eek an d ru b b in g m e w ith it like it w as a sponge or som ething. %e strangely preserved meat leaves a odd slime all over my skin. I gaze at the sm all black dot on the asscheek in her hand – the lovely birthm ark that brings back so many fond m em ories. It is then that a sm all, w riggling worm squirms out from under it. M y girlfriend scream s an d th ro w s h er assch eek to th e 233 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH After a few days, my girlfriend’s butt ends up in the trash. N ow strangers are gathering around the garbage can out front, unable to take their eyes o it for a second. It seem s m y girlfriend doesn’t care anym ore that they are staring at her butt. Instead, she seem s to m iss it fo r th e ⇡rst tim e. “B ut there are m any things m ore im portant than a butt, right?” she asks through welling tears. “O f co u rse,” I tell h er, as th ey all co m e to m in d . %e morning stretching, for example. Or walking in a fo rest. %e m arrow -m elting sadness of the snapping of deer antlers. %e calm ness of long forgotten costum es, the silent sw inging of the coat hangers in a dusty old w ardrobe. %e gold resin drops hanging from w ounded trees – m y m other used to say they were the honeyed teardrops of angels. %ese are all more important than an ass, to be frank. %e wet milk skin of puberty, when adulthood gathers in the corners of your eyes, like m orning rose spores. %e drying gypsum sculptures of the secret thoughts in your skull. %e v a n ish in g p u lsa tio n o f th e sto le n body heat after holding hands. A ll of these are m ore im p o rta n t th a n h a v in g a n a ss. %ere are many more important things, I tell myself, joining the long line that has form ed dow n the block for a peek at m y girlfrien d’s butt. 234 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Apt. C Arthur Graham I’ve existed here for quite som e tim e it seem s, its passage m easured only by the changing colors of the hairs upon the 235 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Peeling your moist folds apart from within, my senses are assaulted by the blinding light, the unm uVed noise, and the fresh air of the outside w orld. I am born again, if only just for one aw ful mom ent. Out I come; I cum back in. Som etimes I wonder if there’s an yth in g else b eyo n d th is. 236 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Woman Who Loved Floppy Hats Jo h n D . R o b in so n Loretta Blissful was a very attractive and sexy twenty seven year old and had an untam ed and insatiable appetite for the opposite sex. She had been m arried and divorced nine tim es; a com m itm ent to just one man was impossible for her. One man was never enough. Loretta liked to think of herself as a sexual vampire with an unquenchable thirst for cock. No matter how deeply Loretta’s love for each of her nine husbands, sh e co u ld sim p ly n o t resist th e u rg e, th e opportunities, the lust to pursue other m en for sexual conquests and adventures. S he sim ply could not help herself; her passion was her dem on and she loved her dem on well. Loretta naturally knew the type of man she wanted, and this varied according to how she w as feeling, but sh e n o lon g er p u rsu ed fat g u ys; sh e h ad exp erien ced a couple of fat guys and on both occasions found the scene to be lim ited and aw kw ard and dam n right uncom fortable, and she had felt nothing but a big fat disappointm ent. Loretta had personal standards, too; there were some party-tricks that she would not engage in whatsoever, but there is no reason to go into all that detail right now . 237 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Tonight Loretta was sat alone in one of her regular and m ost successful of pick-up joints, a seedy club called ‘%e P urple Snake’. She cast her eyes around the place, checking w hat w as on the m enu. She took a sip o f h er vo d k a o n ice an d set th e g lass b ack o n h er tab le. “D o yo u m in d if I join yo u ?” Loretta looked up and was impressed by what she saw . “Y es, it w o u ld be m y p leasu re” “I’m D uncan W eatherby,” he said, o erin g an outstretched hand, “pleased to m eet you.” Duncan was a smooth-looking twenty four old who was presently recovering from a treacherous relationship that had broken him to pieces, but his eyes shone bright and his voice w as deep and con⇡dent. “I’m L oretta,” she said, taking his hand as D uncan stu m b led in to h er w eb . %e two struck up some easy and warm conversation. Loretta knew that Duncan found her attractive, and she found him appealing as w ell. A t approxim ately 10pm , she decided to make her move. “D u n can , w o u ld yo u like to join m e fo r a n igh tcap ? I don’t live far from here...” Duncan did not hesitate; he was eager and he was keen and he hadn’t been laid in a long while. H e was bursting w ith excitem ent and could hardly contain himself or the graphic thoughts that w ere now stream in g th ro u g h h is h ead . “Y es, th at so u n d s like a great id ea,” h e said . “W e can get a cab.” 238 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Together they left ‘%e Purple Snake’, and ten minutes later they were in Loretta’s apartment. She had ⇡xed som e drinks and put som e Sibelius on the hi-⇡. %ey sat beside each other on the sofa, both of them w ondering w ho w as going to m ake the ⇡rst move, but actually there was no question who was going to m ake the ⇡rst m ove; it was Loretta. “D u n k y, w o u ld yo u like to get fu n k y?” L o retta ask ed , sm ilin g w ith lust in h er eyes. Duncan said nothing in response, nodding his head vigorously. “%en D u n k y, yo u fo llow m e...” Loretta rose from the sofa and walked down the hallway, proceeding to her bedroom with Duncan just a few perspiring steps behind. As she launched herself onto the bed and began peeling o her clothes, D uncan dived right after, rem o vin g h is o w n clo th in g as w ell as th ey k issed an d groped one another. A few moments into the adventure, Loretta cried out, “D u n k y, sto p ! S T O P , D u n k y!” Duncan stopped and rolled o of her in shock; things had seem ed to be going well. He didn’t know what he had done wrong; he was de⇡nitely out of practice, but he still knew a thing or two. “It’s not you D unky,” L oretta explained, “it’s m e, really it’s m e! S o m eth in g ’s ju st m issin g ...” “M issin g? A n d w h at’s th at?” “W ould you do som ething for m e, som ething that would make everything alright..?” Duncan nodded his head, telling her “I’ll do anything, anything you ask!” “O k ay...” L o retta said . “B eh in d yo u , in a ro w again st th e w all, are tw elve h at stan d s. 239 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Duncan glanced over his shoulder and noticed her im pressive collection of h ats for th e ⇡rst tim e . “G o to th e ⇡rst h at stan d on th e left an d ch o o se a h at, any hat, just choose one and choose one quickly! G O DUNKY GO!” Duncan had never seen so may hats in all his life, a dozen hat stands w ith dozens upon dozens of hats upon each of them . It was quite the sight; hats of all di erent shapes, styles, sizes, and colours. It w as honestly a bit overwhelming, being suddenly forced to ch oose one. %en, suddenly, without further hesitation, Duncan lunged in all his nudity for the ⇡rst hatstand on the left, grabbing a bright blue beret adorned w ith rid icu lo u s p lastic 240 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE He hadn’t been going at her very long before she cried out once again, “S T O P D U N K Y ! S T O P ! IT ’S JUST NOT RIGHT! SOM ETHING IS NOT WORKING! STOP DUNKY!” “It’s th e fu ck in g h at ag ain , isn ’t it?” D u n can said . “W HAT IS IT W ITH THESE FUCKING HATS?” “DUNCAN, I’M HOT AND I NEED YOU INSIDE M E NOW ! PLEASE, GO TO THE FIFTH HAT STAND FRO M TH E LEFT AND GET A HAT! IT’LL WORK THIS TIME, GO DUNKY GO!” Once again, Duncan scrambled o the bed, grabbing a hat w ithout looking from the designated hat stand. %is one was a lustrous leather Australian outback hat with scores of wine corks dangling from its brim. %ey assaulted his face as he dashed back into bed, but he ignored the annoyance and got back dow n to business. Within a few moments Loretta screamed, “NO DUNKY! STOP! YOU MUST STOP DUNKY! IT JU S T IS N ’T R IG H T !” Duncan backed o of her, ripped the hat from o his head and threw it across the room . “FUCKING H ATS! FUCKING H ATS!” he scream ed in frustration. “FU C K IN G G O D D A M N RO TTEN HATS!” “D U N KY! I H A VE IT! TH IS TIM E I KN O W IT WILL WORK! DUNKY GO TO THE WARDROBE AND THERE YOU WILL FIND TH E SPECIAL HAT TH AT IS M AGIC! GO GET IT DUNKY! IN THE WARDROBE! GO DUNKY GO!” 241 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH With some reservation this time, Duncan raced over to the w ardrobe and threw open its doors. H e looked inside and had to take a step back to appreciate the view . It w as the biggest fucking hat he had ever seen! A monstrous violet velvet Stetson, which he promptly snatched and heaved up onto his head. Darkness overtook him as the huge 242 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Condom-Leeches Zoltan Komor A trail of passing train smoke slowly wafts above the ju n g le c a n o p y . Old alarm clocks crack into pieces under the heavy feet of hippopotam uses. %e hour and the m inute hands w riggle out of the broken instrum ents, craw ling under the skin of parrots. %e birds begin to tick . On the riverbank, a young lady is getting sicker and sicker by the m inute. H er skin is paler than it’s ever been before. She m assages her aching belly, leaning over the water’s edge, violently retching as she vom its used condom s dow nstream . “I’ll b e b etter so o n ...” sh e vo w s to h er ⇡an cé, h o ldin g her tight from behind. B ut no sooner than she’s ⇡nished her sentence, another condom , like a giant pink worm , passes between her trem bling lips. It p lop s into th e river an d slith ers into th e m u rky depths. “D am n th is u gly jun g le...” m u tters th e m an in th e safari hat standing nearby. Sw atted m osquitoes fall from his m ustache as he speaks. “Y es, visitin g th is ro tten p lace w as certain ly a b ad idea!” says the w om an’s ⇡a n c é . “T o u c h in g a lia n a o r step p in g o ver a p u d d le is b ad en o u g h ! E ven th e sigh t of this river is infectious! %ese backw oods are far worse than any french shit-house!” 243 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %en, returning his attention to the woman in his arm s, “W e need to ⇡nd a doctor, m y love!” Of course, where would they ⇡nd a doctor in a place like this? %e bloom of the heart is dropping its petals. Dirty water sluices through the lifeline of every palm. %e only available m edicine is the fog, condensing as it does upon an old silver spoon. Further o , deep in the jungle, a passing train falls victim to the natives’ trap. %e ground caves in beneath its tracks, derailing it com pletely. %e train whistle toots its indignity and pain, echoing o the distant mountains. Meanwhile, the hunters watch from among the fronds, th eir faces painted red w ith blood. %ey b eg in to chant, deep and steady, and the sound rises into the sky. B irds passing overhead explode like hand grenades from heaven. %ere are small, seeping wounds across the hides of all the hippopotam uses, erupting w ith nightm ares like evil djinns. Crocodile masks. Som ewhere nearby, an antique blunderbuss ⇡res colorful parrots into the air. Outside the native village, a small boy is hunting cat⇡sh w ith his bare hands. H e feels out their caves in th e sh allo w rill, tem p tin g th em to b ite h is ⇡n g ers. %is is a dangerous task, as sometimes snakes or tu rtles tak e u p th e sam e q u arters. %ere are even giant cat⇡sh in the holes, som e of them six or seven feet lo n g , w h ic h c o u ld e a sily sw a llo w th e b o y w h o le . %e boy knows this, but his hunger forces him to take the risk. H e stum bles up and dow n in the m uddy banks, w alking the sam e path back and forth again. As he doubles over to dig, his spine pokes out from his skin, like a snake hiding under the sand. 244 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Som eone yells his nam e. H is mother waves from the outskirts of the village. She calls to him , beckoning him hom e. %ere will be a big feast soon; his father and the others captured som ething enorm ous in the jungle. %e boy’s distended stomach rumbles with hunger. His mother screams as he comes running toward her, translucent w orm s 245 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH It C am e From th e G arage Ken Alexopoulos Drip. Drip. Drip. I co u ld hear th e soft tap p ing of w h at I rem em b ered to be rain upon the roof of the garage. It used to be a form of reassurance, that the outside w orld still existed, that I w asn’t all alone in there. How naive... It had been m onths since I last saw the sun, or the moon, or anything other than the concrete 246 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Soon his hands are upon m e, wheeling m e out into th e lig h t... No! I w anted to scream , but the w ords refused to com e.No! I won’t let you use me again! B ut it w as sim p ly n o use; just as it h ad been th e seaso n befo re, so it w a s to b e a g a in . With my face in the dirt, he’s on top of me now, riding m e hard for hours. When at last he’s ⇡nished, he returns me to my prison, locking the door as he leaves. Time would march on. Perhaps the sweet release of death w ould ⇡nally end this cycle of pain and hum iliation. U ntil then, I rem ain an object, just another tool to be used and forgotten. I have a nam e, dam n you. My name is John. John Deere. 247 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH A Man of the Cloth Steve Slavin If you ever saw B arb ara S ack ow itz w alking d o w n th e street, yo u p ro b ab ly w o u ld n ’t loo k tw ice. %e g irl w as no M arilyn M onroe, if you get m y drift. W e’ve been friends alm ost ⇡ve years, so I’m just bein g objective. Barbara and I would get together m aybe once a month and have a regular girl’s night out. So one night, com pletely out of the blue, Barbara asks me if I ever answ ered any of those personal ads. “A re yo u k id d in g?” I said . “%o se ad s are strictly fo r losers. E very guy is in his ⇡fties and w ants to m eet tw enty-year-old chicks. F orget it! I’ve got plenty of better things to do with my tim e.” “Judy, I just asked you a sim ple question,” she said. “Y o u do n ’t h ave to get so defen sive...” “A lrigh t alread y,” I said . “B y th e w ay, sin ce w e’re o n th e su b ject, w h at ab o u t yo u ?” “Me?” she said. “I answ ered just one, but that w as back when I was married.” “B arbara, am I m issing som ething here? Y ou answ ered a personal ad w hen you w ere m arried?” “Y eah , it w as righ t after R o b ert cam e o u t th at h e w as gay. A nd that his lover w ould be com ing up from Baltimore to spend the weekend with us.” “U nbelievable! I alw ays thought he w as, you know , maybe just a little e eminate? But not technically gay.” 248 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “B elieve it, Ju d y. R o b ert w as a certi⇡ab le fag. A n d get th is: H e said to m e th at h e w an ted to sh are o u r b ed with his lover, so could I sleep in the living room?” “W h at did yo u do ?” “I b o u gh t a co p y of e New York Review of Books a n d found an ad from a guy w ho actually lived in Baltimore, too.” “A straigh t gu y fro m B altim o re?” “Y o u better believe it. H e m u st’ve th o u gh t I w as n u ts. I asked him tw o or three tim es, ‘A re you su re that you’re straight?’” “S o did yo u get to geth er w ith h im , B arb ara?” “I m ad e a d ate w ith h im fo r th at co m in g w eek en d . In fact I took the M etroliner to B altim ore.” “Y o u ’re kid d in g.” “N o , Ju d y, I’m perfectly seriou s.” “R eally? Y o u w en t all th e w ay to B altim o re on a blin d date?” “L ook, there w as no w ay I w as going to spend the weekend with those two. I knew my marriage was over, so it actually m ade a lot of sense. In fact, that’s exactly w hy I picked this guy...” “W h y?” “...becau se h e lived in B altim o re. I gu ess p art o f th e appeal w as that it seem ed som ehow sym m etrical.” “So w hat happened w hen you got there?” “I go t o th e train w ith all th ese co m m u ters. It to o k a couple of m inutes for the station to clear out. %en th ere w as ju st m e stan d in g th ere w ith th is p riest d o w n th e p latfo rm . S o I ⇡gured I w as stood up.” “%at’s pretty sh ab b y. %e gu y m ak es yo u co m e all th e way to Baltimore and then just doesn’t show?” 249 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “I k n o w . I felt like co m p lete sh it. I’m just stan d in g there w ith m y suitcase w hen the priest com es up and says to m e, ‘A re yo u B arb ara?’” “%e gu y w as a priest?” “%at’s w hat I thought! ‘Y ou’re the guy w ho placed th e ad in e New York Review of Books an d yo u ’re a priest?’” “W h at did h e say?” “H e said, ‘N o, I’m not a priest. I ju st dressed like a priest in case I didn’t like you.’” “W ell, B arb ara, at least h e liked yo u .” “Y eah, w ell, I w as so disgusted, I w as ready to get right back on the train. A lso, he looked a lot older than he said he w as. ‘I thought you said you w ere 35,’ I said.” “S o I lied a little.” “A little? E xactly h o w old are yo u ?” “F o rty-n in e.” “B arb ara, w h at did yo u do ?” “I w as so m ad at m y h u sb an d , I d ecid ed I’d give th is jerk a chance. S o I told him I w as starving.” “D id h e tak e yo u to a n ice place to eat?” “H e to o k m e to a su p erm ark et.” “A su p erm ark et?” “%at’s right. H e said he w as on a tight budget. I mean, how much money do priests make? So I picked out a couple of steaks. A nd w hen w e got up to the ch eckout, he sticks the steaks under his sh irt and just walks out of the supermarket.” “W h at did yo u do ?” 250 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I w alked out after him . I guess the kid at the cash reg ister m u st’ve b een a C ath o lic an d it d id n ’t co m p u te to h im th at a p riest co u ld steal.” “S o th en w h at? Y o u w en t up to h is place?” “%at’s righ t. D o yo u w an t to tak e a gu ess w h at k in d of place he lived in?” “I’ll bet it w as a h o vel.” “A h o vel? %at’s b ein g to o k in d . H e h ad a fu rn ish ed room w ith a hotplate on the 251 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Bring Me the Head of F.W. Murnau Alex S. Johnson Anton Shreck peered through the sliding glass door th at led to th e p atio an d th e o u td o o r h eated p o o l, ch ecking on the girls. %ey were well-secured and squirming, and their sounds of m uVed protest pleased him . H e supposed on re 252 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Shreck closed the door and entered the den. M uch was left to be done before the ceremony proper could com m ence. Speci⇡cally, he now had to face what was left of the head of G erm an E xpressionist ⇡lmm aker F.W . Murnau. After its removal from the family plot in Stahnsdorf, the head’s bum py ride to a m ansion in the H ollyw ood H ills had been the stu o f sp latter- driven screw ball com edy. Som etime actress and full- tim e clow n w hore M issy C ram pton had sm uggled the head between her thighs, passing o the odd crotch- bulge to TSA agents as a cancerous grow th. “I don’t really like to talk about it,” sh e said later in a press conference. While obviously Crampton’s 253 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %ere was a long story there as well, but Shreck had no time for such folderol. H e raised his left hand– nightmare shrapnel–and a winch squealed on the roof, plunging M urnau’s head through the lurid colors of the skylight in a hybridized hom age to Frankenstein and Suspiria. A b la c k le a th e r b o n d a g e harness held the m oldering head in place as it descended, raining its desiccated skin 254 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I’ll get yo u , M ister S h reck ,” sh e scream ed , “A n d yo u r tro g lo d yte b earcu b , to o !” A surge of electricity spiked, and the mansion was plunged in darkness, interm ittently rippled w ith stro b es o f o versatu rated red an d b lue ligh t th at p layed over the ⇡nal fusion of G erm an E xpressionism w ith proto-C yberpunk. But something had gone horribly, terribly wrong. No sooner had the knit taken, cubic inches of synthetic nerve bundling joined w ith dead organic matter than the head began to swivel, accelerating speed until it tore from R obo-D ick’s body and 255 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %ey looked back, startled, as a procession of waterlogged actresses, charred beyond recognition, cam e pouring out of the pool. %eir eyes blank discs, th eir in ten tio n h o m icid al. “T im e fo r so m e h ipsters to d ie th e d eath !” ro ared Crampton. “Let’s get ‘em, girls!” 256 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE It’s A lrigh t Arthur Graham It is just b efo re ⇡rst period at B ayside H igh, and as part of their inaugural “C ruelty-Free Friday”, the gang has volunteered to cook a vegan breakfast for their fellow schoolm ates. F or som e reason, they have set u p th eir co o k in g lin e b y th e lock ers in th e h all, as opposed to in the cafeteria. Mr. Belding walks up and admires the students hard at w ork, fondly rem iniscing on his ow n vegan youth. While he distracts them with a story about how cool he used to be, surviving on hum m us and couscous all throughout college, the tofu scram ble begins to burn. Sm oke ⇡lls the hall, and Zack struggles to scrape the blackened slop o the griddle. Jessie 257 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Distributing the arsenal of AR-15s he keeps hidden in sid e , h e ⇡nds w ith som e dism ay that he is fresh out of bullets since his last school shooting. H e asks Zack to ru n o u t an d g et so m e 5 .5 6 m m am m u n itio n , b u t Zack is currently running the pancake station. Zack asks Larry why he can’t run out for ammo himself. Larry points to his crippled legs and explains th at h e can ’t ru n o u t fo r an yth in g b ecau se h e can n o t run. Z ack asks Slater if he can run out in his stead, but Slater doesn’t hear him , because he is too busy making out with Max, owner of %e Max diner, against a nearby locker. W ith few options left, Z ack leaves all cooking duties to Screech and m akes a break for th e gun store across th e street. Screech proves surprisingly adept at running the breakfast line all by him self, calmly 258 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE State of the Union Ted DeCalb and Leonard Cockshut Senator M cM itchell had just ⇡nished sodom izing a tw enty-pound Japanese bull carp w hen the em ergency lin e ra n g . It w as his aide, F ion a A p p le. “W h at?” “Jared F o g le just called .” “A re yo u seriou s?” “A re yo u still fu c k in g ⇡sh ?” %e senator wiped the detritus of the toddler-sized ⇡sh anus o of his rapidly de 259 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH He whipped out his cell and called his aide back. Fiona picked up as if he’d never even hung up. “F ish in g trip?” th e sen ato r ask ed . “H o ld on ...” She cam e into a balloon. Fiona Apple had projectile orgasm s and liked to store them in balloons. She shut o D iscovery C hannel G reat A pe W eek and said, “I told you I’m not covering for you anym ore.” “W h at did Jared F o gle w an t?” “A law yer. A go o d on e.” “M eet m e at th e lak e h o u se in an h o u r. B rin g p len ty of balloons.” %e lake house. Whenever she met Senator McMitchell at the lake, she never knew what to expect. O nce it w as a three-hundred-pound sturgeon. Once a box of Portuguese sardines. All she could do was watch. And cum into balloons. One day, she thought, one day she’d fuck a ⇡sh of her ow n. Ju st lik e th e sen ato r. She pulled up her panties, found her purse, and rolled o in her blue H onda Civic. *** Senator M cM itchell stood naked on the shore beside his Potom ac canoe, grinning like a black bear’s ass. He’d caught another mammoth sturgeon. He lifted it up for Fiona Apple to see. “Senator, your w ife called w hile I w as on m y w ay here.” McMitchell put the giant ⇡sh down to scratch his old, hairy balls. 260 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “I to ld h er yo u w ere h an d lin g th e F o gle case,” A p p le said. “She said she called the oJce and you didn’t pick up. She thought it was suspicious.” “I sh o t th e ph o n e.” “S h e w an ts a divo rce.” “F ro m m e?” You 'sh-fucking dipshit. “F o gle’s ex-law yer, E lberger, is a p ro geriac an d all h e eats are roast beef and pim iento subs,” F iona A pple said , ch eck in g h er n o tes. “E lberg er is th e n ew S u b w ay poster boy. A progeriac w ho lived to ⇡fty eating Subw ay roast beef and pimiento sandw iches.” She looked up at the senator, w ho w as presently in sp e c tin g a w h a le h a rp o o n w ith a sp e c ia l p u rp le mail-order “octopus” dildo for a tip. “H ave yo u h eard a w o rd of w h at I’ve said ?” “%e S u b w ay fat m an ,” said M cM itch ell, “I rem em b er him vaguely.” “H e’s w o rth alm o st ⇡fty m illion , an d h e en d o rsed you, and his law yer’s left him . H e needs your help.” “So w hat?” M cM itchell replied, setting dow n his harpoon gun distractedly. “Ju ries h ate kid d ie po rn o grap h ers.” %e senator squinted at his aide. Fiona Apple was just ⇡ve-foot-two, but she had a well-toned body. H e’d often w ondered just how supple her little brown butthole w as, how deep inside of Fiona A pple he could bury it in. H e im agined it stretching and sn ap p in g back over h is co ck like a sw im cap . “If yo u d o n ’t give F o gle th e jury h e’s loo k in g fo r, h e’s going to spill the beans about your hobby.” “You mean–?” 261 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “Y es, of course I m ean th at.” She gestured to the sturgeon w ith the prolapsed anus w rithing in the mud. %e senator had almost forgotten all about it for a m om ent. How does Fogle know? he w as about to ask, before it ⇡nally dawned on him... %e thinnest of smile crept across Fiona’s lips. ...his trusted advisor. A nd for w hat? H e’d never touched a hair on her head. H e’d sent her m other Christmas puddings and her father and uncles alligator skin boots and %ai m assage vouchers. W hy, he’d even m assaged her feet on num erous occasions himself. %e senator froze. Could that be it? Was Fiona Apple in love with him? Jealo u s o f h is ⇡sh fucking? “T u rn aro u n d , sen ato r.” Apple was now holding the harpoon gun now, pointing its eight-tentacled dildo tip right at him. %e bew ildered senator hadn’t even noticed her pick it up. “W h at do yo u w an t?” “I w ant you to turn around. A nd if you open your mouth again, I’m going to shoot this harpoon so far up your ass you’ll be tasting your ow n shit.” Senator M cM itchell did as he w as told, saying nothing as he weighed the gravity of the situation. “B illy A p p le,” sh e said co ldly. “I rem em b er th e n am e, vagu ely...” “Y o u sh o u ld. Y o u m et h im on th is lak e ⇡ve years ago . You were drunk. You’d just fucked a sword⇡sh, a grouper, and a live m ako shark, you sick motherfucker. You couldn’t tell the di erence between a ⇡sh anus and a–” 262 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE What, thought the senator. What could she possibly be ta lkin g a b ou t..? “Y o u ’re co m p letely in san e!” h e cried in d esp eration . “I never fucked a ⇡sh nam ed Billy Apple!” Meanwhile, Fiona Apple aimed the harpoon low, sighting and re-sighting the senator’s juicy red anus between his sagging grey buttocks. Before he could protest any further, she pulled the trig g er. Bull’s-eye. %e senator shuddered for a moment, chuckling madly before he collapsed. His entire head exploded as the octopus dildo erupted from his skull in a pu o red m ist. “M y brother!” Fiona A pple scream ed. “B illy A pple was my brother! And you raped him just like a ⇡sh!” At that very moment, Apple’s cell began to ring. It w as Jared F ogle calling to say he w ouldn’t be needing the senator’s help after all. H e’d m anaged to destroy his entire child porn collection all by himself. “W h at is it, th en ?” F ion n a A p p le ask ed . “M y extrem e D alm atian p o rn an th o logy,” F o g le said . “I can ’t ⇡n d it an yw h ere...” 263 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,e Last Shot Steven Storrie %e Stars and Stripes spun out of my shades. I was tryin g to ⇡n ish an article o n th e u p co m in g electio n th at w as alread y o ver th ree d ays late, an d m y h ead was starting to hurt. Across the street from my motel, eager teens were queuing outside the dilapidated baseball stadium to hear Lady G aga say the word ‘fuck’ for a dollar a go, and things w ere getting ugly all round. I had grudgingly accepted this job to w rite about m odern America. I knew there was no ‘new’ America of course, just the sam e old one w ith w rinkles and a bad back. Still, I took the assignm ent. What the hell else was I going to do? I was a patriot and a desperate m an. I had regrets, sam e as anyone. %at nurse in Chicago, the waitress in Detroit. Maybe I sh o u ld h ave ⇡gu red ou t th e d etails of m y life so o n er and attacked it w ith reckless abandon. Instead of sh ad o w b o xin g o n th e sid elin es o f life, I sh o u ld h ave waded out into the fray, thrashing about in the blood and the guts of the thing. Maybe I’d have escaped my stay in this 264 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Everything took too much time and e ort. Better to stay in an d w o rk , d rin k w h isk ey an d w atch th e gam e. I leaned back from m y w riting to give m y eyes a break, looked up at the score. It w as tied at zero in th e b o tto m o f th e 9 th . %e hom etow n hero w as up fo r h is ⇡nal at bat of an illustrious career, and everyone had their hopes raised high. Meanwhile, a 265 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,e Perfect Neighbor Kurt Nimmo %ere is a person I want to kill. He lives across the street. He is about forty and outwardly appears to be a decent m an, a good citizen, a m an w ho believes in God and trusts the government and the president to do the right thing. H e is a handsom e and adm ired man in a drab and predictable way millions of men want to be handsome and admired. Outwardly there is nothing wrong with him; he does not have a single 266 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I began hating at an early age. I w as raised to hate. My father hated and so did my mother. My brother and sister hated. B oth hated w ith dedication and passion well into adulthood. H atred was a career and a hobby for the entire fam ily. M y brother w as so consum ed w ith hate he killed a guy. R an him over with his pickup truck. He swore it was an accident but everyone knew better; it w as prem editated murder. My poor stupid brother told everybody he worked with he wanted to kill the son of a bitch before he ⇡nally did it. %e dead man was his boss. I w an t to kill th e m an acro ss th e street, no t m y bo ss. I have my reasons. %e ⇡rst reason is his perfect family is the envy of every other fam ily on our street. Second is the w ay he talks to m e w hen I see him , usually w henever I venture out to get the m ail or pick up the new spaper. He smiles generously and shows o his perfectly straight, w hite teeth. G ood m orning, he says in 267 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH In stead of killing him , I w alk into th e garage attach ed to m y less than perfect house. I close the door and tak e o u t a h am m er fro m th e to o l b o x an d b eg in banging on a piece of w ood, m aking one hell of a racket. I im agine the w ood is the perfect neighbor’s face. I im agine I am destroying his perfection, turning him into a horribly dis⇡gured mutant that people turn aw ay from w hen they see him in the street. %en I imagine the battered piece of wood is the perfect and radiant face of his blonde w ife. I sm ack the w ood until m y hand hurts and the w ood ⇡n ally splinters. I stand there breathing hard and I look at th e d estru ctio n th at I’ve w ro u g h t. Have you ever wanted to kill a person? I think about killing the beautiful people every m inute of every sin g le d ay. I am a h o rrib le p erso n . I am fu ck ed u p . I should be locked up in a prison for the crim inally insane. I should be put in a straitjacket and injected with thorazine. Instead I am allow ed to live in society because it needs people like m e. I am a counterbalance to all of the sane and lovely and positive and beautiful people. Every society needs balance. 268 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Shanty W hore J.M . M u rp h y Sheena spits into the hole. She rinses w ith pepperm int schnapps and spits again, then rinses and sw allow s. E lm er aw ak en s fro m h is ejacu lato ry tran ce, zipping up his heavily insulated bibs. A fat man with a red and white beard sits on the bench beside him , slack jaw ed, blind drunk, a blaze orange m innow scoop dangling from his hands. H e does not see a thing. Sheena texts her man, “done.” Moments later, he arrives via snowmobile. Sheena opens the door to the light of a w inter’s daw n, hollering, “Elmer, you gotta 269 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Falling Down Drunk at the Poetry On Fire Detroit Gig Kurt Nimmo I tried it. S tayed o th e b o oze. W ean ed m yself d ow n to a few beers each day. Feng shui for the typewriter. %is had the machine facing a grim y w indow that looked out on an even grim ier alley where the occasional wino or crackhead stum bled past. D on’t know if I violated the law s of fen g sh u i b y clo sin g th e b lin d s. It didn ’t w ork . I kep t feed ing pap er into th e m ach ine. Nothing came. I dragged out som e old poem s, w ent through them , decided they were shit. Restrained myself from taking every last one of them out to the dum pster or burning th em o n e b y o n e in th e k itch en sin k . %at w o u ld h ave set o th e ⇡re alarm , if th e d am n th in g even w o rk ed . %e landlord didn’t give a shit if we all burned to death in the middle of the night. H e had his property in su ra n c e . I had ideas, bu t no th ing cam e to geth er. It w as like m y m ind w as a slot m achine. M inus alcohol, the drum s w ent around and around non- sto p . %e cards w ere a blur, indistinguishable. I’d need at least three or four shots of Jim Beam to slow them dow n, m ake som ething out, get som e kind of coherence. 270 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I sat th ere, facing th e du sty yellow ed blind s, staring at the em pty sheet of paper fed into the O lym pia. %is went on for a day and a half. On the second day, I dran k th ree beers an d sw allow ed half a V icod in. I slow ly gave in to the idea I’d never w rite again, I was ⇡nished, an irredeemable alcoholic who would end up in the street, hom eless, fucked. It w ouldn’t take m uch. Scow l O ’B rien w as building the gallow s, plank by plank, and it seem ed I’d have no problem walking right up to the platform all by myself, putting the goddam n noose around m y neck w ithout any help. Worldwide’s Employee Relations would pull the lever, the trap door w ould 271 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “Y eah , su re,” I said . I had no idea w h o th ey w ere. “W ould you be interested in doing a reading? W e’d arrange everything. A ll you have to do is show up and read. M ost of our venues are local bars and taverns,” Randy said. I liked th e sou n d o f it. “Is th ere a stipen d o r paym ent?” I asked. “N o, unfortunately, although w e are trying to get funding to pay the poets. D epending on the venue, drinks are usually provided, either free or at a reduced price.” I n ever exp ected to m ake on e red cen t o n p oetry, so free drinks sounded m ore than reasonable. “I’m in ,” I said . “W h en do yo u n eed m e?” “W ell, in fact, w e have a gig tom orrow . Is that too so o n ?” “N o , n o t at all,” I said . “I understand if you need som e tim e to prepare,” he said . “N o prep aration n eed ed ,” I said . “I’m read y to go .” “C o o l,” h e said . Randy gave me the details. It was a bar on Woodward, not far from downtown. “B e th ere aro u n d n in e,” h e said . Randy Squire and the Poetry On Fire Detroit crew were a sorry bunch. Randy was ⇡ve foot ⇡ve, a delicate sort of fellow with a crop of red hair and big friendly sm ile that never seem ed to leave his face. %e other poets w ere university creative w riting program types, a few of them w om en, one or tw o even good lo o k in g . 272 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Home-base was a bar on Woodward Avenue near midtown Cass Park. I drove past it twice before seeing the little sign stuck in the w indow of a sm all brick storefront: G ina’s G inny M ill, and then below th at an o th er sig n sten cilled o n w h ite card b o ard : Home of Poetry On Fire Detroit. “W e usu ally start aro u n d n in e,” R an d y said . “G reat,” I said . I loo k ed o ver an d saw a lon g lin e o f booze bottles arranged over the bar. %ey sparkled like jew els in red and blue light cast from the neon sign in th e w in d o w . Randy saw me looking at the booze. “We have this deal with G ina, the ow ner. D rinks are half price, but not until the reading begins.” “N o t a pro b lem ,” I said . Gina was a good looking older woman, about ⇡fty. I walked over and put a ten on the bar and sat down. “G et m e a B u d an d a do u b le of Jim B eam ,” I said . “S u re, h o n ey,” G in a said . Randy stood behind me. %ere was something vaguely irritating about the guy. I turned to look at him. %e sm ile was there. It never went away. It was perm anent, like a birthm ark. “S o w h at kin d a tu rn ou t is th ere usu ally?” I ask ed . “M odest,” he said. “G uys from the U nderground Collective stop by to hear stu , especially when we featu re n ew talen t.” New talent. %at would be me. I smiled as Gina brought the drinks and took my ten to cash it out. “%e U n d ergro u n d C o llective?” I said . 273 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “%at’s Frank Perlsen and T eri K ow alski,” R andy said . “%ey ru n a p ress o n th e eastsid e. P o etry m o stly, som e short ⇡ctio n . %ey u su ally sh o w u p w ith th ree or four other guys who are connected to the D etroit poetry scene.” “G reat,” I said , an d th en to ssed d o w n th e d o u b le w ith a chase of beer. I’d need a couple m ore before read in g . “W e should get started in a half hour or so,” R andy said w ith th at sm ile an d th en w alked over to talk w ith som e other people at a table near a sort of sm all elevated stage at the back of the bar. A spotlight illu m in a te d a n o ld w o o d p o d iu m p o sitio n e d o n th e stage. TH E FIRST CH URCH O F CH RIST was etched into the w ood of the thing. I chuckled about th at an d th en ⇡nished the B ud. I signalled G ina and sh e bro u g h t an o th er ro u n d . %irty minutes later poets were up on the stage. I was into m y fourth round. I listened to the poets. M ost of them sounded pretty m uch the sam e. Except for Jeni Jameson. %ere was something about her. Som ething sexual. Som ething that dem anded to be conquered. Zero in on her after these other fuckers get ⇡nished. %e little voice in m y head w as at it again. It gave instructions. A fter a few drinks I had no choice but to obey. I had shit for willpow er and, besides, Jeni was one of the m ost beautiful wom en I’d even seen. %en it was my turn. Randy introduced me. He didn’t know anything about m e, so thankfully the introduction w as short. %e a u d ie n c e c o n siste d o f around tw enty people, virtually all of them poets w ith the exception of G ina, the lady w ho ow ned the place. 274 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I got u p th ere u n d er th e ligh t an d read m y stu . %e poets applauded politely. I had no idea how m y reading w ent over or if the other poets bothered to liste n . I d id n ’t c a re . %en it was over. I folded the dozen or so poems in half and then quartered that and stu ed the bundle in my jacket pocket. I stepped down from the stage and looked around for Jeni. %ere she w as, sitting at a tab le o to o n e sid e w ith a g u y an d tw o o th er w o m en . I w ent over there and sat dow n like I ow ned the place. Jen i lo o k ed at m e. S h e d id n o t h esitate. H er eyes w ere a ⇡ery green, silently m ocking but also daring m e to try. I had an im m ediate hard-on. G ood thing for the table betw een us, I thought, otherw ise m y dick w ould be standing up like a 275 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I sm iled . R an d y sm iled . Jen i sm iled . S h e tu rn ed an d said something to the woman beside her – a little overweight, spiky black hair and tats, I think her name was Heather – and then she turned her voodoo-green eyes back on m e like a laser beam , curious to see w h at I w as going to do next. It w o u ld n o t b e easy. %is co n q u est w o u ld am o u n t to a lot of hard w ork. N o m an gets a taste of a w om an like Jeni Jam eson w ithout surrendering his balls. It would be worth it, though. I b o u gh t an o th er ro u n d , th en loo ked in m y w allet. It was empty. I sat back, waited. Some tall guy in a fur coat bought the next round. H e sidled up to Jeni and th ey b eg an to sp eak lik e lo n g -lo st b ro th er an d sister. I was out of the picture. I tossed down my whiskey and th en stu m b led o to th e h ead . When I came back, Randy walked over and said the Poetry On Fire Detroit crew would be throwing an afterparty. “W ill Jen i be th ere?” I ask ed . “Jeni, H eather, B illy G ong and the w hole gang w ill be there,” Randy said. He wrote down directions to his place on a napkin and I stuck it in m y pocket. Randy lived in a place on Cochrane that at one time was a stately mansion but was now a falling-down ru in . I p ark ed m y w reck in th e street an d w en t aro u n d back. Som ebody had the foresight to buy a ⇡fth of Jack Daniels and a 12-pack of Miller. I grabbed a beer and found a plastic cup. I poured in three ⇡ngers of Jack and tossed it dow n. 276 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Jen i w as o n a lo n g so fa w ith H eath er an d th e fu r co at guy who had a soft and pam pered look about him . H e worked in a library or maybe – judging by the expensive fur coat – his parents were well o and he didn’t have to work at all and sat in a cushy loft all day scribbling out love poem s, or odes to the ghost of Walt Whitman. I sat dow n next to H eather. She sm iled. W e m ade sm all talk an d every few m in u tes o r so I loo k ed o ver at Jeni, w ho w as presently involved in som e heavy philosophical conversation with the fur coat poet. H e sip p ed at a w in e co o ler. It w ent on like this for a w hile. I w ent back to the bottle of Jack several tim es. M ore sm all talk and then talk about poetry and D ylan %om as and K erouac and Virginia Woolf and that river and those stones. At one point, I remember sticking my tongue in Heather’s mouth. I grabbed her 277 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I got in an d dro ve up C och ran e to T em p le. I dro ve to the John C . L odge, m aking sure to observe the speed lim it a n d n o t d ra w a tte n tio n to m y d ru n k e n se lf. 278 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Porn-Fugitives Zoltan Komor %e teenaged boy sneaks into his room and closes the door excitedly. From under his pillow , he pulls out th e p o rn m ag azin e h e fo u n d last w eek in th e attic. To his surprise, when he opens it, only blank pages yaw n back at him . A nd soon, he hear the sounds of moaning coming from under his bed. Looking down, he discovers the tiny porn stars – m iniature, naked people having sex on the 279 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH %e boy sweeps them o and jumps out of bed. He ⇡nds that the spider couple has spun a jelly-like web of their juices, squirm ing now w ith *** “G o o d m o rn in g , h u n !” says h is sm ilin g m o th er, standing over a pot of cooking oil. “W hat’s the matter? You look worn-out. Haven’t you slept well?” %e boy simply cannot face her. He mutters som ething unintelligible, gazing at the em pty w hite plate in front of him. M om ents later, a serving fork enters his ⇡eld of view , a ten-inch fried black 280 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Looking at its fried legs facing skywards, the boy pushes his plate aw ay, saying: “C an I eat it later? I’m n o t really h u n g ry righ t n o w .” His mother doesn’t answer, she just stands there and frow ns. W hen the boy runs out of the kitchen, back to his room , she yells after him : “W hat’s w rong? A re you sick?” “I’m ⇡ne!” the boy yells back, trying not to vom it as he witnesses his tiny porn star m othersu ck in g on th e very dildo she’d just pulled out of her ass. *** %e boy decides that, some way or another, he will rid himself of the tiny porn stars. Taking an em pty shoe box, som e string, and a used hanky from under his bed, he rigs them all together in the m iddle of the room . Soon enough, the tiny porn stars are craw ling out from their hiding places to investigate. SniJng the air, they gather around the soiled hanky w ith lo o k s o f h u n g e r o n th e ir tin y fa c e s. Once all of them have gathered around the hanky, collectively m unching on his old, dried sem en, the boy drops the shoebox on them , capturing the little in tru d e rs in o n e fe ll sw o o p . “G o tch a!” h e lau gh s, tak in g th e bo x in h an d . Cracking the lid just wide enough to reach inside, he ran d o m ly p u lls o u t a b arely leg al, red h ead ed g irl w ith fake tits. %en, slapping her w ith a piece of cellophane tape, he sticks her back onto one of the blank pages of the m agazine. H e pulls out another tin y p o rn star an d rep eats th e p ro cess. 281 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH A few minutes and half a roll of tape later, the entire magazine has been populated with porn stars once again. %e boy looks aw ay w ith sham e on his face, how ever, seeing that in his hurry, he accidentally taped over som e of their faces. H e cannot bring himself to w atch them squirm , su ocating as they slow ly sti en and die. By this point, the only tiny porn star left in the shoebox is his m other. %e boy looks dow n at her, th en b ack at th e m ag azin e w ith tears in h is eyes. “W hy haven’t you ever told m e?” he asks, but she doesn’t pay any attention to him; she just m oans as sh e starts ⇡stin g h erself. %e boy closes the magazine with a sigh, pushing it back under his pillow where it belongs. H e’ll throw it out, he decides, but ⇡rst, he m ust take care of his mom. But what can he do with her? He can’t just tape back her into the m agazine w ith all the rest. A nd yet he can’t just set her free either; he w ould die of sham e if som eone saw his m om like this. H e could alw ays keep her, in a cage or a terrarium of sorts, but then he’d have to face his m other’s tiny, naked, porn star an tics fo r th e rest of h er n atu ral d ays. Holding the shoebox before him, he slowly walks out of the room . “I’m so rry, m o th er...” h e w h isp ers, h o ldin g h er o ver the toilet. %e tiny w om an doesn’t seem to acknow ledge him , riding her clim ax to a faraw ay place with the help of her tiny vibrator. She falls into the water with a splash, and the vortex sp in s an d p u lls h er d o w n . 282 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE God Shines Brightest on the Highest Man Kyle Kouri In college I had a room m ate nam ed Jason. L ord know s I gave that poor kid hell. %e year was full of heavy drug abuse. M y girlfriend accused m e of being a pill popper. She said, “Jack, you’re going to die!” Jason told m e, “Jack, I com e hom e som etim es and think you’re possessed by the devil. I get nervous when you lock yourself in the bathroom to take a sh o w er b ecau se yo u ’re in th ere so lon g ; I n ever k n o w what drugs you might be on, and if you’re still alive.” I laughed and laughed and laughed. W hat fools. In fact I w as the happiest I had ever been. %ere’s nothing like snorting a bunch of painkillers and sittin g d o w n to w o rk o n a sto ry. Y o u sit th ere starin g at the w ords you’ve w ritten and suddenly an idea strikes you. Y ou realize how it’s going to end. Y ou understand that you have pieced together the im p o ssib le . Y o u h a v e sc ra w le d lin e s, sw irls, a n d scribbles on a piece of paper that vaguely resem ble a maze and with one fateful stroke you’ve created the th read th at’ll lead th e m o u se to th e ch eese. Y o u r nonsensical ram blings have becom e a masterpiece. One day I stood up at the desk in my dorm and yelled, “Jason, m y beloved friend and com panion! God has graced me. I have created something brilliant.” I ran over to Jason, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him violently. “D on’t you understand? Don’t you ever feel like everything has been put into place m ore perfectly than you could have ever anticipated? G od has picked you, m an!” 283 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Jason trem bled uncom fortably. “%at’s great, Jack. What’s your story about?” “I can ’t tell yo u n o w . It’s to o so o n . B u t th e tim e w ill com e. N ow I m ust go. %ere’s m uch to drink on this cam pus.” %e next day I caught a train to visit my girlfriend in Connecticut. I arrived at her house and found her on the patio, sm oking cigarettes w ith som eone I didn’t know . I was about to talk to them but got distracted by how green the grass was and how purple the sky. “A storm ’s com ing,” I m um bled to m yself and wandered around the patio’s perimeter, staring at the clouds, patting the bushes, trying to gauge how m uch tim e w e h ad . “Jack, w hat the fuck are you doing?” m y girlfriend said . “M e? Jesu s, n o th in g. S tay w h ere yo u are.” “W h at th e fu ck are yo u on ?” sh e ask ed . I looked at her and 284 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I sn i ed . She said, “I’m Jen.” “Jesus, I called it! D idn’t I? Som ebody rew ind the tap e reco rd er! I fu ck in g called it!” Later my girlfriend and I went to her room and made out on her bed. I started taking o her pants but she said , “W ait. I w an t w h atever yo u ’re on .” “G o d d am n it, w o m an . W h y d o yo u d o th is to m e?” I retrieved m y pocketed painkillers and decided I’d crush up som e O xycontin for us to split. We snorted a few lines and she said, “Oooo, this burns m y nose.” She started skippering around a little bit, all excited that I let her do drugs. “W ait, I have to go pee before we have sex.” She ran to the bathroom and I bolted the other way tow ards m y bag and searched frantically for the other pill bottles. I found them and after serious debate decided that the best pill to swallow w as the morphine. I could save the Percocets for after we had sex. I took the pill dow n the hatch and then looked at myself in the mirror. It was at this moment I realized my true beauty. My hair was all messy and my eyes were so glazed, pupils nearly gone, but that smile still so sharp, I w as the sexiest m an to ever live. ‘I’m so read y to fu ck ,’ I th o u g h t. “Y o u crazy m o th erfu ck er,” sh e said . “Y o u h o t little slut.” “O h , yeah , fu ck yo u r little slut. D o w h atever yo u w an t to m e.” And I did. 285 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Early evening in the evening, I tucked myself away in my girlfriend’s mom’s oJce. I sat at her computer and ⇡nished m y story w hile rain poured and thunder boom ed outside. “T ruly the writings of a true writer,” I w h isp ered . “%an k yo u , G o d , fo r th is gift. I w ill n o t exploit m y talent.” I p rep ared to p rint ou t co p ies fo r everyb od y to read . %e story was forty-six pages long and judging by the stack o f p rin tin g p ap er stack ed b y th e p rin ter, I co u ld manage sixteen copies. “Meager supplies, but this will have to do,” I said and got to work. A half hour later, my girlfriend walked into the room. “Jesus, Jack. W hat the hell are you doing?” I w as crouched dow n on the 286 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE I got w h at I w an ted . Later my girlfriend and I lay naked on her bed. W e were both pretty far gone. She looked at me and said, “H ey, I th in k m y pu p ils h ave disap p eared .” “I kn o w , isn ’t it beau tifu l.” “A n d m y h eart’s n o t beatin g an ym o re.” “...I kn o w , isn ’t it beau tifu l.” %e next day I left early so that I could make it to my class and hand out the story. M y girlfriend w as half asleep as I got up. She groped at m e and pulled m e back tow ards her. I w as trying to put m y boxers on and she w as trying to pull them o . I w as trying to put m y dick in m y pants and she was trying to jack it o . She said, “D on’t go, stay with m e.” “L isten , love of m y life. I w ill be back so o n en o u gh .” “W ait, I’m still so fu ck in g h igh fro m last n igh t. Is th at b ad ?” “I’ll tell yo u w h at, I’m extrem ely exh au sted an d I n eed to borrow som e of your A D D m edication. I w ill repay you by leaving som e of w hat w e did last night in the bottle. It’ll be a trade, okay? B aby? H ave you dozed o again?” “D on’t go,” she w hispered and then w as gone. I scram b led to g et m y cloth es o n an d th en ran o ver to her bathroom to swap medications. %e day started early for me. It was not yet an hour before noon, and I was soaring. I was so high. I had a backpack full of sixteen ⇡nely crafted short stories and a head full of opiates and A dderall. I w as taking a shit in a public bathroom at G rand Central before transferring onto the next train, which leads back to school. I w as listening to ‘N o W om an, No Cry’ by Bob Marley on my iPod. 287 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH I b reath ed in th e stink of th e loo . I stared at th e p iss stain s in th e creases o f th e m arb le 288 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “B u t w h y w o u ld yo u w an t it to en d ?” I slam m ed m y ⇡st onto the table, our glasses of O J w axing and sp lash in g d ram atically in th e p ale, su n -sp eck led cafeteria air. “It’s so fucking beautiful! %ere w ould never have been any great art if this world wasn’t such a dirty, stinking, shithole!” “I do n ’t w an t to argu e ab o u t th is, Jack .” “F in e, I’m go in g fo r a drive,” I said , an d sto rm ed o . I went back to my room and took some Xanax, but it ended up being Seroquel, so I passed out until past midnight. When I woke up I was in a truly terrible mood. “Jaso n ! W h at fu ck in g tim e is it?” I yelled , b u t all th at responded w as silence. I jum ped o m y bed and ran to his. H e w as sleeping soundly. I pulled the covers o him and scream ed again, “Jesus, Jason. I don’t have time for gam es. W hat time is it?” “W ha? W hat are you doing? I’m sleeping, Jack.” “Y es, ⇡n e. %is is all w ell an d go o d . B u t yo u n eed to wake up for a minute and tell me the time.” “W h at? A re yo u kid d in g, just ch eck ...” “O h m y G o d . N ever m in d . I’ll d o it m yself.” I w en t over to the lam p and 289 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “It’ll b e o in a seco n d , d o n ’t w o rry b ro .” I to o k o u t th e tam p o n tu b e fro m m y sh irt’s b reast p o ck et an d started sn o rtin g up th e lin es. “Jack ... are yo u ... do in g... co -co cain e?” “D o es th is loo k like co cain e to yo u , Jaso n ?” I said , m y voice rising in anger. “I do n ’t kn o w ...” “It’s fucking blue, m an! C om e on,” I exclaim ed, ⇡nished the last line and then got up. I went to m y closet and grabbed a coat. I put it on and headed for th e d o o r. “W h ere are yo u go in g ?” Jaso n ask ed . “I’m go in g fo r a drive.” When I was younger I used to have to take shits at in c o n v e n ie n t tim e s. I’d b e in th e m id d le o f tra Jc o n the 405, stuck betw een W ilshire and Santa M onica exits, and it w ould hit m e. A really m essy crap out of now here ⇡lled up my ass. %ere’d be no options, and I wasn’t even getting o at Wilshire. I was going to the fucking valley, m an! O r I’d be w alking from point A to point F , and I’d only be at point C , and bam , the shit cam e. I’d have to w addle for m iles in brutal discom fort. O nce I started doing drugs, everything becam e easier. I barely ever have to shit, unless I want to. A nd then I do it on com m and. I w o k e up aro u n d 6am , ⇡n d in g m yself sp raw led in th e backseat of m y car, parked outside m y girlfriend’s house. O n m y lap sat a m oleskin journal, scrawled with fresh poems of depression, drug addiction, and th e g u ilty ram b lin g s o f a yo u n g m an w h o ’s lo st all h is friends. I needed a proper place to sleep. I called m y girlfriend’s father. Clearly I had woke him up. “H ello, B ill? It’s Jack .” “Jack? W hat? It’s 6am . W hat are you doing calling me?” 290 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “Y es, I’m aw are and I’m very sorry. B ut you see, it tu rn s o u t I’m in th e area. D o yo u th in k I co u ld co m e over and take a nap in the guestroom ?” “N o, Jesus, are you kidding? A bsolutely not. D on’t call back.” H e hung up the ph one. I decided to drive to the high school w here m y girlfriend w ent and park there. I w ould w ait for her to arrive and see how th in g s tu rn ed o u t. Two hours later I was crouching outside the school’s entrance. A s m y girlfriend trundled along to the blue boring door I pounced. “B ab y, it’s m e. C an w e talk?” “Jesu s, Jack ! W h at are yo u do in g h ere?” “I cam e to see yo u .” “A t eigh t in th e m o rn in g ?” “%at do esn ’t m atter, h o w are yo u ?” “U gh, com e w ith m e.” She dragged m e inside and took m e into the closest girl’s bathroom . “Y ou know , asshole. Y ou let m e have so m uch of that shit the other day that I spent all yesterday throw ing up m y stom ach lining. M y friends say I shouldn’t even be with you. %ey say you’re just a drug addict now and don’t even care about me.” “L isten , th at’s w h at I w an ted to talk ab o u t. I th in k w e sh o u ld break up ,” I said . She looked at me. Her face dropped. %e shock didn’t last long and her eyes began sw elling w ith dew y teard ro p s. “...W h at? W h at are yo u talkin g ab o u t?” “W e’re in tw o di eren t places w ith ou r lives. I n eed to be alone so I can focus on m y writing. You need to enjoy high school, baby. %at’s all.” “Y ou’re fucking kidding m e? %is doesn’t m ake any sen se.” 291 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “L isten, you’ve never understood m e! Y ou think you know m e but you don’t, okay!” “Jack , d o n ’t d o th is. It’s th e d ru gs talkin g . Y o u d o n ’t mean it.” “%e d ru gs d o n ’t m ean a th in g! %is is th e realest m e I’ve ever b een . I’ve n ever felt so in to u ch w ith m yself, baby. I love you, but I have to go.” “I... I hate you. I fucking hate you!” She started hitting m e with her purse, and the tears were really 292 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “%is sto ry w as really, u m , u n iqu e... b u t...” U n iqu e. I’m on e of a kind . %e X an ax w as really taking ho ld of me now. I had to excuse myself. “L isten , peo p le. I h ave to be righ t back .” I w en t to th e bathroom and quickly cut up som e lines of m y ex- girlfriend’s A dderall and snorted them on the crusty lid o f th e to ile t b o w l. Back in class, another kid cleared his throat and picked back up the discussion. “%e narrator is an... in te re stin g o n e .” Enough. I understood it all very clearly. Pretty soon class w ould be over and I w ould prepare to subm it to th e p u b lish ers. It w as all so easy. M y b o d y sh ivered . A sm ile w as creep in g o n m y face an d I k n ew it w o u ld n ’t go aw ay for a long, long tim e. Later on, I walked into my room and saw Jason at his com puter. M y face w as grim . I sagged m y sh oulders and collapsed onto m y bed like it w as six feet under th e g ro u n d . “H ow ’d the critique go, Jack?” m y poor room m ate asked. “I don’t know anym ore, Jason. I’m doing everything all w rong. I have to get m y shit together. I broke up with my girlfriend, and everything just feels so o .” “R eally?” h e said , h is vo ice ⇡lled w ith h o n est co n cern . I sigh ed an d pau sed a beat. %en I jumped o the bed, ran to Jason, grabbed his sh o u ld ers, an d sh o o k h im , sh o o k h im vio len tly. “N O ! HA! Of course not,” I yelled. “%ey love me, man! %ey really, really love me! I’m going to be a star!” 293 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ,e Case of the Already-Solved Case Douglas Hackle When Mrs. Eleanor Henderson called upon me– Douglas Hackle, Licensed Private Investigator–to solve the case of her husband’s m urder, the case had been closed for over three years. On June 4, 2009, M rs. Henderson’s husband, Gregory Henderson, was killed by a chainsaw- wielding maniac named Dizzy-o Parcheezy on a busy street in d o w n to w n D ap p erch ild , Illin o is. %e victim had been on his lunch break and walking back to his oJce, a bag of T aco B ell in hand, w hen Parcheezy stepped out from an alley and decapitated the m an with a chainsaw. Parcheezy proceeded to leisurely cut up the rest of H enderson’s body right there on the busy sidew alk in broad daylight in front of hundreds of onlookers, m any of w hom recorded it using their cell phones. When he was done cutting Henderson to bits, Parcheezy strolled on over to the nearby Dapperchild First Precinct Police Station and turned himself in, confessing to the crim e. Parcheezy was convicted of ⇡rst-degree murder eight months later and sentenced to life in prison, avoiding the death penalty by pleading guilty by reason of batshit insanity. An open-and-shut case if there ever was one. 294 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE But that hadn’t stopped the widow Henderson from calling m e nearly four years after the fact, asking m e to so lve th e m u rd er. “U m , m a’am ,” I’d said, trying to be polite, “you do know the killer turned him self in right after he murdered your husband, right? He was convicted and im p riso n e d fo r life .” “Y es, I kn o w ,” th e w o m an said th ro u gh h er so b s. “B u t I don’t care! I w ant you to solve m y husband’s murder!” “B u t, m a’am . %ere’s, like, n o th in g to so lve. Ju stice has already been served, ma’am .” “I don’t care. P lease ⇡nd the m an w ho killed m y husband and bring him to justice! I’ll pay handsom ely. H ow does ⇡ve hundred thousand sm ack ero o n ies so u n d to yo u ?” I w asn ’t exactly in a po sition w h ere I co u ld tu rn dow n a cool half m il. K now w hat I’m sayin’, Sauce-M asta McDrizzle? I mean, is anyone in that position? So never m ind that the gig didn’t make a lick of fucking sense. I needed that m oney. B ad. S ee, I had literally hundreds of illegitimate children scattered throughout the country and hundreds of angry baby mamas sending lawyers after me to get me to cough up a king’s ransom in child support every month. So I took the case, yo. *** I had a friend on the D apperchild police force w ho agreed to pull the H enderson case ⇡le for m e. I planned on exam ining it with m y jum bo-sized private eye m agnifying glass to see if I could ⇡nd any clues. Only problem was I was out in the burbs, and I needed to get all the way dow ntow n to m eet him at th e statio n , w h ich n ecessitated m e d rivin g m y car. 295 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Unfortunately, the tags on my beat-up, ’96 Chrysler Sebring shitbox convertible had expired. In order to ren ew m y reg istratio n an d g et n ew tag s, I w as o b lig ed to g o to th e E -C h eck statio n an d h ave m y car tested . So I waited in the long line at the station for two miserable hours before ⇡nally pulling up into the building to be served. “P lease exit yo u r veh icle, sir, an d step o ver to th e waiting area,” a grumpy female inspector garbed in grease-stained coveralls said. “%e test will only take a few m in u tes.” I did as instructed, grabbing m y chainsaw from the front passenger seat before I clim bed out of m y car (I usually kept a chainsaw on m y person as a security precaution, as I couldn’t a ord a proper handgun at th e tim e, w h at w ith all th at ch ild su p p o rt I w as d o lin g out every m onth). %e customer ahead of me–a hot dame–was sitting inside the glass-enclosed w aiting area. I sat on the bench across from her, setting m y chainsaw dow n next to m e. She looked up from herIn T ouch magazine. I smiled, winked my left peeper, which happened to contain a ⇡ber-optic implant that tw inkled w henever I w inked at som eone, like a m ovie star’s eye. %e vixen p u lled a so u r face, ro lled h er eyes, and shook her head to indicate she w as not im pressed before returning her attention to her magazine. A minute later, the inspector walked into the room, handed the wom an a printout, and said, “You’re all set. Y our vehicle passed.” %en she turned to m e. “S o rry, sir. B u t yo u r veh icle did n o t pass.” “W h ad d aya m ean it did n ’t pass?” I ask ed . 296 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE “D o you speak E nglish?” she asked, all snarky and mean. “Your. Vehicle. Did. Not. Pass. We all drive Es nowadays. Your vehicle failed the E-Check because it’s not an E , you m oron. O h, and by the way, your shitty car’s engine just blew up.” “W e all drive E s now adays?” I asked in confusion. “W h at are yo u talkin g ab o u t, to o ts? I th o u gh t th e E - Check was to test vehicle emissions.” Both dames laughed at me. So I looked out the w indow . Sure enough, the “vehicle” in front of mine–the one belonging to the dame–was a big, white, three-dimensional letter E about nine feet w ide and tw elve feet tall. L ike the plaything of a Godzilla-sized kindergartener. A ladder bolted to the side of the E led up to its roof, where a steering wheel was aJxed to an exposed, slanted steering colum n like on a dune buggy. A lso attached to the roof w ere tw o upholstered car-like seats. I glan ced over to th e righ t to see a p ro cessio n of identical E s queued outside the station, all m ounted by drivers who were no doubt feeling as im patient as I’d felt w h ile w aiting in th at dam n line. “O h , yeah ?” I said , an gry as h ell as I lean ed d o w n to pull the start rope on m y chainsaw . It ⇡red up on the ⇡rst pull. “W ell, take this you m an-hating, bra- burning, slutty, slut-sham ing, fem inazi SL U T !” I spun around and chopped the inspector’s head clean o . %e other dame sprung up from the bench with a horri⇡ed gasp, and w e both stared dow n at the decapitated body for a mom ent, watching it bleed out onto the 297 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH “%at h igh ly m iso gyn istic rem ark yo u just m ad e o ended m e!” she said as she crossed her arm s over the pair of luscious, grapefruit-like m ounds concealed behind the tight blazer of her business suit. “H ey, do llface, sh o u ldn ’t yo u be a little m o re o en d ed by the fact that I just chopped som ebody’s fucking head o ?” “K iss m e, you fool,” she blurted unexpectedly as she leaned in and sm ashed her lips against m ine, one of her legs kicking back so her high-heeled foot hung su sp en d ed in m id -air as w e sm o o ch ed , just lik e in th e movies. *** %e inspector was right–my rust bucket had ⇡nally broken dow n for good. So the dam e o ered m e a ride dow ntow n. We climbed the ladder on her E. She plopped down in the driver seat, I in the passenger seat. I’d never ridden on an E before. %e thing didn’t appear to have wheels. It just sort of glided along the road like a sled. E veryw here around us people w ere driving id e n tic a l E s. During the drive downtown, I did not spot a single car, truck, bus, or train. C all m e unobservant, but for whatever reason, I had somehow failed to notice the apparent w holesale shift in transportation from autom obiles to E s that had occurred at som e point in tim e. S ee, each o n e o f u s h as o u r o w n u n iq u e fram e o f referen ce. In o u r sep arate p ath s in life, w e all co m e to learn or not learn com pletely di erent facts, truths, and bits of m isinform ation. 298 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE But, goddamnit, if someone thinks it’s funny or pathetic that I m issed this w hole E thing, that so m eo n e can just say so to m y fu ck in g face, an d th at so m eo n e w ill ⇡n d h im self F ren ch k issin g th e b u zzin g blade of m y goddam n, m otherfucking 17.3- horsepow er Leatherface special, goddam n it! At any rate, it occurred to me during the ride that I didn’t need to see the H enderson case ⇡le. I already knew who the killer was. I also knew exactly where to ⇡nd him. So I had the skirt drop me o at the nearby state p en iten tiary in stead o f th e p o lice statio n . S h e pulled up next to the tow ering barbed wire fence that girded the prison grounds, then dem anded that I have sex w ith h er as p aym en t fo r th e rid e. W e d id th e d eed rig h t th ere o n to p o f th e E . Which turned out to be a big mistake, as I was to ⇡nd out later that I impregnated her that day–and with quintuplets no less! Identical ones too. Five boys who looked exactly like m e. Y up, that’s another ⇡v e little Douglas Hackles crawling around on this miserable rock w e call E arth, each of w hom w ill undoubtedly grow up to be a blithering douche-canoe asshole just lik e th e ir o ld m a n . A n d in th e m e a n tim e , th a t’s another hefty child support check for m e to shell out every m onth, goddam n it! Anyhow, as I mounted the ladder to disembark the E, the dam e called out, “P lease don’t go! I love you, Douglas Hackle!!!” I paused for a second, turned to her and said, “P t. You don’t love me. You just love my Douggie-Style,” and resum ed m y clim b dow n. After the dame glided away on her E, crying her eyes out, I pulled out m y m agnifying glass and used it to concentrate the sun’s rays on the fence, just like I used to do to ants and leaves w hen I w as a kid. 299 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Within minutes, I’d burned a hole big enough to clim b through. %en I tried the m agnifying glass trick on the reinforced concrete wall of the prison, to great su ccess. B efo re lon g , I’d b reach ed th e fo u r-fo o t-th ick barrier and w as inside the B ig H ouse. U sing m y chainsaw to take out any sucka-ass prison guards unlucky enough to get in m y w ay, I pushed deeper and deeper into the cellblocks in search of D izzy-o Parcheezy until eventually I found his skinny, batshit- crazy ass jerking o in his cell. I b u sted h im o u t an d d elivered h im fo rth w ith to th e 1st Precinct, w here I trium phantly inform ed the police I’d captured the notorious D izzy-o Parcheezy, cold-blooded m urderer of G regory H enderson, and they could now ⇡n ally b rin g th e m an to ju stice. As you may well imagine, the cops dragged both of us aw ay. I used m y one phone call to inform the w idow Henderson that I had solved the already-solved case. Not a year later, I was tried and convicted for multiple chainsaw murders, breaking a convicted murderer out of prison, failure to make my child su p p o rt p aym en ts, slut-sh am in g , slut-sh am in g - sh am in g (th e crim e o f sh am in g slut-sh am ers), misogyny, misandry, misanthropy, anvil-shaming, ch air-sh am ing, paperclip-sh am ing, burning ants w ith a m agnifying glass w hen I w as a kid, and a host of other infractions of the law . I pled guilty to all counts by reason of batshit insanity and received twenty consecutive life sentences in a federal m axim um secu rity p riso n . Another open-and-shut case if there ever was one. 300 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE Nevertheless, I still hired Dizzy-o Parcheezy (he was released from prison on parole a few m onths ago and now works as a licensed P.I.) to ⇡gure out who the hell broke him out of jail and to ⇡nd out if D ouglas Hackle is even still alive. Word in the slammer is that Parcheezy has a bigger magnifying glass than mine and a bigger cock to boot. If he solves the case, I prom ised I’d give him the half million dollars I earned from the H enderson case, but he said all he w ants in retu rn fo r so lvin g th e case is a ch an ce to su rf th e to p s of palm trees in a M odel T Ford driven by a hardscrabble vagabond w ith a foretaste for mythopoetic, snappish, sentient anvils held in thrall of a Prussian-A rabian fetal polar bear in the pink of health via a K ierkegaardian karate class-warfare unw itnessed by the unsung, fretful fugue-frogs of protean pear-bears par excellence thw arting the seven teen o n to log ical tip -tap s o f p o st-Krull, p re - R a tt Malay$ia-Kentucky if by the sdfdjaskl`dskl- ajfasfskdlajfklsjdafkljdsak lfdsklaf klsdajfklds j.a k ? /l`dask lfs[am +kljsa?klf jdskl ajf- klsjdafklfdsafdskla`dlsa`s 52;kdlajfd! lsa j 301 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH Death By Committee Ian Sh earer McCloud walks slowly into the bar, not limping, but the e$ort it takes is clear on his face. H e slides in to a seat w ith a grunt from w ay dow n in his throat. e bartender approaches. ‘Double bourbon, neat,’ says McCloud, settling onto his elbow s. e barman goes to pour his drink and he grimaces as he reaches in to his jacket. W hen his han d reappears, it is holding a w allet and dripping splotches of red onto the bar. ‘Your hand’s bleeding,’ says the barman, waiting for his paym ent. is gets the attention of the young man sitting a few stools dow n. M cC loud throw s a tw enty on the bar and stu $s his w allet back in side his jacket. W hen he does, the young m an to his right sees his shirt, soaked scarlet w ith fresh b lood . ‘Jesu s, w h at happen ed to you ?’ asks the you n g m an . e barman turns to have a look and McCloud puts the whiskey away in one. ‘G ive m e another and keep 'em com ing.’ e barman pours another drink. McCloud touches a cou p le of 'ngers to his belly and they com e aw ay bloody. He turns to the young man. ‘It’s a long story kid,’ he says, ‘not sure I’ve got enough tim e to tell it.’ 302 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE He reaches around to his back, pulls a gun from his belt, and lays it on the bar. ‘Hold on a minute.’ It was Paul, chiming in as usual. ‘I thought you said w e w eren’t allow ed to have guns,’ he said to Graham . ‘He doesn’t actually use it. It’s just a prop,’ I said. ‘Aye, but I wanted to have a gun in mine, but I left it out because they said no guns.’ ‘Or sex,’ said Julianne, as if this was helpful addition to the conversation. %ere w ere m urm urs of agreem ent from the rest of the group, w ho apparently felt th e sam e w ay. ‘He is right, Ian,’ said Graham, who was supposed to be running the thing. ‘W e agreed that for this exercise we wouldn’t have any stories involving guns.’ ‘Or sex,’ added Julianne again. ‘Yeah I know that,’ I said, trying my hardest to ignore th e silly b itch , ‘bu t th e g u n isn ’t im p o rtan t. H e doesn’t even use it in the story.’ ‘Well then I would suggest it’s not necessary to mention the gun,’ said Graham. ‘Remember that old ru le – if th ere’s a b o m b in th e ⇡rst act, it sh o u ld g o o by the third.’ ‘Omit needless words,’ said Richard, like he was some fucking literary sage, rather than just a bald, boring cunt quoting S trunk at a w riting group. If R ichard om itted needless w ords he’d never speak again. I looked around at the blank faces, w aiting for m y reply, and drinking this shit up. Som e of them w ere tak in g n o tes. McCloud 'nishes o$ his second and sits slumped, staring at the bottom of his glass. H e looks at his watch. ‘Another?’ asks the barman. 303 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ‘W hy not,’ says M cC loud. e young guy beside him takes a sw ig of beer and waits patiently. ‘Okay then, what I meant is that the gun is im portant, but only in setting up the ch aracter,’ I said. ‘%ere is no gun⇡gh t, it’s just som eth ing h e’s carrying. If th e gu n itself w as th e issu e, th en m ayb e h is h at is also an issue.’ ‘Is h e w earing a h at?’ ask ed P au l, frow n ing. E veryo n e ch ecked their copies of m anuscript I printed for them . ‘I d o n ’t th ink yo u m en tion ed h im w earing a h at, Ian ,’ said G rah am . McCloud reaches up and pats the top of his own head. No hat. ‘Musta got shot o$ in that gun'ght I was in,’ he says, grinning in spite of his pain. Everyone agrees that there was no mention of a hat in the opening. ‘O kay so he’s not w earing a hat!’ I said, ‘I w as just m aking a point.’ ‘I think the character description needs a lot m ore work. I can’t picture him at all,’ said Julianne. ‘I actu ally d id p ictu re h im w ith a h at,’ said S tep h en , and everyone ignored him but m e. ‘Forget about the hat!’ I half-shouted. ‘What he looks like doesn’t m atter that m uch.’ ‘Actually you can give a lot of character information with the physical description,’ said Richard. ‘%e guy is o b v io u sly in v o lv e d in c rim e in so m e w a y , so m a y b e you could convey that in how he is dressed. L ike a gangster, m aybe.’ ‘%at’s why I mentioned the gun,’ I said. ‘But we did say no guns,’ said Graham. ‘Or sex!’ said Julianne. 304 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ‘What if we take out the gun and put the hat in?’ Graham went on. ‘What do you call those hats the gangsters used to wear?’ asked Paul. ‘Stetsons,’ answered Richard. ‘Yes, see, this is good,’ said Graham, uncapping his pen. ‘Take out the gun and have him lay his Stetson on the bar,’ he said, scribbling on his copy. McCloud looks in surprise at the hat sitting where his gun used to be. He puts the hat on his head. ‘What do you think?’ he asks the barman. ‘Not as much use as a gun.’ McCloud sighs in agreement, takes the hat o$, and tosses it a w a y. ‘Okay so we agree that the hat can replace the gun?’ said G raham , looking around the room . %ey’re all nodding like cattle. I think about the other stories I’ve had to sit and listen to. Every one about an a air, or a marriage falling apart, or a marriage falling apart because of an a air. %ese people learned to write by watching soap operas. I once tried learning how not to w rite by w atching a soap opera and didn’t even make it through for the educational bene⇡t. ‘I never agreed to th at,’ I said. ‘Kill your darlings,’ said Richard, always with a helpful quote. Pom pous fucking prick. ‘I th ink th e h at is b etter,’ said Ju lian n e, ‘%e gu n is too sym bolic. T oo phallic.’ Julianne’s story had been about a w om an’s husband leaving her for another man, and she thinks everything is a fucking phallic sym b o l. I d ecid ed to fu ck w ith h er a little bit. ‘%at’s nothing, wait till I get to the part with the dildo,’ I told her, looking very serious. ‘We said no sex!’ 305 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH ‘Oh it’s not a sex scene, technically. %e woman in the sto ry alm o st g ets cau g h t d id d lin g h erself w ith a d ild o up her ass but she hides it in M cC loud’s underwear draw er. It’s an allegory for m ale rape and fem ale em pow erm ent.’ E veryone considered this silently. ‘%at’s amazing,’ said Julianne, and she was being sincere. I don’t know w hy I bothered. A t the last meeting, she told someone he had an Oedipal com plex. ‘Again, Ian, it seems like this story has a lot of material we agreed we wouldn’t use. %e point of this exercise w as to com e up w ith a story that didn’t rely on sex or violence to keep the reader interested,’ said Graham. ‘Well if I can’t write about people fucking or killing each other, w hat should I w rite about? P eople just sittin g aro u n d talkin g ?’ ‘Sure. Stories like that can be very interesting.’ ‘Bullshit. No one would read a story like that,’ I said. McCloud is slumped over the bar, blood pooling on the oor around his barstool. e young guy lifts M cCloud’s arm and lets it drop, lifelessly, back onto the bar. ‘I thin k he’s dead,’ he says. ‘Shit,’ says the barm an, ‘get me his wallet. H e still ow es for th e la st tw o.’ 306 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE ,e Happy Ending Jo sep h Jam es C aw ein Harry Childs was an aggressively existential child. When he was only seven years old, he wrote an essay in w h ic h h e e x p la in e d to a p u z z le d te a c h e r h is proclivity for sad clow ns. “C low ns are fascinating creatures,” h e w rote. “I can think of no trade m ore noble than clow ning, and no thing m ore noble for a clow n to be than sad. A sad clow n is the perfect sym bol for the em ptiness of our existence. A ny m an can pretend to be happy, but it takes true courage to adm it that one is sad.” Harry’s teacher was more impressed than she was concerned. O ver the next few years, the sch ool district did everything in their pow er to foster his intellectual grow th. H e began high school four years later, at the age of eleven. B y 15 he w as attending N Y U on a full academ ic scholarship. Harry was a brilliant student of philosophy. He was viciously nihilistic and his older classm ates abhorred him. It was rum ored that he was sleeping with one of the professors, D r. G oldstein. She w as an attractive woman with large breasts and small, black eyes. Harry only noticed her eyes. One day Harry stopped speaking. He arrived at class with his usual air of melancholy, but there was nothing anyone could do to get him to respond to them . D octors w ere sent for and diagnoses suggested. 307 HORROR SLEAZE TRASH A week later Harry returned to class. %e moment the professor began their lecture, H arry began to openly weep. He 308 PRO SE IN PO O R TA STE %e woman then slowly reached into her purse, produced a long, thin blade, and pierced herself th ro u g h th e h eart. By the time the police and ambulance arrived, Harry had already done the most noble thing he could think of for a clow n to do, throw ing him self into the ocean. 309 More from Horror Sleaze Trash Horror Sleaze Trash Quarterly Fall 2017 Sum m er 2017 Spring 2017 Winter 2017 Fall 2016 http://ww w .horrorsleazetrash.com /dow nloads