Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Wendigo Blues
Borgia in My Pocket
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Monday, January 28, 2013
Alias Super Caligual Part III: The Wasabi Breaks
Bear witness to the dark middle portion of our saga, that archetypal depressing mid-arc episode so relished by internet cretins. A concise yet clammy contraption of romance, international intrigue and suggestions of popes in bondage - Alias Super Caligula.
I awoke pierced by barbs of the warbling drarbs in the land of Holy Frijoles, a drunken evening slept off in the back of a dump truck filled with cactus stumps in a desolate desert filled with jealous jezebels and jingle bells.
I awoke pierced by barbs of the warbling drarbs in the land of Holy Frijoles, a drunken evening slept off in the back of a dump truck filled with cactus stumps in a desolate desert filled with jealous jezebels and jingle bells.
The dread of execution plungers or genuine hunger led to my jail break from a Mexican prison where the guzzling of Mezcal and slurred vowels numbed the sting that the Cholla cacti bring. Spark plugs and whiskey jugs led my way to a saloon to ease the throes of the jitterbug joes.
Another Mezcal with a brackish dash of horseradish and I had collected my senses and mended my fences, calculating my arrest had been prompted by the very best – Super Caligula. And yet this fiend of the rectally reamed had left hints in a local church and steeple of his career of evil - glass shards and tarot cards led to further clues of scented soaps or photos of grinning popes tied up with rigorous ropes.
Blackmail paraphernalia from a brothel in Westphalia sprinkled liberally from Baja to Wichita, and further north where I stumbled into a trap of mud flaps and nylon straps. Shanghai’d in a bathroom by truckers in the heart of Dayton amongst a stench of bacon, I was led to meet the personification of my grim damnation – Super Caligula.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Tex-Mex and Tragedy
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Alias Super Caligula Part II: The Banana Pepper Locusts
The second entry in a saga of seduction, espionage and invisible monsters - an epic opera whose scope demands a quadrilogy - Alias Super Caligula.
I recall that sultry summer romancing vulnerable widows throughout the upper Midwest, a summer in which I first heard with morbid delight that tale of a farmer’s plump wife who quivered in fright after hearing a buzzing of a carnivorous design in that valley full of venereal vines.
Swallowed yarns and Amish barns served as hints to an interdimensional gate that amputated reality and palpitated the mind into altered states. This a Mecca of manglings due to the banana pepper locust army – fluorescent phantoms named for their waxy toxic lime yellow color and the peculiar shape of their horrible hanging drapes in their process of strategic scrapes.
Quite invisible in our third dimension, our comprehension of their invention is informed solely by those screams and shrieks by those shredded by the winged freaks. The damned souls sucked into this psychic sieve are weaved into the rusted gates and yeasty dates haunting the rotted 100 proof roofs of old Duluth.
Many a Soviet guest pawed the geographic Midwestern breast combing for this horror in the blessed American breadbasket and many left a hollow hammer and sickle sealed casket, their sole remains long since devoured by the gnawing pains of the locust chains. And yet this Cold War madness missed a trifle I rifled from a gout-ridden Cambodian bookie during my secret mission of fruition below and behind that Bamboo Curtain of death quite certain.
A bawdy Tijuana bible rendered by rips and stained with bourbon drips featured the Marx brothers and multiple others fornicating with Mae West at her bequest. Apart from the art and naughty parts a detailed map was scribbled by an eccentric farmer before his demise in the land of potato eyes, leaving the detailed location of this abhorrent damnation.
Hearing the horrors of those who had pursued this cancer and become unglued I locked this relic of the less than angelic in a vault of the eldritch and assorted kitsch, but not before I had disclosed its location to my Flemish affection and her brass trombone section. Their subsequent deaths no doubt the reflection of a conniving connection – Super Caligula.
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I recall that sultry summer romancing vulnerable widows throughout the upper Midwest, a summer in which I first heard with morbid delight that tale of a farmer’s plump wife who quivered in fright after hearing a buzzing of a carnivorous design in that valley full of venereal vines.
Swallowed yarns and Amish barns served as hints to an interdimensional gate that amputated reality and palpitated the mind into altered states. This a Mecca of manglings due to the banana pepper locust army – fluorescent phantoms named for their waxy toxic lime yellow color and the peculiar shape of their horrible hanging drapes in their process of strategic scrapes.
Quite invisible in our third dimension, our comprehension of their invention is informed solely by those screams and shrieks by those shredded by the winged freaks. The damned souls sucked into this psychic sieve are weaved into the rusted gates and yeasty dates haunting the rotted 100 proof roofs of old Duluth.
Many a Soviet guest pawed the geographic Midwestern breast combing for this horror in the blessed American breadbasket and many left a hollow hammer and sickle sealed casket, their sole remains long since devoured by the gnawing pains of the locust chains. And yet this Cold War madness missed a trifle I rifled from a gout-ridden Cambodian bookie during my secret mission of fruition below and behind that Bamboo Curtain of death quite certain.
A bawdy Tijuana bible rendered by rips and stained with bourbon drips featured the Marx brothers and multiple others fornicating with Mae West at her bequest. Apart from the art and naughty parts a detailed map was scribbled by an eccentric farmer before his demise in the land of potato eyes, leaving the detailed location of this abhorrent damnation.
Hearing the horrors of those who had pursued this cancer and become unglued I locked this relic of the less than angelic in a vault of the eldritch and assorted kitsch, but not before I had disclosed its location to my Flemish affection and her brass trombone section. Their subsequent deaths no doubt the reflection of a conniving connection – Super Caligula.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Oklahoma City
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