top of page

i.

the angry flock of vegan cannibals who descended on coachella this year took no prisoners. it was a bloodless bloodbath.

 

take a step back. draw a deep breath. look around. re-evaluate. hang yourself.

- from self help from the callous

 

 

new literary genre: crime-free detective novels.
sample titles: 

murder most foul, murder most absent
an absence of ax murders
the scene of what could have been a crime
the theoretical detective
sherlock holmes and the case of the non-existent crime
whodidn'tdunnit?

 

at dawn, bertrand woke with a renewed sense of purpose, certain this would be the day he dismantled the internet. armed with a large magnet, he strode confidently into the foyer of google's headquarters.

 

lunch with with the firm's partners occasioned acts of outright savagery that made carruther's head swim.

 

in the near future, when sex with synthetics is commonplace, a new breed of sexually transmitted diseases is born. known as bsods, they wreak havoc on the implants of those who can afford to have them installed.

 

"moldovian twitter bots are beautiful artisanal creations. avatars with real faces, full bios copied from real accounts," beamed smithson, his hands trembling above the keyboard.

 

in an unfortunate system glitch, garret's work cubicle was misidentified as a lavatory waste container and 790lbs of feces was deposited onto his head. management regrets the error.


retinal overlays go haywire. toys+ tactical ego armor crashes, leaving users susceptible to all manner of insecurities. personal defense implants go dark.


most problematic of all are the toys+/google personality apps. the celebrity personalities that users have installed onto their own get switched up. new age yoga instructors get confrontational corporate bad boy drexel ratch infused into their personality instead of the deepak chopra soothsayer app. bank executives find their warren buffet pers app replaced with the charles manson pers app. for a little while, until medical tech specialists implement a fix, shit goes a little haywire.

 

"this one goes out to all the short, lumpen ambiguously-shaped people," the blonde folk singer whispers into the mic.

 

peaches geldof visits pervtech, llc. "the devil's hiding amongst the bacteria," she was heard to remark. 

 

it's 2089, and sting's son and bono's daughter rule over the british isles with practiced benevolence.

 

​

a brooklyn museum curator, responsible for greenlighting the ebola found art object installation, which killed hundreds of museum goers after opening night...has been steadily rising through the art star ranks. a real downtown badboy. the scene makers have their eyes on him. sasha sischy clamors for an interview.

​

 

systems is in town. do not fuck with systems. alcor loses his skin, over there in sales. fedex drop ships the bodies from orbit back down to earth. an assistant plugs them into the acclimation device until they are good to go.

 

saturday sees the emergence of a detective who solves crimes by whistling. no other possibility.

​

​

ethyl ethanol runs her fingers across the smooth metal of the shock collar around her neck. "won't go far," she whispers.

 

hobney jammed the edge of the sonic blade up against the cook's throat. outside, the honey peddlers had set up shop right outside boscoe's tent.

out on blue six, shock drones were in full play. protein shipments had been withheld for weeks. the streets and the arcades, a churning sea of bodies doing to metal, metal doing to flesh. 

 

mr sniffs and chauncey justice laid waste to the casino floor.

 

2034: as america's culture wars entered their second decade, a new occupation emerged: the role of cultural psychological bodyguard to the western elites. these bodyguards would put themselves in the line of fire at the front lines of the culture wars, taking the rhetorical slings and arrows aimed at the elite by an increasingly unmanageable protestor presence, absorbing all manner of cultural criticism. 

 

i passed by a rally last week and got caught in a "got woke" crossfire. thank god my cultural bodyguard was there to absorb the cultural shrapnel
so i was able to emerge guilt free. he's still in intensive care, with third-degree "got woke" anti-privilege burns.

 

and...

 

carruthers's bodyguard unleashed a sea of invective at the social justice warriors, who responded in kind with a volley of staccato shouts of "white privilege!" staggering under the weight of the social rebuke, the bodyguard sank to his knees, then crumpled to the ground.

 

new kinds of rhetorical weaponry are unveiled by each side: the got woke anti-anti personnel device. the black lives matter aa battery, sending verbal guilt flack clusters up to 10,000 feet.

 

mandrake's limo screeched to a halt. the surging mass of chanting protesters blocked the road. anti got-woke blast shields deployed around the limo. sensory-deprivating comfort eggs deployed inside the plush, sound-proofed interior. sexist pornography flooded mandrake's feed in a last-ditch attempt to block any sensitive feminist pop-ups. 1940s television commercials featuring smiling african americans in positions of domestic servitude washed over mandrake and his wife as they sat cocooned in their respective comfort eggs. their cultural bodyguards deployed every countermeasure they could think of, but the righteous fury of the crowd overcame them. when the situation was clearly hopeless, the auto escape sequence initiated and mandrake and his wife were ejected in their comfort eggs, jets pushing them towards the sub-orbital alt-culture enclave #XJ8746 aloft just outside the jurisdiction. below them, the limo sat useless, as did the inert forms of the cultural bodyguards, minds racked by all manner of populist invectives. hackers soon swarmed the limo, programming the auto drive assembly to target mandrake's ciswhite privilege. moments passed, then the limo rose up on afterburners in hot pursuit of the fleeing insensitivity mongers in their escaping comfort eggs!

 

#XJ8746 detected the unauthorized mass of the limo as it ascended, and deployed emp-tipped guided drones, neutralizing the limo as it rose to meet mandrake's comfort egg. as it collided with the pavement, the limo sent out one last burst of feed chatter about colonialist microaggressions before exploding. 

 

later, in #XJ8746, mandrake and wife received the finest in white privilege re-acclimation care that his company's generous plan would allow.

 

in a vid-report to her superiors, mandrake's caregiver would remark, "this is the worst case of got woke-induced white guilt i've ever seen. even his silk socks formed a kind of rebuke in his mind, and his wife was terrified that her wedding ring was a blood diamond, the product of 'the exploitation of the downtrodden african laborer.' it took 11 sessions of the zuckerberg re-education procedure to re-teach them that white capitalism is a benevolent force for global good." 

 

ii.

from the aristocrats experiencing epiphanies while engaged in acts of unconscionable violence series:

 

zelcko zizek's brandy-soaked tongue caught fire as the flaming oyster touched his mouth. all around him, the table erupted into paroxysms of cruel laughter.

the duchess sank her fork deep into the ambassador's hindquarters.

swithens grew homicidally impatient with the cagey, sebaceous behavior of the sommelier. he found his right hand creeping toward the handle of his sonic dagger.

later that afternoon, amidst the bodies piled around him, werfer decided he was henceforth a dedicated psychoculturalist. slowly, he unwound his notebook and began to write.

botany had always been of especial interest, lady wayforth determined, tightening her garrote around the flower girl's throat.

bringing the oar down upon the guide's head, charles realized that he'd always loathed the sporting life. "you know i hate nature!" he bellowed at the crumpled form that lay slumped before him in the canoe.

esmerelda would not be deterred. stepping across the pile of limbs in her father's gore-bespattered drawing room, she set to work on her watercolor of the water lilies.

in the memorial garden at the dresden atrocity park, patterson ran a retinal spool to narrow down his list of future victims.

perched atop the battlement, in between sniping townsfolk with his father's crossbow, charles continued work on the mathematical treatise that he knew to be destined to become his legacy to modern science.

 

outside on the lawn, dame malarky raised the croquet mallet above the young fop's head. it was never too late for etiquette.

 

as he washed the blood from his boots, lord marlborough wondered where the time went. the children were growing up so fast. they were nearly his equal in these monthly hunts.

 

edison mandrake adjusted his silk cravat and loaded the magazine of his mauser repeater. from his father's forest, he could hear the sounds of the panicked townsfolk running through underbrush. perhaps tomorrow would be the day he took up cartography, he thought.

towelling off the entrails from his jewel-encrusted harm stick, bryce thought to himself "i never could get the hang of saturdays alone in the lodge."

that night, the rebels smeared excrement throughout the entryway of bohampton's summer chalet. the next morning, his wrists still smarting from where the ties had been, bohampton remarked that, odor aside, he rather liked the new look. deidre, her hands still gripping the autorifle, tutted with exasperation.

von hindermilk slowly eased back the safety catch on the mauser machine pistol. drawing a bead on the unwashed curb urchin, he considered his options. might another homicide make him late for that afternoon's croquet match? and didn't he already have enough in the way of saturnine tableaux for his sketchpad?

 

delivering mild electric shocks to the passersby beneath his window helped nesbitt ward off the noonday blues.

 

 

 

iii.

a man in purgatory has two eagles. what is he doing wrong?
a girl on a swing remembers a nursery rhyme from her childhood. what is her sin?
a man and a woman enter a restaurant on an overcast day. what have they neglected?
a young man purchases a commercial jazz recording. what has he failed to consider?

 

 

 

iv. 

celeb child names:
search object
meta data
hit counter
blogosphere
hard coder
c++
available bandwidth
zero one

 

 

 

v. 
jock sturgess...fecal super soldier. the product of a government initiative gone awry. they tried to cure his irritable bowel syndrome using "serum x" and instead they created a monster. one whose power they could barely harness. sturgess travels to a variety of exotic locales, and shits his way to victory. preferred uniform: flack jacket and kilt.

 

diarrhea on the moon: a jock sturgess deep space adventure

from chapter one:
sturgess knew he only had one shot. as he felt the intestinal cramp pushing the inevitable explosion from within his bowels, he released the air valve on his vacc suit and angled for the mother ship. "make. it. count. sturgess!" he stammered through clenched teeth. on command, tarry black feces exploded from the opening. streaming out from out of the posterior valve on sturgess's vacc suit, directly onto the helmet of the advancing cosmonaut behind him. the russkie's laser shot went wide as the dank liquid froze into a solid coating. sturgess  spun about and fired the grappling gun directly into boris's chest. "scratch one for ivan," he quipped. inside the mother ship, becky breathed a sigh of relief.

 

...

 

additional excerpts:

 

"code brown! i repeat, code brown!" shouted the scientist, panic filling his eyes as sturgess shrugged off the shackles like so much wet ramen. 

 

from deadly milkshake in tangiers: a jock sturgess adventure


she knew sturgess's reputation, and had worn a brown raincoat as a precaution.

 

from operation polished turd: a jock sturgess tale of intrigue

years later, after it's all over, the fictional sturgess writes his fictional autobiography, titled, naturally enough, shat my way to the top


sturgess's sidekick is becky, a disgraced former cia agent with no sense of smell. she divines the future by examining the shape, size, and texture and quality of people's turds. a real fecal femme fatale, whose sidestory is her quest for redemption within the agency. default uniform: full-length raincoat and goggles.


brother scare raised the golm stick above his head, advancing on sturgess. sturgess wheeled about and lifted the back of his kilt. "40 degrees to your left!" shouted becky from behind the wood pile. sturgess shifted on his heel and compensated, using raw instinct to further refine the trajectory shift. brother scare, now only feet away, brings the stick down. but he was too late. "fraaaaaaaaaaaaapppppppppp!!!"

"dammit. sturgess has gone rogue!" the general shouted. a look of grim realization on his face as he surveyed the carnage through his binocs.

 

“broken arrow! broken arrow!’ bellowed the general over the comsat as a turgid stream of yellow liquid rocketed out from beneath sturgess’s kilt.

"she thought that the shit on the bathroom floor was the worst it could get. but she was wrong. dead wrong." coming this summer

 

excerpts from gom stick blues: a jock sturgess adventure 

the panicked voice came over the sat phone line: "trouser brown! trouser brown! repeat. we have a trouser brown!" general tanner grabbed the receiver. "initiate containment procedure rogue brown cow!"

 

from brown trouser protocol: a jock sturgess mystery

 

additional titles:

 

jock sturgess vs. the doomsday turd
jock sturgess in the turd of damocles

 

 

 

vi.

sniper training begins at dawn. jody cooked him with the duster at 922 yards. a new record.

sanderson crept to the edge of the ledge. from his vantage point above the square, he could clearly see the viceroy, juggling eggs in the square below. it would be a clean shot, no complications.

parallax snowstorm. commune with your device.

green thumbs pegged him with an entanglement javelin at 70 yards.

take the shot billingsly, while you still have time. and lean into it, by god.

we clocked jerome at 180. he hadn't even broken a sweat.

 

artisinal hipster cannibal food truck, now serving indie rock wimps in mustard sauce

 

a man stranded on a remote atoll administers liposuction to himself. it is in this way that the isolated become beautiful.

 

"there better not be armpits in heaven," muttered priestly, as he stepped off of the platform of the rocket gantry.


the intricacies of django's colostomy kit left us speechless.

grant shamefaced the panzerfaust brigade into sheepish silence. 

 

marty and bitsy pogrom star in the pogrom twins annihilate vegas

 

"...inside the cockpit of his hello kitty interceptor, butters caressed the ejection lever and commenced to day dreaming."

 

 

imagine a world where defecating at will is the biological imperative of the wealthy and elite. where you gotta work to shit. "will work for defecation." att sells pre-paid defecation cards. pray that you don't run out of credits.


you get into a verbal joust with donald rumsfeld. do not pass go.
donald rumsfeld's soccer team is the known unknowns. they win through misinformation and doublespeak. they are the league's most enigmatic team.

 

johnny cashmachine. rajin' 'gainst the atm. johnny and his strip tease total flesh machine. johnny with the mexican pleasure boy in the tight white jeans and the pomade. cash box at the bus stop. sex crime. protein machines in athletic socks. if you're here past dark, it's all concrete face scrapes and sweat box stretch machines. kill switch under the glove box. joy ride to the concrete factory at the edge of town. one look inside the flesh suitcase changed her smile to a scream. slow dissolve to skin melt in a puddle of goo. skin like basalt. a smile like vanilla ice cream. quietly shuts the door, smooths down his tie, puts it in reverse, off to the next town.


the allure of the lonely hearts club was too great for jenkins to resist. he soon found himself overcome with the saudade of despair.

 

“we are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking up the ladies’ petticoats” -p. hensile praxley. from love in the time of inertial dampening, a novel by prims fortitude

18th-century jamaican dub step beats have always left us cold.

 

we arrested lobo for praying to the slot machines again.

 

"like a brandy soaked eel, smithson erupted into flames at the head of the table. much to the amusement of the rest of his team."

 

baxter pretense is the homicidal sommelier.

 

barnabyy falstaff stars in mouthfeeler. "like a dentist, only wronger."

 

like a gin-soaked janglebot, barrisford spun and writhed in front of the strip club's blind patrons.

like a feted leper, carrington descended the stairs in his new strapless gown.

like eels in olive oil, the illict data packets slipped out from within quigley's bowels.

like a moist prawn, the promise of the day slipped from within barrisford's grasp.

 

"make mine a womb bomb" chirped feliciity contagion, at the fighter pilot's saloon.

 

 

a rare condition renders him only able to speak in acronyms.

 

after the surgery, henry began hanging out at highschool wrestling matches. he'd dream himself to sleep imagining himself in a headlock, a parade of athletic cups inches from his face.

 

it's 2057, and peta now stands for people for the ethical treatment of androids, most animals being extinct.

 

an elaborate series of winches, ropes, and pulleys served to introduce brother scare to the congregation.

 

the noontime roar of rocket engines on the landing pad outside could only mean one thing: it was time for carruther's transgendered lamaze class.

 

"sum man boo boo," was all the torpedo operator could manage, his face a contorted rictus of fear. 

 

 

diamonds on their shoes at the new human rights charity ball. eyefeathers plucked, a swarm of skin drones. metal on the sidewalk. polymer heart. "nine times the dendrites of a normal man." flak jacket fashion and anti-personnel cocktails.

 

 

post-apoc cocktail party at 5, and buffy's silo condo unit. drinks and anti-rads on the house.

 

in the future, struggling dictatorships will pay a-list hollywood celebs exhorbitant fees to serve as part-time dictators. "zambia has always been close to my heart, so i welcome the chance to rule over it with an iron fist" dame jolie told reporters. 

 

the ultimate in non-lethal personal defense: the mime gun. fires a spread of dwarf mimes. 

"billingsley sensed the mimes inside the barrel, coiled and tense, pulsing in homicidal anticipation. he zeroed the sites, dialed in his target, and slid his finger around the trigger. death would indeed be silent."

 

silently, the neuter drones descended upon judkins in his cube, as he thumbed forbidden data on the company-owned retinal holograph.

 

have you heard the news? someone hacked the comfort drones on blue six and now they’re killing their masters.

 

 

out on the veranda, to fill what he mistook for uneasy silence, dempsey offered "i hear that his yacht is made entirely out of rhino foreskins." 

 

 

it is not permitted. the new series that charts the declining fortunes of seven people for whom all things are not permitted. episode one: klaus, the hairdresser from munich. he was accustomed to freedom without limits. epidose two: consuelo, the female gaucho from argentina. she was used to corralling her own way.

 

 

 

bunny's vegan cajun kitchen.

shut-in-with-a-gun daycare.

dexter's driver through lingerie and ammo shop

 

securing his re-entry codpiece, hefe jones blithely stepped off of the orbital platform. below him loomed moon l-47, its processing plants visible miles above the surface.

 

 

portly fiendish is the amorous bellhop:

 

"are you sure that i can't place your luggage on the bed? i'll just arrange them neatly while you take a warm soapy bath." 

 

in every episode, portly comes within a hair's breadth of being fired for his inappropriate behavior. in true slapstick fashion, it's only through the bumbling imbecility of his manager, pax beauregarde, that he retains his job. and an overweight chinese maid always comes to his carnal rescue, administering a cursory handjob in the laundry room in exchange for little trinkets that portly manages to steal from the guests. 

 

 

on next week's episode of the amorous bellhop, hilarity ensues when portly attempts to hotwire chelsea warmaker's sexbot. 

 

 

vii.

we should have smelled the corpses burning before we saw them.

windows down, haloed by a phalanx of security drones, driving at a leisurely fuck-all-y'all pace. we felt untouchable. 

radio playing. some of us, the augs, digitspool direct to our cranium. but none of us inside the van had  the foggiest that it had begun. the great unravelling. the great purge.  the event that split how we'd think about time: there'd only be a before. only be an after. utah drove us over the crest of that last hill. then killed it. we looked up and saw the fires. an endless series of crucifixions alight on each side of the highway. hundreds of our kind, strung up and roasting.

 

 

viii.

far below street level, saint titty von teasealot regards her newest client with dispassionate curiosity, coated as he is in synthetic amniotic fluid, ball gagged, crawling on glass, weeping. this man, a man chauffeured through the city behind shaded, bullet-resistant glass; this man, a man who routinely condemned unpronounceable villages to death with a swipe of his tablet; this man, a man now pleading with her to cover him in feces and attach the electrodes. she considered it, but decided that she wasn't in a giving mood.

 

 

ix.

dead is the new black.


down in the yard, the machines began playing favorites again. meat bag #1, up against the wall. meat bag #2, here's an extra ration bag. 

up in unit 17, o'shaunessy threw the i ching for seemed like the umpteenth time. the answer always came back the same: firebomb the food court.

hugo largo and cousin ving- you could swear they were sisters. ving more adept at motorcycle repair and hugo the better forger. each with death warrants on their heads in all known zones. equal bounty, equal risk. their cousin pee wee, her insights into rocket launcher trajectories unrivalled by anyone in her squad.

 

"the contents of my own nostrils interest me more than the affairs of most men," mulvihill opined, then shifted in his seat to let go a blast of fetid wind. as the air yellowed around me, i thought i might faint.

 

batting an eyelid and flipping a curl, hortepence tipped the bellboy in dollops of savage custard.

 

"so i got a little tipsy at the office party last night. blame it on the stealth suit."

 

chantel von honeytrot specialized in the vertical laotian surprise.

 

"tofee trousers" sanderson was overdue for a good poping.

i came upon two school children, poping one another in the garden, as children are wont to do

we gave him a right poping, once he won't soon forget

 

post-war defecation rationing drove pax douchegard over the brink. chauncey justice laid waste to the reclamation facilities on waystation alpha. jenny mccarthy v6.7 soils herself on live multifeed spool, and is fined 3,500 defecation credits by the fcc. ass payday loans become the thing: "for when you need to shit today."

"notice: defecation access revoked."

george lost his defecation fob and now he's a walking shitbomb.

 

 

 

  • infinity zero dons a headscarf and throws a beer party by the beach

  • caster crap imbruglio tanners

  • never forget: kitty crispus was throttled by indifference

  • jitterbug jenkins loads non-lethal buckshot into her mossberg pump-action shotgun

  • gypsy doodle brings it on home, backwoods style

  • dirk hosts an absinthe party for sheiks living on the down low

  • malloy's vertigo reaches new heights

  • teddy drives his truck through the confessional box

  • ar browbeats a watch salesman within an inch of his life

  • handsome boy modeling school shuts down due to effects of toxic sludge in the nj drinking water

  • the apostrophe kid divests himself of all worldly possessives

  • they spend all morning retrofitting her intestines

  • the elevators in the building began eating passengers promptly at seven

  • he spent the day fitting nanomachines onto the head of a pin

  • his blind spot was that taco factory off i-89

  • she left the porcupine for a piñata

  • my facts are straight. it's your ideas that are crooked.

  • horses always bot the pout wax inside a briny ballsac

  • the workers in corridor b-29 knew better than to make eye contact with that seether who hung around the grate

  • i gave you coffee; you gave me spent shell casings

 

 

 

 

2015: year dark. the year the screens went dead.
the year alphabet snowstorm invented the triple daisy consignment chain.
year of the tribes. year of the belgian surprise.

 

 

a pride of aging casanovas
a gaggle of fading femme fatales
a pod of pulchritudinous prudes
a flock of decrepit queens of the silent screen

 

clutchmonkey's fist in the leopard skin junta

over at the king's arms, wesley tames a doorag in a fitful cloud of kung-fu purple

while we, we saw the worst minds of our generation fellated like so much mystery meat.

 

 

 

mahatma gandhi body slams mousolini to the mat. but everybody knows that pacifists can pile drive fascists on any given sunday. but if jesus and buddha got into a kung fu fight, who would win?

 

 

it's 1944, and a b&w cartoon depicts mickey mouse bashing adolf hitler repeatedly over the head with an oversized mallet. 

 

"nein!"

<thwap>

"nein!"

<thwap>

"nein!"

<thwap>

ad nauseam

 

mickey then dances a bavarian jig atop adolf's crumpled body.

"mouse kampf"

 

it's 2073, and racism and sexism are viewed as quaint quirks and failings of an unenlightened era. so much so that they acquire a kind of retro-cool cachet. a new style of dance music emerges: epithet. dj slur and artisinaln*gger are its two hottest practioners. 

 

dak o'shaunessy, professional ghosttweeter

 

 

she's having her vagina power washed. these off-world productions take so much out of her. but the money's too good.

 

baxby had started deliberately entering false data into the system, in the hopes that he might cause an accident, gum up the works. the charge is felony false data. how do you plead?

 

 

x.

the band takes the stage
assault rifles for guitars, plugged into marshall stacks
the first song begins
the lead points his ax straight at the crowd
bullets barking into the first few rows
heads, shoulders, arms, shredded and exploding
viscera and bone showering down on those behind them

corpses burst like pinatas
a severed head batted aloft 
an armless girl, blood pouring from boney stumps, crowdsurfs above the carnage, beatific smile on her face

the bassist pumps out a steady pulse of buckshot
exploding eyes and teeth, pockmarking faces and severing fingers
bouncers dressed in riot gear and teflon police the stage
roadies wearing bullet proof vests dart out to supply fresh magazines for reloads between songs

the audience howls in pain and elation
these kids, what's left of them, cannot get enough
they begin flinging audience remains at the singer
intestines, a liver, stomach chunks, half an arm
shower the stage like bloody underwear

the drummer raises a stick and headshots a boy in the balcony, shearing his noggin clean off
the headless body jets blood, wobbles momentarily, then falls onto two stoned kids cowering behind the soundboard

within minutes, digit spool tastemakers and blogosphere critics are united in their praise
"extraordinary"  "the kids are most definitely not alright"
"a new benchmark in authenticity" "make mine a mai lai!" etc.
the entire staff of pitchfork commits mass suicide in a show of solidarity
shootings at rock clubs and music stores become the new thing
in urban areas, firefights between hipsters and hip hop fans grow commonplace
iggy pop is assassinated while being inducted to the rock and roll hall of fame
the nra becomes the most popular sponsor of tours and creates its own record label
glock and u2 sign a multi-album contract and co-develop a new line of riot guns 

and so on. rock and roll becomes dangerous again.

 

 

 

xi.

down at street level, the velocity creeps and the chang suk muvvas were turf warring again. so the night was all "ack! ack!' from blackmarket low-grade security drones, and wounded bodies dragging themselves to safety in the alleys.  in the morning, we emerged from our cubes to find spent bullet casings littering the sidewalk and trails of blood leading in all directions.

 

several miles up, in the queen's cloud imperium, tawny rolled back the memory wipe on the queen's nubian mind slaves. 

 

in rainslick tendril city, the sex slaves were all high on industrial glue, which was how pax douchegard preferred them.

 

 

 

xii. from the understating peril series:

at the bank of river, smithson was having a bit of trouble with a trio of ravenous crocodiles.

 

a hunderd yards from shore, patterson was thrown from his surfboard by an explosion of motion underneath. he soon found himself in a spot of bother with a three meter great white, its razor-sharp teeth puncturing his intestines as they completed their embrace.

 

on the poorly lit sidewalk, judkins was feeling slightly put out by the 9mm glock the skinny youth had pressed against his temple. 

 

 

 

xii. 

a future utopian fortified apartment complex populated entirely by self-help authors who constantly retweet quotes from each other's books and feeds about how great everything is and how much they love themselves. how each day, in every way, they are getting better and better. it's a closed loop of hermetically sealed enlightment.

 

 

 

xiii.

in the future, riot tv. live 24/7 spool feed of global riots. the best bits make it to the toys+ funniest global riot feed bloopers. hosted by late-night stars chelsea warmaker and blimey cosgrove. 

 

 

 

xiv.

urban pacification- the new game of nonlethal takedown from parker brothers. "don't taze me, bro!" how much unrest can you quell out near the urban exclusion zone? draw a card from the taze pile...oh balls, lose a turn.

 

 

 

xv.

mark e. smith toothpaste: k-k-kidzahhh. brusshia, i sez. bbbbbbrushahh those whities whites. whay-eye-tah! else feel the wrath. the wrath. of. my. bombasstuh.

 

 

 

xvi. this spring, go for the jugular in your seasonal home renovations with the american psycho line of bloodspatter wallpaper. patterned after authentic crime scenes.

 

 

 

xvii. christobal set the codpiece on the dresser and heaved a heavy sigh. tonight was going to be a long night. and he was going to earn every dollar of it.

 

...

 

she'd found the body floating along the edge of mud lake #4, half mile past the plastics factory. didn't have no head. christobal was a ratbag of a man. she liked him that way.

 

christobal at home. threading prayer beads through bruised knuckles. her scent still clung to him. she played him the way she played her bass, greasy castoff violence, as casual as a shrug and flicked cig. in that sludgy emo band of hers, that faux-retro late 20th century grunge stuff back from when the kids were still planetside. 

 

back to that body. the headless one. she was holding it over him. christobal. methamphetaminely speaking.

 

 

 

xviii.

nerk cockswelder earned his bones on the fondleswelter account. now he's got a few things to say about growing a corporate leadership culture. see him discuss the latest in pers app tech every monday on the mindswipe channel.

 

burned alive inside a cask of oaken haze, nerk cockwelder found the time to reflect on his past work with the center for excellence: "all of life, i have found, resides within my corporate identity, and if only more people would accept this, the world might shine so brightly."

 

"i always wanted to work for the center for excellence, but what i never realized, is that this excellence exists only in the mind." - nerk cockwelder, intern, the center for excellence

 

 

 

xix.

fatty boom boom. jamaican gangser. drug kingpin. data pirate. fancies himself an underworld robin hood, free drugs to the poor, etc. fond of self proclamations, in which he refers to himself in the third person.

 

"fatty boom boom make preacher daughter go drop. riiiiight!"

"fatty boom boom gunshot bam bam. white man go run. fatty boom boom riiiiight!"

 

 

 

xx. suborbital urinal station xjv-579 was quiet. too quiet. securing his reentry codpiece, hefe jones blithely stepped from the orbital platform. visions of stim pack jet set liquid in zero g played in his head, like a soothing feed loop. amber diamonds glinting in the sun. skatchwelder was beside himself with excitement. from out the portside window of the shuttle, he could see the symbiote colony, swaying gently in unison. he thumbed his credit stick in anticipation. skatchwelder had a slight weakness for symbiote extrusion modules. and the sexbot overlords on xjv-579 would use this knowledge to their advantage.

 

portion control chatted up the service bot at the station's entry port. he preferred his bots with unorthodox nodule attachments. sexbots bored him these days. nothing like a service bot for suction.

 

asked why he'd tried to french the sexbot without the requisite attachment, douchegarde could only reply, "tastes change."

 

skatchwelder scratched at his acne nervously. he'd scored a black market credit chip and had unlimited access to the data banks of xjv-579 for 48 hours. where to begin?

 

in the sitz bath, cockswelder now apprreciated the gravity of having stuck his member inside the symbiote pathogen tube. tubers. so many tubers. if only he hadn't been tripping on flarm, he wouldn't have mistaken it for the pleasure connex. but non-indemnity waivers were non-indemnity waivers.

 

next up, from sikh freedom fighter to off-world symbiote mogul. one man's inspiring journey.

 

drexel ratch is the man who outsexed a sexbot (a modern day john henry tale)

 

 

 

xxi.

one-eyed jack sold impressionist paintings down by the wharf to the sailors when their ships would dock. 

after months at sea, these grizzled men were hungry to get their hands on the latest impressionist works, and would stop at nothing to collect works by the masters.

brawls were not uncommon. jack relished the bidding wars that would frequently ensue. he loved the weight of the coin in his purse. he had a fine turner piece that two ship captains were scheduled to duel over within the fortnight.

 

 

 

xxii.

quigley dreamnt of spore parties on off-world colonies, of champagne streams floating in zero gravity, of tendrils weaving their way like veins through the clubs and blackout speakeasies. of jet injectors and articulated exoskeletons. of midnight music, sweeter than the honey of your eyes.

 

 

 

xxiii.

passcode opened up baxby's skull like a padlock and let the autodoc play around inside. spindly machine arms lasering and rerouting neural pathways like so many threads of colored yarn.

 

a rock band called zzzz. each memebr is narcoleptic, so the excitement is in not knowing who'll fall asleep during a gig. the live album is called asleep at cbgb's.

 

 

 

xxiv.

when textiles attack:

  • rabid boxer shorts imported from china

  • aggressive underwear blamed in a rash of festival injuries

  • feral bathrobes rampaging in mongolia

  • athletic cups go rogue

  • jockstrap frenzy leaves local team in intensive care

  • calvin klein cannibal briefs kill 12

  • when satin strikes back: a reader’s digest drama in real life

 

 

 

xxv.

food court: a play in twelve acts

tanning salon: a ballet in three scenes

tattoo parlor: an opera in seven acts

print shop: a one act melodrama

vape lounge: a film by werner hertzog

hookah: the musical

 

 

 

xxvi.

hot new trend: last names that combine multiple slurs.

  • dr. queerfag, chiropractor

  • ashley kikenig, life coach

  • chelsea wopspic, realtor

  • john whorecracker, little league coach

  • biff dumbcripple, pastor

  • artemis fagwop, self-help author

 

 

 

xxvii.

dicky andreasen stars in the mystery of the transgendered stone.

“remarkable. this stone displays significant gender ambivalence,” remarked the jeweler. “look here,” he motioned, handing dicky the magnifier. “see the branching lines beneath the surface. they split into multiple directions, never committing to one clear path.”

 

“gosh,” exclaimed dicky. “no wonder my parents didn’t want me to keep it!”

 

dicky andreasen stars in the secrets of the bi-curious lamprey

 

 

the animal kingdom in the 22nd century:

  • meet mei mei, the last panda in captivity, who recently came out

  • you won’t believe the fashion tips this bisexual baleen whale has to share

  • transgendered myna birds: are they really disturbing the flock?

  • she’s the paris hilton of the gorilla kingdom, and only eats transgendered synthetic foodstuffs

  • peanut, the transgendered goldfish

 

bean farm dependency firm. ginza district. b11. tokyo:

 

cack. occlusion denim spotted again near the containment facility where he works. story goes they fried another kid last week for smoking outside the designated zone. law bots skimming a few feet above our heads in the marketplace, who'd even try? 

 

nerwerfer stubs a stealth cig of his own underfoot, resumes his slow walk toward the cryo dealer by the waterfront. he had a special something in mind for the missus. something he couldn't pay for on a traceable cred stick.

 

from his vantage point in low-earth orbit, cruz mccandless spent the morning squelching fire patterns from the wastrels in outpost 7. 

 

it's 2043, and toys+ corp introduces a snack food line that appeals to first-world sexual politics:

- transgender oven poppers

- pepperridge farm queer bites

- breeder blasts

- spicy cross dressing nachos

- trans coke zero

- kraft cross dressing. put a little 'zing' in your boring hetero salad!

- alt rainbow salsa. because who wants to eat like a breeder?

- consolidated foodstuffs: the finest in transgender lunch meats

- hetero-normative wheat thins. maintain the status quo.

 

 

there's a new dating app that caters to the auto-erotic asphyxiation crowd. it's called windpipe.

 

 

barrisford kondonassis plays the man who outran a lamprey. 

chapter one: "inside the greyhound station restroom, a carpet of needles and pubic hairs cushioned barrisford's fall."

chapter seven: driven by impulses that he could not hope to understand, boogaloo jack tickled the robot to within an inch of its life.

 

cornered by the sex police, mattheson had no choice but to detonate the erotic dirty bomb. the city was never the same again. "come with me, take my hand, to the pornography forest. where girly mags grow on trees."

 

 

meanwhile, in the adjacent cube farm, a man starves to death because his carnivirous nostril hairs eat the food from off of his fork before he is able to place it into his mouth. he should have sought help.

 

in medieval japan, there existed a most graceful and flightless bird: the pornography crane. this bird inspired many wisemen and many poets. when it would raise its thin leg suggestively, ink from the poets' pens would flos, spilling onto the paper and filling it with noble sentiments. sadly, in the 16th century, a horny emperor named lao shu hunted them to extinction.

 

a short poem for shitting:

a proud brown bull flings open the gates.

"alight, have at!" it shouts, diving bravely headfirst into an azure pool.

 

ernesto quigley & sons: proven bowel whisperers since 1971. safe. discreet. effective.

"like an electric eel encased in amniotic fluid, carruthers wept quietly behind the stall door."

 

"sum man boo boo, sum man boo boo," was all the shell-shocked torpedo operator could say, drool sliding down his chin. the sojourn on that tiny pacific atoll with pax douchegard and his cannibal harem had cost the navy dearly.

 

"oh to be a uniformed loss prevention officer in orbit over io" sighed jamison, as he recalibrated the restraint sensors on the service bot for what seemed the thousandth time that morning.

 

maximo's massaging of the lion's sphincter would prove disasterous in ways that the black-ops extraction team couldn't possibly foresee.

 

"why are we all so preoccupied with manderlay's cyst?" inquired breckenridge, to a silent chorus of disapproving stares from the seal team.

 

they're breaking brittany out of the ultramax high-security tanning salon tonight. bigs and co. are prepping as we speak. across town, kerfuffle jenkins waits on the streetcorner. a handsome lad with a stick full of jangle. he swoons for a bit of the red groovy.

 

manderlay melon visits the lulu clinic, a rehabilition clinic for expressionist german whores.

esteban cordero checks into patchwerk, a plastic surgery center for expressionist german whores.

 

tim began to hang swastikas in his cube, to show his newfound interest in far eastern spirituality. tim suffered from cultural dysphoric disorder- the disconnect with commonly acceptable behavior due to a failure to identify culturally inappropriate topics.

 

charity biscuit. the ancient ear of worlds welcomes you. depart. disrobe. take shape. decouple.

 

knockerville, a city where all the buildings are designed in the shape of a woman's breast.

 

prank clothing. it disintergrates or constricts at the touch of a button. buy a prank swimsuit for someone you secretly dislike.

 

next on mtv's who cares where they are now?: "whatever happened to jett rink? who cares?"

 

tig stendar's shocking new novel, the zitherist.

strumpet: a magazine of political discourse

 

noh8ray: a gender bending immobilization ray. non-lethal pacification that causes mobs and enemy combatants to interrogate their own gender assumptions and identity, and to cease all violence as a way of protesting patriarchal aggression.

 

2098: the us navy invents a gender-neutral submarine, the uss noh8. "every inch of metal and circuitry in this vessel is gender nuetral. the chinese won't be able to gender profile this vessel and her, i mean, its, crew. target termination will be as gender tolerant as it is swift."

 

 

2021: new york passes a law that legalizes garroting in central park between the hours of 2-6am. "do you have a garrote carry permit, sir?"

 

 

bellend corporate managment: training corporate dickheads since 1965.

 

undertow cosmetics presents retirement party rouge. "beauty. with a hint of danger."

 

turwelliver and sons. purveyors of mendacious lubricants.

 

"my destiny remains my own," reasoned titus from inside the bamboo cage.

 

farregut christendom touched down on the helipad of the bangkok high-rise, the alien symbiote still quivering in his hip sack. 

 

mcdonald's presents the art nouveau burger. a thick slice of tangy pretention inside a toasted sesame bun. for a limited time, supersize and receive a free docent.

 

an orbital ai programmed to write pop songs witnesses the nucelar annhilation of humanity, and writes pop songs about it, for a rapidly dwindling population of a few thousand people. 

ground zero for our love

 

a website like ashley madison, but for cannibals and their victims. "life is short. eat someone." it would bill itself as "a discreet meeting place for cannibals and their next meal." imagine the controversy when the site is hacked, and we find out that donald trump has clandestinely devoured over 40 people, paying their immediate families handsomely for the privilege.

 

a new style of theater: bluntism. plays where characters only vocalize the most base idea they wish to convey. "feed my stomach pit." "horizontal eye shutting time." "inhabit me." the genre's most seminal work: feed fuck fight.

 

rewriting children's books so that all the central characters are cannibals: "piglet grinned as she poked her head out from under a mass of steaming entrails. 'but robin, whatever do you mean? for wasn't he your least favorite headmaster?'"

 

in a move that shocked industry insiders, apple today announced that its upcoming os line will be named after infamous dictators. first up: benito 1.0

"upgraded to benito 1.0 and now the trains all run on time." 

 

today's traveling troubadours are coders, not songwriters. they travel from town to town, coding then leaving. bartleby hotchkiss is the wayfaring coder. "my work here is done," bartleby said, packing up his ipad in a worn duffel. he threw the bag over his sholder and walked away, never to be seen in our town again. fontanue plantain in have xml, will travel. "fontanue stood beneath the maiden's window, and in the pale moonlight, coded her a killer app." "in the local tavery, fonanue quaffed mead with the townsfolk, and joined the local lads in another round of spirited debugging." the fraternal order of wandering coders.

 

 

bugs bunny visits guantanemo, and elmer fudd provides enhanced interrogation. "i taught i taw a jihadist putty tat!" loony mood tooners, inc.

 

this knowledge drove preposterous jones mad with anticipation. his brother, braith riverminder, was up to his eyeballs in jodhpurs. meanwhile, torque jensen had just about had it with the riverboat captain's protestations.

 

silas rutter was a dirty gutter-bred sod. a dirty gutter-bred sod with a pan-vertical adhesion technique that just wouldn't quit.

 

in 2023, congress passes the engendered species act, for the protection of transgendered animals. nicholas cage stars as patsy, the world's first transgender gorilla.

 

friday's are amateur hour at the neurosurgery clinic. ladies operate free.

 

graffiti inside a maritian cave: "yr mom sx dix". egyptian hieroglyphics that read "douchebag". these are but a few of our findings.

 

at raytheon, we're committed to creating a safe workspace for cannibal space junkies.

in holland, government agencies have a heroin-friendly employee policy.

"have you been denied a career opportunity due to crippling drug addiction? let us represent you and assert your rights!"

middle management for junkies

 

 

john lennon and mao ze tung filmed a holiday christmas special in 1971. joseph stalin and woody guthrie recorded a duet of communist mining ballads in 1956. rasputin played drums on camper van beethoven's first album. charles manson opened for the beach boys on their first tour. john wayne gacy had an uncredited cameo in the graduate. timothy leary laced henry kissinger's drink with lsd. andy warhol guest starred on the 1966 batman tv show. sun ra appeared on lawrence welk. the velvet underground appeared on an episode of gilligan's island. jerry lee lewis played schultz's delinquent brother on an episode of hogan's heroes. sam peckinpah directed an episode of laugh in after losing a bet with a rival director. dennis rodman and kim jong-un recorded a rap album together, with the theme being the glory of north korea's consumer automotive industry.

 

 

  • a bodyguard who hires himself to protect himself from himself

  • a dirty cop who surveils himself as part of a department-wide cleanup campaign that he initiated

  • a bully who gives himself his own lunch money so that he won't beat himself up

  • a corrupt politician who pays himself hush money not to tell the world about his misdeeds. he soon begins blackmailing himself, and hires a hitman to knock himself off.

  • a thief who robs himself blind

  • a wrestler who places himself in a headlock

  • a hitman who garrotes himself

  • a car salesman who sells himself a sports car he cannot afford

 

 

in the future, marriage is replaced by a decryption ceremony between man and woman. "we are gathered here today to lower the firewall between john smith and sally jones." 

 

  • nazi klezmer orchestra: "the jews did not survive, but the music lives on!"

  • gustav "southpaw" schwitters leads the final solution jazz combo in an evening of yiddish folk music

  • gustav "sparkle nipple" schwitters leads the effeminate gypsy orchestra in an evening of state-sanctioned decadent homosexual cabaret music. "come and hear the sounds of exterminated peoples."

 

bottom of page