Trick or Fucking Die

No one went to old man Godkiller’s house after he ax murdered and crucified a school bus full of children back in ’06. Even though they could see that he had full-sized candy bars, the best looking pumpkins, and even a bowl full of smoking “potion” that the teenagers claimed would get you “fucked up”. But even they didn’t go into that yard on Halloween. No matter how many times Godkiller played the Monster Mash and danced around with a skeleton in his arms, cackling about his stash of candy and his egg-free siding.

But Jimmy was real dumb. He couldn’t read and he thought everyone was a cartoon and when we told him all about the rivers of blood that old man Godkiller would unleash upon the neighborhood if he caught even one child in his yard after dark he didn’t hesitate for a second, just went on over, hopped the fence, and proceeded to walk directly into the old man’s withered claws. His flesh fell from him like a pile of shaved ham. Godkiller had made drums out of his skull, scalp stretched tight over the hollowed eyes. Boom boom boom.

Horned Altar

Sloppily slipping down the ridge and sliding on wet leaves, mud slick boots cracking acorns as he fell, Jah-Red cursed and watched the horned beast disappear into the morning’s mist. He had been sitting silently on his haunches, knees stiff and legs burning, for an hour, high on the herbs of the old witch. His legs had fallen asleep and when the buck game to lick water from the creek stones, he had stood, stumbled, and now he sat, soaking wet and beginning to shiver in the chill air.

He would return to the fire, he decided, before the cold hit his bones. He would return empty handed and the oldies would stare at him and spit his name from their lips in shame. They would know he had been to the witch, that he had gone hunting alone, and that he had failed. His pride would fall from him. But he would be alive and perhaps, someday, redeemed in their eyes.

He got to his feet and turned to climb the hill. Above him, the buck stood on two legs, a broken antler in its twisted hoof, sharpening the horn against a rock. The shhhppt of the bone sliding against the whetstone hit Jah-Red in the teeth, shook his jaw, and caused him to vomit into the mud at his feet. Laughter, much like a small child’s, came from the hill above. Jah-Red looked up from his sickness into the face of his prey.

The deer parted the fur on his stomach with the slick, sharp antler and slipped it into flesh. The blood stank and steamed as it flowed, nearly black so thick did it come running. And kept coming. The laughter began again and Jah-Red smelled his own piss. The hillside ran with rivulets of exsanguination and where he had stumbled and left boot prints, the low places filled with the beast’s fluid, gently and steadily. Bubbling like champagne freshly poured, the buck motioned for him to drink and the swirling behind the beast’s black eyes whispered Yes, Yes.

He stooped to drink and felt the first blow of the horn to the back of his skull.

The Ghost that Grabbed Grandma

I felt its long, cold fingers scratching at the back of my ears and now I see it, green and phase shifting through the spectrums. Trying on faces. Elongating certain spirit fingers and knocking with bulbous knuckles on the skull of dear old Esther as she shits her favorite chair and evacuates her corpse. The phantasm takes the wisps of her and ties them in his hair. If she hadn’t forgotten her lungs and vocal cords in her body, she might have screamed. She had always been afraid of long, greasy hair.

I would help her if I could. Unfortunately, my soul has been trapped in a crystal since I was old enough to sign parchment with my own blood.

Mutation: the Final Reward

A curtain of diminutive skulls hung between rotting logs, separating the passageway. Birds, infants, rats: their remains hung silent and still in the stale air. Though no door barred the thief’s way, he found himself unable to cross the threshold, to touch the profane bones. He had come all this way. Would he really be turned away from Radbathigustinak’s treasure by a simple curtain of fetishes? Breathing deeply and gathering his will, he stuck his hand out to part the strings of remains.

The flesh melted and dripped from his hand, finger bones bleached white by a burning orb emanating from the child’s skull. In his ear, the bird beak pecked and whispered to him his sins against his fellow man, accusations echoing around the pain. The rat skulls crawled tooth-first to his genitals and sank into feast. As his mind left, he heard a voice saying, “I see you’ve found my treasure. To be made a monster before passing into the abyss: this is my gift to those who seek.”

Internet Night in Worm City

When they broke him open (and his skin took a bit of sawing like year-old birthday cake icing and the fat underneath had been receding a dozen meters every year but the muscles were still in fighting form and lashed out when exposed, taking Amanda in the left eye so that she had to sit this one out as eager as she was), they found that he had never really died, merely gentrified his insides. All the boarded up organs had a new paint job and worms with beards and short pants were squishing about, sipping filtered turd cocktails lovingly crafted by an earwig with an exotic accent.

The Professor stared in awe at the students’ find. He would be rich as soon as he could get the worms to grow mouths and start forming opinions.

Last Step from First Words

Timmy: and the ground became dinosaurs when he learned to talk and on their strange lizard backs did he trod, barefoot before the feeling left. They had taught him words and so the sticks became the teeth of great beasts, tongues larger than himself sticking out of the hedgerow. The bees and bugs were working for the dinosaurs, of course, and the terrible lizards would buzz and shake and dance as if they were bugs and the definition of master and servant would fade out of focus as the ground buzzed and shook and danced under our feet.

The hole that swallowed Timmy was wet, like a mouth, and endless, like the appetite of the toothed horrors all around us now.

Horoscopes: I

Libra, you will come to fulfill an ancient destiny by sacrificing yourself to the Sky Father. Have your brother sharpen your knife for you.

Scorpio, your dreams will thicken into a stew from which you will be able to pick at reality and throw the nasty bits to the dog.

Sagittarius, there is no hiding from the neighbors. They are watching. And judging. They know.

Capricorn, never one to back down, the cop’s riot shield will feel like you’re being beaten to death with a saucer sled.

Aquarius, you will float into the clouds on a chariot made of cotton candy and marijuana. There, the Storm Devils will devour you and eat your chariot as a snack.

Pisces, you will wake up as two fish. Enjoy your short lives.

Aries, the Dark Man of the Crossroads will come to collect that $8.50 you borrowed from him for that chicken club the other day. You’d best have it on you.

Taurus, you will be abducted by aliens that look like an exact copy of all of your friends. You will party until the Intergalactic Science light switches on.

Gemini, you feel like you have known your doppelgänger for a very long time as he chokes the life out of you, screaming.

Cancer, you will finally take your first steps to becoming a circus clown. The child looks so peaceful lying on the stone altar.

Leo, your tits will get bigger and people will start forgetting your name.

Virgo, you don’t know how to mind-link with planet-sized robots. Stop lying to yourself.

Rant in the Key of Alien# Sex# God$

Before we hung lasers in the sky, the Big Men would kill your favorite things and the shock of seeing a perfectly healthy sheep spill all of its blood on a giant stone dick would send your brain into a frenzy and, if the Big Man got enough people to look when he did the deed and feel in the same direction, he could bend the frenzy in his minds and call out to things alien and abhorrent to the rational mind.

Now, we tap on a piece of plastic full of lightning and gold when we want to talk to the gods. Now the gods are each other and we have the Great King Inter Net the Wise, supreme judge of disputes (a modern, faceless Solomon), living in our pants, interpreting life for us.

And soon, Glob willing, we will be able to shoot photons full of chatter to the Ones Beyond and bother them a bit again. On the other hand, when robotic wasteland rangers begin to slash and burn the last of humanity from their hidden dens, perhaps a return to the old ways would be prudent. Robots hate fucking alien sex gods, and vice versa.
I know. I am one of them.